“Why should it matter?” Chloe pressed. “She is a lady and she is dead—does not time matter in affairs of this sort?”
He squinted at her, his eyes shadowed beneath the mask. “Yes, yes. Time certainly matters. Bring her here,” he said, motioning to a table. He immediately reached out to unwrap the body, but Chloe slapped his hand away.
“I apologize,” she said, voice wavering. “But she is a
He nodded. “Just I never turned my back on our lady afore,” he said, thick eyebrows rising. “Never would mean her no disrespect.”
“I know, John. Surely she’d know, too. But…”
He nodded again and turned his back as, hesitantly, Chloe untucked and unrolled the quilt so her lady’s face was once more exposed to the air.
Something small, dark, and furred raced into the room, whining and circling the Reanimator’s feet.
John and Chloe jumped.
“Black magick!” John cried, making the sign of the cross.
The thing took flight, landing in the Reanimator’s arms and licking the face beneath the mask.
“Not black magick,” the Reanimator said with a laugh, stroking a hand down the black beast’s back. “Merely my dearest companion—a true vixen.”
Her broad, plush tail flipped about like a fine dust brush and with a whimper she hopped back down and slunk back into the shadows. “Although black magick is highly profitable, it is not what I practice,” he assured. “There is enough risk with real magick and science—things go wrong and doppelgangers and fetches get born…” He shook his head. “Reveal your lady.”
Chloe dropped the quilt’s edge and retreated, her hand going to her mouth. To see her so still … She knew she was dead. She
The man wandered around the table, leaning over to examine her more closely. “And precisely how…?”
“Her wrists,” Chloe stammered, her hand rubbing at her own wrist, stunned.
“Ah. I see, I see.” He shook his head. “No. I
Chloe did.
After a long time of him doing seemingly nothing but staring at the ragged tears in her forearms, he untied the ribbons on her wrists and announced, “I can bring her back. I will need to repair some structural damage first.” He motioned to her butchered veins. “But it is nothing I haven’t managed before. Given a little time and a great deal of luck, I’ll have her right as rain.” He stuck his hand out. “Hand me her soul.”
John’s eyes flew wide open and, turning, he stuttered, “H-h-her soul?!”
The man’s grinning mask tilted as he appraised his guests. “You do not have her soul?” He looked from one of them to the other and back again, his gaze settling on Chloe.
“How does one even…?” she began, but her voice fell away to nothing.
“Amateurs. The soul or spirit is energy—not unlike that inside your common stormcells and stormlights. When a person dies, especially in a traumatic fashion, their soul wings away because, being power, it is attracted to power, even residual sources and especially tumultuous sources of it. What stormlight was closest to her when she died?”
“They were all dead.”
He straightened sharply. “Ah. Lady Astraea.”
Chloe clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide.
“Word travels fast whenever the Weather Workers arrive. There will be a stormlight near her body’s location that will still have the faintest of glows to it. It will shine with a color and hum without the power of the Hub. Bring me that stormlight with the crystal intact and I might revive her to nearly her natural state.”
“
“This is science. And science is an imperfect art. But frequently improving. Hurry now.”
Both servants turned toward the door, but Chloe grabbed John. “No. You have your keys. Stay with her. Guard her,” she whispered, looking at the strange man. “I’ll feel better if you do.”
“But.” John glanced toward the door and the darkness beyond. “The streets—”
“—were my home before either of my two households took me in,” she assured. “I’ll be fine.”
Yet, hearing the door latch behind her, she drew her arms tight around her body and hurried back toward the Hill and the Astraeas’ dark estate crowning its top.
The carriage holding Jordan captive jostled its way across the Hill and meandered down the zigzagging road that descended along properties of decreasing value.
The Councilman perched on the overstuffed leather seat across from Jordan was glaring. “This would all be much easier if you admit that you are what you are,” he growled, leaning back until the seat squeaked. He picked at his fingernails and shook his head, making little
“But I am not a Weather Witch,” Jordan insisted, rubbing at her cheeks to stop the flow of tears. “I have no affinity with storms—I don’t even particularly like them. The only thing I like about a cloudy day is that I do not need to carry a parasol to avoid getting an unsightly tan. Or freckling like some washerwoman.”
“You summoned a storm. A large one.”
“No. I did not! I have never summoned a storm—I cannot. I am Grounded. Besides, that was not even a large storm considering our weeklies. Magicking a storm is simply
“Your bloodline is corrupt. Your mother no better than a filthy whore.”
“Take that back,” she hissed, her manicured fingers curling into claws as her lips twisted in a snarl. “No one speaks of my mother that way. Lady Cynthia Astraea is one of the most noble women to walk this Earth…”
“Slut,” the Councilman said, lacing his fingers together and peering over them at her with cool detachment in his eyes. “Whore. Two-bit Molly.”
A growl grew in Jordan’s throat and she leaned across the aisle, eyes bright and sharp. “You stop now or I swear…”
The man grabbed a metal bar on the carriage’s curving wall, fingers wrapping tight around it as he watched Jordan, a wicked grin on his lips. “You swear you’ll do
Shrieking, Jordan lunged across the aisle but the Wardens flanking her simply held tighter. For a moment she hung in the middle of the aisle, her mouth moving soundlessly as she fought for words to hurl at the Councilman and the cold-eyed Tester at his side. No words came and finally she flopped back into her seat, shaking with sobs as fresh tears seeped free of her eyes.
The folded paper star pressed into her sleeve was a bitter reminder of how far she’d already fallen.
Across the aisle the Tester cocked his head, cooing a single word, his eyes on her hands the whole time. “Interesting.”
Jordan sniffled and turned her head to the carriage’s barred window, watching her world slip away, lights and familiar sights streaking and blurring to nothing as the last beads of rain raced across the window’s glass.
Chapter Seven
