His name was Declan Lars, I later discovered. Murderer.
Swallows crisscrossed the sky. They flew low and swift over the slate roof of the dormitory and down to the street, veering without warning. I watched them through the open bathroom window.
Attending Kisme’s party was the last thing I felt like doing. I shrank down so that my mouth was submerged by the bathwater. But I would, of course. A bruise cut across my ribs; I traced it with my fingertip. Of course.
Rhyanon’s cab was probably already waiting. I needed to pull myself together.
I rose, sending water splashing over the rim of the tub, and wrapped a towel around my chest. My hair had curled into a wild tangle of black ringlets; I tugged it into order with my fingers. Outside my window, I could hear other Acolytes returning from work. Snippets of conversation, the rusted squeak of the front door, raucous laughter from the dining hall.
With a pang of unease, I realised I had last eaten yesterday. Between Rhyanon and the Renewal, it had slipped my mind.
Surely there would be food at the party? If not, I could get something from the Candle on the way home. I pulled on a dress, knee-length and pale blue. My mother had seldom attended these things, and I had never been invited before now.
A group of Acolytes from Judicial Affairs lounged in the stairwell outside my room, chatting.
“Where are you off to, El?” one of them asked.
“Going to see some friends,” I replied.
“How nice.”
As promised, a carriage waited at the end of the street. The heavy brown cart-horse watched me approach. The driver, apparently asleep, wore his wide-brimmed hat over his face and slouched sideways on his seat, legs dangling over the edge. The air was calm and mild, the faint breeze cooling my still-damp hair. Between banks of pale cloud, the first stars had appeared.
“Excuse me,” I said, as I drew nearer the carriage. “I’m not sure…”
The man stirred, yawned, and lifted his hat. “Ah, Acolyte Raughn. Greetings.”
My stomach sank, and I almost swore. This must be Rhyanon’s idea of a joke.
The driver was the same man who had accosted me in the park.
“Huh.” He sat up and studied my face with interest. “After last time, I was expecting more of a reaction.”
“Just … just take me to the party.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” He offered me his hand. His palms were heavily calloused. “Osan Jerone, at your service.”
I ignored him and climbed into the back of the vehicle. He slid open the front-facing window.
“Admittedly, we might not have got off to the best start.”
“You humiliated me.”
“Not really. Everyone else was in on it.”
“That makes it worse.” I fixed my gaze on the road ahead and breathed out heavily. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Can we get this over with?”
He looked like he wanted to say something else, but stopped himself. He gathered up the reins. “Sure. Your dress is in the box beneath the bench.”
“I’m already dressed.”
“Not for a Reverend’s party.” He clicked his tongue, and we rolled forward.
Rhyanon had misjudged my measurements. I didn’t fill out the bust of the dress, and it hugged uncomfortably tight across my hips. I spread the skirts around me, running my hands over waves of soft green velvet. Even ill-fitted, it was undeniably lovely. Tiny embroidered peonies danced along the shoulders and neckline, like a basket of flowers had been overturned above my head.
“Everything okay back there?” Osan called.
I don’t belong in a dress like this. “I’m fine.”
“It fits?”
“It’s fine.” I cleared my throat. “I’ll pay her back, but I can’t afford it right now. This seems expensive.”
He snorted. “You don’t need to pay.”
I drew back the curtains. He glanced over his shoulder.
“The colour looks good on you,” he said.
“What does Rhyanon want?”
“Don’t use names in public.”
Over the rattling of the wheels and the horse’s hooves, I doubted anyone would hear us. “What does she want?”
Osan reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a bronze key. He passed it to me.
“You’re looking for the file of someone named Kalis Nortem,” he said. “A Herald working as an overseer for the Department of Water and Sanitation. She’s fictional.”
“Fictional?”
“The account belongs to someone else, and they’ve gone to considerable trouble to create Kalis on paper. Our friend is trying to determine who, and why.”
He brought the horse to a halt, allowing a group of women to cross Forge Street.
“That key unlocks Kisme’s office. Second floor, last door on the right. There should be a filing cabinet where she keeps copies of her subordinates’ records. Memorise Kalis’s account number.” He politely nodded to the pedestrians. “Think you can do it?”
I tucked the key into the bodice of the dress. “I’m not sure yet.”
“When in doubt, play it safe. If you get caught, you’ll be on your own.”
In the distance, the bells tolled out the hour.
“I won’t get caught.”
“That’s the spirit.”
We rumbled over the road, past other cabs and wagons, below bridges that spanned the broad streets and into the most opulent sector of the city. The Sisrin District of Minor East was occupied almost exclusively by Reverends and their consorts. Most also owned properties outside Ceyrun, but here was where the influential and beautiful came to play. I watched as the manors grew larger and the gardens stretched further.
“Nervous?”
I shrugged.
“Doesn’t seem like much scares you.”
“Meaning?”
We passed two Enforcers on patrol. More security than pedestrians around here, I thought. What a waste of resources.
“Well, you certainly weren’t intimidated by me,” said Osan. “Even after I started wielding lace.”
I rested my hands on my knees. “That was Rhyanon, right?”
“Could have been.” He glanced backwards and smirked. “But, like I said, you didn’t seem scared, exactly. Furious, yes.”
I huffed.
He laughed. “I was glad to have backup.”
I was quiet for a while. Osan let the silence lie.
“Maybe you just aren’t that intimidating,” I muttered.
He laughed again, more softly this time. “Probably.”
Ahead, carriages blocked the road. Harassed-looking porters tried to direct the chaos, and horses shied and tossed their heads.
“That’s the place,” said Osan. “If you don’t mind the walk, I’ll wait here.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Acolyte.”
I opened the door, then paused. “Elfreda. Or just El.”
“Just El it is.” He slid his hat forward to shield his face. “For the record, I’m sorry I called you a corpse eater.”
Kisme’s other guests remained in their stationary carriages, waiting to get closer to the gates. I made my way between the vehicles, careful to hold my skirts above the ground. Osan had been right; I did not feel scared. Apprehensive, maybe, and uncomfortable, but the Renewal had left me too weary for outright fear.
When I reached the gates, the doorwoman beckoned to me.
“It’s madness,” she said. “You had the right idea by walking. Your name?”
“Acolyte Elfreda Raughn.” I forced a smile.
She crossed out an item on her list. “Enjoy the evening.”
Fine shards of mosaic glass tiled the path to Reverend Kisme’s front door. They glittered like a track of crushed ice beneath hundreds of tiny paper lanterns. Suspended by reels of invisible thread, the yellow orbs revolved slowly in the air. I thought that their placement was random, and yet, as I continued along the path, the lights slid into alignment. Constellations of herons in flight, a fawn gazing at the moon, fish leaping skywards—each step I took revealed the complexity of their arrangement. A marvel of mathematical precision, but effortless in appearance. Around me, other guests murmured approval. The lanterns reflected in their eyes and made their skin gleam golden. In silken dresses and the low, warm light, they too seemed part of another world, gods passing through the night.
I shivered and climbed the stairs to the entrance. A band was playing somewhere, a woman singing. I accepted a flute of honey-coloured wine from the attendant in the foyer and swallowed it too quickly. The sweet alcohol stuck to the roof of my mouth like syrup. I gave the empty glass back and moved toward the ballroom.
A wide stairway led down to the dance floor. Sprays of snowflowers, white lace, and strings of amber beads dripped from the dark balustrades. From the landing, I could see the whole hall. The ceiling was high and vaulted, and sheets of saffron gauze swooped between granite joists. Women danced, or watched others dancing, and the band performed on a stage at the far end of the hall. The singer’s voice rose above the hum of general conversation; the drums beat slow and seductive. Overflowing plinths of violets and chrysanthemums punctuated the floor, and candles set amongst the blossoms lit skin in dappled, shifting colour.
A couple smiled as they passed me, arms entwined. Never had I felt more out of place; I was adrift and I could not seem to find a sensible place for my hands.
“I find it’s best to hold the fabric of your skirt.”
I jumped, and the Acolyte laughed. I recognised her—Megane Tersi. Eight years my senior, she used to live in the neighbouring dormitory building—an accountant in the Department of Civil Obligations. With a group of friends, she had once organised a poetry reading for Martyr’s Eve. At the time, Millie had been nursing a crush on her, so we had attended. I knew nothing about poetry—and found the evening boring—but Millie assured me Megane’s work was excellent.
“At the sides, slightly back,” she said, demonstrating. “Not too tight. It’ll keep your shoulders from hunching.”
“Thank you,” I muttered, wishing I could sink into the ground.
“It’s Elfreda, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Shout if you need a dance partner.” She winked, then carried on down the stairs to greet a Herald.
I watched her go. Out of my league, but still … I straightened, pushing back my shoulders as she had advised, and strode down the stairs. A hundred different perfumes—jasmine and orange blossom and musk and juniper—mingled into a heady blend.
The band struck up a new song. Old partners broke apart and formed groups of three. A young Herald grabbed my wrist and pulled me over to join her friend. I recognised the song and I knew the dance; it was popular in Major East springtime festivals. Although this version might be more formal, the basic sequence of steps was the same.
The Herald took the lead. Her date looked like a civilian, too old for an Oblate, but no tattoo. I dipped her, spun, and was lifted in turn. In the past, before my induction, I’d danced this with Millie and Finn. In the wavering light beneath the trees on Indigo Avenue, all of us wine-dizzy and laughing, Finn lifting me so easily, his hands warm against my waist, eyes bright, skin flushed.
I pushed the memory away, focussed on my footwork, step, cross, turn, cross, turn. The pace of the dance increased, but my partners never missed a beat. Other triplets stumbled and dissolved around us. Laughter rang through the hall. My chest ached. My eyes burned.
The musicians taunted us, raced ever faster, but we were quick enough, sure enough. The rest of the room was hazy, but within the circle of our three bodies, everything was clear. I was aware that we were being watched, but the other guests seemed far off and unimportant. Dip, spin, lift, all the world a blur around us. I wanted to drown in that moment. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend it was him.
Then Declan Lars’s face flashed in my mind, a memory so clear and sharp that I could smell the oil and the herbs and taste the bile in my throat. I missed a step, just as the drums came to a stop.
The other dancers applauded, and the Herald gave a breathless bow. Strands of her hair had slipped free from her headband and brushed her jaw. Her civilian friend clasped a stitch in her side, grinning. There was a ring of open space around us; we were the only triplet to finish the dance. My hands shook, and the small of my back was damp with perspiration. Blood pounded in my ears.
The Herald clapped me on the shoulder. Her cheeks were pink. “You up for the next one?”
“I … I need water.”
“Ah, no problem. Make sure you find us later, though.”
I nodded, too out of breath for much else. A new song began, and I was alone again. My bruised chest throbbed.
I circled the edge of the floor, skirting the windows. Outside, guests strolled through terraced gardens, between domed gazebos and fountains. Tables with food were set out in the corner of the hall, but I could not eat. Not now. Muttering apologies, I pushed my way through the throng.
The passage beyond the hall was quiet and dim, and I could breathe more easily. A few guests wandered the corridors, speaking in low voices.
I found the washroom unoccupied. Fat yellow candles burned in glass bowls on the basin. I turned the faucet on and let the water pour over my hands. My reflection in the mirror looked ridiculous. This whole subterfuge was ridiculous. I drank from the tap and then shut it off. Who knew what Rhyanon wanted that account number for? I only had Osan’s word that Herald Kalis Nortem was a false identity; she could very well be a real person. Rhyanon might intend to defraud a completely innocent woman. Or blackmail one; she clearly had experience in that area. My reflection scowled.
I can get you out of Renewal duty.
I walked with purpose, and nobody stopped me. The stairs leading to the second floor of Kisme’s house were roped off. I made sure I was alone, then ducked beneath the barrier and hurried upstairs.
The second floor décor was simpler, wood-panelled corridors and soft green rugs. The floor creaked, but over the noise of the party, I doubted I would draw attention. I passed empty bedrooms and a painter’s studio. On the easel rested a half-complete watercolour of leafless trees against a pale sky.
I found Kisme’s office in the southern corner of the building, the only room with a lock on the door. I pressed my ear to the wooden surface and listened. No sound from within. I took the key out of the bodice of my dress, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
Moonlight broke through the gap between the heavy drapes. I shut the door. The office overlooked the gardens; through the windows I could see the intricate constellation of lanterns, and the silhouettes of the city beyond the manor gates.
I could not risk lighting the lamp, so I drew the curtains further apart. Bright enough to read by, if I strained my eyes. The room contained three cabinets and a large desk. A huge ornamental fireplace took up most of the right wall, and a selection of pretty spun glass figurines decorated the mantel.
“Hope you’re organised, Reverend,” I muttered, and pulled open the top drawer of the closest cabinet.
She was. She had her records sorted first according to rank—one cabinet for Oblates, another for Acolytes, and the last for Heralds and Reverends—and then by name. I riffled through the neat pages, skipping ahead in the alphabet till I reached N. Many of the files were annotated with a cramped, small script; hard-to-decipher notes about a Sister’s proficiency or misdemeanours.
Hah.
Herald Kalis Nortem on paper. I sat below the window, angling the file toward the light. No notes on this file; judging by her brief record, Kalis was thoroughly unremarkable at her job. And there, in sharp black ink, was the account number. TBN7825C.
I put everything back as I had found it and locked up the office. I could hardly believe that I had done it. Now all I had to do was return to Osan.
At the end of the corridor, the stairs creaked.
I froze. Swift footsteps, drawing near. I ducked inside the artist’s studio and pressed myself against the interior wall, out of sight of the corridor.
“—can talk in private.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
The plastered wall was rough and uneven against my back. I held my breath.
“You involved me in this mess, you don’t get to run away from it.” The first woman spoke in a low, forceful tone.
“We shouldn’t even be here. Let’s just go back to the party, okay? Please, Jesane?”
“Explain what you meant in the garden.”
The footsteps had stopped; the women stood outside the room. Their shadows lay across the threshold.
“What is there to explain? They need the seat, and there’s an easy way to vacate it.”
“So murder is easy for you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not murder.”
“Sure. Tell me, if I step out of line, can I expect the same?”
“No! Eater, you don’t understand at all.” The shadow threw up its hands. “I don’t like it, but it’s necessary. These people will destroy the Sisterhood.”
“How many?”
“What?”
“How many martyrs, Ilva? How many accidents?”
A long silence. My heart pounded, and there was a rushing in my ears, growing louder.
“I can’t believe this.” Footsteps, heading back toward the stairs. “I need some air.”
“Jesane!”
I had to be wrong; somehow I had misheard or misunderstood. The band fell silent, and voices from below the floor hummed like a swarm of insects. I stepped away from the wall. My head spun.
The dance hall had quietened when I returned to it; the guests gathered around the stage. Reverend Olwen Kisme, dressed in black, was speaking.
“It has been a privilege and a joy to serve alongside so many of you over the years,” she said. Her voice was hoarse. “To be honest, I feel that I could never spend enough time in your company.”
I quietly made my way along the back of the hall toward the exit.
“But my time has come,” she said heavily, with the intonation of someone who had practised the words for days. “It is an honour, and I take pride in my continued service to our Order and our home.”
I paused at the base of the stairs. My mouth tasted of ashes.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said, staring over our heads. “May the Star shine brightly on you.”
As I left, the image of her unfinished painting haunted me. That pale sky and the blank paper, the bare trees and the shadows that they cast.