Bone Palace, The - Amanda Downum Page 0,101
did their work. When Satis returned at dawn, she found Astrophel half dead and more than half mad from the attentions of the specters. Thinking Satis another ghost, she threw herself out of the tower to escape. After the lovers’ final duet—for which the production spared no expense for pig’s blood—Satis stalked through her house dripping blood, murdering her servant and destroying the ghosts before finally drinking lye and dying alone in her tower, surrounded by crumbling dry flowers. Because it was theater she sang to the end, and Noïs’s raw, broken voice sent chills through everyone who heard it. Isyllt found herself clutching her throat; Ciaran didn’t laugh—his face was slick with tears.
When the curtain fell on the final flower-strewn stage, the house was silent for a long sniffling moment before the applause rose in a tidal roar. Isyllt stood for the ovation, ignoring glares as she slipped down the aisle and up the stairs before the crowd began to pour toward the doors. Those with boxes tended to wait for the press to die, but she wanted to be sure to catch Varis before he disappeared.
Wine still warmed her blood as she climbed the shell-curved side stair. The downward rush of people caught her before she reached the third story, and she clung tight to the banister as she fought her way up.
Her timing was immaculate; the door to the box opened as she drew near and Varis Severos emerged, as eye-catching as ever. Tonight his coat was a green so dark it was almost black, the high-collared shirt beneath searing verdigris. Gems glittered along the curve of one ear, carnelian and amethyst and brilliant citrine; his rings glittered too, bright with power.
“Lord Varis,” she called before she could think better of it, and dipped a shallow curtsy when he turned. She knew him well enough from the Arcanost to strike up conversation, but they were hardly peers. In addition to the gulf in age and wealth, he was a vocal opponent of vinculation, and her magic relied on it.
One eyebrow rose. “Lady Iskaldur.” His smile was polite and distant, but his eyes were sharp beneath painted lids. He smelled of lime and lilac, citron and musk. “Imagine seeing you here.”
He and Kiril had been lovers once; she hardly ever thought of it, but now the idea made her blush. Was that why Kiril was protecting him now? Was that—No. She set it aside, ignoring her stinging cheeks.
“Did you enjoy the performance?” Varis continued. His pale eyes narrowed and she knew he marked her reaction.
“I did. Though their tenor is still only adequate, I’m afraid.” Which was perhaps unfair—most singers were only adequate compared to Sirota and Noïs, and the character Marius and his infatuation with Astrophel were meant to pale in comparison.
His response died as the door opened behind him; Isyllt’s pulse spiked in her throat.
The woman who emerged wore plum velvet, the sort of dress that would cost a civil servant a month’s salary. Silver and jet glittered on her hem and cuffs, and spangled the black silk gauze of her veils. Beneath the gauze her black hair was piled high, a few locks uncoiling over her shoulders.
She laid a gloved hand on Varis’s arm, cocking her head inquisitively. She didn’t need a face to draw eyes from all over the room—her stance and figure and exquisite taste did that perfectly well. Her perfume was even richer and more conflagrant in person.
“Varis?” The woman’s voice was low and pleasant and otherwise unremarkable, but it still sent a chill down Isyllt’s neck. “Who is your friend?”
“This is Isyllt Iskaldur, a member of the Arcanost. You’ll forgive me, Lady, if I don’t introduce my companion.”
Isyllt held out a hand. “A pleasure all the same.”
The woman took her hand so smoothly the hesitation barely showed. The briefest brush of fingers and the contact ended, leaving Isyllt with a lingering whisper of magic and the taste of cinnamon on her tongue. Her stomach tightened with the memory of corpses.
“Likewise,” the woman said, and Isyllt heard her smile. “Kiril has spoken of you.”
It was meant to goad and Isyllt knew it. That didn’t keep her spine from stiffening or her smile from sharpening. Varis’s eyes narrowed and he tucked the woman’s hand more firmly against his arm. “We should go, darling. If you’ll excuse us…”
“Of course.” She stepped aside with a sweep of skirts. “A pleasure to see you again, Lord Varis,” she said as they stepped past. “And you, Margravine.”
She