books and rugs and missing furniture, like a half-vacated house. After the frozen night, the warmth of braziers stifled.
Her breath left in a deflated rush. No Nikos, no demons—where were they? Then a red lump in the corner that she’d taken for cushions stirred, and she jumped.
Ginevra lay in a heap against the wall, her hands bound behind her with heavy rope. The crimson dress was black with grime, the hem snagged and bleeding beads. Her lustrous copper skin was dull and ashen, her eyes hollow, but save for a rust-colored smear across her mouth she seemed unharmed.
Bruised eyelids fluttered as Savedra whispered her name. “Vedra.” The hope in her smile was terrible. “You came.”
Savedra dropped to her knees beside the girl, touching her face with trembling fingers. No fever, at least, and no more chilled than one would expect from sitting on frigid stone. Someone had given her a blanket, but it had slid aside and become trapped under her legs.
“Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m so tired, though—”
“Yes,” a voice said behind them. “Better if you rest.”
Savedra’s nerves snapped and she leapt like a startled cat. She fetched up crouched against the wall beside Ginevra, her knife flashing in her hand.
Lychandra Alexios stood before her, still gowned in white. Savedra had thought herself prepared, but she moaned at the sight, eyes squeezing shut and the knife falling from numb fingers.
Fabric rustled as Lychandra—Phaedra, she told herself, Phaedra—knelt beside Ginevra. “Sleep. It’s easier that way.”
Now Savedra understood why Phaedra’s voice had chilled her when they met at Varis’s house. Lychandra’s throat, Lychandra’s lips shaping the words, but the tone and inflection were wrong. She forced herself to look again.
Phaedra smiled, and that too was familiar and all the more terrible for it. “Startling, isn’t it? I still catch myself off guard in mirrors. Varis spoke of your cleverness, but I admit I didn’t think you’d make it this far. But not unscathed.” One cold finger touched Savedra’s face, came away pink and sticky.
She held out a long brown hand. Seeing no safer option, Savedra took it, letting the demon draw her to her feet. Her dagger slid from the folds of her skirts and clattered against the floor.
“What are you doing to her?” she asked, looking down at Ginevra.
“Keeping her safe. If she were awake she would only wear herself out with panic.” The sorceress hadn’t let go of Savedra’s hand; she raised it now to study the ruby ring. Identical stones shone on her fingers. Savedra tensed for wrath, but all Phaedra said was, “Wherever did you find this?”
“In Carnavas,” she answered, her mouth dry and sticky. “In your workroom.” At least Phaedra’s demon birds weren’t here now—that was something to be thankful for.
“Ah. I always wondered what happened to it.” Luminous orange eyes moved from Savedra to Ginevra and back again. “Would you like her?”
Savedra blinked stupidly. “What?”
“This body. I thought at first to wear it myself, but we came up with a better plan.” Her gaze softened, the dead woman’s face ghastly with sympathy. “I understand what it’s like to be trapped in the wrong flesh. Varis explained it to me—the cruel trick of your birth. I could fix it. It’s the least I can do for him. I’m not entirely sure how the process would work between two anixeroi,” she said, frowning, “but it would be a fascinating experiment.”
Savedra’s mouth opened and closed again on an unspoken denial. She stared at Ginevra’s slender limbs, her smooth cheeks, the rise and fall of her breast. Beautiful and graceful and feminine, even bound and filthy. Everything Savedra had ever wanted to be, everything she was in her dreams until waking returned her to the truth.
“Is it so simple?” she asked. Would the hijra call it miraculous, or abhorrent?
“It’s not simple,” Phaedra said, sculpted brows pulling together in indignation. “It’s a delicate and complex thaumaturgical process. It’s been my life’s work. But it is possible.”
“It would make me a demon.”
“That’s a broad, clumsy word that the Arcanost relies on too heavily. But strictly speaking, a demon is created from the merging of flesh—living or dead—and a spirit or a ghost. I’m not sure what you would call the transfer of a living soul into a different living body.”
Madness, Savedra would call it. Abomination. Temptation.
Nikos had always said he loved her, not the flesh she wore. Did he really mean that?
“No,” she said at last. “I can’t.”
Phaedra frowned. “You could if you were desperate enough.