her magic now. Look for victims like Forsythia—throats slit left-handed, no other wounds. She may be mad and murderous, but it doesn’t sound like she tortures them. She has a vampire working with her, but he didn’t feed on Forsythia first.”
She lowered her voice as a pair of women wandered past, though they were too engrossed in an account of someone else’s romantic pursuits to pay any attention. Perfume trailed after them, peach and citrus and honey-sweetness.
Citrus. Isyllt set her mug of cider down without drinking. She’d smelled that bitter orange note before—first on Savedra, and only a few hours ago on Kiril. And if that was the same perfume Forsythia had smelled—
“Where does the fashionable perfume come from this season?” she asked Khelséa.
The woman blinked. “Kebechet at the Black Phoenix. I bought Gemma a vial of her oils last month. Her shop is in Panchrest Court. Why?” she asked as Isyllt reached for her purse.
“I’ve smelled her perfume. If I can trace it…” She counted out coins. “Search the morgues—I’ll meet you when I’m finished.”
Khelséa’s eyebrows arched. “I get wet corpses and you get perfume?”
“I bought you breakfast, didn’t I?”
“You’ll buy me a month of breakfasts for this.”
“I’ll start a new expense account.” Which, of course, she couldn’t, not since Kiril had ruled the investigation closed. She kept her good hand from clenching, brushed it quickly against Khelséa’s dark fingers instead. “Thank you.” She turned before the inspector could respond, bolting for the nearest carriage.
* * *
The Black Phoenix was a fashionable shop in an equally fashionable block of the alchemists’ street. The Arcanost frequently bemoaned the baseness of commercial alchemy, but it clearly paid better than academia. Vials of ivory and colored glass gleamed in the rising light, and the rugs and hangings were Iskari, and costly. Even so early in the day shoppers drifted through the shop, young and well dressed, likely scions of the Eight, twittering like mourning doves as they browsed.
The air was surprisingly clear, considering the hundreds of bottles and vials and jars of ingredients Isyllt counted, but as she or the other shoppers moved she caught whiffs of scent: herbs and spices, flowers and resins and a dozen other notes she couldn’t identify. Delicate scents and harsh ones, cloying and tangy, some that made her mouth water and some that made her fight a sneeze.
A clerk followed the mourning doves, opening vials and dabbing scent on proffered wrists. He cast a solicitous glance at Isyllt but she shook her head; he wasn’t the one who could help her. After several moments, a curtain stirred in the back and the proprietress emerged.
Kebechet—the name of an Assari saint, and unlikely her true one—was a tall woman with a fierce hooked nose. Her hair was a black storm down her back, shot through with the glitter of jeweled pins and combs. Despite the chill, her shawl slipped off her shoulders, baring an ample corseted bosom. Rumor held that she was a bastard Severoi who had taken the family device for her own. Isyllt had never heard a member of the house confirm or deny it.
She exchanged pleasantries with the doves, and commended or corrected their choice of scents. When they departed, her black eyes trained immediately on Isyllt.
“Good morning, necromancer. Looking for a scent? Or perhaps a healing oil—something to help you sleep?”
“Is it that obvious? No,” she amended, “don’t answer that. I’m following a scent and it’s led me here.”
“Then I hope it was a pleasant one, and not some of that trash they peddle down the street.”
“Quite pleasant. Neroli and almond and cinnamon, I think.”
“Ah.” Kohl-lined eyes gleamed. “Yes, neroli is a popular note this year.”
“Do you remember this particular scent?”
“It isn’t one of my standards. I make a lot of personal blends.” She shrugged one bronze shoulder and her shawl slipped another inch.
“And I’m sure you remember all of them,” Isyllt said with a smile, “or have notes. I need to know who you made it for.”
Kebechet stilled, flawless and poised as a statue. “That would be a breach of trust. Not all of my customers come to me publicly.”
“I respect that, but this is a murder investigation.”
“Ah.” She turned to the clerk, who was polishing a counter with great concentration. “Kadri, would you be a dear and fetch us some tea, and maybe some cardamom cakes? There’s no hurry.”
The boy left, a flush darkening his copper-brown cheeks, and Kebechet latched the door behind him. “You think one of my customers is a