Bone Palace, The - Amanda Downum Page 0,99
dismiss quickly. Two had traces of white foam in their mouths and nostrils, evidence that they’d been alive when they went into the water. The third had been stabbed multiple times in the chest and stomach—angry, vicious wounds, but not meant to exsanguinate. Swelling stretched the gashes, baring layers of skin and flesh and white-marbled fat. The macerated skin had begun to slough from the corpse’s hands. The oldest was so far gone that even Isyllt wasn’t willing to inspect it closely.
Of the remainders, four bore slit throats, and three of those carried telltale traces of cinnamon. Isyllt wondered if she would ever enjoy pastries or spiced tea again.
Three women dead since Forsythia, and saints only knew how many others they hadn’t found.
They left the Sepulcher by the afternoon bells, as the light began to thicken and slant.
“We can search for more tomorrow.” Isyllt said, scrubbing a hand over her face. She regretted it as soon as she did—the smell of corpses clung to her. Dahlia and Khelséa were still ashen, and she doubted she looked any better; no one suggested food.
The bells began to ring only a moment after she spoke. Not the stately melody of the hour, but a wild and enthusiastic tintinnabulation. All down the street people paused mid-stride, stuck their heads out of shop doors, turned to their neighbors for confirmation. Isyllt knew they wouldn’t be doing much investigating tomorrow: The army was coming home.
A young man burst from a doorway and bolted down the sidewalk, nearly trampling them. Isyllt swore as she tugged Dahlia out of the way. The rough plaster wall gouged her shoulder blades, and paper crinkled and tore. The parchment fluttered free when she moved and Isyllt caught it absently. An advertisement for the latest opera, or whatever had been the latest a decad ago; the paper was warped with moisture, the ink faded and smeared.
“Looks like I’ll be containing crowds tomorrow,” Khelséa said with a grimace. “Maybe I’ll claim another ear infection. What will you do?”
“I don’t know.” The paper crumpled in her fist. “More importantly, what will she do?”
An idea welled in the back of her mind, and her frown eased. She opened her fingers and smoothed the flier.
“Expensive perfumes are meant to be worn,” she said slowly, tumbling the idea end over end. “Especially ones from the most fashionable perfumery in the city. This witch of ours may hide her face, but she also buys scent and has dresses fitted. Where can a veiled woman go and attract the right sort of attention?”
She dangled the paper in front of the others’ faces and watched their eyes widen.
Khelséa argued, but it was Ciaran whom Isyllt asked to accompany her. Being seen with a Vigil wasn’t the sort of attention she wanted tonight—not to mention the opera would be wasted on someone deaf in one ear.
He arrived at her door at Evensong, resplendent in black velvet and crimson silk, his hair loose and shining over his shoulders. Finer clothes than she’d thought he owned, but what Ciaran didn’t have he always knew how to acquire. Not a perfect complement to her dove grey and opals, but hardly an eyesore.
“I didn’t think you liked the opera,” he said, leaning against the doorway while she pinned up her hair. Her shoulder was still mottled yellow and green, but at least the weather let her wear a scarf.
“I don’t, particularly, but this is business.” She much preferred spoken theater, or even the musicals that flourished in the demimonde orpheums. Hours of constant song wore on her.
Ciaran sighed. “Of course it is. You couldn’t simply want to go out for the joy of it.”
She almost made a joke about the joy of expense accounts and bit her tongue. Her hand tightened on a hair stick and she took a deep breath. A crease formed between her reflection’s eyebrows. She still looked tired and wan, and hadn’t the skill with cosmetics to hide it. No powder could conceal the stark shadows below her collarbones—flesh she could ill afford to lose had melted away while she was bedridden. The iridescent fire of the opals at her throat and ears cheered her, though, and no one expected a necromancer to be plump and rosy with health. She forced a smile, held it in place till it fit, then pulled the black silk covering over the mirror and turned to find her gloves.
“What’s playing tonight, anyway?”
Ciaran gave a sigh for her ignorance. “Astrophel and Satis. Thierselis’s version.”
“Damn. I prefer