was top-shelf—and with only twenty-two pages left, he was surprisingly invested in discovering whether Contessa Sofia’s evil twin really was going to marry Archduke Giorgio and—
Knock, knock.
“Fucksakes, what?” the old man growled.
He heard the key turning in the lock, and the door swung open silently. Mercurio fully expected to see one of his damned Hands poke their heads around the frame. He’d been confined to his bedchamber since the discovery of the third chronicle, and the poor sods watching him were bored shitless now. The Dweymeri lad even asked if Mercurio wanted a cup of tea yesterturn. But instead of a dispirited lackey of the Red Church, the old man found himself looking at the Lady of Blades herself.
“Since when do you knock?” he growled.
“Since I was informed about your current reading material,” the old woman replied. “I’d rather not stumble into a visit from Dona Palmer and her five daughters, if it’s all the same to you.”
“You always were a prude, ’Silla.”
“You always were a wanker, Mercurio.”
The old man smiled despite himself. “Why are you here?”
Drusilla stepped inside, closed the door behind her. He could tell from her expression that despite her opening salvo, she hadn’t come to jest. She sat down on his bed and he turned his chair to face her, elbows on his knees.
“What is it, ’Silla?”
“Mia is dead.”
The old man felt a tightness across his chest, like iron bands constricting. His left arm ached, fingertips tingling as he felt the room begin to spin.
“What?” he managed to sputter.
Drusilla looked at him with clear concern. “… Are you well?”
“Of course I’m not fucking well!” he snapped. “She’s dead?”
“Black Mother, I was speaking figuratively. The deed isn’t done yet.”
“Maw’s fucking teeth.” Mercurio massaged his chest, wincing with pain. Relief flooded over him like spring rain. “You near gave me a fucking heart attack!”
“… Do you wish to see the apothecary?”
“No, I don’t wish to see the fucking apothecary, you crusty bitch!” he snapped. “I want to know what the ’byss you’re babbling about!”
“Scaeva has given approval for Mia’s execution,” Drusilla said. “We know exactly when and how she will enter the Mountain. Her fate is sealed, the matter is certain. I know how much you care for her, and I wished you to hear it from me first.”
“You wished to fucking gloat, is what you mean,” Mercurio snarled.
“If you believe I take pleasure in this—”
“Why the ’byss else would you have come in here?” The old man blinked hard, rubbing at the pain in his arm, his body now in a cold sweat. “Of course you take pleasure in it, ’Silla! You always have! You always will!”
“Know me so well, do you?”
“O, I know you, all right,” Mercurio snarled, wincing as he curled the fingers on his left hand. “Better than any man b-before or since. I saw you at your best and I watched you at your worst. Why the fuck else do you think I ended it between us?”
The old woman scoffed, blue eyes glittering. “I didn’t care forty years ago, Mercurio. I care even less now.”
“Some of us joined this place because we believed. And some of us because it was all we had. But you?” Mercurio winced again, pawing at his shoulder. “You joined because you liked it. You l-like hurting things, ’Silla. You w-were always a heartless…”
Mercurio blinked, rising to his feet.
“… h-heartless…”
The old man gasped, clutching at his chest. He staggered back against the wall, his book tumbling to the floor, a pitcher of wine knocked loose and shattering on the stone. His face twisted, he gasped again, lips moving as if he were unable to speak.
Drusilla rose to standing, eyes widening.
“… Mercurio?”
The old man fell to his knees. A gargle of nonsense spilling over his lips, both hands pressed to his heart and twisting at the fabric of his robes. The Lady of Blades slammed her fist against the door, crying out. The Hands burst into the room as the old man fell facedown on the stone, the stink of wine and piss in his nostrils.
“Get him to the apothecarium!” Drusilla snapped.
Mercurio felt a strong grip upon his waist, the Dweymeri Hand picking him up and slinging him over one broad shoulder. He only groaned in response, eyelids fluttering. He felt the rhythmic tread of hurried footsteps, heard Drusilla barking commands above the endless dirge of the Church choir. He couldn’t feel the pain anymore, thankfully. A long string of drool spilled from his lips and he groaned more nonsense.