was lowered and slid away into the scabbard, though Jeannemary did not take her hand off the pommel.) “What’s happened? What have you found?”
The Fourth said bitterly: “The body.”
Everyone clustered around. With a piece of old flagstone, Jeannemary knocked the still-smoking grate aside so that they could all peer through: down a short shunt, embers still glowing sooty red, there was a heap of ashes.
The cavalier of the Second picked up an iron poker from beside the incinerator and nudged the pile. The ashes were all soft and even, crumbling to a powdery white, the red lumps breaking up under pressure. There was an expectant pause as she stuck the poker into the far corners of the big expanse, and then drew it away.
“It’s just ashes,” said Lieutenant Dyas.
“A body was burnt in there,” said Jeannemary.
Colum the Eighth had gotten hold of a worn rake and was using that to pull some of the stuff closer. He stuck his hand into the boiling air and scooped out hot ashes, which showed that he either cared very little for his own pain or had a supremely good poker face. He held them out for inspection: whatever had burnt, had burnt down to a sandy grey-white stuff that left grease marks on the Eighth’s yellowed palms.
The necromancer teen was saying listlessly: “I can tell fresh human cremains. Can’t you, Princess?”
Corona hesitated. The Second butted in: “What if they were burning bones? One of the servants may have fallen apart.”
“Someone could … just go ask,” rumbled Colum the Eighth, shocking Gideon with an inherently sensible suggestion.
Isaac didn’t hear: “That’s rendered fat and flesh, not dry bone.”
“They didn’t— Are the Fifth still—”
“Magnus and Abigail are still where they ought to be,” said Jeannemary fiercely, “in the mortuary. Someone’s been killed and burnt up in the incinerator.”
There were long scratches down her face. She was even smudgier than her counterpart teen, if that was possible, and in that moment she looked feral. Her curls had frizzed up into a dark brown halo—one liberally streaked with blood and something else disreputable—and her eyes were welling up from the acrid smoke. She did not look like a stable witness to anyone.
Especially not to Naberius. He crossed his arms, shivered in the morning sun, and drawled: “These are ghost stories, doll. You’re both cracking up.”
“Shut it—”
“I’m not your doll, dickhead—”
“Princess, tell him—tell him those are remains—”
“Babs, shut your mouth and fix your hair,” said Corona. “Don’t discount this straight off the bat.”
As per usual, he looked wounded, and scruffed the towel around his damp hair. “Who’s discounting?” he said. “I’m not discounting. I’m just saying there’s no point. No need for all this Fourth House sound and fury. Anyone goes missing, we assume they’re having a nap in the incinerator.”
“You are being,” said the Second cavalier, “surprisingly blasé.”
“I hope you end up in the incinerator,” said Jeannemary. “I hope whatever killed Magnus and Abigail—and whoever we just found—comes after you. I’d love to see your face then. How will you look when we find you, Prince Naberius?”
Gideon pushed between them before Naberius could round on the ash-streaked, wet-eyed teenager. She stared into the incinerator. The cavalier of the Eighth was still poking around, and to her eye she had to admit there was nothing to find: whatever had been burnt here had been burnt down to greasy, bad-smelling smithereens. Particles of ash floated up from the grate like crumbling confetti, making smuts on their faces.
“Needs a bone magician,” said Colum, and dropped the rake. “I’m heading back.”
Naberius, who had been staring down Jeannemary, was distracted by this. He was more eager and jovial when he said: “You gearing up for your duel with the Seventh? The princess and I’ll ref you, naturally.”
“Yes,” said the other man without much enthusiasm.
“I’ll come with. Should be interesting to see the cav; he’s not remotely like his rep, is he? Ain’t ever matched him in a tournament, myself—”
At the exit of the Third and the Eighth cavaliers, the Eighth looking like he wished he were deaf, the Second went too: more silently, and wiping her hands on her scarlet neckerchief. Only the teens, Gideon, and Corona were left. Coronabeth was staring into the steaming ashes, brief singlet and shorts whipping in the wind, fine dry curls of gold escaping from the wet mass of her hair. She looked troubled, which made Gideon sad, but she was also soaked right through to the skin, which made Gideon need a lie-down.