all over the city. Julian was supposedly waiting for them at the Narrow House in the Spice Quarter. Of all his performers, only Aiko, Nigel, Caspar, and Jovan knew about it.
Heading there should have felt safer than lingering on the ragged streets of Valenda; it hadn’t taken long for trash to collect now that the monarchy was in upheaval. Tella didn’t spy any Fates, but she detected their taint taking up residence where night revelers had once been.
The jasper box in her hand grew heavier. She had the urge to open it now, but they’d already reached the Narrow House, which was indeed a slender structure. At first glance it appeared barely wider than a doorway, and just as crooked as all the other homes in this part of the city. But the closer they drew, the wider it grew.
Tella watched as decorative arched windows appeared on either side of the door. Beneath them rested flower boxes, overflowing with white foxglove, which Tella would have sworn weren’t there moments ago.
The house would have looked curiously inviting if she had not glanced up to see the Maiden Death standing in the center of the second-story window, flashing a macabre smile from behind her cage of pearls.
Legend’s hand gripped Tella’s tighter.
In Decks of Destiny, the Maiden Death’s card predicted a loss of a loved one or a family member. And it was her card that had first predicted Tella would lose her mother.
The air around her crackled and a fraction of a second later a hooded figure materialized between Tella and Legend.
Tella froze. She couldn’t see this figure’s face, it was concealed by his cloak, but she didn’t need to. There was only one Fate with the ability to travel through space and time and materialize at will: the Assassin—who, according to Jacks, was also insane.
“The Maiden Death is here to see the two of you,” he said.
34
Donatella
The Narrow House was another one of Legend’s deceptions.
Tella had seen through the glamour outside and thought it had looked charming. But inside, it reminded Tella of the illusion Legend had created in the dungeon, when he’d turned her cell into a four-story study. The ceilings of the Narrow House stretched even higher, and the books on the surrounding shelves didn’t look as flawless as they had in his illusion. Some of the volumes were aged and cracked and fragile, as if they’d experienced several previous lives before finding homes on these shelves.
Legend had one arm protectively around Tella’s shoulders as they entered the vaulted room. He hadn’t even wanted Tella to enter the house, but the Assassin had been insistent and so had Tella—this was her fight as well as Legend’s.
The scene they’d stepped into could have been a painting called Hostages at a Tea Party. Legend’s most trusted performers were sitting stiffly in tufted red chairs that encircled a shiny ebony table, set with a pewter tea service that no one touched, except Nigel, Legend’s tattoo-covered fortune-teller. Julian and Jovan were there, as well as Aiko—Legend’s historiographer who captured the history of Caraval through pictures—and Caspar, who’d once pretended to be Tella’s fiancé.
Behind them, the Assassin and the Maiden Death hovered like grim hosts. A few of the other Fates Tella had seen sometimes glowed, but the Assassin, who kept his face concealed by his heavy hood, appeared to collect shadows.
The Maiden Death looked exactly like her card from Decks of Destiny. Her head was covered in curving bars of pearls that wrapped around like a cage, and her dress looked more like long tatters of gossamer fabric that had been tied together. She didn’t glow, either, but her frayed garment billowed around her, as if she kept a private wind on a leash.
“Do not be afraid of us,” said the Maiden Death. “We are here to help defeat the Fallen Star.”
“And if we wanted to hurt you, I’d have shoved daggers through each of your hearts the moment I saw you outside.” The Assassin’s voice was like nails pounding through glass, harsh and discordant.
“Is that really how you win people over?” muttered Julian.
“Daeshim,” the Maiden Death chided in a voice far softer than her cloaked companion’s, “remember what we talked about?”
“You said to be friendly. That was a joke.”
No one laughed except for Jovan. “I think you need some work on your humor, mate.”
“If you don’t kill us all, I’ll help you out,” added Caspar.
“Thank you,” the Assassin answered. Not that his politeness appeared to relax anyone. If anything, more tension filled