He takes in all three faces—the gravedigger and the two newcomers—memorizing every feature so he will know them when the time comes. For now, he waits. There may be others still.
The third man hands the gravedigger a purse and sends him on his way. The man kneeling over the body brushes loose soil from the boy’s hair. Slowly, gently, he closes the left eye.
It does not matter. He has already seen them. They are already marked.
CHAPTER 3
Lenoir was in a foul mood by the time he reached Lady Zera’s. He could not banish the sight of the starving youth from his mind. It had spoiled his enjoyment of the wine, and he dreaded the effect it might have on his dreams. He needed diversion, entertainment, something to take his mind off what had happened. And so he had headed for Zera’s, as he had done so many nights before.
“Darling!” she called gaily as Lenoir was ushered into the room by a neatly trimmed servant. She swept through the crowd, silken sleeves billowing, to embrace Lenoir, kissing him twice on each cheek. She smelled faintly of jasmine, as she always did.
“So wonderful to see you this evening, Inspector.” She smiled, taking his elbow.
“How could I not come? To miss an evening at the most celebrated salon in Kennian would be foolish indeed.”
Lady Zera’s laughter tinkled like crystal. “You do flatter me, Nicolas. Come, meet some of my guests. Lord Keefe is here this evening, which is a first, and here is Mr. Jolen, whose treatise on the natural flaws of man is making quite a splash these days—is it not so, Mr. Jolen?”
Lenoir allowed himself to be shown through the room, smiling, exchanging kisses and handshakes and cordial greetings. Many of the guests he already knew, for much of Kennian’s elite could be found in this room at least once a week. The city’s most luminous personages, from artists to philosophers to noblemen, regularly adorned the plush sofas and settees, waxing eloquent about big ideas or simply trading gossip. Zera kept her cellar well stocked and her servants well trained, and was herself a captivatingly exotic woman of such charm and eloquence that she kept the conversation flowing as effortlessly as the wine. Lenoir felt himself relaxing even as he accepted his first glass. For a man such as he who had spent his entire adult life observing people, Lady Zera’s salon was a glut of stimulation.
After he had made the rounds, Lenoir found himself a seat near the exquisite bay window that looked out over the high street. The dark panes cast his image back at him, haloed by the glow of the lamps inside. He looked haggard in this light, pale and poorly rested. And so he was. Anyone would be who had not slept a moment in almost a week.
He sank onto the embroidered cushions of the window seat and raised his glass to his lips, his eyes systematically surveying all that was before him. Much of the room was steeped in shadow, owing to Zera’s preference for low, moody lighting. It showed her apartments to best advantage: the flickering lamplight flamed on the baroque details of the decor, casting portrait frames and velvet curtains in mysterious relief. Her fine furnishings stood out like jewels, sumptuous ruby and sapphire upholstery clasped within elaborate gilt whorls.
Yet all this was a happy coincidence. The real reason the light was kept low was to allow nooks of gloom to gather in the corners, cloaking their depths from prying eyes. It was in these spaces that the most interesting guests lingered, that they might pursue their vices undisturbed. Sweet-smelling smoke from long pipes drifted lazily toward the ceiling, gathering and roiling like storm clouds above prostrate smokers whose glazed eyes stared vacantly into the shadows. Scholars held heated debates in twos and threes, their hands moving animatedly, the occasional raised voice punctuating their sibilant whispers. Plotting revolution, no doubt, Lenoir thought wryly. If only they knew, as he did, what revolution was like to live through. Then of course there were the lovers, illicit and shameless, who flirted and teased with impunity in the absence of their spouses. All these vices were so very fashionable at the moment, in this time and place where to live to excess was to celebrate life to the fullest.
A voice drifted across the room, and it was as though Jolen had heard Lenoir’s thoughts. “Man’s weaknesses are nothing to be ashamed of,” the philosopher was saying from his position at the center of a large group of guests. Zera, to whom his words were apparently addressed, was stretched spectacularly on a daybed, fanning herself with a hand-painted silk fan.
“They are flaws, yes,” Jolen continued, “but flaws that were designed by God, and are therefore as natural as our bodies. They belong to us.”
“But, Mr. Jolen, I thought God did not make mistakes,” Lady Zera said. There were murmurs of assent from the other guests gathered around to listen.
“That is just my point!” Jolen said earnestly. “Our flaws are not mistakes. They were absolutely intentional. They are what make us mortal, what separate us from the perfection of the divine!”
“And so,” said Zera, “to explore them fully is to explore what it means to be human.” More noises of agreement from the crowd, even a smattering of applause. Lenoir could not help but smile at how adoring Lady Zera’s guests could be. The irony of it—that an Adali woman, and no Lady at that, could hold such sway over Kennian’s “polite society”—never failed to amuse him.
“Precisely!” cried Jolen triumphantly. “You are a keen student, Lady Zera. In embracing our flaws, we celebrate the gifts God gave us! Conversely, to hide from these weaknesses, to deny them, is to deny God’s will.”
“A dangerous philosophy, sir,” Lenoir cut in. All eyes turned to him, including Zera’s. “By this logic, no one should ever show self-restraint.”
Jolen was unruffled by the challenge. “Not at all. One must always show restraint. My point is that the boundaries of what society deems acceptable will shift once we acknowledge the natural flaws of man. We need only show restraint within those boundaries.”
“Society’s boundaries may certainly shift,” said Lenoir. “Indeed, they have already shifted—or perhaps one might say drifted—considerably. But what about God’s boundaries? What about the great balance of fate?”
Jolen frowned. “I do not take your meaning, sir,” he said stiffly.
“I speak of consequence. Of judgment. Not the judgment of mankind, but of something higher, more powerful. We are all called to account for our actions, called to pay for what we have done. You cannot escape it—fate will have its vengeance.” As he spoke, Lenoir felt the familiar darkness pooling inside him, and he suppressed a shudder.
Jolen, meanwhile, appeared to be suppressing a sneer. “I am sorry, Inspector, but I’m afraid I don’t believe in fate. I believe in science.” And with that, he turned his attention back to the more appreciative members of his audience.
Feeling suddenly gloomy again, Lenoir twisted in his seat to look out the window. There was little activity in the street; it must be getting late. As he turned back, his gaze drifted over the angled window to his right and a reflection flashed in the glass: a pale face with fierce green eyes.
Lenoir’s heart seized, and he gripped the arms of his chair in momentary terror. But the image vanished as suddenly as it had come, and he saw that it was only the reflection of two small glasses of absinthe. He turned to find Zera holding the liquor out to him, a knowing smile on her lips.
“You have dark thoughts this evening, Inspector.” She handed him a glass.
Lenoir did not hesitate: he tossed the absinthe into the back of his throat, its fiery bite bringing tears to his eyes.
“One is generally meant to sip absinthe,” Zera observed dryly.
“Is that so? Bring me another and I will be sure to do it properly.”
Still smiling, the hostess waved to one of her servants and another glass was brought. Zera sat on the window seat, nestling herself between Lenoir and the wall. She looked at him through golden eyes, her face angled playfully to his. “Always looking at the dark side of things, Nico
las,” she purred, swirling her own absinthe in its tiny crystal glass. She had added sugar and water to hers, giving it a cloudy appearance. Such was the fashion, but Lenoir preferred his straight. He did not want to dilute the color. Swallowing its blazing green felt like confronting a fear.
“Jolen’s ideas are all the rage, you know,” Zera said. “Many young scholars think as he does.”
Lenoir snorted. “Of course his ideas are popular. They offer the perfect excuse for indulgent behavior, and that is the order of the day, is it not?” He gestured meaningfully with his glass, then took a sip, savoring the taste: sweet, licorice, scorching.
“You are in a contrary mood, Nicolas. Have you had a difficult day?” Without waiting for an answer, she slipped her arm under his. “Tell me about it.”
“Not much to tell. A boy’s body was exhumed illegally in the Brackensvale Cemetery. No one knows where the body was taken or why.”
Zera shivered. “Horrible!” she whispered, her fine eyebrows coming together. “Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“I have, actually,” said a voice. Lenoir and Zera turned to its source, a tall, angular gentleman sitting nearby. He had a severe face and a sour expression, which Lenoir recognized as his habitual aspect. “My apologies for eavesdropping, Lady Zera,” the gentleman said, turning a pipe over in his hands. “It was quite inadvertent.”
“Not at all, Lord Feine,” said Zera graciously.
Feine removed a small leather pouch from his pocket and set about filling the pipe with tobacco. He had an unhurried air, as though he savored the curiosity his words had aroused. Lenoir watched detachedly as he fiddled with the pipe. It was an ostentatious thing, with a family crest etched into the bowl.
“There was a similar incident a few weeks ago,” Feine said at length. “I am rather surprised you hadn’t heard, Inspector.”
Lenoir shrugged. “Probably no one told the police. Many crimes go unreported.”
Feine grunted, still absorbed in preparing his pipe. “In any case, a boy’s body was stolen from North Haven. No one has the faintest idea why. My valet is from there, and he says the whole village is in shock.”
“I do not doubt it,” Zera said. “What a monstrous thing to do! Some people are simply mad.”
“Indeed,” said Lenoir. As they spoke, other guests were congregating around them, taking seats near the bay window. Zera was seldom without her admiring retinue for long.
“Speaking of mad”—Zera raised her voice for the benefit of the others—“Mrs. Hynd here has heard a delicious rumor about our dear Duke of Warrick. Won’t you tell us, Mrs. Hynd?”
Lenoir was impressed by how seamlessly Zera changed the subject. Understandably, she was not keen on regaling the other guests with gruesome tales of children’s corpses.
A plump woman with improbably perfect curls burst into giggles. “Well,” she began breathlessly, “apparently, the duke is in search of a new wife! I’m told he has his people making a list of all the unmarried women in the Five Villages!” She dissolved into giggles again, covering her lips with her fingers as though trying to contain them.
There was much appreciative laughter at this. Zera, for her part, was shaking her head incredulously. “Can you imagine his looking beyond Kennian,” she asked the room in general, “as though he’ll find a proper wife among the milkmaids?”
“I can well imagine it, Lady Zera,” said a nobleman whose name Lenoir had forgotten. “He may be the most powerful man in the Five Villages, but even so, what sane, respectable woman could possibly want him for a husband? I suspect he will be obliged to find someone who is neither!”
More laughter. Lenoir supposed His Lordship (what was his name? Lenoir could not think through the growing haze of liquor) had a point. Only the greediest, most foolish sort of woman would rush to take the place of the duke’s last wife, whose death, along with her son’s, had been brutal and suspicious.
“Well, I for one hope he manages it,” said one woman. “He needs to start a family again. It’s just awful how he pines after his dead loved ones, so many years later.”
“Probably shouldn’t have murdered them, then,” someone retorted, provoking scandalized laughter and cries of “Shocking, shocking!”
With the salon’s guests chatting so briskly now, Zera could relax again. She leaned conspiratorially toward Lenoir. “The power of rumor,” she murmured. “Is it not the axle grease of society?”
“It is, though I suspect the objects of rumor do not always think that a good thing. But perhaps you can speak to that yourself—there have certainly been enough rumors about you lately.”
A shadow of anger flickered across Zera’s lovely features, but it was gone almost immediately. “So it would seem,” she said coolly. “Apparently, I am running a brothel and an opium den full of revolutionaries and freaks.”
Lenoir gave her a wry smile. “The price of success, my dear. Consider it a compliment to be worthy of such notoriety.”
“Compliment or no, I would be grateful indeed to know who is behind it. Can you find out?” Lenoir laughed quietly, but Zera would not be deterred. “I am serious, Nicolas. I have worked too hard and sacrificed too much to allow my place in society to be compromised by vicious lies. I am . . . vulnerable.”
“Zera, no one thinks of you as Adali anymore.”
She tossed her head proudly. “For the moment, perhaps, but that can change. People are fickle, as you well know. These rumors have only to take root, and I will be Adali once more, a savage putting on airs in the big city, little better than a trained monkey. I cannot let my guard down, not even for a moment. I must put a stop to these rumors.” She paused. “What about that boy you are always telling me about—the one who is so good at picking up stray bits of information? Could he find out who is spreading this poison?”
“Possibly. I will ask him.”
“Good,” Zera said silkily, rising. “Now if you will forgive me, I am neglecting my guests.” She disappeared into the crowd.
Shaking his head, Lenoir took another long pull of liquor. His vision was already growing blurred, but it would be many hours before he stopped. Only when the absinthe in his glass seemed to take the shape of a pair of cold green eyes did he finally rise, weave his way unsteadily home, and give himself over to sleep.
CHAPTER 4
“I still don’t understand why they wouldn’t have reported it to the constable,” said Kody, his gaze drifting over the gallery of skeletal white poplars flanking the road to North Haven. The trees offered little protection from the cold gusts blowing down from the hills; icy blades of wind sliced through the ribs of the forest, whistling eerily. The horses bowed their heads against the chill, their progress watched hungrily by a murder of crows that sheltered in the branches above, flapping and cackling. Must be carrion nearby, Kody thought.
Lenoir still hadn’t said anything, so Kody continued. “If my son’s body was stolen, I’d want to find out who did it and why.”
“Perhaps there are circumstances surrounding the incident that the victims do not want known,” said Lenoir. “Or perhaps they did tell the constable, but he did not trust the Metropolitan Police with the information.”
I can’t imagine why. Maybe it’s because half the force is corrupt, and the other half is incompetent. Kody sighed inwardly, pushing the bitter thought aside. It wasn’t that bad. But it was getting harder and harder to be optimistic about the Kennian Metropolitan Police, and working with Lenoir wasn’t exactly a morale booster.
“Whatever the reason, Sergeant, I do not want a repeat of yesterday’s incident. Unless someone can provide us a motive, or at least a solid lead, it is virtually certain that we will never find this child’s body. The crime scene is far too old, and the trail will have gone cold long since. So do not be too hopeful.”
God forbid anyone should be hopeful, Inspector.
Their horses
crested a hill in the road, and the shambling outline of North Haven rose from the earth like a corpse from its grave. It slumped and careened at all angles, its crude construction slowly yielding to the ravages of the relentless Braelish winters. As they got closer, the impression of decay and neglect only grew stronger. Crumbling, desiccated mud walls propped up thatch roofs scabbed over with moss, the dwellings separated from one another by desultory little fences of woven sticks. The main road remained dry and hard-packed beneath their horses’ hooves, a sign that it rarely saw wagon traffic. That didn’t surprise Kody. North Haven was barely larger than Brackensvale, and every bit as provincial.
Maybe that explained the mistrustful stares of the townspeople they came across. As they rode down the main street, people turned to gaze up at them, their expressions dark and forbidding. Crowds stopped talking as they passed. A mangy-looking dog scampered out from a nearby yard and followed them for a while, barking loudly and nipping at the heels of the horses until Kody threw a crab apple at it, sending it slinking off into the trees. In all, it wasn’t the warmest of welcomes.
“This is why city folk never leave Kennian,” Kody said under his breath. “You’d think we were an occupying army, the way these people act. What’s their problem, anyway?”
“You have answered your own question, Sergeant. City folk almost never set foot in the villages, and when they do, it does not tend to be good news.”
“Bit of a chicken-and-egg thing, isn’t it?” Kody said, eying a blacksmith warily. The man had stopped working as they drew near, and there was something vaguely threatening in the way he held his heavy iron hammer.
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