“Go on,” said Lenoir.
Zach was quiet for a moment, watching. Lenoir watched too. The youth was indeed a pathetic sight. He had no cloak, but only a threadbare shirt, surely unequal to the cold outside. His hair was greasy and matted, and every so often he paused from shoveling stew into his mouth to scratch, betraying the lice in his scalp. More than anything, however, it was the look in his eye that gave him away: hunted, darting around the room as though searching for threat or opportunity. Zach had chosen well. He might not know his subject personally, but all the same, the youth was all too familiar.
“He’s going to make a dash for it,” Zach said confidently.
“A dash?”
“He can’t pay, I’d bet a copper on it. When he’s finished eating, he’s going to run.”
As though sensing someone’s eyes on him, the youth looked up from his bowl. It was empty, Lenoir saw. The youth’s gaze flitted around, then locked with Lenoir’s. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, and in that moment, Lenoir knew Zach was right. An instant later, just as Zach had predicted, the youth shoved his chair back and bolted.
He had not chosen his table well. The room was too crowded and he was too far from the door. He never made it. By the time he reached the entrance to the Courtier, the barman had vaulted over the bar and was blocking the doorway, meaty fists raised. The youth hesitated, panic etched onto his thin face. He backed away between the tables, but found no comfort there: one of the patrons planted a boot in his backside and propelled him forward, straight into the arms of the barman.
The barman grinned, his great paws seizing the youth by his upper arms. “You picked the wrong place to steal a meal, lad,” he growled. Then, his face contorting with malice, he hurled his captive headfirst into the door. There was a sickening crunch, and the youth collapsed in a heap of rags. But the barman was not finished with him: he grabbed the youth by the top of his britches, hefting him easily, and used his body like a battering ram to open the front door. They disappeared out into the street.
Some of the patrons followed, eager to see the excitement outside. Most continued about their business, as though nothing had happened that they had not seen many times before. Lenoir, for his part, returned to his steak. When he had finished, however, and the barman still had not returned, Lenoir sighed and rose.
“Stay here,” he told Zach, and headed out the front door.
The scene was gruesome. The youth was on his hands and knees, a long, sticky string of blood dangling from his lip to the dirt. His face was split open in several places, and one eye was swelling shut. His drooping eyelids showed him to be moments away from losing consciousness. The barman stood over him, sleeves rolled up, shouting.
“Get up, you piece of filth! We’re not done here!” The small crowd of onlookers jeered their approval.
“All right,” called Lenoir, “that’s enough. You have made your point, Barclay.”
The barman looked up, scowling at the interruption. When he saw Lenoir, the scowl turned from anger to disappointment. “Come on, Inspector—he’s getting his due!”
“You don’t need to kill him. He will not be back.”
“He’s a bloody thief,” Barclay said indignantly, “and if I don’t make an example of him, there’ll be more where he came from! Can’t you at least arrest him or something?”
Lenoir shrugged. “I could, but what would be the point? The man is obviously starving. I can throw him in jail every other day, but he will still steal to survive. So why waste the time and money? It will do no good. The best you can hope for is that he steals from someone else.”
“Then let me finish, Inspector. I’ll see to it you eat for free for the rest of the month.”
Lenoir sighed again, tilting his head to survey the pathetic form hunched in the dirt. The youth might lose consciousness, but he did not appear to be close to death. “All right. Five minutes. But be careful, Barclay—if you kill him, I will have to arrest you.”
The barman grinned. He grabbed the youth’s clothes two-fisted, hauling him up. Lenoir did not wait to see the rest; he turned and went back inside the Courtier. He had no desire to see what had been purchased for a month’s worth of steak.
• • •
Stars drift overhead like a slow cascade of sparks. He watches, transfixed. Long has it been since he has seen such beauty. He remembers little of beauty from his life, but he remembers the stars. Like him, they are eternal. They have been with him since the beginning.
The wagon plods along. He is not sure how long the journey has been—he no longer measures time as mortals do—but he knows they have gone far. Wherever the gravedigger is taking his burden, it is a long way from the place the boy was buried. The soil clinging to the body, once black and moist, has dried out; specks of it cling to the left eye. It is like looking through a dirty window. The right eye is still closed, but one is enough. He cannot feel, cannot hear or taste or smell, but he can see. He has seen the gravedigger, through that dirty left eye, and condemned the man to death. He might have struck already, but he knows instinctively there are others involved, and he would see them too.
The wagon shudders to a halt. After a pause, the sky above jerks and shifts as the body is pulled roughly from the wagon. It falls and lands in a tumble. For a moment, all he can see is the ground; then the body is rolled over, and he is looking into a new face. The newcomer scans the corpse with obvious concern, as though looking for injury, even though the child is long dead. Over his shoulder, a third man is talking to the gravedigger, gesturing angrily at the body. The gravedigger looks confused and afraid.
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.
L
enoir 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, Nicolas,” 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.