Eppyris put pestle to mortar and gave a few quick, well-practiced grinds. As I walked over, he pulled a small box down from a shelf, removed a dried sprig of something, and sniffed it.
“Separate the flowers,” he said, handing me the delicate bit of branch. I moved to join him at the table. “Over there.” He pointed to the far end of the room. “And burn this beside you.”
I took the proffered incense, went to another brazier at the far end of the room, and tossed in the scented nugget. The heavy odor of the incense mingled with the smell of sewage that clung about me, but did little to hide it.
I sat down and lit a candle from the brazier. Feeling was starting to creep back into my left arm and hand-along with the occasional flash fire of pain-so I was actually able to strip the flowers. The petals were tiny purple-and-yellow things the shape of tears, their colors faded from drying. They felt like fly wings beneath my fingers.
“Are you all right?” asked Eppyris after several minutes of silence.
“Bruised, mainly. Nothing broken that I can tell.”
“And the filth you’re wearing?”
“Long story.”
Eppyris grunted. He shook the contents of the mortar into a cup, added two pinches of something from a shallow bowl, and poured boiling water over the whole thing.
I held up the nearly naked branch. “You need this?”
The apothecary shook his head and pointed at the cup. “Has to steep. We’ve time. What are you handling?”
I tasted the dust on my fingers-sweet, heavy, with a bit of burning at the back of the throat. “Harlock?”
“Yes. Good. But you should use your nose before your tongue, and your eyes before either. The flowers might have been poisonous.”
“I know what can kill me in that small a dose.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Eppyris picked up the steaming cup and gave it a practiced swirl. “What about the other man?” he said.
“The one who was on the stairs? He didn’t fare as well as I.”
“What did he want?”
“I missed an appointment. He was upset.”
“So he came for you.”
“More or less.”
Eppyris set the cup down, then put both hands on the table. “I thought they weren’t supposed to be able to get in the building. You said it was taken care of.”
“It was a mistake,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”
“He got in the building, Drothe.” Eppyris’s voice began to rise. “On the stairs.” He stood and pointed toward the entryway beyond the wall. “One door away from my family!”
“He wouldn’t have come after you or Cosima or the girls.”
“No?”
“No. He was deep fi-He was professional. He was here for me, no one else.”
“And what if I had walked out into the stairwell when he was there, Drothe? What if Cosima had come up to ask you down for tea? What if one of us had found him by accident?”
I stood up and walked the petals over to him. I set them down carefully, then stared up into his face.
“He was a professional, Eppyris. That means you wouldn’t have seen him. Even if any of you had been up four hours before sunrise.”
Eppyris scowled. “Don’t patronize me. You know what I mean.” He swept up the petals and crumbled them between his fingers, letting them fall into the cup.
“So what happens the next time?” he said more softly. “What happens if the next one isn’t as ‘professional’? What do you do then?”
The next time-there was the problem. Would there be a next time? Would I allow her another chance?
I didn’t doubt my sister was behind this; there was precedent, after all. Besides, no one knew to use her livery, let alone to make an appointment with me, like that. I couldn’t figure exactly what I had done to bring this latest attempt down on me, but that didn’t matter. I’ve found you don’t have to know why someone is trying to kill you; you just have to know that they are.
I thought of the rope upstairs, its knots as dark as charcoal. That was the part that bothered me the most. Hiring a Mouth to speak a spell is one thing; spoken magic is hard to trace, difficult for the empire to come down on. But portable glimmer like Tamas’s rope was another thing entirely; magic of that sort had been outlawed by the empire three centuries ago. It was still around, of course; it just cost-a lot. More than I had thought I was worth.
But if she was now willing to go that far…
If.
“There won’t be a next time,” I said.
Eppyris grunted.
I looked up, meeting his eyes. “There won’t.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, both of us feeling righteous, or just right, or stubborn, I’m not sure which. Finally, Eppyris sighed and rubbed his eyes.
“My shop is here,” he said. “I’ll stay for now. But Cosima, Alarenna, and Sophia will go to her mother’s tomorrow.”
“Eppyris, they don’t have to.”
“Yes, they do,” he said.
I wanted to argue, but didn’t. I wasn’t about to put my pride above his family.
“Here,” he said, setting the steaming cup before me. “This should be ready. I’ll prepare a salve and set it on the stairs for you. Do you need more ahrami?”
“Yes.” I picked up the cup. The brew was hot and bitter and scorched my throat on the way down.
I heard the click of a lock, the soft rattle of a latch being turned. A male voice spoke; it was Josef, my sister’s butler. The words were muffled by the double doors leading from the hallway to her parlor. I was in a room farther beyond, in Christiana’s bedroom, but I could still make them out.
“Will you be needing Sara tonight, madam?”
“No, thank you, Josef. It’s late. Let her sleep. I can manage.”
“As you will, madam.”
I heard the outer chamber doors open, then close, saw the flicker of approaching candlelight reflected on the marble floor. I had left the doors between the bedroom and parlor ajar.
I bit down on the seed in my mouth, worked it for a moment, swallowed. It had little effect, as the painkilling potion Eppyris had given me also dulled the ahrami. Still, it tasted good, and after my argument at the baths with Degan, I’d take whatever solace the night was willing to offer.
He had wanted to come with me; I had refused-not because I didn’t want a sword at my back after Tamas’s attempt, but because I didn’t trust him when it came to Christiana. I’d seen the way Degan looked at my sister, and the way her eyes played over him. It wasn’t that I thought he would harm me when it came to her; it was just that I wasn’t sure he would let me harm her.
And I wouldn’t brook outsiders-not even Degan-interfering in family matters.
I sat in a high-backed chair in a corner of the bedroom. Behind me, the window I had entered through let in a soft breath of air, sending the flame of the single candle I had lit to flickering. The candle was on the far side of the room, letting me remain in shadow while still putting my night vision to sleep. When the bedroom doors opened fully, I was ready for the light.
Christiana entered, all grace and ease, the skirts of her emerald and almond gown flowing with her every movement. The neckline had slipped, revealing a smooth shoulder among the chestnut avalanche of her hair. In her left hand was a candelabra with three buds of flame growing from silver and wax stems. Her pale eyes were distant, her brows drawn slightly down, her lips pursed. Weighing the implications and innuendos of the evening, no doubt. After two steps, she smiled to herself, then nodded; someone at court, I knew, was doomed.
Then she noticed the lone candle. She noticed me. The candelabra almost fell out of her hand.
“Bastard!” she gasped. “You nearly scared the life out of me!”
“Can’t have that,” I said.
Christiana glared at me for a moment, then relinquished a darkly playful smile.
“Still don’t know how to use a door, I see,” she said as she continued into the room.
“I find it best to avoid your servants.”
“Always the cautious one.”
“You should talk,” I said.