"Neither do I," Thaxton said. "As of now, anyway."
Tyrene's brow lifted sardonically. "I trust you'll apprise me of any sudden revelations."
"I'll be sure to," Thaxton said dryly.
Tyrene picked up the knife. "I suppose it won't do any good to test it for prints. I'm not going to get a messenger through that storm out there, anyway. It can wait till the morrow."
"No prints," Dalton said, shaking his head. "I can't recall any of the prime suspects wearing gloves."
"Aye, but I'll wager any purse it'll be clean, as before. Mayhap the trick was done magically," Tyrene declared. "Damn me again. I'm hoist by my own petard."
"Well," Thaxton said. "I suppose there is nothing left to do. Everyone's locked doors by now."
"I suggest you gentlemen do the same," the captain told them. "And I'll take my own advice. I'm fagged out, truth be told. This nasty business has sapped me. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense."
"As though of hemlock you had drunk?" Dalton asked.
"Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains." Tyrene yawned. "I crave your pardon, gentlemen. I must to bed." He turned and walked off, waving. "Until the morrow, then."
"Good night, Captain," Thaxton said.
"These people have such poetic speech," Dalton observed, marveling.
It was a dark night of Sturm und Drang.
Lightning split the sky, revealing the desperate sea as it dashed itself against the rocks below. Rain pelted the castle, and wind wailed over the ramparts. Between flashes, the sea was gray green, suffused with a strange luminescence, boiling and churning.
Dalton came away from the window and sat back in the stuffed chair. He picked up The Moswell Plan and resumed reading.
Thaxton lay in bed, absorbed in Magiekal Divershyns.
They read as rain spattered the diamond-patterned windows and thunder rolled across the coast.
There came a knock at the door.
"Who the devil could that be?" Thaxton said, making to get up.
"I'll get it," Dalton said, rising.
Dalton turned the huge key in the lock, threw the bolt, and opened the heavy oaken door, its wrought-iron hinges creaking.
"Good evening, Mr. Dalton."
"Princess Dorcas. Your Royal Highness, please come in."
"Thank you. I'm so glad you're still up. I had no wish to disturb you."
"Not at all."
Dorcas came into the room, smiling. Thaxton was already on his feet.
"Your Royal Highness, what a pleasant surprise," he said.
"You're wondering why I'm up and about," Dorcas began.
"Well, ma'am, it's not the wisest thing to be doing with the murderer about."
"The murderer has already tried to kill me," she said, "and failed. There will be no second attempt. That would be too risky. I think the murderer realizes now that I won't reveal what I know."
The two men looked at each other.
Thaxton said, "Ma'am, if I might be so impertinent as to ask, what do you know?"
"The identity of the killer."
Dalton coughed, recovered, and said, "Won't you please sit down?"
Dorcas sat in the stuffed chair. "Please, gentlemen, be seated."
Dalton dragged up the hard-backed chair. Thaxton sat on the end of the bed.
"You say you know who the murderer is," Thaxton said. "May I ask how?"
Dorcas smiled. "That will take some explaining." She glanced at the book beside the reading lamp on the table. "Ah, I see you're reading my book."
"Oh, that's your copy?"
"No. I wrote it."
Dalton's eyes went wide. "You wrote The Moswell Plan? You're Dorcas Bagby?"
"That was the pen name I chose, yes. You see, I really don't have a surname, so I took the name of my landlady. I was living in England at the time. Most of our family have spent a good deal of time there, getting educated. Trent, Incarnadine, all of us. Oh, there is the family name of Haplodie, but that sounds so strange, and in fact it's a gens name, a clan name, not a proper surname. Anyway, writing the novel was something to pass the time while I spent a summer in Kent with friends of the family. It was a short-lived phenomenon. The urge to write never came over me again."
Dalton said, "Well, I can tell you that I'm enjoying it immensely, and it's an especial joy to be actually reading it after so many years of hearing about it."
"It's known?" Dorcas asked.
"Mostly by reputation. But it is known."
"I'm elated. I'd thought the book consigned to obscurity. It's long been out of print. The publisher is no longer in business."
"Are you sure this isn't your copy?"
"No. Where did you find it?"
"In the Peele library."
"I didn't know there was a copy here. Well." Dorcas sat back. "And now, I suppose you want me to explain how I can claim to know who the murderer is? Very well, I'll tell you, though you might not believe me. It's very simple. I saw guilt on the person's face."
A flash of lightning threw diamond patterns across the room, and a loud report shook the windows.
"And the person knew it when I looked. We locked eyes, both aware of the other's thoughts. It lasted only a second, but it was as if we had spoken for an hour. This happened very shortly after we were informed of the viscount's death. I knew then that I was in danger."
"Sounds as though it was a frightening experience," Dalton said. "Would you explain in more detail how this ability of yours works?"
"It is the Eye of Yahura, the Interior Eye. With it one can look into one's own soul, and into that of others. It's the soul, of course, that radiates from the eyes and communicates emotions to other people. Most people assume it's the face and the facial muscles, but of course the face can move very little. With the Eye of Yahura it's possible to see even deeper, down to the seat of the emotions, and there read the state of the samra, or soul-substance, which remains hidden and is not usually revealed by the eyes, except in the case of certain holy persons."
"Were you born with this ability?" Dalton asked.
"No, not at all, though I was a fairly adept castle magician until I gave up that school of magic and adopted another entirely. I learned it partly from my husband, the Diktar of Sagrapore, and partly from a very wise and holy woman by the name of Bassara Ulani. I studied for several decades before becoming proficient."
"Very interesting," Thaxton said. "What do you intend to do with this knowledge… of the identity of the murderer, I mean?"
"Nothing."
"Why?"
"My brother Incarnadine is wise. He made a law which prohibits a person from being charged with a crime based on information obtained from divination, necromancy, clairvoyance, or any paranormal means. The law is a very vital protection of human rights. It prevents the abuse of magic and gives jurisprudence an objective basis. Imagine if someone could be charged, tried, convicted, and even executed on the word of some clever and malicious charlatan. Or on the false evidence of a real magician. It is unthinkable. That is why my revealing the murderer's identity would do no good whatsoever. I have no evidence on which to base such an accusation, and nothing but evil would come of it. That is why I must remain silent. I think even the murderer realizes that now."
"You remained silent even though your life was in danger," Thaxton observed. "Remarkable. Tell me this, ma'am, if you please. Count Damik is dead. You're saying that the murderer meant to kill you instead?"
"Yes, that I also read on the murderer's face. I am sure the killing of Damik was somehow a mistake."
"If Damik was stabbed, which looks certain, how could it have been a mistake?"
Dorcas shook her head slowly. "It puzzles me, too. But I am certain the murderer meant to kill me, not Damik. The murderer touched me."
"He ― or she ― touched you?"