That morning in the courtyard had been Lenoir’s last in Serles. He had boarded a stagecoach that afternoon, away from his city, away from his country and everything he had ever known. He had gone north to Braeland, that mist-cloaked isthmus stretching like a bridge across the veil to the underworld, the last outpost of civilization before reaching the savage shores beyond. He never saw his pursuer again. He thought he had escaped forever.
But I was wrong. He has come. How could he possibly have found me? But he had, and what was worse, he seemed somehow to be connected to Zach’s disappearance. It must be so, for though there had been many murders in the Five Villages since Lenoir had been here, none had borne the telltale marks of the scourge.
He would drive himself mad thinking about it. He had to get out of the apartment, had to find company. Lenoir grabbed his coat and headed out, making for his destination by instinct more than conscious thought. He needed someplace crowded, someplace familiar and comforting. And he needed a drink. He could only think of only one place that would do.
Zera herself met him at the door. To his inquiring glance, she said, “I had to fire my doorman. You just cannot imagine what he’s been up to.” She raised her eyebrows significantly, but she did not elaborate, and Lenoir did not ask. “Besides,” she continued, looping her arm through Lenoir’s as she led him up the stairs, “there is a certain country charm in welcoming one’s own guests, don’t you think? I believe I shall declare it a fashion.”
“As you say, madam,” Lenoir replied distractedly. His eyes had fixed on a pale green light that came into view as they reached the top of the stairs: a panel of the stained-glass screen that separated the main part of the salon from one of its more notorious corners. When lit from behind, it gave off a glimmer the color of absinthe. This bit of glass often caught Lenoir’s attention as he entered the room, particularly if his mind was preoccupied. Tonight, it positively mesmerized him.
He realized belatedly that Zera was still talking to him. “Nicolas,” she said coolly, “I sense I do not have your undivided attention.”
Lenoir blinked and tore his gaze away from the screen. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
She regarded him with a severe look, her dark eyebrows stitched together. She rarely permitted herself to express such raw displeasure, and it made Lenoir acutely aware of her imposing height. The Adali were an unusually tall race, but Zera’s height so suited her, rendered her so exquisitely statuesque, that Lenoir had ceased to notice it. “I was asking whether you had any news from your informant,” she said.
“My informant?” Lenoir echoed vaguely.
Zera’s mouth tightened. “My word, Inspector, are you quite well? The boy, Nicolas. What’s his name?”
“Zach.” The name brought Lenoir’s whirring mind to a sudden halt. He blinked once, and Zera seemed to come into sharper focus. “His name is Zach, and no—I have not had any news from him. None at all. You see, Zach has been kidnapped.”
Zera’s lips parted, but no sound came. Now it was she who blinked, her customary poise perturbed. “Kidnapped?” She seized Lenoir’s arm and steered him away from the other guests, her head bent conspiratorially. “Nicolas, are you quite sure?”
“I am quite sure,” he said, unsettled by the finality in his own voice. “Zach and another boy were both taken yesterday. We found the house where they were being kept, but only one of the boys was still there. And he was . . . unwell.”
Zera shuddered. “What has the world come to? First children’s corpses and now this. . . .” She frowned suddenly. “Actually . . . Nicolas, do you think they might be related?”
Lenoir had seen this question coming. Zera was uncommonly clever, and she loved to speculate about his work. He supposed it gave her a sense of intrigue. “Kody certainly thinks so.”
“Who is Kody?”
“One of my sergeants. He is a competent investigator, but he is given to elaborate notions of conspiracy. He sees connections everywhere.”
Zera’s long fingers covered her lips, her golden eyes round with wonder. “But in this case, he could be right.”
“It is certainly difficult to dismiss it as coincidence,” Lenoir admitted. “If it had only been Zach . . . So many orphans meet ugly fates in this city. But two children, both nine-year-old boys, just like the corpses . . .” He shook his head, frustrated. “Yet I can think of no logical explanation for it. How are they connected? It makes no sense.”
Zera regarded him for a moment, then looked over her shoulder and waved at a servant. “Here, Nicolas.” Her voice was honeyed with concern. “Come and sit. We will get you some wine, and you will feel better.”
She seated them on a pair of sumptuous chairs near the hearth. Ordinarily, this was a popular spot for patrons of the salon to gather, but Lenoir noticed out of the corner of his eye that one of the servants was whispering to nearby guests, shepherding them to a discreet remove. Zera had mastered the art of catering to the needs of her guests, even those of modest stature such as Lenoir. She seemed to know exactly what they wanted without having to be told. Sometimes she even knew what Lenoir wanted before he knew it himself. And there was something so natural about the way she managed her staff, communicating wordlessly with them so that things seemed simply to unfold according to her unspoken will. Truly, she was a natural-born hostess.
The wine arrived and Lenoir gratefully took a glass. Zera took one too, though she did not raise it to her lips. She waited for Lenoir to speak, perched on the edge of her seat with her long legs crossed daintily at the ankles. Her expression was warm and open, inviting him to confess his troubles. And so he did.
“It has been a long time since I loved my work, Zera. I think you know that.”
She gave him a sad smile. “You do not often seem happy, it’s true.”
“I used to be happy. Or if not happy, at least I was satisfied. At least I had purpose. I was very good at my job. I was the best.”
“You are still the best, Nicolas,” Zera said, leaning forward to put a hand on his knee. “Everyone says so. They say you are a marvel, that you can find out anything you want to know.”
Lenoir snorted softly and sipped his wine. “Perhaps that is so, but that is precisely the problem, you see. I do not want to find out anything—not unless it gets me something. Or gets you something.” He raised an eyebrow, reminding her silently of the many times he had used his investigative skills to pass valuable information to Zera. She was a born hostess to begin with; tipped off about the closet vices of her guests, she was a wonder. Armed with the right information, Zera could coax even the naturally cautious into revealing their sins to her. Thus the powerful and the highborn frequently found themselves beholden to Lady Zera in one way or another. She catered to their whims, indulged their desires, and guarded their secrets. In so doing, she ensured her stature among the influential of Kennian, an elite circle no Adal before her had ever infiltrated.
“This business with Zach—it is the first time in so long that I have actually felt . . . I don’t know . . .” He trailed off, unable to find the words.
“You are too hard on yourself.”
“Am I? Kody does not think so. He despises me and I cannot blame him. I used to see the world through his eyes; I know only too well what I must look like.”