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.
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.