“Not all of them,” she replied. “If that were true, I wouldn’t exist.”
Gavriel had no ready response. She was right, of course. Every cypher was living proof that an angel had strayed from his vows. The thought made him uncomfortable.
“Let us have a look,” he said brusquely, “since we came all this way.”
They stepped through the door to a railed walkway that circled the outside of the dome. An iron maintenance ladder curved up to the spire. The view was sweeping and they stood for a moment in silence, the wind whipping Rowan’s fair hair about her face.
“Well, that’s interesting,” she said.
“What is?”
“You can see the chapter house of the witches quite clearly. And the Angel Tower, too. Maybe the killer wanted to send a message to all the great powers of this city.”
Her observation was astute. The murder wasn’t just an assassination, it was a warning. But to which power? And from whom?
“I think you’re right,” Gavriel admitted. “They went to a great deal of trouble getting him up here, not to mention the risk.”
She looked pleased. “I’ve investigated a few murders, though not like this one. But unless it’s a drunken brawl, the place the body is left usually has significance—to the killer, at least.”
Rowan’s smell enveloped him. It was tantalizing, an alchemy of sweet and bitter. The climb had brought a delicate blush of color to her cheeks, and she stood close enough to discern the varying shades of gray ringing her irises.
“Well, shall we go down?” she asked.
He nodded, aware that he’d been staring. “Yes. I’ve seen enough.”
Each step of the descent jarred his broken wing, but his mind was elsewhere. Reluctantly, Gavriel admitted that visiting the scene had been worthwhile. The message of the murder was clearer now, even if its author remained a mystery.
He spent the remainder of the day immersed in Casolaba’s letters, searching for direct evidence of a motive. Yarl filed them into dossiers as he finished with them, occasionally making notes on matters that warranted further investigation. Gavriel found nothing overtly incriminating, but the pattern suggested a consul who played all sides against the middle.
The new blinds had been drawn tight and all the lamps were burning. Outside, the city buzzed with rumors, but inside there was only the rustle of paper and scratch of Yarl’s pen. Gavriel rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache.
“These banking records don’t align with his official salary,” he muttered.
“Consul Casolaba had many private consulting arrangements,” Yarl remarked dryly.
Gavriel grunted. “I also see regular payments for a flat on Rua Alva. We must look into that?—”
A sharp click drew his attention to the far corner of the office. “Now this is interesting,” Mercy Blackthorn announced with triumph in her voice. A section of wood paneling had shifted.
“What is it?” Gavriel asked, rising from the desk.
“A secret door.” She pushed it open, revealing darkness beyond. “Quite clever. The mechanism’s built into the decorative molding.”
“Where does it lead?” he asked, peering past her broad shoulder.
“Let’s find out,” Rowan said.
The two cyphers disappeared into the passage. They returned a few minutes later. “It’s a stairway,” Blackthorn reported, “leading down to a side entrance, completely concealed from view. Anyone could enter or exit the consul’s office without passing through the main lobby.”
This changed matters considerably. “So our killer could have entered this way on the night Casolaba died,” Gavriel said.
“And from the office, it’s just a short distance to the stairs leading up to the dome,” Rowan pointed out.
He turned to Yarl. “Summon Levi Bottas.”
When the aide arrived, he professed shock at the hidden door. “I—I had no idea,” he stammered. “I swear it, sir!”
“You were his chief aide,” Gavriel pointed out. “You must have spent a good deal of time in this office.”
