“I’m claiming this one,” she said, checking the walk-in closet and pink marble bath.
“All yours,” Mercy replied from across the hall. “I want Mount Meru if Morningstar hasn’t taken it.”
It was Mercy’s dream to climb the Sundar Kush range. She was a decent mountaineer, but she said the Kush were the ultimate test. Dozens died there every year—just in the foothills.
The only other bedchamber that showed signs of habitation was the Kirith Room, which had obviously been claimed by Edvin Yarl since it smelled of his citrus hair pomade.
“I don’t think Morningstar has taken a bedchamber,” Cathrynne said when they’d finished searching the third floor. “Maybe he doesn’t sleep at all.” It wouldn’t surprise her.
“Right. That leaves the roof,” Mercy said.
They found the spiral stair leading up one flight and stepped out to a flat terrace with stone planters and a bench. A waist-high brick wall enclosed the roof. At the far side, purple and white wildflowers burst from a crack in the slate tiles. They bloomed in thick profusion—but only in that one place.
“I bet that’s where he bled,” Mercy whispered. “Angel blood has so much ley, odd things happen when it’s spilled.”
Cathrynne walked to the edge, careful not to step on the flowers, and leaned over the wall. It was a long drop down to the street below. Enough to kill a human and probably a witch. Even for Morningstar, it must have been agony.
“Here’s a question,” she said. “Why didn’t they finish him off? There he is, lying broken in the street, no one about. You’d never get a better chance.”
“Keep your voice down,” Mercy hissed. “He might hear you.”
She glanced at the stairwell. “All the way up here?”
“Yes! Angels have very acute senses.” Her face said, And you can’t afford to offend him again.
“Right.” Cathrynne mouthed an apology. “All clear!” she announced loudly.
Mercy sidled closer. “I agree,” she whispered. “Maybe the attacker was interrupted.”
“Maybe.” Cathrynne still thought it strange that someone ruthless enough to hoist Casolaba onto a spire and leave him there for the crows would balk at cutting Morningstar’s throat, or whatever it took to kill an archangel.
They flipped a coin to decide the watch. Cathrynne lost, taking first shift. By the time they went downstairs, Morningstar had disregarded their order to stay put and sequestered himself in the library. Yarl told them to take any of the bedrooms they liked. He bid them good night and retired, followed soon after by Mercy.
Cathrynne hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She rummaged through the kitchen, which was stocked with copper pans of every size and ingredients that all required cooking. After twenty years of mess hall chow and street food, recipes remained a mystery. Finally, she discovered a bag of chips in the pantry. She padded down the hall and knocked on the library door.
“Enter,” came Morningstar’s clipped voice.
He sat at another desk—apparently, his favorite place in the world—reading through stacks of documents under a pool of lamplight. “What is it, Rowan?”
“I can’t leave you alone,” she said.
“I’ll be fine,” he replied testily.
She glanced at the windows facing the street. “Anyone might come through those. We can’t take the risk.”
After a long pause, he sighed in defeat and gestured to an armchair. She sat down and tore open the paper bag. He looked up with a pained expression as she popped a chip into her mouth. Cathrynne wished she had eaten them in the kitchen first, but it was too late now.
“I won’t get crumbs on the carpet,” she mumbled, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His gaze flicked to her feet. “You already have, but I will not begrudge you sustenance.”
She smiled. “That’s kind of you.”
He examined her suspiciously, then returned to his papers.
Cathrynne ate the chips as quietly as possible. He did not look up again, though a muscle ticked in his jaw. When she crumpled the bag, it sounded like a building collapsing. She tossed it at the wastebasket next to the desk, missed, and was forced to go over and retrieve it.
“I hope you enjoyed your meal,” Morningstar muttered venomously.
