“Then I’ll freshen up and change,” she said, struggling for a neutral expression.
They parted ways without another word. In the Iskatar Room, Cathrynne stripped off her dusty clothes, washed her face, and donned a fresh uniform of silver bodice and jacket over snug black trousers. She combed the snarls from her hair and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck.
She emerged at a quarter of three to find Gavriel waiting in the foyer. He wore his severe black magistrate’s robe, which only served to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders. They joined the crowds filling the boulevard. White bunting draped lampposts and balconies, the traditional color of mourning. The funeral procession wound through the city center, led by an honor guard bearing Casolaba’s empty coffin on their shoulders. Behind walked his widow and two grown children, carrying a silver urn that presumably contained the man’s ashes.
Witches and cyphers patrolled the streets, but since Cathrynne felt certain one—or more—of them was the culprit, she took little comfort in their presence. She divided her attention between the crowds surging against makeshift barriers and potential assassins on the rooftops.
By necessity, she had to keep Gavriel closer than she liked. He did not complain and actually seemed to be enjoying her discomfort, which annoyed her even more. She deployed a frosty stare to ensure that no one came within arm’s length, including the other dignitaries.
These included the ones with motives: the ambassador from Kievad Rus; Primo Roloa, head of the Freedom Party; and Luzia Bras, leader of the Miners’ Union, who caught Gavriel’s eye and gave him an approving nod. Cathrynne guessed Bras was well aware he had visited Durian Padulski’s mother in Pota Pras.
“Where’s Levi Bottas?” she asked, craning her neck. “I’d expect him to be here.”
Gavriel looked around, but Casolaba’s aide was nowhere to be seen.
“My sister Haniel is absent as well,” Gavriel said, “but that is unremarkable. She disdains humans and Barsal Casolaba was no exception.”
The procession followed Rua Capitolana to Liberty Square, where a temporary stage had been erected. One by one, officials climbed the steps to deliver eulogies for the consul. They praised him as a devoted public servant, a loving family man, a champion of the people.
“What a remarkable transformation,” Gavriel murmured, his voice low but cutting. “Just days ago, those same people told me privately how much they loathed the man.”
After the speeches ended, they followed the procession to a cemetery where mausoleums housed generations of Kota’s luminaries. By the time they returned to the townhouse, Cathrynne was in such a foul mood that she wished someone would attack just so she could beat the tar out of them.
At dinner that evening, Mercy and Yarl continued their animated conversation about the Sinn, while Cathrynne pushed her food around the plate. Every time she looked up, Gavriel was watching her, though he’d glance away the moment their eyes met. Mercy took the first watch, and Cathrynne tumbled into bed, exhausted.
She dreamt of a featureless plain that stretched in all directions. It was a place of both scorching heat and dreadful cold. Frost glittered on the frozen earth, yet it was pocked with shallow pits in which hot ashes smoldered.
She walked and walked, until she perceived something on the horizon. When she drew closer, she saw it was a serpent coiled around a tower of black stone. The snake held a beating heart in its jaws. Red clouds streaked the sky, twisting into unnatural shapes.
Pain lanced through her chest as the snake’s jaws tightened. The heart burst between its fangs, spraying the stones of the tower with violet blood?—
Cathrynne jolted awake. Sweat drenched her nightshirt. She fumbled for the bedside lamp and switched it on. The clock on the bedside table read 3:33.
The middle of the thrice-damned night.
Around her, the house lay silent. Her racing pulse slowed and the nightmare faded, leaving vague unease. She switched off the lamp and lay back down. When she drifted off again, she didn’t dream.
The next morning, Cathrynne found Mercy in the kitchen buttering a sesame cake.
“You look tired,” Mercy said.
“And you’re the one who stayed up all night,” Cathrynne said wryly. “Have you seen him yet?”
Mercy shook her head. “He went to bed at around two. I kept a watch outside his door, but he hasn’t come out.” She patted her belly. “Got hungry, so I thought I’d grab something from the kitchen.”
It turned out that Gavriel did sleep, though it wasn’t very much. He’d taken the Sundland Room on the top floor.
Cathrynne bit into a cake. “I’ll take over.”
She climbed the stairs and sat down in the chair Mercy had stationed outside the Sundland Room. The hour grew later. The sun climbed in the sky. No sign of Gavriel.
Clearly, he was avoiding her. She didn’t relish discussing what had happened at Red Dog Camp, but they needed to clear the air. It would never happen again. With any luck, he would find Casolaba’s killer and they could go back to Arioch and never speak to each other again.
Cathrynne firmly ignored the traitorous ache in her heart at this prospect. She knocked on his door. Gavriel didn’t answer, so she pushed it open. The room was dim, the curtains drawn. He lay atop the duvet, charcoal wings spread limply. His skin was ashen, dark hair plastered against his forehead. The nightshirt clung to his chest, damp with perspiration, yet when she touched his hand, it was cold.
“Cathrynne,” he croaked, hazel eyes flickering open.
She gripped his fingers. “I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong?”
