“It wasn’t by choice.” I roll my eyes as I straighten up. It doesn’t matter why I healed her the first night. What matters is that I healed her today, and no one was threatening me with prison or my aspiers’ death. I could’ve walked away, found a different whisperer, but I didn’t. Of course, I’m not about to tell her that. I will not give a Mortemagi even the slightest power over me.
She sucks in her cheeks and looks down. Was she expecting a different answer? Some terribly broken part of me picks up on the fragments of disappointment within her, and I want to take back what I said.
“You stabbed me,” she reminds me calmly. The coldness of her words sobers me up; I rise to my feet, extending my hand out to her. She considers it for a moment, but then she pushes herself up, shakily. “You are even more despicable than I thought you were. You are so desperate to pin the blame on a Mortemagi, you wouldn’t see the truth even if someone painted it for you.”
Without looking at me, she stalks to the door.
“Viola, wait,” I call after her. I don’t know if it’s my use of her name forthe first time or the unexpected anguish in my voice that makes her stop. Her fists clench at her sides, but she still doesn’t turn around.
“She’ll guide you back.” I lower my hand, and Railesza slithers from my arm to her. Viola bends, and my aspier wraps around her arm. Then she walks out.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1939
The clock ticks to five in the morning right as I step into Founder’s Room in the House of Poison. The only light comes from the low crackling fire. Haal, did Lyria leave without putting out the fire again?
A huge portrait of our family hangs between Beau’s room and my room. Dad had it painted by an old woman in Iserine. My mother’s face on the wall looks at me with a smile. She holds baby Lyria, while I’m in my father’s arms, laughing. Next to them, Beau’s parents look down at him with so much love. And behind them, the Darros stand with Gryff and Grayson. We’re all blissfully ignorant to all the horrors that await us—soon after, Mom and Beau’s parents would be dead, and years later, Dad would join them.
What would Mom think if she knew I saved a Mortemagitwice?
I huff out a breath and take a few strides past the open study and Beau’s room, until I’m in front of my room. To my right, someone moves, and my hand reaches for my dagger—the same dagger I almost killed Viola with.
“A second time tonight, really?” Viola deadpans as she stands. I notice Railesza still wrapped around her arm, and it stings a little.
I sheathe my dagger. “I’m sorry, I—” I really want to ask her what she’s doing in Founder’s Room, but I realize Railesza probably brought her here.
“You can’t kill a man and apologize to his ghost,” she says, and I look away. It’s a common Balish expression that means that your apology means nothing.
“The night Olivia was killed.” I choose my words carefully. If anything, I can offer information as a truce. I need her to find my brother’s body and ghost, and she needs me to help find her sister’s killer. “She found out Lorne was seeing someone else. I think that’s why she walked out of Gorhail in the middle of the night.”
Viola’s face twists in horror. “How could he do that to her? He’s the reason she… She would’ve been alive if it weren’t for him.” Then her shoulders sag, her eyes lost in a sea that I am too familiar with. Guilt. I know it’s consuming her from the inside, but why does she feel the weight of her sister’s choices? I also know that nothing will ease it until she gets answers. Only then might it sting a little less.
I nod, silently, afraid to make any sudden movements. I need her to trust me, to realize that we have to work together. “What happened in the Poisoned Stairwell?”
She wraps her arms around herself. “I don’t know. I heard a voice I recognized—Victor’s, the other man who was with your brother. I heard it before, but this time, it was different. The voice was textured, layered. It kept telling me his last words.” She pauses, mulling over what she shared.
“His ghost then,” I say quietly. Victor’s body is with Beau’s. This further confirms that the same person killed them and kidnapped their bodies. A strange feeling blooms in my stomach. If Victor’s ghost is here, why isn’t Beau’s? Could he have…? No, I refuse to believe that someone as astute as Beau would let a conduit drag him to the Underiver. “Could you… share his last words?” I ask. “Please.”
“I don’t know if I should say.” Her eyes flick to mine, mildly panicked. But then she scoffs. “You probably think I’m selfish, but…” She gulps, looking over to the fireplace. “My nan’s final words warned me not to share the last words of the dead. I’ve never been superstitious, but maybe if I had never told Olivia all these last words, she would still be alive—she was often the one speaking them aloud to people.”
Haal, she continues to find every reason to take the blame for her sister’s murder. “Guilt will eat you alive if you let it,” I say. “Olivia was already a target… you couldn’t have changed that.” I don’t know if I’m speaking to her or to myself.
She swallows, holding my gaze with sadness. In this moment, I know nothing I can say will absolve her of that guilt. She wears it like a stain on her soul. I know, because I wear mine the same.
“He whom you seek lies in the catacombs. I could never forget Victor’s words.” She looks at the fireplace again. “Then, the farther I walked, the more voices I heard, textured, layered. Ghosts. Next thing I knew, I was in front of the doors. I asked to see my sister, but I was really thinking about escaping the ghosts.”
“You’ve really never spoken to a ghost before…” I think out loud, and after a moment of hesitation, she shakes her head.
“I’ve only had my cuff for a few days. Anyway, the doors locked me in an empty room until you—”
I look down, ashamed of my actions. She should thank the Gods for stumbling upon the Doors of Desire. Had she walked a few more flights down, she would’ve been at the entrance of the catacombs.
My mind mulls over Victor’s last words. Catacombs. Why would anyone tell her, a whisperer, to go to the catacombs? The place teems with old death magic, and who knows what remnants of tortured mages. It’s filled with ghosts who refuse to move on to the Underiver. The catacombs is the only place conduits cannot go, so the ghosts have turned it into their permanent domicile.
“Look, Archyr”—she frowns, meeting my eyes—“consider this pay-back for saving me that first night, and for your brother. I’ve not spoken to a ghost before, but one has spokentome. Beau’s ghost told me to run. Without him, I would’ve suffered the same fate as my sister.”
Beau. My heart cinches.
“Their bodies are at Dearly Departed in Albion. I know where they keep the spare key—”