“Beau didn’t even know Victor,” I argue, before Beau has a chance to respond. “You saw the claw marks, Uncle. Aspieri don’t have claws…”
Why isn’t Paltro questioning that Mortemagi who’d latched on to Victor recently? Every time I saw them together, he seemed desperate to get away from her.
“I—” Beau chews his bottom lip, and my stomach drops. Haal, what isn’t he telling us?
“What were you thinking?” Paltro raises his voice. “Unless you have a credible alibi, you’ll be sentenced to death without trial.”
Beau gulps, taking in slow, labored breaths. “I didn’t kill him,” hechokes as he turns to Lyria and me. “I didn’t, Sylas, you have to believe me. I didn’t.”
Of course I believe him.
“Uncle—” I don’t finish my thought, because the room darkens, a heaviness settling among us. All the air has been sucked from it along with any modicum of happiness. Even the aspiers coil into submission.
I don’t need to look to know who it is. Magus Principalis Matilda Rhodes, the dean of Gorhail, stands by the oak doors, casting a shadow over Fang’s Nest. She is impossibly tall; her black hair sticks to her skull like a second skin. Her lips are as red as her dress, and she glides toward us like an octopus. In my six years at Gorhail Institute, she’s never set foot in the House of Poison. The dean doesn’t leave her den often, and when she does, she’s out for blood.
“Mr. Cardot, my office, immediately,” she hisses.
Mortemagi are divided in two subclasses: whisperers and conduits.
Conduits can see ghosts but cannot hear them.
Whisperers can hear ghosts but cannot see them.
DAVIN GAREY,A SHORT STORY OF THE HOUSE OF DEATH, CHAPTER 3
three | viola
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 1939
The funeral home is always quiet on Tuesday mornings. The familiar earthy musk of the place is muddled with the lingering scent of roses, lilies, and carnations from one of last week’s funerals. All the decorative art is gone, and the old brass candleholders along the walls are empty again. Without them, the main room is barren of any personality— at least when we host funerals and memorials, the place comes… alive.
Mara, the mortician, isn’t here yet. For the last four years, I’ve been stealing these brief moments of solitude to visit the departed. Mara thinks my interest in the dead is bizarre at this age, but she’s never questioned me. Instead, she welcomed me with a job and the longest friendship I’ve had in Albion.
I slip my key in the front door, and it opens with a soft click. After dropping my bag behind the empty front desk, I pick up the broom and head to the cold room. No new bodies—great. I still have a few more hours before the ringing in my ears starts, a few more hours to hope for someone’s death. Do I hear myself? This magic is abhorrent. Maybe Olivia is right. Ishouldwear the cuff so I can stop chasing after the dead. But that would mean trading my momentary peace for an open line with ghosts, and I’llnever be ready for that. Despite what Mother says, this is the perfect job: I’m helping people while saving enough money for Olivia and me to leave.
The front door clicks open, and I scurry out, leaving the sterile metal lockers of the cold room for the warmth of the wooden preparation room. My job is to make sure the right papers are filed and the right calls are placed, and occasionally, Mara will let me help prepare the dead for burial. When I get in earlier than her, I sweep the floors—always the best excuse should she catch me somewhere I’m not supposed to be.
“You’re here early.” Mara pokes her head through the door, her curly brown hair bouncing on her shoulders. Even in the dim light of the preparation room, I can see that she’s tired. “Viola, I’ve told you many times before. You don’thaveto sweep the floors.”
“When I leave, you’ll miss my sweeping.” I bite down a smile as I set the broom against the wall and walk toward her. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember that she’s the funeral director of Dearly Departed, the only funeral home in the province of Bale. She acts less like a boss and more like a mentor to everyone who’s worked here.
“I will miss you.” She sighs, then leads us to the front desk. Now that we’re in front of the tall windows of the main room, I can see exactly how exhausted she looks. Dark circles line her eyes, and her shoulders sag as she reaches for her bag next to mine.
“You look tired,” I note. I want to tell her to take the day off to rest, but I don’t want to overstep. We may be friends, but I still work for her.
“Exhausting night.” She half smiles, pulling a wrapped sandwich from her bag. “Join me by the lake?”
“We can’t leave the place unattended.” I protest, but I’m already following her with my own breakfast. No one would rob a funeral home.
Mara and I met four years ago at the local bakery. She overheard when the baker sent me away as I was looking for a job and offered me a position as her administrative assistant. Thanks to her, I managed to save enough to move to Osneau, albeit with a slight change of plan now that I’m taking Olivia with me.
“When do you leave?” Mara asks.
“After my sister’s promotional exam, so in about a week.” I settle next to her on the cold bench and look out at the water as I peel my sandwich wrapper. Out here, the trees sway with the breeze, carrying some of their dark green leaves over the quiet ripples of the lake. The air is crisp butnot unwelcome. The frost creeps under the sleeves of my sweater like a sharp caress. If I were superstitious, I would think this to be an omen. “I’m hoping she’ll come with me.”
“Viola.” Mara reaches for my arm, gently rubbing it. “Sometimes, it’s okay to go our separate ways. What is good for you may not be good for her.”
Mara doesn’t understand what’s at stake. Mages are dying, and Olivia could be next, for all I know. “True,” I reply quietly as I throw some of my bread to a couple of ducks paddling closer to us. I no longer have an appetite, neither for the food nor to continue the conversation about how I should leave Olivia behind.