The woman on the steps was barely more than a girl, and she stood out starkly in the drab surroundings. She had light-brown hair that fell in perfect ringlets around her pale face. Her dress was poison green, embellished with a black external corset resembling a rib cage, and a gleaming plated bird skull was fastened so that the long beak ran down between her breasts. Several of her fingers bore alchemy rings, and she swung a short staff idly in her hand as she watched the party ascend the stairs towards her.
She stared past Stroud to Helena, pale-blue eyes narrowing. “Well,” she said as they reached her. “I suppose fanatics must come in all sizes.”
Her attention turned to Stroud, and she donned a brittle smile. “Welcome to Spirefell. My husband is waiting for you.”
Stroud fell in step with the lady of the house, while the necrothrall guard nudged Helena to follow.
The door of the house was held for them by a dead butler, and the sight made Helena’s blood run cold.
Unlike the necrothralls in Central, the butler was freshly deceased and immaculately dressed. She thought for a moment he was alive, or that he was a lich. His skin lacked the waxy adipocere sheen, and he moved with none of the sluggishness she’d come to associate with necrothralls. But his expression and eyes were completely blank.
He must have been recently killed. Grace had said the Undying kept necrothralls as staff, and a wealthy family wouldn’t want to deal with the smell, which meant they’d be replaced frequently.
Her stomach knotted as she stepped inside and took in the trappings of the house.
The foyer was large and cold, and the first thing she saw was a bright smear of blood.
Helena gasped, eyes and head instinctively averting.
“What’s the matter?” Stroud asked sharply.
“The blood,” she forced herself to say, unable to look again. All the executions flooded through her mind, the smells and sickening taste in the air, washing like a flood across the white marble.
Stroud glanced around the room. “Where?”
Helena tried to indicate, and Stroud only looked confused. She looked again and discovered her mistake. There was no blood.
A bouquet of roses sat arranged on a table in the centre point of the room. She flinched just looking at them.
“Never mind,” she muttered.
The girl in green was watching. She looked between Helena and the roses, and then a slight smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she turned away, heading towards a set of doors across the foyer.
“Wait here,” Stroud said. The door shut, leaving Helena with the dead. She glanced around, trying to look anywhere but at the roses.
The gloom felt heavier inside than under the oppressive grey sky. Spirefell was a cavernous thing, shadowed with filigree metalwork. There was a large, ornate stairway to the right, leading to multiple landings that looked out over the foyer.
Darkened hallways led farther into the house, illuminated by weak electric sconces that hummed and hardly penetrated the gloom. The windows high overhead seemed designed to direct the light only to the table at the centre. There was a distorted black shape inlaid as a mosaic into the marble floor, encircling the table. From her angle, Helena couldn’t work out what it was.
The house felt dirty. There was no visible dust, but Helena couldn’t shake the sense that the place was untended. The air was stale, as if the building also were a mouldering corpse.
The door across the way opened. “Come, Marino,” Stroud said as if summoning an animal.
The room she entered had two immense latticed windows looking out into gardens with a large hedge maze. The winter curtains were drawn back to let in cold light. The girl in green had set the short staff aside and was seated on the edge of a spindly-looking chair, her skirts spread to show off the fabric. Across the room, by the windows, stood a dark figure.
The hair on her arms rose.
Stroud pulled her past the spindly chairs and chaises towards the figure.
Winter light silhouetted him, and it wasn’t until she drew near that Helena could begin to make out any details.
Pale skin. Silver-white hair.
He was old, then. He must be one of the guild patriarchs.
She’d met a few of them at the Institute. They were always the same. Prideful, obsessed with their power and perceived status, always demanding more respect.
This was exactly the kind of person who would be easy to manipulate. Helena would only need to be insufficiently cowed, and he’d snap her neck.
With luck, she might be dead within a fortnight.
He turned. Helena’s throat closed as the world around her vanished, footsteps faltering.
He was not old at all.
It was the iron guild heir. Kaine Ferron.
She stared at him in stunned recognition.
He’d been one of the few guild students who’d stayed at the Institute for undergraduate study. They’d been the same year, shared classes, even worked as assistants on the same research floors.
Her mind refused to accept what it was seeing, because it could not be Kaine Ferron.
His hair had been dark, now it was colourless. While the pallor of his skin didn’t come from age, he looked as if he’d been bleached in moonlight.
For an instant she thought he must be a corpse, like Crowther’s body at Central, but the silver-grey eyes that met hers were sharp, the sclera white, pupils black, no darkened veins anywhere beneath his skin. There were no veins visible at all, as if his blood were quicksilver.
“The last member of the Order of the Eternal Flame for you, High Reeve,” Stroud said, as if presenting him with a medal. “I believe you knew each other at the Alchemy Institute.”
His eerie silver eyes flicked away. “Hardly.”
“I know you’ve made preparations,” Stroud said, seating herself, “but I wouldn’t worry much; she has no training or combat experience to speak of. She’ll be quite manageable for you.”
He looked at Helena again, no emotion on his face, but there was a predatory calculation in his eyes, like a wolf. “I’m sure.”
Stroud cleared her throat, seeming uncomfortable with Ferron’s terseness. “Now then. The High Necromancer wishes to have results before the winter solstice. Per his commands, you’re to perform the temporary transference method upon her as frequently as possible to achieve singularity without extinguishing her soul. Once that is accomplished and you’ve accustomed yourself to her mind, I believe that reversing the transmutations of her memory should be a small matter for you. You may examine what’s concealed, and when it’s done, I’ll come to retrieve her. The High Necromancer intends to extract the memories as well.”
Ferron gave an idle nod.
“I’m sure you know, but this is an absolute priority. All other obligations should be considered secondary until completion.”
The girl in green made an abrupt sound, and all her perfect ringlets trembled.
“You mean, we really have to keep her?” she burst out. “I just don’t see how it’s fair. She’s not even Paladian. Why can’t she stay at the Outpost with the rest of them? Why are we keeping her here? I had all these parties planned this season. I’ve already had to cancel three dinners and make up excuses about why. No one asked me if I wanted a prisoner.” Her voice was fluting with a note of tearful petulance. “And what is she wearing? If anyone sees her, it’ll be all anyone talks about.”
“Shut up, Aurelia,” Ferron said, his voice like ice, not even bothering to look over.
“I—wasn’t sure what clothes would be appropriate,” Stroud said, her voice tight with embarrassment. “Of course, you don’t have to keep her in that. It was simply what was on hand.”
The windows rattled, and a low meandering howl of wind floated through the house. Stroud jumped. Ferron and Aurelia didn’t seem to notice it.