The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [104]
Khelséa’s arrival saved her an embarrassing scene. Isyllt hadn’t seen the inspector since she left St. Alia’s, though they’d exchanged notes and Khelséa had assured her she was well. Watching her now, Isyllt knew it for a lie. Pain carved lines around her eyes and mouth and a notch between her brows, aging her years in only days. She walked slowly, deliberately, glancing from side to side as though she feared attack, and every so often she touched a chair or table as she passed, surreptitiously steadying herself.
“You said you were fine,” Isyllt said in greeting, lifting her eyebrows.
“I am. I will be,” she amended. “The physicians said it will be at least another decad until my ear heals. The pain I can handle, and even the poor hearing, but I keep losing my balance.” She tilted her head as she spoke, turning her good ear to Isyllt and keeping her eyes on her deaf side.
“What did you tell the other Vigils?”
“A fast infection. I’ve had to endure everyone’s advice and grandmothers’ hedge-magic remedies ever since.”
“But only out of one ear,” Isyllt said helpfully. It earned her a laugh and a slap on the arm.
“What about you? You’re not looking so well-rested yourself.”
“I’m—” She shook her head with a snort. “I’m not fine. But I’m working, and I’ve learned something. We need to talk.”
“All right.” Khelséa redid her top two coat buttons. “You can buy me breakfast, then.”
They ate griddle cakes and mulled cider at the Black Holly tea shop across the plaza, and Isyllt explained about Forsythia’s murder and the haematurge.
“She’s done this before. She may have done it again since. There will be other bodies for us to find. More young women, probably.”
Khelséa snorted, mopping up cream and preserves with a bite of cake. “Do you know how many young women end up in the river with their throats slit? And hardly any of them are fit to autopsy by the time we haul them out. How will you tell the difference?”
“Thaumaturgical residue. I know the taste of her magic now. Look for victims like Forsythia—throats slit left-handed, no other wounds. She may be mad and murderous, but it doesn’t sound like she tortures them. She has a vampire working with her, but he didn’t feed on Forsythia first.”
She lowered her voice as a pair of women wandered past, though they were too engrossed in an account of someone else’s romantic pursuits to pay any attention. Perfume trailed after them, peach and citrus and honey-sweetness.
Citrus. Isyllt set her mug of cider down without drinking. She’d smelled that bitter orange note before—first on Savedra, and only a few hours ago on Kiril. And if that was the same perfume Forsythia had smelled—
“Where does the fashionable perfume come from this season?” she asked Khelséa.
The woman blinked. “Kebechet at the Black Phoenix. I bought Gemma a vial of her oils last month. Her shop is in Panchrest Court. Why?” she asked as Isyllt reached for her purse.
“I’ve smelled her perfume. If I can trace it…” She counted out coins. “Search the morgues—I’ll meet you when I’m finished.”
Khelséa’s eyebrows arched. “I get wet corpses and you get perfume?”
“I bought you breakfast, didn’t I?”
“You’ll buy me a month of breakfasts for this.”
“I’ll start a new expense account.” Which, of course, she couldn’t, not since Kiril had ruled the investigation closed. She kept her good hand from clenching, brushed it quickly against Khelséa’s dark fingers instead. “Thank you.” She turned before the inspector could respond, bolting for the nearest carriage.
* * *
The Black Phoenix was a fashionable shop in an equally fashionable block of the alchemists’ street. The Arcanost frequently bemoaned the baseness of commercial alchemy, but it clearly paid better than academia. Vials of ivory and colored glass gleamed in the rising light, and the rugs and hangings were Iskari,