What are you?
She whispered it aloud, not expecting an answer.
Her fingers drummed once on the desk, frustration prickling beneath her skin.If she knew the species — if she knew what the artistmeantby them — maybe the whole pattern would tilt into sense.
She’d tried a reverse google image search and received just under a dozen conflicting answers, ranging from common blackberries to the Macedonian chert-fruit and the fleshy outer casing of the karuka nut.Nothing linked back to crows or grief, death, filial obligations or heraldic symbology.
It was possible, of course, that the painter hadn’t intended any meaning beyond the number of berries.As Sullivan put itfour berries, three crime scenes, meaning there was either another body out there, or there would be.But that seemed a bit too simple, in Kate’s view. This was a painter who referenced excerpts from a 14th-century Jewish legal code, who dredged up an obscure medieval nobleman to accompany a murder scene. Therehadto be some meaning to those berries, something more than numbers.
A sudden thought flickered.
Dr.Lasker.
The heraldry specialist.The one with the fast-talking warmth and the apologetic energy of a woman stretched thin by academia.She’d promised — cheerfully — to “ask around” among her colleagues.And Kate had emailed her images of the third painting, in a bid to chase without seeming to chase. Unfortunately, it hadn’t elicited a reply.
But it was worth a last try, surely.
Kate grabbed her phone and dialed.
After four rings, the familiar bright voice burst through.
"Agent Valentine!Oh, Lord, I amsosorry.I meant to call you, and then I had eight mid-term papers land on my desk like a Biblical plague.I swear, teaching is just filling in forms while your real research dreams quietly die—sorry, that’s bleak, ignore me.”
Kate closed her eyes briefly, steadying her voice.“It’s okay.I just wondered if you… I hope you don’t mind me sending you the third painting.I just thought it might be useful if any of your colleagues…”
“Yes I have an answer for you!”Lasker exclaimed, delighted.“Well— IthinkI have.Or rather, my colleague does.I was going to send an email, but then I wasn’t sure it was important enough, then I got distracted writing comments on an essay comparing medieval tinctures to Pokémon types—long story—and the email never got written.Sorry!”
“Dr.Lasker,” Kate said, keeping her tone level, patient, “what did you find?”
“Oh!Right.”Another bright breath.“So, I showed the images to my colleague, Dr.Travanti.Wonderful man.He’s from Como — you know, in Italy?Where they still make silk?That’s the link to the plants.”She paused expectantly.
Kate frowned.“I’m not following.”
“No, of course not, I’m rambling.Let me explain.Silkworms feedexclusivelyon mulberry leaves.That’s why mulberry groves were planted all over regions with silk industries — feed the worms, feed the looms.”
Kate felt her pulse pick up.“Okay…”
“And crows,” Lasker continued, “are anightmarefor silk production.They eat silkworms like popcorn, and they adore mulberries themselves.The fruit is very distinctive — deep purple, almost black, depending on ripeness.Dr.Travanti took one look at your drawings and said, ‘Mulberries.’Instantly.”
Kate stared at the screen.
Her mouth had gone dry.
“In Dr.Travanti’s region they call crowsil diav’li alati.Winged devils.”Lasker chattered on brightly, unaware of the grenade she’d just dropped, “I haven’t had a chance to revisit the images, but the berries — they looked purplish, didn’t they?Segmented, like raspberries are.That’s mulberries.Does that help at all?”
Silence.
Kate forced air into her lungs.“Yes,” she said faintly.“It does.Thank you.”
"Oh, wonderful!I'll dig further if you need anything else — just call, or email, or if I forget again, calllouder—”
“Thank you,” Kate said again, softer.
She ended the call.
For a moment she simply sat there, staring at the black screen of her phone, wishing she hadn’t hung up so quickly.Lasker’s voice had been warm, kind, full of unselfconscious enthusiasm.It reminded her of her mother’s friends growing up — linguistics department dinners with mismatched wine glasses and arguments about Chomsky.A world she’d stepped out of long ago, trading books and seminar tables for guns and autopsies and silence-filled rooms like this one.
Why did I ever leave it?
