Everything in my body stops. The jittering. The tears. The subtle shaking of my hands. Just so I can focus on her—her wife. That’s who died. That was her last apprentice, wasn’t it?
My eyes blink to the picture on the table. There they are, cuddling together in their steam car just next to the waterfront, the cigarettes caught between their lips glowing like dim stars. So happy.
The couch shifts as Mistress Vincenza sits with me—not quite to my side, but close. She mumbles, quietly—unprofessionally, “one of the firstthings you will learn as you pursue necromancy is the lack of feeling. You will lose your appetite, your hunger pangs… Your lust for food will disappear as your tongue becomes less sensitive. For some, they indulge to feel what they once did.” Her lips struggle to open again, eyes glancing back to the framed picture on the table. “When it was hard for me to eat, she would always cook me her whore pasta. The same recipe she always loved, and then made me love, minus the anchovies.”
She slowly takes a bite, chewing like the world will wait for her. “I know this ismycomfort food, but I will cook yours if you ask. Or buy it. When your chest empties, having these comforts is sometimes the only way to give yourself… a feeling.”
Mistress VincenzaNasciowa. I’m familiar enough with Lawrinian naming traditions to guess that her wife’s name was probably Nascia. Just putting a name to her gives me shivers.
Necromancers are supposed to live forever. They could’ve had all of time together.
“I can sometimes hear it.”
Mistress Vincenza looks at me, eyes barely holding themselves back as they flicker.
“I can hear thoughts that aren’t my own. They obsess over death. They make it sound like a song. They—I summoned a horde of ghouls after listening to them.” I hold up my injured hand. “My skin goes cold, my heart goes numb, and I barely even feel able to cry.”
“Catarina—Kate, I didn’t realize.”
“Kate?”
“I don’t want to be overly professional. This isn’t part of the parlour; I’m not your mistress while we’re here. Would you prefer… It was Catie, wasn’t it?” She snickers gently, soft like she’s testing me.
“Kate’s fine,” I assure. It feels nice.
“...I should say that I’m proud of how focused you must be on necromancy, Kate. It takes until the first necromancy spell for most to feel it hollow them.” She squeezes and unsqueezes her hand into the side of the couch. “You’ll feel again. It ebbs and flows. Casting necromancy spells, especially new ones, tends to settle the dread.”
“But, I can’t always learn a new spell. Will I—Is this something I’ll always fall back into?”
“It’s the price of our dream. But you don’t have to pursue this one. I won’t make you stay.”
“No! I w-want to stay. I-I-I have… I have to. I need to be here.” I grab my collar. “I won’t find a way to access the Ring outside of here. I’ll work degrading manual labor fit for a corpse until after I turn into one. I-I can’t get a partner when you pay them to want me; I won’t ever have anyone else if I’m just me. I’ll only have my occupation. Please, I have to stay here.”
She exhales. “I don’t want to get personal, but I have to be sure that it’s fine to help you continue… Do youwanta partner?”
“I do. It’s…” There’s the briefest moment of joy, imagining someone who finds me deeply interesting, who studies me. And I could study them back. Interrogate their day to day, their life history, like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Because it would be.
But, who would settle for me? When I give so little and have standards so vexing that I can’t even tell what they are.
“You can find a partner. I’ve seen people beautiful and intelligent fall for the blandest idiots.” She smiles. A distant memory? “I’m sure you’ll find your idiot”
I actually laugh. “I think I’m the idiot in your allegory.”
“Nonsense. Your math assessment was passable; you’re easily smarter than most Roversellans… Now, finish eating, and I can show you something quick. A small spell, one you can do even without a patron.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“The Great Ring clearly wants you to be here. You deserve your chance.”
I pick up the fork and start bundling noodles. “Should I pray?”
“This isn’t the type of meal you want to attribute to the Ring.” She picks up her bowl and downs some more.
So this is her comfort meal.
The taste is something else, but it has one. Not that I care for it. It’s fresh, made for me. By Mistress Vincenza. That’s what I care for, what allows me to slowly have any of it.
Was eating always so taxing though? It’s so much labor… Is this just a lot of pasta? My mother would probably scoff at it and make me take a second plate, but she fed me for a life of labor, not sitting by a circulation desk.
