“We’re going into town,” I tell Ragne, who, true to her word, even slept through breakfast. At least Adalbrecht had the mercy to let everyone dine in their own rooms; it had to be hellish for the servants, running all those trays up and down the stairs, but working around dozens of hungover and petulant nobles in one of the dining halls would have been worse.
Ragne stretches, cat tail curling, as I shove Emeric’s notes into a satchel. “Will we go see the Gisele?”
“We have to find the outpost for the Order of Prefects first. But probably later.” I can’t hold down a smile. There’s something downright sweet about how happy Ragne seems. “You really like her, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Ragne rolls in a blanket and sits up as human, looking at me earnestly. “I know you don’t like her. Are you mad with me?”
I think for a moment, adding the usual suspects to my satchel: playing cards, dice, a knife. “I used to be her friend,” I say. “We might be friends again someday. But we both hurt each other. We bothdecidedto. And when someone decides to hurt you, no matter how much you like them, it changes things. So no, I’m not mad at you. I mean, your mother cursed me to die, and we’re still fr—” I cut myself off.
It’s too late. Ragne’s face lights up. “Are we friends?”
A week ago I would have thrownmyselfinto the Yssar before saying yes. But it’s been a long week, and she’s been with me for most of it. “Yes, fine, we’re friends,” I grumble. “Even if you have terrible taste in sweethearts.”
“Ithink she tastes—”
I clap my hands over my ears. “NOPE.Don’t need to hear it.”
I leave a message with Franziska that theprinzessinis not to be disturbed and head out the gates, waving to the guards as I pass. I have to mind my step; it kept snowing overnight, and while the roads have been cleared, icy patches make the walk downhill more treacherous. Ragne clings to my wool cap as a black sparrow, ready to fly off if I slip.
Thanks to the ice, I make it to the Göttermarkt a little more slowly than I like. It’s been transformed in the last few days: The plaza itself has been emptied of bonfires, penitents, and pilgrims, and all the remainingsakretwarenstalls have been squashed up against the temples themselves. The clamor has been replaced by the sounds of work crews making over the plaza itself, ringed in a crowd of onlookers and temple-goers.
Easily the greatest attraction is the three ceremonial houses that have been erected for the wedding. Normally they’re little tents or quick sheds slapped together, but Adalbrecht of course would not settle for anything less than tiny hollow palaces, and from the looks of it, that’s what he’s getting. The two smaller ones on the north and south sides of the plaza are to represent House Falbirg and House Reigenbach, and the large, open-faced one over an altar on the east end is for the houses united. There’s another platform being constructed at the western end of the plaza, but it must be for a Bóernische custom, because I don’t recognize it at all.
I stop by asakretwarenstall for directions, then wind through the crowd, past the temples of Yssar and Time and the Spindle-dam. I can’t help but notice the flash of coin and blur of coal at the cathedral of Fortune around a corner, but I give that a wide berth.
Finally I find a steadfast little building wedged between the temples of Justice and the Knight Unseen, looking as hardy as its granite keystones and weathered as the heavy oak door. Over the lintel is a bronze plaque with the scales, skull, and scroll of the Order of Prefects. A barred window overlooks the street, but I can’t see anyone inside.
I climb the handful of steps and try the handle. The door opens to a little waiting area lit by thin bars of glowing metal. I’d bet it’s the same enchanted pewter as Emeric’s coin. There’s a desk nearby with a mug of cold coffee and scattered parchment, set up like a reception clerk’s, but no one’s in the seat. Empty benches line the opposite wall.
A hallway bends out of sight, but muffled voices seep from it like watered-down ink, too indistinct to make sense of yet. I take a deep breath, trying to memorize the layout—the desk, the benches, most importantly the door—in case Prefect Klemens decides a cooperative thief is still a liability and I need to make a quick exit. Unless I’m mistaken, wisps of misfortune are gathering in the corners. Maybe that’s just a bad omen that comes with me being inside a law enforcement office. Maybe it’s worse.
Then one of the voices rises, and I hear it clear and stark as day.
“. . . should have BEEN THERE!”
I’ve never heard Emeric so—broken.
I’m moving before I know it, following his voice with the same kind of weightless purpose that carried me in the Madschplatt. I rush down the hall and find him in a simple little parlor, pacing furiously as another person tries in vain to hand him a kerchief. He keeps running his hands over his face, pushing his spectacles up into his hair. “It’s my fault,Itold him we could split up like usual,Itold him I could handle this, there’s no one to blame but—”
Ragne chirps from my shoulder, and Emeric finally looks up.
There’s a strange kind of horror in seeing someone cry for the first time. From the looks of it, he’s been at it a while, eyes bloodshot, breath ragged, a faint film of salt speckles on his spectacles.
I’m not supposed to see him like this, raw in a way that feels irreversible. It’s even worse watching him try to pull himself together, like someone walking on a broken ankle. “V—Miss Schmidt,” Emeric says unevenly, “I, I’m afraid—now is—”
“What happened?” I ask. Ragne flies over to perch on his wrinkled collar, combing his hair with her beak.
He swallows. “They . . . f-found . . .” He can’t keep going, covering his face again.
“Prefect Hubert Klemens was found deceased early this morning,” the other person says quietly, and finally manages to shove their handkerchief into Emeric’s hand. “In the Stichensteg islets.”
I suck in a breath. “It wasn’t an accident.”
“Our coroner is making an assessment.” The stranger brushes off their uniform, which is simpler than Emeric’s, though it also bears the insignia of the prefects. A pair of silver-threaded prayer-cords drape over their shoulders, lopsided and too fine for everyday wear. More likely they were interrupted at morning prayer, and they haven’t had a moment to put the cords away. They tilt their head at me, almost birdlike. “I apologize, but who are you?”
“She’s . . .” Emeric clears his throat. “She’s a consultant. Miss Schmidt, this is Ulli Wagner. They’re the head clerk at this outpost.”
“And this is Ragne.” I point to where she’s still perched on Emeric. “Eiswald’s daughter. Sometimes she’s a bear.”
