Page 99 of Down Comes the Night

“Please forgive my intrusion, Captain Dryden,” Hal said mildly, “but I wanted to make an introduction. The Duke of Matthonwyhas an immense appreciation for Danubian military strategy—and an impressive collection of sabers.”

Barrett bowed deep enough to scrape the floor with his beard. “It’s truly an honor to meet you, Captain.”

Una gaped at the two of them in vague disgust and palpable confusion. “A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine. I’ve heard so much about your leadership in the war.”

“Yes!” Wren interjected. “Captain Dryden was my commanding officer in the war. She is not only a fearsome soldier but also a brilliant storyteller. You must tell the duke of your exploits during the Second Battle of the River Muri.” Turning to Barrett again, she clasped her hands together. “She renders itachingly.There’s never a dry eye in the room.”

Una seared her with a warning glare.

“I’d love nothing more than to hear your account.” The duke’s eyes grew round and exultant. Then they fell on the sword on her hip. “What a beauty! That’s true Danubian steel if I ever did see it.”

Perfect.Una would never be free of him now.

Wren grabbed Hal’s hand and squeezed. The last thing she saw before they melted into the crowd was Una’s face contorted with pure, agonized hatred.

Down the ladder and beyond the locked door, Wren struggled to keep herself steady. It wasn’t the darkness that unsettled her, or the cold seeping into the thin fabric of her gown like bog water. It was the way her magic went completely silent.

When she and Hal snuck into the east wing last week, it had nearly screamed at her. It had pulled her to whatever lay behind this door, to the heart of the rot in Colwick Hall. Now, as she and Hal descended an echoing stone staircase, she couldn’t help feeling abandoned, bereft. Whatever had been here before was gone.

What had happened here since they left?

The staircase beyond the door eventually opened into what felt like a cellar, as open and wet as a fresh wound. Hal flipped a switch, and electric sconces surged, buzzing in protest, until the room came into view orb by wavering orb. Although the gloom still hung as thick as low-hanging fog, pale unnatural light shone on the glass vials and gilt book spines that lined the shelves.

The worn red carpet muffled the sound of their footsteps. As she passed a tidy writing desk, Wren trailed her fingers over the page of a book propped open. An empty cup lay beside it, old coffee staining the silver spoon laid out on the saucer. The quiet ordinariness of this place unsettled her. It was too lived in, too frequented.

“There’s another door over here,” Hal said, startling her.

“I really don’t want to go in there.” But Wren knew their answers lay on the other side. She just didn’t know if she was ready to face them. She forced herself away from the solidity of the desk and into the cold, empty air.One step at a time.

Her fingers curled around the doorknob.

Hal gave her a reassuring nod.

She pulled open the door and immediately gagged.

It reeked of death. That sickly sweet, old-meat stench dragged her back to the war, to memories of tents filled with dying soldiers, of bodies bursting open and rotting on the riverbank.

You’re here,she reminded herself.Stay here.

Wren turned on the dim overhead lights, and sparks burst in one bulb before dying. As she broke out in a cold sweat, she cataloged the room to ground herself. In one corner was a table draped in a rust-spotted towel. On it was a tray full of steel surgical instruments arranged in precise rows. Her eyes skirted over a wickedly long bone marrow needle and mallet. Deeper in the room, hunkered in the fold of shadows, was a bed. Someone lay underneath the sheets.

Wren opened her bag and snapped on gloves and a mask. “You don’t have to stay for this. It’s not the same kind of death as on the battlefield.”

“I know. I want to.”

Wren frowned but handed him a mask. “Alright.”

When she felt steady enough, she approached the bed. Every step felt wooden, sent her drifting farther and farther above herself. In the folds of sheet and shadow, she could make out the faint outlines of a face. Goddess above, she did not want to do this. But someone had to bear witness to what had been done here.

With a trembling hand, she peeled back the sheet to reveal a young man. He had dull, half-open eyes, blond hair like a shock of goldenrod, and a mouth missing a cigarette. Wren took a deep, steadying breath against the tide of her horror, her grief. At long last, she’d found the proof she was looking for.

This was Jacob Byers’s body.

Focus. Fall apart later.

She could do this. For just a few minutes, she could be objective and cold. As she forced her eyes back to his pallid face, she noted he was in the earlier stages of autolysis. No bloating. No liquefaction of the organs or fluid oozing from the orifices. Only a faint yellow discoloration and blistering of the flesh. If she had to estimate, he’d been dead for fewer than twenty-four hours. Which meant they’d been here when he died.