To say I was surprised by the inquisitor's behavior would be a gross understatement. I was astounded. He had openly defied Church protocol, allowing the fungal potion to be used on my slave. Though, perhaps that was for the best.

  "Wait, monsieur inquisitor!" I summoned every ounce of charm I could muster in my current state. Damned little Cathérine's mara huddled in the corner, still keening. That low, mind-scraping sound had set my skull throbbing with a pulsing ache. The pretty boy turned slowly toward me, one eyebrow raised in question.

  "I apologize for my behavior. I was not myself. But surely you forgive me—the Church's generosity knows no bounds, does it?"

  "Spare me your false apologies." His tone was sharp and cold.

  "Oh, wait, please! Our agreement is still in effect, is it not? And besides, you still have—"

  He choked on his indignation, unable to respond at once.

  "You dissolved the agreement yourself. Do not cross my path again!"

  "But I was beside myself! Monsieur inquisitor, might I offer you tea and a modest supper? You haven't eaten today, have you? I recall interrupting your meal. Please, do not refuse me."

  I clutched at his sleeve, babbling incessantly, giving him no chance to speak. Father George watched the scene with bewilderment.

  "Kysei, she threatened you with a dagger! And you have a cut on your neck!..."

  The pretty boy shook off both me and Father George, then touched his neck uncertainly.

  "I'll tend to that wound!" I interjected promptly, nodding to Anton. "Bring what's needed, and tell Martin to brew tea and serve his marvelous buns. Monsieur inquisitor, have you tried raisin buns? I highly recommend them—an absolutely exquisite treat! Oh, I can hear your stomach rumbling..."

  He flushed scarlet and wagged a finger before my face as if I were a wayward schoolgirl, hissing angrily:

  "I have had enough of your antics! I will indulge them no longer. You have gone too far. I could have you imprisoned—you and your brother—on charges of witchcraft. Be grateful I leave you free. And if you come within a step of the suspect or interfere further in this matter, I shall—"

  "I am immeasurably grateful for your clemency and mercy, but still—"

  "Goodbye." He turned and strode toward the door.

  Very well; I would plague him tomorrow, stubborn as he was. But at the threshold, he halted and faced me. Uncertainty flickered in his questioning gaze.

  "One thing I do not understand: why? Why take such a risk? Using sorcery to heal a slave? Is she so dear to you?"

  I studied him thoughtfully.

  "Would you prefer the truth, or a pretty lie about compassion? And if I answer, will you stay for tea? Please?"

  "Answer truthfully. Do me that favor."

  I approached slowly, took his arm—ignoring his attempt to pull away—and began speaking in a low, measured tone.

  "You see, the truth is rather strange, and to explain it, I shall need time... And if you truly wish to hear it, would it not be better to do so in comfort, over a cup of tea with a bun? You are hungry, do not deny it..."

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  I led him downstairs, arm in arm, and practically forced him into a chair. Martin had already set the table. The aroma of fresh baking reminded me that I, too, had eaten nothing since morning.

  "I am waiting for an answer." The pretty boy had barely touched his food.

  "You see," I mumbled through a mouthful of bun, "Shade—that's what I call my slave—has a rare gift. She's an astonishing artist."

  "And you risked all of that for her talent? To grow rich from it?"

  "Ugh." I took a gulp of fragrant tea and clinked my cup back onto its saucer with unnecessary force. "You've missed the point entirely. She's not merely a gifted artist who can draw and earn a living. She has a Gift. She can paint the fantasies of others as if she'd witnessed them with her own eyes."

  "I don't understand." The inquisitor shook his head, puzzled. "How is that possible? And what makes it so valuable?"

  "Well, yesterday, for instance, she sketched my visions—drew a man I'm certain she'd never laid eyes on, but whom I knew. She's mad, you see? Just a touch, but enough to... be useful to me. Especially in my line of work. So I'm rather lost without her."

  "I find that difficult to believe. But it matters little." The inquisitor rose, intent on leaving, but I caught his sleeve.

  "Do stay. Why sulk like a child? You still need my help with the inquiry. Remember that oddity I mentioned? You never did figure out what it was, did you?"

  The pretty boy wavered visibly, then sat back down.

  "Out with it. And no more conditions."

  "Very well." I nodded meekly. "The oddity lies in the choice of victim. A witch who has operated successfully for thirty years suddenly selects a child not merely from a well-off family, but from one that is influential, wealthy, and noble. She has been taking children for over twenty years; she must have known Cathérine's disappearance would not go unnoticed. The girl would be searched for. Every connection would be leveraged, a reward posted. And besides, the risk! She performed the ritual right there in the garden. What if someone had seen? Something is decidedly off."

  The inquisitor looked perplexed, hesitated, then resumed his seat.

  "Perhaps she grew overconfident? Made a mistake at last..." He touched his neck irritably; the cut was still seeping blood, clearly bothering him.

  "Let me tend to that." I forestalled his protests, soaked a clean cloth in alcohol-infused plantain tincture, and began dabbing at the wound. "Do hold still! I think Cathérine was something special to the witch..."

  "Special how?" He snatched the cloth from me and attempted to scrub the now-dried blood from his collar.

  "How to explain... Until now, the witch surely chose her victims from among strays, orphans, or the children of paupers. Scrawny, filthy, lousy, miserable. She drained their life force, but how much could they really give her? I suspect Cathérine was to her a tempting delicacy after years of subsisting on the city's refuse. A clean, pretty, clever, pampered little girl..."

  "How can you speak of it so cynically?" He looked paler than before. Was he truly so tender-hearted?

  "I try to reason as if I were in the witch's place. It's useful if you wish to understand a criminal's actions and anticipate their next move. You might try it sometime." The sarcasm in that last remark went completely over his head.

  "Spare me. I've no wish to contemplate what goes on inside a mad witch's mind. Goodbye."

  He rose decisively and made for the door. I called after him calmly:

  "Tomorrow at ten. We'll go together to interview the parents of the witch's likely victims."

  He whirled around, incensed. "I will say this one last time: I do not intend to conduct this inquiry alongside you. It is not open for discussion..."

  "Is that so? So tomorrow you'll interview witnesses alone, will you? Ah, damn, I'd forgotten—you don't know where to go or whom to question. Yes, I daresay you'll head for the archives... But first you'll need to obtain permission from the burgomaster or the governor, and only then... By day's end, you might finally make it to the archives. How long will it take you to sift through all the records of missing children? Three or four hours? Yes, I'd say so."

  He tried to interject, but I ignored him.

  "Perhaps the day after tomorrow you might actually question them... And what if, in the meantime, the witch decides her bland diet can wait no longer and helps herself to another sweet young thing from a wealthy family?"

  I pounced on the last bun with predatory relish. The inquisitor said nothing, but the working of his jaw spoke volumes about his opinion of me and the witch alike.

  "Tomorrow at ten, Inquisitor Tiffano. I'll have the list of witnesses ready. And do be punctual. I still need to commission a gown from the tailor. The most covered dress at the entire reception, just as you wished."

  "The gown must be black and long—no, that would be too somber." I tilted my head thoughtfully, ignoring Shade's disapproving expression. "Yes, I think dark blue, like the night sea. Modest but elegant, with a touch of distinction. Fitted through the body, long sleeves flared from the elbow, and absolutely no décolletage— monsieur inquisitor was most insistent on that point."

  I smirked wickedly and continued.

  "A high standing collar. Sketch the silhouette and show me." I closed my eyes, envisioning the dress in meticulous detail, knowing full well Shade could perceive and transcribe my imaginings onto paper.

  The slave took scarcely five minutes with the drawing. A few final strokes of the pencil, and she extended the sketch to me. I caught my breath—her talent was truly staggering. The dress seemed almost alive, as if one could reach out and don it. She had even managed to convey texture and shade using only a graphite pencil.

  "Excellent," I praised Shade. "Now the same gown from the back. On the back..."

  I paused, savoring the anticipation of the sensation this dress would cause at the burgomaster's reception. "On the back, an insert of lace—the finest white lace. Mirstenian lace, I think. A deep cutaway, revealing the back down to the most intriguing point..."

  "But madame." Shade's head shot up, aghast. "That would be indecent!"

  "Hush. The insert shall be shaped..." I considered; ugly scars marred my shoulder blades, but if the insert began at the shoulders and tapered sharply toward the spine, they would remain concealed. "...like a triangle, narrowing toward the base." I traced the approximate shape in the air. "And no—I've changed my mind. Not dark blue. Dark grey. To match my eyes, and it will complement my earrings and black diamond ring perfectly."

  I closed my eyes once more, envisioning the dress in every detail: the provocative cutaway, discreetly veiled by lace—a nod to formalities, for I had promised the pretty boy a gown that covered me from head to toe. I had not, however, specified with what it will be covered.

  "I do not understand you, madame." Shade handed me the finished sketch. "Monsieur inquisitor will never accompany you to the reception dressed like that."

  "He won't see the cutaway. I shall cover my shoulders with a silver fox fur stole. Well done, Shade. Go to bed; we rise early tomorrow. In the morning, we shall visit Father George, and if my suspicions prove correct, you may need to sketch the witch's portrait from his description." I smiled and sent her off, then retired to my study.