“This is truth.”
“There have already been enough deaths for tonight.”
Then she grips the handle and jerks it open. The metallic smell washes over me.
Death, in his cloaked garb, has cleared the bodies, but a roomof blood remains. He directs faeries to clean up the broken furniture, the shattered mirror, the cracked dishware.
“Everyone out!” Kassandra shouts. “Please.”
The faeries begin to scatter.
“Do you wish for some aid?” the executioner asks.
“I do not care.”
There is no more anger left, only exhaustion. I sigh, gesturing at him. “Would a day like this not fuel you in some way?”
There, in the corners of his eyes, is an almost imperceptible tightening.
“Just because I am a Death fae does not mean I enjoy it,” he says. “I detest stolen lives.”
The feel of armor growing hot under my touch.They would’ve killed you. They were going to,I tell myself, but it is little comfort.
As the apartments clear, Kassandra strides to an abandoned bucket.
“Do you wish to wash up?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she summons water from the pitcher, a dripping river around her, and kneels in the drying blood. She dips a sponge in the water and slaps it against the tile. My mistress scrubs the floor.
I kneel, drawing out my own water, adding soap left behind by a faerie. I reach for a rag in my pockets—my clothes borrowed from Briar, I realize with a pang—and I wipe at the crimson, streaking the liquid across the floor and dyeing the rag.
We work in tandem, in solemn concentration, even when Death unclips his cloak, draping it across a chair, and grabs another bucket and rag. Kassandra only gives him the smallest nod, in that moment, then returns to work. Even when the sober silence washes away to sniffing and salty tears taint the soapy water, we rub at the spots.
It was them or me,I tell myself.The guards were choosing themselves. So I had to choose myself.
I had to.
I had to.
A refrain, a desperate chant with which I torture myself to keep from thinking about what I could’ve done differently. It’s alarming how easy it was: to take a life.
We dip and wipe and wring and wash again, over and over, an endless rusty river. As the twilight hour lifts to scarlet and finally, a golden wash, even when the silver room sparkles once more, we clean. We clean and clean and clean, and still the grout remains dyed pink.
Afterward, I lean against the wall, sipping water from a canteen that trembles in my raw fingers. My mistress sits cross-legged, pushing hair from her face. The executioner crosses his arms.
“When are the funerals?” Kassandra asks, voice hoarse. It is early morning, and we have not spoken in hours.
“This afternoon,” the executioner says. “I’ve delivered those whose wills state they must be buried in certain family plots. As for the unclaimed, I’ve cleared a spot in the Illusion grounds, as requested.”
“Paid for by my family, of course.” Silence. “Executioner?”
“We need approval from the head, the heir, or the advisor. We cannot proceed with the ceremonies until one of them has given permission to release the plots and the funds.”
My stomach twists.
“We don’t have an advisor,” Kassandra says numbly, rubbing her forehead. “My father may be able to give permission, but his lucidity is inconsistent.”
“We could wait on Dominik’s word.”
