It’s a tall, narrow, crooked house squeezed between more tall, narrow, crooked houses about a five-minute walk from Village Hill. The front door is black, the paint peeling and cracked from the sun and briny air.
Zahira clangs the knocker mounted to the door, cast in bronze to look like an eye. Suitable for a Seer of any type.
A boy answers. Recognition brightens his eyes when he sees Zahira.
“Hi, Laren,” she says. “I’ve brought some friends to see your mother. Is she home?”
He nods but doesn’t speak, then motions for us to come inside.
We enter a dark, cramped entryway. The walls are painted to match the exterior door, the curtains drawn over the windows. The furniture is ornate and old, lots of velvet and other rich fabrics, and so many mirrors. Candles light the visible spaces, the only illumination reflecting in the glass, even though there’s a perfectly good sun outside.
The boy vanishes into a nearby room. Minutes later, footsteps sound on the tile floors, and a woman dressed in black appears in the doorway.
Ingrid, the Memory Catcher.
She’s so slim and spindly that it’s almost unnatural. Her skin is paler than Nephele’s, white as a full moon, her hair coiled atop her head like a serpent, every strand the color of a cold winter’s night. Her eyes are big and green, rimmed in kohl and dark lashes, her mouth full and red as the dress I bought today. The combination lends her an unearthly sort of beauty.
She smiles stiffly, as though the action requires effort, and walks forward, taking Zahira’s hand. “Captain Osane,” she says, bowing her head before looking back up. “You are here for a vision?”
“Yes,” Zahira answers. “For my friends.” She gestures to me and Nephele and introduces us.
“I’m Ingrid,” the woman says. “You have payment?”
Before I can panic over my lack of preparedness, Zahira retrieves a handful of coins from her pocket and hands them over.
Ingrid jingles the money, slips the coins into the pocket of her black day dress, and says, “Good, good. Follow me.”
Nephele eyes me warily, but we trail behind Ingrid through the house to a windowless, candlelit room filled with books and oddities. Yaz, Zahira, and Hel wait near the door, the space too claustrophobic for us all.
There are strands upon strands of tiny bones strung together with thread along the sides of an apothecary cabinet, and a dozen old, clear canisters containing dark liquids I’m glad aren’t labeled. There are various animals too, preserved and mounted in every corner. The only ordinary items are the small table with a white cloth draped over the top which sits in the middle of the room, and the high back chairs that stand on either side of the desk.
“Sit,” she says as she rounds the table and takes her seat. “Tell me a little bit about yourselves.”
Nephele squeezes my hand, then we slide onto the cushioned seats of our high backs. I don’t want to worry Alexus, so I close my end of the runic bond while Nephele gives a brief overview of our lives. That our parents were enlisted in the Watch, then moved to the valley when Mother became pregnant with Nephele. She tells Ingrid how we lived in the valley together until Collecting Day eight years ago. How Father died in the fields. That Mother is gone too. The only thing she doesn’t disclose is that Mother died in the prince’s attack, though if Ingrid is all Zahira claims, she will see that truth anyway.
Ingrid seems to absorb the information. Eyes narrowed in thought, she opens a drawer and retrieves a second cloth, this one black, embroidered with moons and stars. She lays the piece on the table, then lights a lone candle stub and sits it near the table’s edge.
Lastly, she withdraws a needle, holds out her hand, and looks me in the eyes. “You first.”
I truly want to trust Zahira and Yaz, but nothing about this feels good. I’m nervous, a little uneasy, and more than uncertain about continuing.
“It’s all right.” Ingrid holds the needle’s sharp end over the candle flame. “All I’m going to do is prick your finger.”
I give a little huff, more of an inward reprimand for feeling so awkward. I’ve done worse than a needle prick for weeks now, so I shake off my discomfort and offer Ingrid my hand.
The jab is quick and neat, resulting in a tiny bead of bright red blood. I don’t expect what comes next, though I should. Yaz mentioned that Ingrid reads memories through blood.
Ingrid removes a small spoon from her skirt pocket and squeezes a few drops of my blood into it. Then she puts the spoon in her mouth.
Beneath the table, Nephele grabs my knee. In the seconds after, I feel nothing save for a slight sting, but Ingrid seems to feel everything. She rests her hands on the table, then closes her eyes, rolling her tongue inside her mouth as though savoring the taste.
Her breaths move though her lungs faster, her chest rising and falling in great swells with each drag and push of air. Suddenly, she stops and opens her eyes.
“Do you remember living here?” she asks me. “Your sister said you were born in the valley. But I see memories in Malgros.”
Startled by her question, I shake my head, confused. “I have never lived here.”
Nephele translates. “I never lived here either,” she provides.
