“Something to hide, Miss Mendoza?”
“No.” Zaria bit the word out too quickly, though it wasn’t a lie. She simply didn’t want an audience. “Just wait outside, will you?”
Kane stared at her for a long moment, moonlight catching the sharp angle of his jaw. There was a coolness in his expression, and Zaria tensed against whatever would follow. But he only said, “Fine. Once you’re inside the church, head to the back left corner of the sanctuary. Open the door. Go down the stairs. Take a right, and you’ll find yourself in the crypt. The message I sent Cecile instructed her to meet you there.”
“You’re joking.” Zaria crossed her arms, but he remained deadpan.
“I assure you, I am not. I’ve held many a meeting here—it’s discreet, you see, and nobody but me will even know you’re inside. People don’t expect criminals to meet in a place of worship.”
“But acrypt?”
Kane shoved his gun back into his coat, clasping his hands in front of him. The wind tumbled down from the rooftops, sending a few strands of hair whipping across Kane’s forehead, and he brushed them away with a curl of his lip. “Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death—”
Zaria cut him off. “Don’t quote Shakespeare at me.”
“If you’re going to go, you’d better not linger,” Kane said. “I doubt Cecile will wait long.”
St. John’s church was just as enormous on the inside, filled with gray light that streamed in through the arched windows. Like the exterior,it was devoid of color. There was no stained glass, no smiling angel babies woven into bright tapestries. The barrel-vaulted ceiling was high, the room simple and polished. It was quiet in a way that made Zaria feel like she was waiting for something. She could imagine ghosts filling the pews, watching mournfully as some broken saint prophesied.
The silence itself seemed to echo, and Zaria was almost grateful for the sound of her own footsteps as she made her way across the sanctuary. There was a podium facing the pews, a Bible splayed open atop it, and behind that was a framed painting of what could only be an artist’s rendition of Christ. Zaria cast it a cursory look as she passed.
Church was not comforting to her. It was notforher, though she couldn’t have said precisely why. She merely knew it to be true each time she stepped foot inside a place of worship, though she would never dare say such a thing aloud. To others, God was morality, virtue, and everything in between. Her doubts often left her feeling so terribly alone. Even Jules preferred not to discuss it, claiming such things were not to be spoken aloud. In fact, Kane was the first person Zaria had felt truly understood her on that front.
Perhaps there was a god, or perhaps not—it didn’t seem to make much difference. Either way, Zaria didn’t think she would find him here.
She found the door Kane had mentioned with ease and opened it to reveal a descending staircase. Low brick ceilings greeted her, so different from the level above, and she wrinkled her nose at the stench of must and rot. Cecile must be here somewhere: Candles had been lit in the sconces lining the walls, dripping pale wax into curved brass. It was a foolish thing, but Zaria swore she felt a weight pressing in around her.
Then again, perhaps it was just the dark.
She kept a hand on her revolver as she moved forward, gaze narrowed and darting around the space. A chill threaded along her bones. Kane had said he conducted meetings here often—what if the same was true for other unsavory characters, and someone else was already down here? Perhaps he ought to have come along after all.
Lack of experience does not equal inability, Itzal had told Zaria once.Just because you have not done something doesn’t mean you are incapable of it.
It was true enough. She didn’t think there was much she wouldn’t do, should necessity demand it.
If you had to, could you kill a man?
Zaria knew the moment she reached the crypt. The ceilings—although still low—arched above her head, separated by pillars. What appeared to be rectangular stone deposits were set back against the walls, nearly the perfect height for one to seat themself on, but Zaria knew instinctively that they were burial vaults. Other than that, though, the space was empty. There were no coffins. No relics.
No Cecile.
Zaria stepped across the dusty floor. When she reached the other side of the crypt, she turned around.
And froze.
Her light had settled on a pair of feet only strides away from where she stood. Black shoes. The frayed hem of a dress. Heart beating relentlessly in her throat, Zaria lifted the lamp and her gaze.
Cecile stared back, at once a stranger and undoubtedly herself. This version of Cecile was no longer full cheeked but deathly thin, clad in gray. She seemed to have appeared from nowhere, as though hell itself suddenly decided to purge her from its depths. Theflickering light illuminated her pale face, making it appear drawn and skeletal. Though by now she would have been about thirty, her graying hair and fragile bones made her seem older. The result of years of creating magic, likely. Itzal had looked the same way, Zaria realized with a jolt, though seeing him daily meant the transformation appeared far more gradual.
“Cecile,” Zaria said, a hitch in her voice. She felt like a child again, yearning for the woman’s quiet comfort, a companionship that wasn’t weighted with expectation. She hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge how much she missed it until this moment. Of course, she’d always had Jules, but Cecile had fulfilled a different role. She was like a mother, a mentor, an elder sister.
Cecile Meurdrac smiled, the action stretching the papery skin of her cheeks. “Zaria. My, you’ve changed since I saw you last. You look very well, and so much like your father.”
Her voice sounded exactly the same, and time seemed to distort around Zaria, who bit her lower lip. “I’ve missed you.”
She couldn’t tell whether it sounded genuine—though it was—but Cecile didn’t question it. She knew Zaria said what she meant. “Would you mind if I embraced you?”
Zaria shook her head. Then Cecile’s thin arms were around her, holding firmly the way she knew Zaria preferred. She smelled like florals, her touch a repressed memory. Zaria rested her head in the crook of the other woman’s cool neck, emotions warring within her. Joy. Overwhelm. Frustration. A thousand questions gathered in her throat, but the one that slipped out had nothing to do with the primateria source.
