“By the skies,” Mira taunted, stepping beside him, as infuriated as she was intrigued. “Somethingcanmake that stone heart of yours flutter.”
“A visitor. A man,” he said, eyes trained on the red shape. “I’ve come to understand guests are…unusual.”
And that any who crosses your path meets an evil fate.
His head throbbed. He shook the thought away like a troublesome gnat.
“And that you don’t care for them,” he said, turning away from the window.
“On the contrary.” Mira clasped her hands together, smiling. “My house is getting full to bursting, so I don’t think I’ll keep him. Let me think. I will fill his lungs with bees. No – I’ll turn his feet to slugs, then lace the path outside with salt before sending him away.” She considered the possibilities, pressing a pointed fingernail to her lips.
Sy hesitated. Throbbing. Not a gnat, this time. A swarm.
“Clever ideas, Your Ladyship,” he managed around his pounding head. “Though, it may be that he has only mislaid his path. If we send him on his way–”
“Quiet,” she commanded.
He shut his mouth.
Then opened it again. “My apologies. I was only attempting to be chattier,” he explained. “My lady.”
Her nostrils flared. “It does not matterwhyhe is trespassing, only that he is. Go. Bring him to me.”
Flustered, he went. He couldn’t fathom the source from which his insolence stemmed – except that he did not want another soul to end up like him, or worse–
But no, it could always be worse. Think of the window.
This would go better for everyone involved, including the visitor, if Sy cooperated. Mira would only torture the poor fellow more if she sensed Sy had any sympathy for him.
He must divert that sympathy like water from the mire; nurture the stiff, arid lawn of indifference that grew over him, that absolved him, that swallowed him deeper every day. Itwasa pity the stranger had to die, he decided as he descended the staircase. But then, that was the way of the world.
He repeated this to himself enough that by the time he reached the front hall, prepared to invite the doomed visitor into Mira’s parlor, he began to believe it.
The snail-headed footman had arrived first, and was patting the stranger down for weapons, which he didn’t appear to have. Nothing about the man was particularly noteworthy. He was attractive, but in an ordinary way. Bright-eyed and clean-shaven, the same age as Sy, only an inch or so shorter. He had a narrow face, long auburn hair pulled back at his neck with a cream-colored ribbon, eyes the same red-brown as his hair. He wore a smart tan suit, and a leather satchel – a spellscribe’s pen kit.
The footman reached for it.
“Ah, not that, my friend,” said the stranger. He lifted out the golden instrument. “Tools of the trade. Only my pen.”
“I’ll take him from here,” Sy said to the footman. Knowing he spoke with their mistress’s authority, the footman obliged.
The visitor watched Sy, his expression the picture-perfect, dull politeness of a well-bred gentleman. Despite the fact he had just been patted down by a servant with a giant snail for a head.
Too mannered. Too practiced.
And…something else. It scratched at Sy’s chest, at the packed earth that buried him alive. Something vulpine – something sly.
Something...radiant. The source of something wild now blossoming in his breast. Something dangerous. Something necessary.
Sy realized he was staring. The man was staring at him, too; measuring him. Their eyes locked, a moment too long. A moment longer than was strictly appropriate.
Then, just a mite, the man’s gaze softened. “Greetings,” he said with a formal bow, breaking the spell of their strained silence.
Sy hesitated.Welcome. Please, come inside. It was on the tip of his tongue. It was what he must say. All he had to do was open his mouth.
“Leave,” he said abruptly, voice low. “Turn around and run. You must go. Anywhere, but far away from here. You still have a chance.”
At Sy’s outburst, the man opened his mouth, surprised. Sy was surprised, himself. He felt that flutter again – a swarm, a storm.
