Far Darrig.
Mourioche.
I lower my eye to the lens. The sample shows no signs of irregularity consistent with the saliva of the more water-based feral sidh. Some faery animals also have an anticoagulation effect in their saliva. That, too, is absent here.
“Bring all my microscopes,” I order.
Sample after sample I line up and examine. I have slides on each of six devices. “Not a one shows water infusion in the blood. Not the ones from my attack or from Father’s death. That officially eliminates the Aughiska and Bean Nighe. I was inclined to dismiss them after my earlier examinations of the body at the manor, but this confirms it.They cannot kill without spilling water, and we have three victims with no watery residue on them.”
Rylan makes a note in the journal, then draws a line throughAughiskaandBean Nigheon our list. No saliva, inhuman soil, or sidh blood is present in any of the samples I collected from our father’s body. “It’s not much of a decrease in the list,” she says. “Two eliminated.”
“The thing that attacked me ...” I close my eyes to picture it. “There were claws. I’ve not seen such claws before.”
She slides a notepad toward me. I salt my hands and hastily sketch what memory I have.
“Those are peculiar,” Rylan muses, tracing the spiral of the claws. “Like thin rams’ horns.”
It’s an apt comparison, but as I scan my memory, I can think of no such creature. “Is there anything that can also curse people?”
“Do you think Isabeau’s curse is connected?” Rylan asks.
“No.” I pause as I think about the timing of everything. “However, the first body was found, and Isabeau was cursed shortly thereafter. The timing is close.”
“Her father died. The curse is more likely tied to that, is it not?” Rylan has read almost as many journals as I have. “Do we have any details on it?”
“It makes her sleep.”
“Like the spindle curse?”
“Yes.” I roll each detail in my mind. There was Hugh’s murder, my attack in the woods, the duke’s death, Isabeau’s curse, another murder, my attack in the city, Father’s murder ... but a sequence doesn’t mean everything is connected. “I can think of no reason her sleeping curse would be connected.”
“Does anything in the journal curseandkill?” Rylan idly sketches a spindle on a piece of paper, not in the journal itself. She glances at me. “Can you picture Isabeau at a spindle or loom?”
“No to the latter.” I smile briefly at the welcome distraction. “Unfortunately, the faeries strong enough to kill as this beast has—allof which are banned from our world—could also curse a person. The curse is so ... mundane. I don’t know that it narrows our list of possible culprits at all, and Father said it was ‘new.’”
I look again at the book on the stand beside me, flipping pages as I consider what might be strong enough to nearly sever a head and what would drain the bloodandbe “new”—also whether the curse is a factor at all. The baobhan sìth is reputedly a blood drinker, and they are among the list of creatures banned in the treaty between Queen Morag and Queen Gloriana. They rarely curse anyone, and if they do, the curses are far more creative than ... sleeping at night.
“The baobhan sìth drink blood,” I muse aloud, “but likely are not strong enough to behead a man. And is there mention of claws anywhere?”
The chiming of the oversize bell in the laboratory sounds, drawing our attention to the time. With a hurried obscenity, I gather the glass pieces with the blood samples and return them to the steel box.
Early on, I was splashed by faery blood often enough that the stuff makes my skin itch. I slow my motions, although they are rote by now. The glass is returned to its box, covered with a small iron cap, and the whole steel box is closed and latched.
Rylan watches as I return the box to the safe and lock it away. “So we eliminate one faery, and then add one? We could keep going.”
“Mother only summons me when she thinks it urgent,” I remind her. “Hands.”
“I didn’t touch anything, Gab,” Rylan huffs at me.
I stare at her until my sister extends her hands, and I pour salt over them. “Habit matters. You can never salt too often.”
I remove my apron, dip it into a vat of salt water liberally laced with iron filings, and hang it to dry. Then I dunk my hands into the same vat. Again, I look at my sister. “Apron. Then hands.”
She imitates my steps, and then we leave the room. Once in the hallway, I lock the door, then I sprinkle a fine line of salt over the threshold from a container mounted to the wall. Then I close the second door.
Mother waits. She is dressed in an elegant black gown with small emeralds glinting at her throat. I know without asking that they are an homage to Father, resembling faery blood as they do.
“Lady Reynard and her daughters will be here within the hour. The Viscountess Campbell. Sir Barnett. We have a full table, Gabri, for your father’s funeral banquet.”
