Page 25 of Mistress of Bones
Two days after his attempted ambush, De Anví donned darker, simpler clothes than he usually wore. It felt strange not to be swallowed by whites, creams, and gold. He welcomed the change, though, the spark of excitement and adventure that the need to dress this way had awakened inside his soul. Of course, different clothes could only do so much as he strode through the more disreputable streets of Cienpuentes, and since he was unwilling to use a mask, people could tell something was off about him—if they didn’t outright recognize him—and it rendered them reluctant to talk.
Ah, how he missed being simply a count. How he longed for his life before his “advancement” into the second-in-command of the Golden Dogs, when not many outside court paid him attention unless he showed some coin.
“Like the old times!” exclaimed the Faceless Witch with what sounded to De Anví like all the delight in the world, still wearing her favorite man. “When we scoured the town looking for stolen royal blood!”
Gods, would there be a time when he could finally be rid of her? When he no longer needed to keep track of her deeds? Every day, the river grew more appealing. Slipping into the Lord Death’s embrace would take no great effort—he had long set his affairs in order, just as he had long accepted his path in life was set and would offer no deviations.
Which was why, when he had been confronted by three masked strangers in a dark alleyway and curiosity bloomed in his chest, he’d found himself unable to resist trying to track them down.
“Be silent, Witch,” said Esparza. “Your thoughts aren’t needed.”
No love lost between Miguel Esparza and the Faceless Witch.
The Witch chuckled. “Do not lie, you can feel it too. It’s been too long since we last had an outing like this.”
And it would never be long enough, Esparza’s expression told them. De Anví commiserated. He had considered ending the Witch in the past, but alas, not knowing her real identity or the location of her true body—not for a lack of Esparza and him trying to figure it out—would’ve meant killing the man being used as her body, while she simply moved on to inhabit someone else.
“Stay,” he told them both curtly, stopping any further bickering. He crossed the busy street and approached a woman selling murky drinks by an intersection. Freshly boiled tea, she told him. He very much doubted it, but bought a cup anyway and asked her if she had seen three masked men rushing away two evenings earlier.
He got nothing, just as he had gotten nothing from the other people he had already asked. Turned out, a trio of hurried masked men was not a rare occurrence in Cienpé.
“We should talk with De Gracia,” the Witch suggested once De Anví re-joined them. “It’s no coincidence, this timing of his sire’s murder and your encounter. And he might have discovered something new about his father’s death.”
The Witch’s increasing obsession with De Gracia was unwelcome news. As much as De Anví resented the Witch’s fixation on him, to have her fixated on someone outside his oversight would be worse.
“We might as well,” he said, and to Esparza, “You will come?”
A roll of eyes. “Indeed.”
So, to the Marquess de Gracia’s house they went. It was quite a walk, and by the end of it, De Anví was glad to be in simple shirtsleeves instead of the elaborate doublet and half cape befitting his station. They didn’t have to wait for His Grace, since he was already home, and they were soon shown into a beautiful, airy parlor, where Sergado de Gracia welcomed them and introduced his companion, the artist Isile Manzar.
De Gracia was in his mid-twenties, with dark brown hair that defied custom and was shorn short enough to fall in waves around his face rather than to his shoulders or chest. His friend wore his black hair gathered into a tail by his nape, his skin a richer golden tone thanthe lighter tan common in these parts of Sancia. He was about the same age as De Gracia, and the ease in his movements and conversation spoke of the young man’s friendship with His Grace as well as his talent—here was someone whose art had made him equal to a marquess.
Perhaps, De Anví thought fleetingly as they made use of the two settees in the room, he could ask him how a few blurred strokes could change shape so dramatically depending on the distance from a painting.
Esparza chose to remain by the door, too much of a guard and too aware of his station to join them.
“Tell me,” the Witch said, angling toward Manzar, “do you ever wear masks?”
Manzar’s surprise was evident. “If I must.”
“Do you gain inspiration from your dreams?”
This, he mulled for a few moments. “Occasionally, but I prefer to study my subjects with my eyes open.”
“A dream will show what sight cannot.”
Manzar shook his head. “The Lady Dream tends to steal them as soon as I wake, I’m afraid.”
“There are ways around that,” the Witch replied. Then, with a secretive smile, “Seek me later, Isile Manzar, and I will help you.”
The young man smiled in response, polite but wary.
“Losing your touch,” murmured Esparza.
Something flickered in the Witch’s eyes, but her face was too hard to read beneath her mask.
“Your Grace,” De Anví said, addressing the marquess, “I’m afraid we are here to raise some bad memories.”
