Page 55 of Mistress of Bones
Del Arroyo ran her fingers across the parapet’s top, put a drop of whine in her voice. “Am I not worth the effort of knowing your name, then? If I’m worthy of your curiosity, surely I’m worthy to know more of you.”
“A good attempt, but you need to work on your tone if you wish to charm such things out of jaded old souls like mine.”
She studied the Witch, taking note of the youthful looks of her face and obviously wishing to ask. Truly, she was so easy to read on the outside. But the inside—ah, the inside—that’s where the Witch truly wished to delve.
“What do you dream of, little bird?” she asked, crowding Del Arroyo against the stone barrier. “Do you dream of the pigs and sheep back home? Do you dream of men, or do you dream of women? Perhaps both? Perhaps neither. Do you dream of riches within your grasp or of the things you no longer have?” She lifted a hand to hover it by Del Arroyo’s temple. “Ah, the things I could do with your dreams.”
Del Arroyo blinked, maybe hoping the action would clear the sight in front of her. Adorable. “You confound me.”
“Such is my intention.”
“Why?”
“My day would be awfully boring otherwise.”
Del Arroyo gestured toward the duelists in the plaza. “Is this not enough? What do you do to fill your days, that they’re so boring?”
A hand landed on the woman’s arm, startling her. “Miss Del Arroyo.”
The deathling was back.
“Ah,” said the Witch, “here’s De Gracia’s other mysterious guest. Also from out of town, I assume?”
The man didn’t answer, because of course he wouldn’t. The Faceless Witch was well versed in men like him—walls of flesh and bonewith no windows to peek through. They stirred another kind of curiosity in her, but she didn’t think this one would agree to allow her into his mind. Others enjoyed the hunt, the steady, eventual weakening of their opponents. Not her. The Witch wanted toknow, and while she did enjoy her games, there were too many minds out there to get stuck wishing for any particular one.
“Are you enjoying your stay in Cienpuentes so far?” she asked with an open smile. Another benefit of this body—gods, she loved this body; if only she could retain it forever!—was the ability to appear young and unabashed and too honest for subterfuge.
“It is a beautiful city,” he answered, to the Witch’s surprise. Truly, she hadn’t expected him to. “But we must be on our way.”
Accustomed to giving orders, this one was. It exuded from him: authority, power. The Witch recognized the posture of someone used to eliciting respect and fear. Unfortunately for him, the Witch was not easily cowed.
“So soon? Stay, enjoy the exhibition. Who knows which of the duelists won’t be back next time to grace us with their skill?”
He gave her no reaction. But his hand hadn’t moved from Del Arroyo’s arm. Anyone else might’ve mistaken this for a sign of passionate possession in the face of an unwanted rival, but again, she was the Witch, and humans were so easily read. Del Arroyo’s features had rearranged into pure blandness, and she did not resist the hold. She had expected, if not this, something of the same sort. She was in his debt, that was obvious. And still, something seemed to crackle in the air between them, the tension of two people unwilling to admit their inner desires. Nothing more interesting than secret deals and hidden feelings, was there?
“You will stay long enough to enjoy Noche Verde, I hope,” she said smoothly. “It’s been two years since the last one; I can only imagine how magnificent it will be this summer.”
Not a blink from the man, not even a tightening of fingers or a spark of curiosity. The Witch cursed herself. She had meant to find out about De Gracia’s mysterious guests, and now all she wanted wasto see what was inside this man’s mind. It was tempting. He wore a mask; he might be convinced.
He was looking at Azul del Arroyo now, as if expecting her to answer. What a thoughtful keeper.
“I would love to see it,” she said meekly. Slyness suited her as badly as her attempt at charming an answer earlier. A woman like this could never be anything but direct. Underhanded, yes, but direct.
“Ask the Marquess de Gracia,” the Witch said. “He should have entrance to the grandest parties. It would be a shame to miss them.”
“Will you be there?” Del Arroyo asked.
“Who knows?” The Witch pressed her small wooden fan into Del Arroyo’s hand. “A small token of welcome, to remember me by,” she whispered. Then, after a small bow, she retreated into the crowd.
The Witch had been half-honest with Del Arroyo—she was a native of the city, after all—and some of Cienpé’s higher echelons did come to the exhibition, hiding behind their masks to conduct secret talks. A perfect opportunity for her to peddle some dreams.
She had often wondered in her younger years why she could do what she did, why she was allowed to turn Anchor into dreams, but had eventually concluded that it must’ve been life’s way to compensate her for her lack. A lack of eyes, of ears, of nose—a lack of a face. Every hour, every minute, every second, she felt the weight of the tether linking her consciousness to her actual body hidden in Cienpuentes.
A wasted body—useless, weak, and rotting of old age. Too close to death.
XXTHE ROGUE
ALMOST TWO YEARS EARLIER
