Page 97 of Mistress of Bones
Her brother was an artist. A sculptor of bone.And an artist must practice, she thought. But not in such a small room. The ossuary was his place of study; this was his home away from the ossuary, a place to test things when inspiration struck in the middle of the night. He must keep his main collection—a collection that might include hersister’s bones—elsewhere.And why not?Azul raged to herself, fighting against the crushing despair. He was old enough, he might’ve seen Isadora’s bones in his first forays into the ossuary; he might’ve taken a liking to them. Was she not Isadora, after all?
Don’t bring me back.
The terrified look in Enjul’s eyes haunted her from the edges of her mind.
Now that she had proof of her brother being the other necromancer, now that she couldn’t ignore the truth, it chilled her to the core.
Would Isadora ask for the same fate, given the choice?
“Breaking into your brother’s rooms, Sirese Del Arroyo? How unsisterly.”
Azul spun toward the door.
XXXIIIAZUL
Isile Manzar stood unmasked on the threshold of her brother’s study, ignoring Azul’s shock while he surveyed the room with open and obvious curiosity.
Voice unsteady, Azul asked, “What are you doing here?”
His attention went to the desk. “What are those?”
Azul glanced down at her brother’s art. “Fingers.”
Joining her at the desk, Isile picked one up. “A sculpture? Painted clay?”
Azul had enough of her brother’s rooms, so she answered as she left, “Bone,” and heard a gasp of dismay and the dull thud of the finger hitting the desk’s surface.
She went to the guest rooms next. Nereida’s door opened easily, her room a haven of tidiness compared to the rooms she had just left. Kneeling by Nereida’s trunk, she began to search its contents.
Isile loitered by the door. “It’s not on me to judge De Gracia’s interests,” he said, shuddering, “but are you sure it’s bone?”
“What are you doing here?” she asked again, pulling a few shirts out of the trunk.
“Is this your room?” he asked, then inhaled sharply. “Have you been wounded? Your hands…”
The concern in his voice stopped Azul. Dried blood still crusted her fingers, and dark smears tinted her breeches where she must’veunconsciously rubbed her palms against them. “It’s nothing,” she told him, returning to the trunk and taking out a dagger. Azul doubted Nereida had any more weapons left in the room, so she slipped it into one of her boots and went back into the hallway.
Isile allowed her through, then followed. “I was waiting for De Gracia when I heard you come in.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“I wouldn’t be waiting here if I knew where he was, yes?”
Azul nodded, then took the stairs to the first floor and stopped abruptly, a muscle working her jaw. Two footmen waited at the bottom of the steps. The one who had opened the entrance door for her, and one of her brother’s victims.
“Sireses, please come back to the parlor,” the former said. “The Marquess de Gracia will return shortly.”
So, Azul and Isile were herded into said parlor and left alone with the other footman, but not for long.
“Sister, stay put until I return, I beg you,” said De Gracia through the footman, the living corpse. “I will explain everything—you have nothing to fear. Isile, I will talk to you later as well,” he added before leaving and locking the door behind him.
Isile was speechless, but also, not for long. “Did the footman lock us in? Why did he call you sister? Why would I want to talk to him?”
Azul went to the window facing the patio, opening it with ease. Insect calls and the scented heat of a summer night drifted in.
“Have you no concern about all of this?” Isile demanded, coming to her side.
Azul boosted herself onto the windowsill, slipping a leg across. “My brother is a necromancer.” She slid into the patio with a small hop. “And he spoke through the footman.”
