"Lidia, you were cruel to that old man," Anton chided me once we were outside. The midday sun was merciless, yet I was shaking violently.

  "Enough of that. Let's go to the inquisitor."

  On the way, a thought gnawed at me. Why send an inquisitor to this city? A significant trading and resort center, yes, but hardly the capital of a voevoddom or a principality. Had the Church changed its usual practices? Or was something brewing here? My instincts had led me to this place for a reason, after all. I would need to observe this churchman closely.

  "I think we're here. This is the house."

  Anton nodded toward a dilapidated stone building with apartments for rent. It seemed the Holy Consistory didn't lavish much care on its hounds. Though perhaps that was for the best; if he proved greedy for bribes, buying necessary information would be easier.

  A dim-witted porter flatly refused to let us in.

  "Strict orders, no entry. His Grace is at dinner. You can wait—"

  I swept the puny man aside and bounded up to the second floor. The door was unlocked, so I burst straight into the dining room.

  "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I have urgent business—"

  The man at the table choked on his soup and looked up at me. My breath caught.

  The inquisitor was young and breathtakingly handsome. I am not easily moved; it takes much to surprise or affect me. But beauty is absolute, commanding admiration even from the most hardened soul. I had not seen such a handsome man in years. Dark-haired, broad-shouldered, with finely chiseled, expressive features and smooth, dusky skin as delicate as a maiden's. He raised his eyes to mine, and I felt myself drowning in their tea-colored, velvet splendor.

  "Er... Inquisitor Kysei Tiffano?" I scrambled mentally, assessing my own appearance. I had dashed out of the house without properly attending to myself. I wore a modest blue traveling dress, suitably modest for church. After my bout, I surely had circles under my eyes and a pallid complexion. My hat concealed my hastily pinned, disheveled hair. And I decidedly wanted this handsome man. I was not accustomed to denying myself anything.

  "Tiffano. The emphasis is wrong," the inquisitor corrected me. "How may I help you? And could your urgent matter possibly wait at least ten minutes?" He glanced regretfully at his steaming bowl.

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  "Impossible," I declared, seating myself firmly at the table. "A case of witchcraft simply cannot wait."

  The handsome man closed his eyes briefly, as if counting to himself. Then he looked at me again, his gaze narrowing:

  "In that case, grant me at least a moment to dress properly. You may wait in the parlor."

  He nodded to the porter, who had hurried in. The man seized my elbow and began ushering me out with considerable effort. Demons, as if I'd have minded a glimpse of the inquisitor in a state of undress! Though perhaps I ought to tidy myself up as well.

  In the parlor, I sent Anton, who had been waiting, home with instructions to be at the church by six o'clock. I critically examined my reflection in the mirror, powdered my face, smoothed down the stray locks, unfastened a couple of buttons on my dress, and bit my lips to give them color and fullness. The porter observed my ministrations with profound disapproval.

  "The master is a man of the cloth," he remarked.

  "I am aware," I smiled at the fellow with all possible charm and courtesy.

  Kysei entered the parlor and gestured for me to sit, dismissing the porter. He was dressed in ordinary secular clothes, not his official robes.

  "I am listening attentively. And how did you come by my address?"

  I devoured him with my eyes, unabashedly staring. "Father George gave it to me," I settled more comfortably into the armchair, arranging myself to best advantage. "Forgive my bluntness, but you are so very young..."

  "You claimed the matter was urgent." The inquisitor regarded me closely.

  "Yes, urgent, but still... How experienced are you? Have you dealt with such matters before—cases of witchcraft? Father George, for instance, did not believe me at all." I smiled bitterly.

  "I will not believe you either. Not until you present your case and provide evidence. I am listening."

  I extended my right hand to him, palm up. "There. Look at this."

  The inquisitor frowned in puzzlement. "And what am I supposed to see?"

  "Well, tell me what you see. Perhaps I am simply mad," I winked at him mischievously.

  "I see your palm, and nothing else upon it. You are wasting my time."

  "Precisely!" I exclaimed joyfully. "That's just it. Nothing, do you understand? But there used to be a hideous, ugly scar on my palm. And now it's gone."

  The handsome man was clearly losing patience. "Let us proceed in order. A scar vanished from your palm, and you suspect someone has bewitched you?"

  I sprang from the armchair, perched myself on the edge of the table close to the inquisitor, leaned toward him, and whispered confidentially: "And I even know who. I urgently need your help."

  Kysei drew back from me. "Please, sit down."

  I admired the delicate, bashful flush on his face.

  "First, introduce yourself."

  "Oh, forgive me, you're right. I quite forgot my manners. Kreta Lidia Chrysstein. I recently opened a private investigation office in the city, you see..." I waited for Kysei's reaction, but none came. He continued to regard me calmly, as if noble women pursuing such work were an everyday sight to him.

  "Yesterday, baroness élise Cartouat approached me, asking me to find her missing daughter." I lowered my voice. "The girl was last seen in the garden of their estate, where she'd been playing after lunch. And it was there that I found a doll smeared with a strange substance. After coming into contact with it, the scar on my palm vanished without a trace."

  The inquisitor frowned. "That is not proof of witchcraft. It could simply be a healing ointment. Or..." He trailed off, but the implication was clear.

  "Or I've made the whole thing up, is that it? I have evidence that the substance on the doll possesses regenerative properties far too potent to be ordinary. I took the liberty of drawing my dagger across my client élise's palm, in the presence of her husband, I might add!"

  I stopped short. Behind the inquisitor stood Cathérine. She was unquestionably dead now. Her skin had taken on a bluish pallor; decay had touched her cheekbones, her eyes were sunken, her hair dull. The mara swayed slightly, emitting a low, keening wail. My vision blurred; I hastily lowered my eyes, struggling not to betray myself. The inquisitor now appeared as a blue-gold shimmer, woven from the silent melody of the surf. The room filled with the salty, fresh scent of the northern sea. Kysei's emotions were nearly odorless—nothing could disturb his tranquility; only the unhurried waves of his consciousness lapped against sources of disturbance, like me, barely cresting, while the water's surface remained transparent and deep... I was drowning...