Prologue: Till Death Do Us Part

NOTE:

The first line I ever wrote for Sleuth began with “Kyster Kinstone of Ironskin blood”. For the longest time, the book started with Kyster’s murder, until I eventually folded it into the first chapter of the book which always began with Merl inside a coffin. This prologue is taken from the penultimate draft of the novel. Parts 1 and 4, you will recognize from the final version of the book (though part 4 is a much lesser version than it is now). If you are interested in Kyster’s viewpoint, those exist in parts 2 and 3. Eventually, one of my readers, a wonderful author herself, convinced me to drop Kyster’s POV entirely. It was a tough loss for me. However, I believe the book is stronger without it. It also opened the opportunity for me to introduce the Carriage Thieves, who did not come into the story until their ambush of Lad, Ocard, and Ehrkin in the Drystack Desert.

1 

If this is where the dead spent the rest of eternity, then Merlonoit Alondere wished for swift and sure damnation. The cheap, rough wood of the coffin’s walls pressed against his shoulders, and he grimaced, worried by what its splinters were doing to his nice coat. Torn fabric was mendable, but he didn’t want to tarnish his only reminder of his father.

Outside, the familiar moan of brass instruments hummed a somber funeral hymn. He needed to update his own will: no boring music. And a bigger coffin. He felt like he’d been stuffed inside a child’s trunk with no padding to cushion his misery.

Fortunately for him, the coffin was sealed shut, which meant no one outside could hear him scratch the itch on his thigh or quietly complain about his situation.

Unfortunately for him, that meant breathable air was limited, all made worse by the cloth bag tied loosely over his head. The dwindling oxygen was of no concern to him … as long as everything went according to plan.

Realizing silence shrouded him, he Sharpened his hearing. The Reaper—a man who buried the dead, then used his Blessing to comfort the mourning—had a light and soft voice, full of reverence that accompanied only funerals and births. There was a sacredness to the creation and destruction of life. Luckily, there would be neither of those here today. Only truth.

“Thus, we bid farewell to Ambassador Telemon Dorrin,” the Reaper said, “a father, a husband, a respected diplomat. He brought peace and security to his home and the greater world. If not for men like him, we would live in chaos and perish in war.”

The coffin shifted beneath Merl. The pallbearers had just lifted it. The plan was in motion.

He felt the movements of the pallbearers, the first few steps they took. They struggled to balance the coffin. Then, just as planned, the coffin’s lid clicked open, and a sliver of daylight streamed in, falling across Merl’s brows. With relief, he breathed air tainted by his cloth mask and braced himself.

One of the pallbearers buckled, and the coffin toppled suddenly from the grasp of the six men. It hit the ground and splintered with explosive sound. Merl Dulled[JP1]  his hearing, and the ensuing chaos quieted to a tolerable level. He landed—surrounded by the ruins of the coffin—knees and palms pressed into the dirt. Dew dampened his pants, and the thick scent of wet soil and grass overpowered the musky mask. People screamed. Through the checkered pattern of the burlap sack, he watched as the two-hundred mourners leaped from their chairs and scattered. Sure, they weren’t scared when the dead were locked away, but the moment they returned, nobody was a fan.

Merl groaned and pushed himself slowly off the ground, stumbling and swaying like a seasick sailor. The mourners screamed again, petrified and astounded by the dead man walking. Another creaky groan escaped Merl’s lips. He Sharpened his eyesight, and the tiniest details of the terrified crowd—from pores to dead hair follicles—became visible to him.

“Lanee,” he said, the name scraping past his throat. Somewhere, a woman gasped. He knew Lanee’s face, he’d seen her before, but this was all about the show. The bigger the display, the bigger the confession.

“Lanee,” he repeated. “Lanee.” He lifted a trembling, dirt-stained hand and pointed at a small woman dressed in all black, with a huge hat circling her like an umbrella, the brim drooping down past her forehead.

Lanee’s mouth fell open, uneven teeth resembling yellow lanterns in a dark room. She was middle-aged, but the wrinkles added more years to her features. Merl understood why Ambassador Dorrin fell for her. She had lovely eyes, and there was something maternal about her presence. However, it was all a veil. Beneath her wrinkles and her crooked teeth and her kind eyes was a ruthless killer.

“You … killed me,” Merl said, stumbling towards her, the burlap bag scratching his nose. He was impressed with his performance. Even he, a Mastersense, would be momentarily fooled by this.

As the remaining attendees continued to scream, Lanee’s gaping mouth began to quiver, and her eyes shriveled with tears. Not enough. He needed more. He needed a confession.

“You killed me,” he croaked.

‘Lanee burst into tears with a loud sob. She raised her gloved hands to her face to cover her eyes, but no one could ever truly look away from their worst fear, and this was Lanee’s: the return of her dead husband, the husband she had killed.

“Murderer,” Merl hissed, stepping closer. “Murderer murderer murderer.” 

“It was an accident!” Lanee shrieked.

There it was.

Around her, the crowd of onlookers gasped, their screams silenced.

Merl stumbled, the ground swung up to meet him, and then he was face-first in the dirt, lips now coated with muddy grass. Hand still outstretched, he pointed at her. “You killed me,” he said, voice muffled by the ground.

“You weren’t meant to die,” she said. Then her sobs overcame her, and she fell to the grass, curled her knees to her chest, and clamped her hands over her watering eyes.

Merl allowed the moment to simmer; he needed the witnesses to process the confession. If he rushed the reveal, he ran the risk of creating confusion, and confused witnesses led to acquittals.

Now with steady arms, he pushed himself off the ground and ripped the mask off. Brisk air brushed his face as all eyes fell on him, even Lanee Dorrin’s. Her tears vanished at the sight of him.

“Who are you?” she asked blankly.

“That’s Merlon-oi-t Alondere!” a young woman said with a grin.

Merl frowned, spit the mud off his lips, and stuffed the mask into one of his pockets. “No,” he said. “Not Merlon-oi-t. Merlon-wah. And only my uncle calls me Merlonoit. Everyone else calls me Merl. However,” he smiled, “yes, I am Merlonoit Alondere, Mastersense, Sleuth Apparent.”

While many of the onlookers had fled at the first sight of a man rising from his coffin, three dozen remained. They broke into whispered exclamations, pointing at Merl and declaring all they had heard about him. Even the Reaper and the pallbearers—idling behind Merl—remarked their astonishment.

“All of you here, but one I assume,” he said as the crowd’s whispers died, “will be happy to know that Ambassador Telemon Dorrin is not dead, but in safe custody.”

“He survived?” asked an old man with thick, gray hair.

Merl paused. This was his favorite part—explaining the plan. Some detectives complained it took the magic out of it, but to him, this was the magic.

“A few months ago, Ambassador Telemon Dorrin approached the Alondere Elders with a suspicion. He believed his wife, Lanee Dorrin,” Merl pointed at her; she still sat on the ground, dumbfounded, “was attempting to kill him to claim his fortune. Upon further investigation, I deemed that to be true. I found traces of poison in Ambassador Dorrin’s food every time Lanee prepared it. The poison is called Mooncrawler Venom. Taken in small doses, one will only grow ill, but enough small doses over time, and the victim will die. Ambassador Dorrin’s death would have been blamed on illness.”

Lanee remained stunned, unmoving and unresponsive.

“Mooncrawler Venom is found in a certain genus of niylar leaves—a common cooking herb. We knew Lanee could claim ignorance, and if she succeeded, the case would be thrown out. It was Ambassador Dorrin who pitched the idea of his death. He knew the only way to get a confession from Lanee would be to frighten it out of her. Thus, the plot for me to pose as the dead man was hatched.”

“And the bag?” asked the Reaper, a tall, handsome fellow with an unusual mustache. Merl wondered if the Reaper was currently utilizing his influence over other people’s emotions to keep everyone calm.

“We asked the medical examiner to claim the illness had damaged Ambassador Dorrin’s face beyond repair. That way, we wouldn’t need to figure out how to swap him out for me between the viewing and the procession.

“And to answer another question,” Merl said as he reached out and handed an envelope of money to a smiling pallbearer, “he was paid to open and drop the coffin.”

All eyes fell on Lanee. She stared up at the crowd, new tears following the same path made by the old. Her lips twitched. Then, as quickly as a woman her age could, she scrambled to her feet and ran.

Merl lurched to stop her, but a woman detached herself from the crowd and yanked Lanee’s arms behind her back.

“Thank you,” Merl said, gesturing to the woman who had stopped Lanee.

“Telemon is a good man,” she said.

“He—he wasn’t meant to suspect anything,” Lanee said. Her enormous hat fell of her head, revealing the graying ends of dark hair. 

A commotion behind the crowd of onlookers drew everyone’s attention. Merl looked up just as the crowd parted, revealing Ambassador Telemon Dorrin dressed in an untucked, round-collar shirt, a loosened tie dangling from around his neck. Face scarlet with rage, demeanor broken, he sauntered forward as if on his way to his own funeral.

The three women let go of Lanee. When she spun and saw her husband striding toward her, the incessant sobbing returned. He walked past her without a second glance and stood by Merl’s side.

“We know why he didn’t suspect that you were poisoning him,” Merl said. “You hired a Memorywiper.” He studied Lanee’s face closely during this accusation, and when the words reached her ears, the tears stalled, and the pores on her face expanded. When rightfully accused, most people’s internal temperature increased.

“Impossible,” Lanee said.

Ambassador Dorrin pulled up the sleeve of his dress shirt, revealing a small question mark carved into the underside of his arm. It had scarred over days ago, but was still red and sore. “You don’t think I’m trained to detect Memorywipers?” he asked, his voice tainted with insult. “I’m an ambassador, Lanee. I’m under constant threat. The moment I suspected anything regarding a Memorywiper, I carved this into my arm. And when I woke up one morning and couldn’t remember the night before, I saw this mark and knew what had happened.”

“It’s a smart tactic, hiring a Memorywiper,” Merl said. “But your husband is smarter. Hopefully we can all learn from him today.” He spun on his heel, and the audience’s attention flickered back to him.

“Is Hamlend here?” Merl asked. The crowd was still; the drama of accusations and confessions always had a hypnotizing effect.

A few moments later, a young boy stepped forward. He was stocky, his black clothing a stark contrast to his ashen skin. Ears much too big for his head looped the sides of his face.

“Hamlend, you are Ambassador Dorrin’s stable boy, am I correct?”

“Yes,” Hamlend said.

“And are you aware of what your Blessing is?” Merl asked.

Hamlend stuttered, but the answer was as Merl had suspected. “N—no,” he said.

“And why do you think that is?” Merl asked.

“Well,” Hamlend explained, “most people know what their Blessings are because their parents tell them. Members of the same bloodline all share the same Blessing after all.” He paused, his lips clammy. “I was adopted. I never had parents to tell me what my Blessing was.”

“But don’t you think you would have figured it out by now?”

Hamlend shrugged. “I guess not.”

The wind picked up then and carried with it the faraway scents of flourishing vegetable fields. Merl Dulled his sense of smell. He didn’t need to see, smell, and hear everything right now. He had the confession. His work as a detective was over. Now, he was providing closure, and everybody deserved some of that as far as he was concerned.

“Hamlend, what if I told you I know what your Blessing is?” 

“I think I know where this is going,” he said.

“You are from the Stowlinn bloodline, Hamlend—many people refer to your family as the Memorywipers. I don’t know how familiar you are with that Blessing, but it gives you the ability to wipe people’s memories of specific events.”

Hamlend nodded. He was handling it a lot better than Merl had predicted. This wasn’t a lightweight revelation. This knowledge would change Hamlend’s life forever.

“But each Blessing comes with a Curse, and the Curse of the Stowlinn bloodline is great. Any time you wipe someone’s memory, your memory of that event is also wiped, as is your memory of wiping their memory.” Merl swallowed. “As well, every time you wipe someone’s memory, you instantly forget you possess that ability. So, each time you use your Blessing, you will forget what your Blessing is.”

Hamlend looked at the ground.

“I don’t know how she figured it out, Hamlend, but Lanee didn’t hire you for your skills as a stable boy. She hired you because she needed someone to wipe Ambassador Dorrin’s memory if he caught onto her. No one in their right mind would agree to assist in the poisoning of an ambassador, so she chose someone who wouldn’t ever remember doing it. She probably threatened you with your life unless you did as she asked. And once you did it, you forgot it ever happened.”

“I’m sorry, Hamlend,” Ambassador Dorrin said. “I had no idea.” He stood near his wife and looked at the stable boy like a proud father.

“It’s okay,” Hamlend said.

Merl turned to Lanee, his long coat sweeping out behind him and the chilled air brushing his cheeks. She was no longer crying, no longer a pathetic heap on the ground. She stood tall, her chin up, eyes set dead-ahead.

“Now,” Merl said, addressing Telemon, “considering the evidence—”

A series of gasps rippled through the crowd. Lanee had drawn a small pistol and was pointing it at the ambassador’s chest.

“Really?” Merl said. “A gun? That’s so boring. The poison. The Memorywiper. You were doing so well until now.”

She swung it to Merl and pointed the barrel straight at his heart. He Sharpened his vision and hearing, watched the sweat form on her brow, heard her pulse quicken to a drumroll pace.

“What’s your plan here, Lanee?” Telemon asked. “Are you really going to shoot me in front of all these people?”

“No. She’s not,” Merl said. He strode forward with firm steps. With two trembling thumbs, Lanee tried to cock the gun, but the effort was half-hearted and hurried, and as Merl reached out and pushed the barrel down, she clicked the trigger uselessly. He yanked the gun out of her grasp and tossed it on the lawn behind him.

“As I was saying, Ambassador, considering the evidence of the Mooncrawler Venom coupled with your wife’s confession, I do believe you have some serious legal concerns to tend to.”

Telemon stared at Lanee with empty eyes. “I think it goes without saying,” he said, his voice grim, “but I want a divorce.”

2 

Kyster Kinstone of Ironskin blood dreaded the time standing between him and the moment he would leave the manor forever. He had a plan, but it would have to wait until after the wedding. So, it was with this anxious feeling that he descended to the main floor and entered the Great Hall. The glass chandeliers had not been turned on, but the room glowed with natural light. To his right, at the front of the room, two giant, circular windows offered a view of the bleeding red Rosefire Garden. The dais between the windows were carpeted in a fine, golden rug, and a wooden arch dripping with white silk rested in the center. The tiled floor, freshly waxed, shined, lined by a few hundred wooden chairs. The painted mural on the domed ceiling depicted the angelic beings called Nonpareils descending from the sky to banish the demons. 

Kyster took the moment to bask in the beauty of the Great Hall. It would be the last time he saw this place. Tonight, he would leave, and he would never return, and as these thoughts consumed him, he found he would not miss this place. He would miss nothing about this manor.

“Why can’t you just be happy for me?” Fanura, Kyster’s sister, strode into the Hall. Despite the unfinished state of her hair, she was resplendent. The wedding dress hugged her upper body and became more transparent the longer it slid down her arms. At the hips, it fell as a heavy, silver-white curtain, trailing her as she walked.

“You’re doing it to spite me,” Mastura spat, marching in after her daughter. “You do everything for attention. Everything is a game to you, a scheme, an ill-designed effort for attention.”

Kyster rolled his eyes. His last peaceful moment in the manor had been dashed, and now he was left to endure the misery. It was 8:00. Only ten more hours. Tick tick tick. Only ten more to go …

“Not everything is about you,” Fanura said. Her voice shook with the weight of an oncoming scream.

“And not everything is about you either,” Mastura said. She was a scary woman with sharp cheekbones, tight lips permanently pursed, and harsh blue eyes.

“What do you want from me?” Fanura shouted. She spun on Mastura, and they both came to a halt only three feet from Kyster.

“I want you to admit you don’t love him, that you’re only marrying him to escape this family. It won’t work. It won’t last. If only he knew who you truly are, he never would have asked for your hand in the first place.”

Fanura screamed. Kyster clapped his hands to his ears and fought the anger that surged through his chest.

“Okay!” Kyster said. Fanura fell silent. He stepped between her and their mother, moving his hands to his sides. “Demons, do you two ever stop fighting?”

Mastura shot him a glare that would have killed anyone her age, and Fanura gritted her teeth, seething. “Mother,” Kyster said, turning his attention on her, “leave her alone. She’s made her choice. Your pestering and bickering won’t do anything but make the day worse for everyone. And Fanura,” he turned to her, “why do you listen to her? You know she doesn’t approve. Leave it at that.”

The two women locked eyes, and Kyster clenched his fists, pondering for the first time if he should execute his plan early and leave before the wedding took place.

“What’s this?” Kyster’s father Danam stepped up next to them. A thick black mustache hung over his upper lip, and his grubby hands hung from his lapels.

“Our son is lecturing me on discussing this wedding with our daughter,” Mastura said. “And—”

“You’re what?” Danam asked.

“They’re fighting,” Kyster said. “I’m not lecturing, I’m intervening. There’s a difference.”

“And what do you think gives you the right?” Danam asked in his cold, disciplinary voice.

Kyster rolled his eyes again and turned his back. He knew where this was headed, and nobody was going to win. The best way to diffuse the situation was to walk away.

“Don’t you turn your back on me,” Danam said.

Ever since Kyster had stumbled upon the secret, a cold fury had settled deep within him. It never showed itself, never reared its ugly head even when provoked, but it had remained, slowly festering, slowly growing. It was this fury that had driven him to decide to flee the manor, and it was this fury that now, finally, after years of its quiet repression, broke past the prison of his ribs, tore up his throat, and erupted with volcanic pressure.

He turned and screamed. But not like Fanura. This was a roar, a primal sound that no one in the room had heard before. Fear and shock contorted their faces, pulled them two steps back. He could see it in their eyes: they wanted to run; it was the only logical response. But he wasn’t done. The words, the destructive, vengeful words needed release.

“I know!” he shouted. “I know everything!”

His voice must have carried through the manor, bouncing off the walls and down the halls and up the stairs, because R, Statly, and wonderful, wonderful Jynson came stumbling, panting into the Great Hall. When they saw Kyster leaning forward, his hands extended like claws choking the air from the room, they slowed to a stop.

But he couldn’t stop. Not even the sight of Jynson’s almond-brown eyes could sooth this rage.

“I know your secrets,” he said, and now his voice was quiet, a whisper, like the sound that echoed in his head immediately following a nightmare. “We’re all lying to each other.” He eyed his mother, his father, and Fanura. He looked back to his brother R, Fanura’s fiancé Statly, and Jynson. Beautiful, wonderful Jynson.

“That’s all this family is held together by: Lies. Lies lies lies. And secrets. Oh, the secrets I know, the secrets you all feel you’ve hidden so well. You’re not as clever as you think, Mother. No amount of cover-up will keep yours quiet forever. And Father, I know what you’re planning. I even know where the hiding place is.” He sucked in a breath, and the air tasted like fire. “You told me yours.” He pointed at Fanura and R, “but you’ve told no one else. And Jynson,” he looked at her, struck by a pang of guilt at the sight of fear in her eyes, “you too. All of us. Even me. We all have secrets and they’re all covered by lies. And—”

“What is it you want?” Mastura asked. She stepped forward, no longer fazed by the violence in Kyster’s voice. “Money? Confession? Do you want—”

“I want to be away from it all,” Kyster said. “Don’t any of you feel it: The darkness in this place?” He glanced at the shadows hovering in the corners. “It’s cold in here. Dark. Lonely. Maybe it’s the lies. Maybe the lies and the secrets have twisted us all into misery.”

“Then go,” Mastura said as she squinted her eyes. “If all you want is to leave, then do it. Go. I won’t stop you.”

“You’ve never let us leave before,” Kyster said.

“Well, you don’t have an excuse anymore.”

They stared at each other for a moment, the air between them charged with animosity he didn’t fully understand. “No,” he said. “Not until the wedding is over. Unlike you, I want to see my sister get married.” 

3 

“Kyster.” It was his mother. Her voice was tense and shrill, and the way she spoke in a loud whisper only made it worse.

He opened his eyes. “You’re talking to me?” he inquired. She stood before him, leaning over the seats. Her black, graying hair lay in spools atop her head, and a thin, gray veil hung over her wrinkling face.

More than an hour had passed since the family fight, and people from town now filled the chairs in the Great Hall. The room buzzed with excited chatter.

“Have you seen Rodin?” she asked. Her eyes kept dancing down the rows of chairs, searching for her third child’s face.

“You mean R?” Kyster asked. 

“That is not the name I gave him.”

Kyster saw it as clearly as if it had been written in words across her face: She was about to snap. The tiniest inconvenience, no matter how insignificant, would send her over the edge. The stress of wedding planning, of the fight, of her immense dislike of Statly and his peasant family had stretched her to the breaking point.

“No, I have not seen him,” Kyster said. R had been here less than an hour ago, but Kyster never saw him leave. Although, if R had ditched the wedding, Kyster couldn’t blame him.

“Can you go looking for him, please?” she asked, still avoiding his gaze. Either she was embarrassed to be asking a favor of him, or she was so distracted with others that she couldn’t maintain eye contact.

“The ceremony is about to start,” Kyster said, motioning to the dais in front of them.

“Now,” his mother hissed.

Sensing her imminent mental breakdown, Kyster begrudgingly stood and proceeded to shimmy his way down the aisle, apologizing to everyone who had to stand or slink back in their chairs to avoid his obtrusive legs. Once he was free of the rows and headed toward the white, marble archway, he felt lighter, as if the last two hours had anchored him to the depths of the Kinstone Manor.

Whenever R went missing, the first place anyone checked was the kitchen. R had always loved the culinary arts, and he spent most of his time preparing food, eating food, or studying food. The kitchens were located just outside the Great Hall. The moment he emerged from the archway, the noises of a bustling kitchen bounced around him. The cooks and chefs were busy, no doubt. It was the most important day of the year, and they oversaw feeding a few hundred people.

Kyster hustled but refused to run. Yes, he would follow his mother’s orders, but he would also take his time doing so.

The hallway, with its high ceiling, tiled floor, and tapestried walls, was vacant, but the opposite was true of the kitchens. When Kyster stepped inside, it was, as he had predicted, swarming with hurried undertaking. Common cooks dressed in messy white aprons ran from stove to stove, ingredients and dishes and silverware piled in their arms. Chefs stood over boiling pots, stirring and mixing. Butchers sliced at giant slabs of glistening meat, sweat and steam rolling down their foreheads. The floors, usually pristine, were slick, and one cook slipped onto his back with no more than an annoyed grunt. Only the experienced knew how to survive such a busy day on such slick ground. Kyster sniffed, enjoying the confused scent of so many ingredients.

Kyster wound his way through the kitchen, choosing small, decided steps over large strides. For support, he grabbed a cart containing trays of rich-smelling appetizers, and nearly tripped over a small man carrying clean plates to the other side of the room where servants carefully arranged food on dishes in meticulous, rehearsed movements. This place was a practiced and well-functioning machine. He was the one loose piece that could cause untold chaos. Normally, when any servant encountered a member of the Kinstone family, they were to stop and ask how they could be of assistance. Today, no one did such a thing. The only person who even glanced his way was head Chef Goldrin. Hairnets squeezed the majesty out of his beard and hair; he lifted a hand at Kyster as he passed. Kyster appreciated the lack of attention he was receiving. He believed it was exactly why Statly wanted into the family—the attention. Kyster had not been provided a choice like Statly, he’d been born into it, and he had grown to resent it more and more.

He moved quicker then, not wanting to be the reason for an accident, and eventually made his way to the tables at the back where R always ate his own creations. It was empty.

Confused, but not concerned, Kyster left out the back door of the kitchens and turned left to climb the rear staircase.

“Leaving already?”

Surprised by the voice, Kyster turned to see Tempus Teward. He stood almost seven feet tall. As he stared down at Kyster, he ran a hand over his bald head, a smile hidden behind his huge, drooping nose.

“No,” Kyster said. “Not until the wedding is over.”

“Good,” Tempus whispered. “And your … belongings are hidden and safe?”

“No one knows about them, Tempus.” Kyster spoke as evenly as possible. “I have a bit of packing left to do, but I promise they won’t be found.”

Tempus nodded feverishly. “Good luck,” he said. “I’ll see you at the wedding.” He spun on his heel and headed toward the Great Hall with long, loping strides, his arms dangling by his sides.

Kyster climbed the steps to the second floor, and without pausing, climbed to the third. He turned right, staring down the hallway where all family rooms resided. A flash of yellow at the end of the hall caught his attention. Was it just the shadows, or had that door just shut? That was his late grandfather Cornasul’s room. Nobody ever went in there.   

He moved down the hallway, past the dumbwaiter, past his father’s room and the empty bedroom touching it. He glanced at R’s door. It was closed, a yellowed-orange citrine gemstone embedded in the center. He knocked hard. Silence. No hint of a response. He pressed his ear against it but heard nothing. If R was in there, he was hiding, and Kyster wasn’t about to force him to come out. Deciding there was nothing left to do about finding R, Kyster ran down the hallway, glancing only once at his bedroom to the left, and stopped before Cornasul’s door. Here, a fist-sized onyx stone was fitted in the middle of the door. Without realizing what he was doing, he knocked.

There was no response.

No one’s in here, he told himself, but he pushed the door open anyway; it swung closed behind him. The room was carpeted a plush brown. Red wallpaper divided murals depicting the myths of the Nonpareils. A four-poster bed draped with thick scarlet cloth had been pushed up against the left wall. Tick tick tick tick. An ancient grandfather clock the color of rain-soaked dirt and flecked with bits of gold stared at him from directly across the room, hands waving slowly past lettered numbers, counting down the time remaining until his secret departure. Between that and the cold fireplace was the wardrobe. He spent a minute surveying the room, memories of the times he’d spent here with his grandfather dancing like ghosts around the writing desk and past the grandfather clock and underneath the bed. Simpler times then. He hoped to create memories as good as those soon.

The inkling of something awry arrived as a tingle up his spine. Why could he see all this? The chandelier above him was not lit with electricity, but with flame. On the shelf next to him, an open matchbox lay askew, and the tube running from a small dial to the chandelier hissed quietly. Someone had recently lit it.

Tick tick tick tick. 9:25. Plenty of time.

“Hello.”

Kyster jumped, startled. The voice did not belong to R. The intruder crawled out from behind the bed. He smiled, then crossed the room until he stood next to the grandfather clock.

“Hello,” Kyster said, chuckling as his momentary fright faded. He smoothed his velvet coat and then clasped his hands together. “What are you doing in here?” he inquired, keeping his voice kind and soft.

“Nothing. What are you doing here?” the intruder asked.

“I’m looking for R. You haven’t seen him, by chance? It’s very important I find him.”

The intruder remained still, but then responded with another “no.”

“Shame,” Kyster said. He glanced up at the grandfather clock. 9:26. “Well … let’s get you back. Only a few more hours until—”

“No.”

“No?” he asked.

“I don’t want to go back. I won’t go back.”

The intruder gave him a blank stare. Concerned, Kyster glanced quickly around the room. “But only for a few more hours,” he said, “then—”

Tick tick tick tick.

Through the nearly-shut doors of the wardrobe, a pair of eyes stared back at him. He knew those eyes.

Tick tick tick tick.

Panic flared in his chest, and instincts told him to run, but he wouldn’t get way in time.

Tick tick tick tick.

The person in the wardrobe whispered something unintelligible over the sound of Kyster’s thundering heart. Kyster leaned against the grandfather clock just as the intruder reached forward and grabbed his hand.

Tick tick tick ti—

The hands on the grandfather clock froze. In an instant, Kyster Kinstone went limp and fell to the ground, eyes unmoving, pulse firm, skin cold, dead.

And then there was a knock on the door.

4

The ship swayed with the irreverent waves. Merlonoit Alondere stood on the quarterdeck, gripping the railing so tightly that his fingers ached, eagerly awaiting the first sight of land. He leaned forward, shivering when a frigid gust of sea-worn air blew past him.

“Not one much for the sea, are ye?” Captain Witherbone appeared next to Merl and casually leaned against the railing. The ship rocked beneath their feet, but Witherbone barely flinched.

“I prefer carriages,” Merl said. “Enclosed, not too fast, grounded. Ships …” he shook his head as if that would help his nausea, “what’s stopping them from sinking? You get a big enough wave and we’re all finding the bottom of the ocean.”

“Trains?” Witherbone asked.

“Too fast. And what’s keeping them on the tracks?”

“There’s less trouble on the sea and on trains than there is on land,” the Captain said.

“True. But trouble makes me money.”

Witherbone smiled, revealing rotting teeth and scabbed gums. It did little to help Merl’s upset stomach, and he quickly leaned back over the edge.

“Follow me,” Witherbone said. “I want to show yer somethin.”

Merl followed him to the helm. He kept his eyes on the deck, holding the railing for support, and focused on not vomiting. He’d been on ships before, plenty of them, but he had never sailed this close to the Edge. The water was much more upset here.

The crew moved around him as he slowly followed Witherbone. Once he was up the steps and at the helm, Witherbone turned him around and pointed in the opposite direction Merl had been looking before. “The Mirrors,” the Captain said.

Ahead of him, the ocean reached its end, spewing up bushes of white water as it spilled off this Surface of the world and onto Novara, another Surface. Near the Edge, tree-thick poles topped with giant, tilted mirrors reached out of the water and fifty feet to the sky. They reflected a strange view of the drop to the next Surface. Witherbone held out a telescope, but Merl waved it away. He Sharpened his eyesight and zoomed in on the Mirrors, studying the reflection of the Surface he had never been to. Hundreds of miles out, violent storms whipped and raged and tore at the water until it relented and broke into gigantic, terrifying waves. To others, these storms and waves were mere dots. To him, they appeared as close as he desired.

“Most people never see the Mirrors,” Witherbone said.

Merl nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. For the last five years, Merl had desired nothing more than to board a ship, sail off the edge of this Surface, and cross the oceans of Novara, to their lands protected by vicious storms and ravenous sea monsters and a crushing shift of gravity. Few survived such a journey—though Merl had met a Novaran five years ago who miraculously survived the trip. He’d spoken of something impossible, something Merl had never dared to believe in.

He’d spoken of a cure for the Skinfever Plague.

His nausea suddenly diminished, Merl reached into his coat and withdrew a small photograph of Shameer, the woman he loved. Even in the dusty light of the photograph, it was difficult to ignore her rotting skin. Lesions dotted her hands and face. Splotches and scabs disappeared underneath the neckline of her dress. One sore on her forehead was shiny with blood. She looked miserable, so near to death that it was impossible not to pity her.

Yet she was beautiful. The most beautiful, wonderful person Merl had ever met. In an act of pure selflessness, Shameer had used her Blessing to trap the Skinfever Plague within her own body. She had saved hundreds from agonizing deaths, and for her reward, she suffered in silence as the Skinfever slowly did its best to burn her alive from the inside.

Not only would the cure heal her of the illness, but it would make it possible for her to touch people once again. While her Blessing let her confine one plague inside her body, her Curse prohibited her from making physical contact with someone else. If she did, if her fingers so much as brushed another person, the plague would flee her body and create countless new victims.

Merl stuffed the photograph away and clenched the ship’s railing once again. Far, far below, the wicked storms roared over the water. He wanted to marry Shameer. He wanted to hold her and kiss her and give her a normal life.

Novara held the answer.

But passage to their lands came at an insurmountable monetary price and the high likelihood of death. He was willing to risk his life for a cure. If that’s all it took, he’d have already attempted the journey. No. He couldn’t afford it. It simply cost too much.

He looked to Witherbone, dreading his long journey home. “Don’t suppose I could pay you to sail there?”

Captain Witherbone laughed in response. Chuckles, at first, and then loud barks. Then he was shouting for the crew, eager to tell them what the Alondere Detective had just said.

Someday, somehow, Merl would find a way to cross those waters. Someday, somehow, he would get the cure.

It was only a matter of when.