The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (19 page)

“Gods, you could be looking right at something and no alarms would be going off at all, would they?” She scrunched up her face in thought. “Let me think about this.”

Truthsniffing. This was the gift that made Olivia a valuable member of society while he was fit only to keep her records. He tasted jealousy, like he’d bitten down on rusted iron. It hardly seemed fair. A gift so subtle and so intangible she couldn’t even describe it, while his was clear, clean-cut, impossible to misinterpret.

“All right,” Olivia tried again, “how about this. We need the weapon! I would
love
to get the weapon to William.
That
would be a lead worth following. So, usually…look for fast drops. Cubbies, vases, cupboards, drawers.” She nodded to herself. “Yes. Also, blood. Any blood, that’s easy enough. Throat wounds are messy. After this long, it’s probably cleaned up, but with that much blood, there’s bound to be a bit left somewhere. Check the laundry!” she continued. “Blood only comes out in cold water, and only when it’s fresh. Look for brownish stains. With luck, the Duchess was wearing white when she slashed him. And it can’t
hurt
to poke about and see if anything catches your attention.” She looked at him expectantly. “Does any of that help?”

“You would really be more suited to this than me,” he murmured.

“Well, if you’re
completely
useless, I’ll have to see about doing my part. Gods know you might be. But who knows, Mister Buckley.” Her sideways smile returned. “You might just surprise both of us.”

He didn’t know whether to try and exercise stealth, or to stride openly through the halls. In the end, he alternated between the two like an insecure debutante trying to decide between being a delicate flower or a scandalous temptress. He knew he was calling more attention to himself than either extreme would warrant, but his indecisiveness over weighed his good sense.

It was opening things that was the worst. He had no excuse to give if someone asked what he was doing. And the worst of
that
was when a drawer or cabinet was full of papers and he had to rifle through them like he actually was some sort of miscreant. He reminded himself of the cheque he’d receive from the office of O. Faraday, Deathsniffer for this sort of work. He could pay off the reporters that would come sniffing. He could afford to pay Fernand. Gods, he could buy Rosemary
food
.

Staff passed by him routinely. Few paid him mind. Some stopped to offer bows or curtseys, asking if there was anything they could do to help him, to which he mumbled refusals that were blatantly hiding some great shame. But, miraculously, none questioned him, merely nodding and scurrying back to work.

He scanned up and down the hallway every time he went to open a door. He tried to avoid servants seeing
that
, as he could find no good reason, even if he had the Duchess’s permission, to be poking about in private rooms. Some were locked―all with sensible, modern locks rather than the old fashioned and clumsy piece on the Duke’s study―but most were not. There were sitting rooms, guest bedrooms, small, cramped offices filled with papers Chris didn’t understand…

In a small office decorated in brown and forest green, he found a handwritten document half-hidden under a pile of bills for salamander binding renewals. It was adorned with neither crest nor seal nor watermark, and its very plainness caught his eye. As he read it over, a furrow grew between his brows.
Evie,
it read,
we thank you for your continued support and hope to see you at our scheduled meeting next week. The date is soon approaching and there is a great deal of work left to do. I’ve recently come to believe L has some suspicions, but if we move quickly, as planned, he’ll not have the time to react. Nevertheless, I wish to tighten our plans and prevent giving him the chance. Your presence is always welcome and I believe you integral to our successes, past, present, and future.
It concluded with a scribbled
Yours, HC.

Chris read over the letter twice, and then, more on instinct than any logic, he opened his notebook and transcribed it before sliding it back under the bills, careful to make it appear undisturbed. He wasn’t sure the letter was worthwhile, but something about it left a queer taste in his mouth. Hadn’t that been all Olivia had asked for? Anything interesting. Anything suspicious.

The rest of his search was less eventful, which was remarkable considering how insubstantial what he’d found actually was. The laundry yielded no results, and he found nothing that could be used as a murder weapon, not even a particularly sharp letter opener. Looking for brown stains proved useless. As he made his way down a hallway lined with doors and every room proved itself as useless as the last, Chris’s insecurity mixed in with his nervousness and created a potent draught that left him surly and skittish.

The hall was clear of staff for the moment, so he grabbed the next latch in line and pushed the door open. He entered backwards, peering out to be sure no one suddenly came along, closing it softly behind him.

“…hello?” a voice from behind him asked.

Chris whirled, realizing too late that it made him look like he was guilty of something. He was in another sitting room, well-furnished in dark, sombre colours―navy blues, blacks, and soft seal greys. A beautiful worldcaught painting of the val Daren estate occupied an entire wall, its wafting clouds and swaying grass so lifelike it could have been a window.

On a low couch, sitting close enough to be walking the line of propriety, Lady Analaea val Daren rested in the arms of the beau her mother so venomously disapproved of.

Too late, he swept a courteous bow. When he straightened, he wore his most charming smile with just the slightest tinge of ruefulness. “Ah, my lady,” he said, his voice falling into the cadences of genteel propriety. “I’m very sorry to interrupt you. Should I leave?”

Ana looked him over, puzzlement wrinkling between her brows. “Why are you here?” she asked.

He returned her gaze as he searched for an answer. She’d obviously been crying. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks were streaked. Not only that, but her hair fell in limp strands about her face and her dress was sombre and flattered her slender, willowy frame not at all. Once again, she was the awkward, mousy-looking young woman he’d seen that first day. He marvelled at how easily she switched between ethereal, simple beauty and mere plainness.
Answer
, he reminded himself. The silence was stretching long. He remembered the explanation Olivia had given him and fell back onto it, trusting it to hold his weight. “Miss Faraday sent me,” he said, not truly a lie. “She wanted me to ask you some questions.”

Ana looked away, but not before he saw a flash of pain in her eyes. One of her hands was linked with Ethan Grey’s, fingers threaded together. “More questions,” she murmured. “Why do I have to answer more questions?”

“It’s all right, Ana,” Mister Grey murmured. Chris saw him squeeze her hand, and he swallowed, glancing away. His presence felt like a cruel intrusion. “The Deathsniffer could help find who killed your father.”

“I don’t care who killed him,” Ana replied distantly, a hoarse catch in her voice. “He’s dead, and he’s never coming back.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris hurried. He felt terrible. He shouldn’t have asked for her assistance. He should have sheepishly explained he’d chosen the wrong door and backed out, no matter how transparent it would have been. “It won’t take long, there are just a few things Miss Faraday wanted to know, and she’s busy with your mother at the moment, so she sent me to…” He trailed off uncomfortably when she didn’t stir at all in response to his rambling words.

It was Mister Grey who turned to meet his eyes. “Is this really necessary?” he asked. His voice was a pleasant, smooth baritone, but there was a ragged edge to it that made Chris realize the painter had been on the verge of tears himself. “She’s upset. She just lost her father.”

“I know,” Chris said. “It won’t take long,” he said. Realized he’d repeated himself. “I’m sorry.” That was repetition again. He ground his teeth helplessly.

“You could come back tomorrow, or―”

“It’s fine, Ethan,” Ana interrupted him quietly. She buried her face into the back of the couch. “They’re not going to go away until they’re satisfied. Ask your questions,” she said, voice muffled by the upholstery.

Now he needed a question to ask, one important enough to excuse his marching in and tormenting a heartbroken girl. Her relationship with her father had been left unresolved and full of questions and pain, and Chris knew exactly how she felt. It was an ugly thing and he didn’t want to exacerbate it. He tried to think of what Olivia Faraday would do, but he knew he couldn’t imitate her. What Olivia would do was what
felt
right, what her precious intuition
told
her to say. She’d feel out the situation in a way Chris couldn’t.

So he would need to feel it out in a way Olivia Faraday never could.

He put on his best, most empathetic smile. “You said you were at a gallery on the night your father was killed?”

Ana and Mister Grey turned away from him at the same moment and met one another’s eyes. The painter reached out to stroke his lady under the chin and give her an encouraging smile. Chris fought the instinct to clear his throat.

“Yes. I was with Ethan,” Ana replied eventually. “…and Mother.”

“It wasn’t
my
gallery,” Mister Grey elaborated. “I’m afraid I’ve not been so lucky with my art as that. But I had an offer for some of my paintings to be hosted by another artist. It was the first opportunity of the sort I’ve had since categorization.”

Chris nodded. “I’d heard about that,” he smiled. “Congratulations.” He turned his attention back to Ana. Just a few more questions, and he could leave without having drawn suspicion. “You said you were surprised your mother went with you?”

“I shouldn’t have been. She did it only to make a point.”

“It’s not so bad as all that,” Ethan said, more to Ana than to Chris. “Really, Ana, I was honoured she came at all.”

“It wasn’t to support you.” The denial was a harsh growl. “You know it wasn’t. She doesn’t support anyone in anything. She made her little comments about you, and then she just—she does this all the time! She expects everyone to just do what she asks because she wants it. She doesn’t even acknowledge what they might be giving up for her.”

“Ana…” Ethan soothed. He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, but she shook him off like an insect.

“All that matters to her is image and appearances. She doesn’t care about what I want! What I can
do
!”

She closed her eyes, and then she raised her voice in a familiar song.

She didn’t have Rosemary’s power, and she stumbled awkwardly over some of the words. The tones were flawed; it was merely a woman singing, no otherworldly and eerie perfection. Where Rosemary spoke to the elementals as if she were one of them, Ana sounded like she was speaking a second language.

But it was still a binding song. Chris took an uneasy step back when the lamp on the table dimmed, brightened, and then flickered wildly, its dark nimbus fading in and out. The alp that materialized did so gradually, as if struggling to manifest, a swirl of dark anti-stars spiralling around its comically chubby and awkward body, a sound like the lowest note of a pianoforte thrumming through the room. Its large black eyes were almost intelligent. It blinked at Ana, and then focused on Ethan, then Chris. A shiver went through him as he glimpsed something wild and unfathomable deep in those dark eyes.

The alp climbed to its feet. Its light illuminated the room far more brightly than the lamp had. Chris knew it
could
flow and swirl through the air like the cloudlings, sylphs, salamanders, and fiarans Rosemary frequently unbound and danced with in her fey way, uncaring of the lurking disaster. But like gnomes and dryads, alps preferred not to. It jumped from foot to foot, fat rolls jiggling, and then, in an ugly, nasal little voice, it joined Ana in her song.

Alps were the least dangerous elementals. They controlled only the powers of light and darkness, and their capacity for harm was therefore limited. While they were known to cause blindness or seizures, they had yet to wreak any chaos on a large scale. Nevertheless, Chris’s heart pounded in his throat and his shoulders bunched up rigidly tight as he watched the awkward thing move and sing in tandem with the young woman’s faltering voice.

He kept his gaze trained on the alp, frozen in shock and fear, as the song rose to the crescendo. The last note held. And held. And held. Ana’s voice cracked and Chris’s head jerked in alarm. The alp’s fat little cheeks bunched in a devious, evil smile…

…and then he vanished in a swirl of black smoke. The lamp glowed darkly once again.

The room rang with silence. Chris fumbled for his tongue. “I thought Old Blood were exempt from categorization,” he said, sounding feeble.

“We are,” Ana said. “I’ve never been categorized.”

But―no, that was impossible. If she had never been categorized, than her abilities would need to be innate, not awakened. And if that were true…Chris swallowed a gasp, snapping his gaze to the girl and studying her with renewed interest. Could it really be? No. What were the odds he would meet two wizards in one lifetime? In
this
lifetime, where even categorization wasn’t foolproof for finding a proficiency anymore? True, Ana demonstrated none of Rosemary’s astounding power—if anything, her proficiency was one of the weakest for ‘binding he’d ever seen—but to be able to use
any
proficiency uncategorized was exceedingly rare, much less the most powerful and important of all.