House of Sand and Secrets (Books of Oreyn #2)(34)

I hiccough, taste bile as I press my hand over my mouth. I swallow and swallow and swallow until I feel like I will be able to move without throwing up. My skin is clammy despite the growing heat of the morning.

How long did he take to die?

From the number of wounds and the way his ribs are ridges of bone pushing parchment skin in hills and valleys, I think it has been a slow process. I sink to my knees, black mire splashing across the emerald silk of my skirts. My hands are slicked in slippery black gloves. Even though I know he’s dead, I have to be sure. I reach out to brush at his face. His cheek is cold, the skin a strange texture. Distasteful. He was young. Younger than I am now, or stunted by starvation. No one has bothered to hide his identity. The body could hold secrets, some sign as to how he got here. He still has a face, after all.

I hear the low voice of Master Sallow swearing as he splashes through a particularly muddy piece of ground. “My lady,” he calls out. “ Are you there?”

The red blisters are in high contrast against the dead boy’s skin, but there are worse marks around his throat. I touch the burns with one finger and leave a stripe of black mud like a gash. These wounds are not from scriv. The burns are old, and new on top of old. This is a vampire who wore an iron collar, perhaps for years.

“Master Sallow,” I say as I stand. Mud glops off my dress, and all around me the putrid stench of the rotting weeds rises, warmed and wakened by the dawn sun. “Send for the sharif, if you will.”



*



Jannik has slipped away from me. He does not come home, and I am too scared to find out where he has gone. Instead of thinking about him and Isidro or waiting for news from the sharif about the vampire I found, I throw myself into making more sketches. I spend the full day in the sun, with sweat trickling down my back, and I paint until my fingers shake. There is a snake inside my chest, squirming and coiling. I feel that if I had to cough, I would spit up pieces of shed papery skin. I try concentrating on painting, and ignore the feeling. It’s impossible.

I need to do something. And whatever choice I take now will set me irrevocably on that road. If I go against Jannik, and carry on with my search into the vampires’ deaths then I may just push Jannik so far away from me that there will be no way to draw him back.

I think of him kissing Isidro.

Or we could pack our bags now and return to Pelimburg. Gris knows what will be waiting for us there. Certainly, it will do us no good to go back to our families, reeking of failure.

I think of him kissing Isidro.

Making promises that Isidro won’t allow him to keep, and of all the broken pride they hold between them.

Not Pelimburg, then.

“Why do you make these?” Riona asks. She has come bearing a tray of iced lemon water and a tea-pot. Her tone is enough to let me know that she thinks me no great artist.

“Thank you.” I take the offered lemon water and drink deeply. I’ve been sitting here for so long letting myself thirst. Perhaps I’m trying to punish myself. I don’t even know what for. “Call it a bad habit,” I say, and set the glass back. She pours me tea. “I like to have all these things set down – I don’t know why. It makes me feel more secure to keep a record.”

“And flowers are safer than histories.”

The saucer trembles in my hands as I accept the full cup. ”Something like that.”

“It’s not always true, you know.” She frowns, and hides her hands behind her back. “If you don’t mind me speaking out of turn.”

“Not at all.” I have tried to encourage the Hobs here to relax around me, but my endeavours have proved fruitless. I am the lady, a Lammer who thinks herself greater than all others. And I can hardly tell them I have also washed dishes and slept shivering under thin blankets. My moment of deprivation hardly compares to their lives. It would be insulting to mention it.

“There’s a language that flowers speak.”

I frown. “How do you mean?”

“We use them as words, to say things to each other without saying anything at all.” She flushes a little. Perhaps this is a Hob-secret we Lammers were never meant to know.

The idea is fascinating. Anything to distract me from playing the kiss and the corpse over and over in my head, to remember the burn of iron around the throat of the dead vampire. “So each flower has a meaning?”

“Each plant and part can say different things. Like this.” Ree points to the bush I have been working on today. It’s a lowlying shrub with silvery spiked leaves and bright yellow flowers. I’ve seen the house maids use the flowers in dried arrangements, and they let off a strong spicy smell. “Dogleaf.”

I nod. The kitchen staff warmed my interest in this one – they say it keeps cats from bedrooms, something they believe in quite strongly as cats are known to steal dreams while you’re sleeping. Or so they tell me.

“The flowers speak of a keen interest. But the leaves alone show only curiosity.”

I reach out to feather some leaves between my fingers, and they leave their fragrant oil on my skin. “I see, so subtleties of meaning contained within the same plant?”

“Just so.” Ree might not be calling me by name, but she has forgotten to use my title, a small victory.

I look up at her. “Would you be willing to come sit with me when you have time – and tell me some more?”