“Vanished,” says Sigrud. “Yes. This is the third time. Yet I have remembered”—he taps the side of his head hard enough for it to make a noise—“each place where these people have disappeared. The only pattern I see is that they are all within this quarter, and the one to the west.”
“The ones most damaged by the Blink,” says Shara. “Which supports a theory I’ve just now halfway confirmed.” She runs a hand over the scarred brick wall behind them. “They are exploiting some damage or effect of the Blink for their own ends.”
“How are you so sure?”
“A piece of silver,” says Shara, “changed into lead not more than an hour ago as it passed through the alley where the surviving attacker disappeared. This sort of thing was only ever witnessed immediately after the Blink.”
“How are you so sure it wasn’t a miracle?”
“Because I used all the tricks I knew of to look for miracles,” says Shara, “and found none. No Divine workings at all, leaving only the Blink as a possible cause. It is worth noting, though, that no one has ever been able to adequately study the Blink. The Continent protects its damages like a bitter old woman does grudges. I plan to do so, when we have time—for now, let’s investigate what we have.”
When they near the municipal building, Shara hangs back to allow Sigrud to inspect. He stalks around it, then shakes his head and gestures to her to come. “Nothing,” he says as she joins him. “Door is unlocked. No one in the windows, from what I can see. But much of the building has no windows.”
“What is this place?”
“Something the city had built. Think it might have been intended for development—make the neighborhood into something better. But then they gave up, maybe.”
I would have, too, thinks Shara.
Sigrud goes to the door and pulls out his black knife. He peers inside, then silently enters. Shara waits a beat, and follows.
The interior of the building is almost completely devoid of furniture and ornamentation. The rooms continue on through the building’s length, connected by a series of small doors. The building’s most remarkable attribute is that unlike nearly every structure nearby, this one has gas: little blue jets flick along the ceiling, allowing the barest illumination. “They left the lights on,” mutters Shara, but Sigrud holds a finger to his lips. He cocks his head, listening, and makes a queer face, like he’s hearing an upsetting noise.
“Someone’s here?” asks Shara softly.
“Cannot quite say.”
Sigrud stalks forward into the building, peering into each room before Shara follows. Each room is like the one before it: small, bland, empty. Mrs. Torskeny is nowhere to be found. The doorways, Shara notes, all line up, more or less: look through one door, and you look through all. …
Except the door at the very end, which is shut, and its keyhole flickers with a faint yellow light.
I like this less and less, thinks Shara.
Again, Sigrud stops. “I hear it again. It is … laughing,” he says finally.
“Laughing?”
“Yes. A child. Very … quiet.”
“From where?”
He points at the closed door.
“And you can hear nothing more?”
He shakes his head.
“Well,” says Shara. “Let’s proceed.”
As she expects, all the rooms leading up to the closed door are empty. And as they near, she hears it, too: laughter, faint and soft, as if behind that door a child is having a merry game.
“I smell something,” says Sigrud. “Salt, and dust …”
“How is that remarkable?”
“I smell them in remarkable quantities.” He points at the door again, then squats to peer through the keyhole. The squinted eye on his face is spotlit; his eyelid trembles as he strains to see.
“Do you see anything?”
“I see … a ring, on the floor. Made of white powder. Many candles. Many. And clothes.”
“Clothes?”
“A pile of clothes on the floor.” He adds: “Women’s clothes.”
Shara taps him on the shoulder, and she takes his place at the keyhole. The light pouring through the keyhole is staggering: candelabras line the walls in a circle, each holding five, ten, twenty candles. The very room is alive with fire: she can feel the heat on her cheek in a concentrated beam. As her eye adjusts, she sees there is a wide circle of something white on the floor—Salt? Dust?—and at the edge of her vision she thinks she can see a pile of clothes, just on the opposite side of the white circle.
Her heart sinks when she sees the dark blue cloth that is almost the exact shade Mrs. Torskeny was wearing when she last saw her.
Then something dances into view. … Something gauzy and white, moving in drifting sweeps—the hem of a long white dress? Shara jumps, startled, but does not take her eye away: she sees a head of hair at the top of the cloth, thick black locks that shine in the candlelight, before the white thing trots away.
“There’s someone in there,” Shara says softly.
Again, the childish laugh. Yet something is wrong. …
“A child,” she says. “Maybe …”
“Step back,” says Sigrud.
“But … I’m not sure …”
“Step back.”