As always in holy places, peace and tranquility descended upon me. Father George came forth to greet us. Gazing into his bright, kind eyes, I suddenly felt all the troubles and anxieties of this mad day recede.

  "My boy." Father George had not changed at all. He hurried toward me, blessed me with the sacred sign, and embraced me. "You've grown so! I'm glad to see you in good health..."

  Father George had been my mentor at the Academy. His fatherly care, his wisdom, and above all, his unwavering faith in the One and in humanity had been my anchor on the path to faith.

  "Father George, I'm overjoyed to see you too. A pity we must meet under such circumstances..."

  The girl offered only a curt nod to Father George, hastening toward a pair waiting on a bench—a bewildered, fair-haired youth and a gaunt, exhausted-looking woman of about forty.

  Father George followed the girl with a wary, disapproving gaze, then turned to me.

  "Tell me, have her suspicions been confirmed? Perhaps it's merely a regrettable misunderstanding; she may be exaggerating..."

  I shook my head.

  "Alas, the matter is serious and requires the Holy Inquisition's immediate intervention. A child's life is in danger. And with whom is..." I hesitated, reluctant for some reason to speak the girl's name. "With whom is madame Chrysstein speaking?"

  "That is her brother, Anton—a well-mannered, respectful young man. And beside him..." Now Father George hesitated. "A poor, unfortunate woman. Madame Chrysstein's slave."

  I was unpleasantly surprised. What, after all, had I expected?

  "In a dreadful state—ill, starved, and..."

  The girl was arguing fiercely with her brother; her manner had shifted subtly again. An unpleasant determination, even cruelty, had settled on her face.

  "Surely she hasn't treated her so poorly? I find that difficult to believe."

  "It seems not. The woman told the healer that her mistress only purchased her yesterday. The mercy of the One be upon the poor soul..."

  The girl appeared to have concluded the argument with her brother; she spun sharply and headed for the exit, mercilessly dragging the limping slave behind her. The brother trailed after them, looking miserable and resigned. I moved toward them, but the girl ignored me, striding swiftly for the door. I caught her sleeve. She raised her eyes as if seeing me for the first time, freed her arm, and said sharply:

  "Anton, take Shade home immediately. Inquisitor Tiffano, our agreement is dissolved. Go about your business. You'll have to handle the baroness Malko affair on your own."

  I was dumbfounded. What new game was this?

  "What do you mean, dissolved? I need that doll, do you hear me?" I caught her by the elbow just as she reached the church threshold. She twisted suddenly, with a movement so swift I barely registered it, and bent my arm behind my back.

  "You'll have to find other evidence, monsieur Inquisitor. Forget the doll. I lied to you. I don't have it. Good luck."

  She released me with a shove and vanished into the darkened street. Father George hurried over, peering anxiously at my face.

  "My boy, Kysei, what's happened?"

  "I wish I knew." I rubbed my reddened wrist—incredible strength for such a thin girl. "I don't understand why she changed so abruptly. Do you know what she might have been arguing with her brother about?"

  Father George's expression darkened. "I don't know. Perhaps they were deciding what to do with the dying woman. I meant to suggest that madame Chrysstein leave the slave in our care at the orphanage—let her spend her remaining days in peace. We could tend to her here, but I didn't have the chance..."

  "Dying? Is she so ill?"

  "Our healer gives her a month at most, with proper care. Advanced consumption. The disease has nearly devoured her lungs. I pray the mistress doesn't force the poor soul to work..."

  I ceased hearing Father George, struck by a sudden, terrible realization. Like pieces of colored glass in a stained-glass window, a horrifying picture assembled itself before me. The girl intended to use the substance from the doll to... to heal the slave? But why? Abandon her desperate chance to attend the reception? Risk everything—surely she understood I wouldn't simply overlook such an act? I could not fathom her reasons, but I could not permit it. I cut Father George off.

  "Father, she is about to do something dreadful. She must be stopped. I beg you, tell me you know where she lives..."

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "I know, of course. The house of baron Galitsky... Ah, but you're new to the city, you wouldn't know. It's quite near. Turn from this street onto Chianti Square; it's on the left-hand side. A three-story old house, stonework, painted a light shade. But what's happened?"

  "She means to perform an act of witchcraft herself. I must stop her."

  Father George's eyes dimmed. "I fear for you, Kysei. Be careful. My heart is troubled... May the One protect you."

  I nodded gratefully for his concern and hurried toward the address.

  I found the house easily enough; it was the only three-story building on the street. The front door was shut, but lights glowed from windows on the first and second floors. I was about to knock when a gangly, pimply youth appeared and let me in.

  "You're here to see m-m-madame Chrysstein?"

  I nodded silently, wondering who he might be. A tenant? A servant? A relative? It hardly mattered.

  "P-please, come in. I'm n-not sure if she's home. I'll f-f-find out..."

  "No need. I'll go up myself—her office is on the second floor, I presume?" I gathered the boy had mistaken me for a client.

  The young man nodded and returned to his cleaning. The first floor had been converted into a spacious hall cluttered with tables, chairs, and a counter; in one corner, jars, pots, baking trays, and other kitchen utensils were piled haphazardly. I barely glanced at the crudely painted sign, on which an unskilled hand had scrawled: "Grandfather Ivolga's Bakery."

  On the second floor, I slowed, trying to determine where the mad girl might be. Indistinct voices issued from a room at the end of the corridor. I hurried toward it, stepping as quietly as possible. Peering through the slightly opened door, I took in the scene. The exhausted slave reclined on a bed, half-sitting, half-lying; beside her stood my deranged young woman. She held a small bowl, and nearby lay what was unmistakably the doll itself. Anton was arguing with his sister.

  "Chrys, are you sure about this? The healer said her days are numbered... Think about it."

  The girl ignored her brother, sat on the bed beside the slave, and ordered her to lift her skirts. On the woman's left leg gaped a hideous ulcer, evidently the cause of her lameness.

  "I'll test it on the leg first, I think..."

  I could delay no longer.

  "Stop this at once!" I said, stepping into the room. "You are deliberately about to commit an act of sorcery! That is a crime against the faith."

  The slave's eyes reflected pure animal terror. She sat up abruptly, drawing her legs in and wrapping her arms around them. The girl turned to me, irritation and displeasure plain on her face.

  "Monsieur inquisitor, no one invited you here. Get out of my house."

  "I cannot. Give me the doll and what you hold in that bowl. And I will overlook your attempt at sorcery."

  The girl commanded her brother: "Anton, show the monsieur out."

  She turned back to the slave. "We'll deal with your leg later. Drink." She held out the bowl. The woman shook her head in horror.

  Anton moved toward me hesitantly. He was tall and thin, like his sister, and I had no doubt I could handle him. My hand rested threateningly on my blade's hilt.

  "Stop, or I will be forced to use weapon." The boy froze, glancing questioningly at his sister.

  The girl set the bowl on the bedside table in annoyance and waved at Anton.

  "Make that fool drink. I'll deal with him myself."

  I thought myself prepared for a confrontation, but I never even registered the moment she crossed the room and appeared beside me. I found myself pinned against the wall, the cold steel of a dagger pressed unpleasantly against my throat, her eyes level with mine.

  "You will leave here immediately, monsieur inquisitor. Otherwise..." I felt, with horror, a warm trickle of blood seeping down my collar, "...I might have to hurt you," she finished with a crooked smirk.

  "I'm afraid you'll have to kill me," I rasped, staring into her mad eyes. Her sharp elbow now pressed against my throat, the dagger aimed at my heart. She pressed closer; I could feel the heat of her body. Suddenly, she rested her cheek against mine and drew a loud breath.

  "Oh no, how could I kill such a handsome man..." Her lips were very close; I felt her hot breath on my cheek. "I'll simply..."

  The door burst open with a crash. Father George stood on the threshold, flanked by several armed acolytes.

  "What is happening here? Inquisitor Tiffano, do you require assistance?"

  The girl drew back slightly; a flicker of concern crossed her eyes. Not fear, not confusion. She resembled someone who had planned a meeting, only to step outside and find it raining, with no umbrella. Now that person hesitated, weighing whether to go back for the umbrella and be late, or risk arriving soaked... That was precisely her expression as she calculated: release me, or not? Absolute composure. I seized upon her momentary hesitation and pushed the dagger aside. She raised her hand, but I was ready, gripping her wrist until she dropped the blade, which clattered loudly to the floor. Seeing the weapon, the acolytes raised their staves, preparing to defend themselves.

  "It's all right," I reassured them, still holding the girl's wrist. I kicked the dagger toward the door and commanded:

  "Anton, hand me the doll and the bowl."

  The boy sighed in resignation, picked up the forlorn doll, and cautiously extended it to me along with the bowl. The evidence was finally in my possession, I released the girl. She pressed her lips together discontentedly, glaring at me from under her brows, her eyes blazing with a determination to have her way at any cost. The atmosphere in the room was taut to breaking. I understood the situation all too well, assessing my own strength with grim clarity—and I did not like the scene. A difficult decision lay before me. But as my military instructor at the Academy used to say: if you cannot stop a revolt, lead it.

  "Father George, take the doll." I nodded toward the acolytes and the old priest.

  "All of you shall witness. In the matter of the inquiry into allegations of witchcraft and the disappearance of Baron Cartouat's daughter, this doll constitutes material evidence. There is reasonable suspicion that the substance upon it possesses sorcerous properties—namely, a powerful regenerative effect."

  Anton's face darkened; he looked utterly exhausted. The girl, by contrast, lifted her chin defiantly, her lip curling in contempt. I paused, then continued.

  "As a child's life may be in danger, these suspicions must be confirmed without delay. Under ordinary circumstances, I would send the doll and this container to the Academy for analysis. However, I have decided to conduct the appropriate test here and now."

  Father George gasped softly. I approached the bed, bowed, and addressed the slave.

  "Madame, I ask you to offer yourself as a willing subject and take this substance. You would aid the Holy Inquisition in proving its sorcerous nature. If you are healed, contrary to the healer's prognosis, that will be incontrovertible proof. I may then bring charges and save a child. I beg you."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I took genuine satisfaction in the astonishment on the girl's face. She had retreated to the window, hands pressed to her breast. The slave regarded me with fear and mistrust.

  "I'd still test it on the ulcer first," the girl rasped.

  "Sensible," I nodded, turning back to the slave. "May I?..."

  The woman hesitated, then gave an uncertain nod, lifting her skirt to expose the diseased leg. I closed my eyes briefly, striving not to contemplate the cost of this accursed concoction, then dipped my fingers into the bowl and decisively applied the substance to the wound. The ulcer vanished instantly; old scars faded, the skin becoming soft and smooth as an infant's. Those present gasped, and I felt sick. I had clung to the hope that this might be some monstrous misunderstanding. But the matter required proof.

  "Drink the rest, I implore you." I extended the bowl. She wavered.

  "Oh, just drink it, fool," the girl snapped.

  The slave took the bowl, squeezed her eyes shut, and downed the liquid in one gulp. Immediately, she was seized by a violent fit of coughing, beating her chest and clawing at her skin. She gasped for air like a fish stranded on shore; I had to restrain her to prevent injury. But after a few minutes, it passed. A timid flush appeared on her grey face; her breathing grew steady and clear; the wrinkles smoothed away; she seemed a decade younger. She stared at me questioningly with eyes whose color had shifted from faded grey to a vivid blue.

  "How do you feel?" The answer was plain enough.

  The slave sat up uncertainly, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

  "As if I've been born anew..."

  I sighed and rose.

  "Well, then. In the presence of witnesses, the sorcerous nature of the potion has been confirmed. Father George, could you ask the healer to attest to this woman's recovery tomorrow?"

  "Yes, of course, my son. But how...? This is truly witchcraft? Could it not be divine mercy, a miracle manifested before us?"

  I understood the poor priest's distress better than anyone; it was always painful to witness blasphemous sorcery and acknowledge its reality.

  "I fear not, Father George. This is witchcraft. Come, I must dispatch a letter to the bishop."

  "Wait, monsieur inquisitor!"