Tomorrow promised to be busy. Though, truth be told, tonight was busy enough; sleep was clearly not on the agenda. I seated myself at the desk, laid paper before me, closed my eyes, and began mentally leafing through the pages I had memorized in the archives, selecting suitable cases of missing girls. I transcribed the pertinent records, noting parents' addresses, names, and brief case details. This occupied some two and a half hours. When I finished, my grim list contained seventeen addresses. A paltry number, but I had omitted hopeless cases—those filed by impoverished peasants, itinerant actors, or others too unreliable or difficult to trace. No sense squandering time hunting them down.

  I set the list aside and drew fresh paper toward me. Again I closed my eyes, reconstructing the burgomaster's estate from memory, and began sketching its layout. Upon first arriving in the city, I had reconnoitered the vicinity, noting all promising targets. The burgomaster's mansion had been among them, though I could scarcely have imagined then that I would so soon have an opportunity to plunder it. A vast, U-shaped, three-story edifice enclosed by a high fence, vigilant guards at the gates, and a pack of Garlian watchdogs roaming the grounds freely. During the reception, they would likely be chained, but if an alarm were raised, they would be loosed immediately. Unfortunately, I did not know the interior layout; I would have to improvise. Danger prickled pleasantly along my nerves.

  Another matter demanding immediate resolution tomorrow: finding a tailor capable not merely of sewing the gown from Shade's sketch, but of doing so in a single day. That would be no small feat. I pondered. Summon a mara of a tailor? But Cathérine's mara still lingered, and sustaining more than one mara could prove perilous—my mind would become unstable, threatening another episode. Yet the list included the very address of a tailor whose daughter had vanished three years ago. I should direct the inquisitor there first thing. Even if the man no longer took commissions, he might know whom to approach with such an unusual request.

  I sent Shade off to Father George first thing in the morning, with explicit instructions to determine whether a certain baroness Malko had been lurking near the church's orphanage. The chances were slim, but my instincts howled that a woman like that could never resist such a splendid source of children—ones whose disappearance would scarcely trouble anyone. If luck was with us, Shade might sketch the witch's portrait from Father George's description, or from those who worked at the orphanage. Then I wouldn't have to drag her along with the inquisitor and myself.

  "Anton, I have a task for you as well."

  We were finally alone. Shade had gone, and Martin and his father were busy installing the oven in the basement.

  "You'll go to the burgomaster's estate—it's in the central district. Linger nearby, scout the layout. Strike up an acquaintance with the servants, but carefully. Afterwards, visit the market. Trader Aster—a shady fence—buy the necessary items from him. Here's the list." I slid it across the table. "Read it, memorize it, then destroy the paper. And don't buy all the ingredients from a single vendor; you know the drill."

  Anton scanned the list, then looked up at me, eyes wide with shock.

  "What for? You're not planning to..."

  "Exactly." I nodded. "Tomorrow, I shall attend the burgomaster's reception. On the arm of the inquisitor himself. In full view of everyone. And in full view of everyone, we shall walk out with everything of value."

  "But Chrys, that's an enormous risk! Why attempt this heist at all? We're managing well enough; the bakery will soon turn a profit; we could even rent out the rooms on the third floor—they're empty anyway..."

  "You know perfectly well why. We need substantial funds, not pitiful scraps."

  Anton's face twisted bitterly, and he lowered his head.

  "Sometimes I think you simply enjoy the thrill. Reckless risk."

  "Perhaps." I traced a question mark in the sour cream left on my plate, then a sacred symbol beside it. "Perhaps the intoxicating sensation of risk is the only thing that makes me feel alive. Forgive me."

  I covered his hand with mine and squeezed.

  "I know it's dangerous to be near me. So if you wish, I can give you the remaining jewels. You could sell them, sail far away from here, settle in some quiet little town..."

  Anton's head shot up, indignant.

  "No, Chrys! You're the only family I have. I won't abandon you... Just—please—try not to take unnecessary risks, all right? And stop pestering the inquisitor. Don't court more trouble."

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "I'll try not to take risks... too often." I smiled. "But I make no promises about the inquisitor. He's far too handsome to remain a virgin."

  The unsuspecting inquisitor deigned to arrive at ten o'clock sharp. I was already in full battle array, having chosen a pale blue dress that accentuated the blue tint of my eyes—eyes I had subtly enhanced for the occasion. My hair was meticulously arranged, my nose and the circles beneath my eyes powdered, my lips painted. The décolletage I had discreetly veiled with an almost transparent silk shawl. The inquisitor scrutinized me from head to toe, his eyes narrowed. The expression on his handsome face could not have been sourer.

  "The list?"

  "And a good morning to you too, Inquisitor Tiffano." I smiled pleasantly and tapped my forehead. "All here. I have no need for base paper. Seventeen names on today's list. We'll begin with one Artem Izkhazi, a tailor living on Clubfoot Street."

  "Give me the remaining addresses and attend to your own affairs."

  "But attending to this affair is my affair. Permit me to remind you that Cathérine's disappearance is my case. Do resign yourself to the fact, finally. And we shall need to stop by the church on the way."

  "What now? Have you purchased another slave?"

  The handsome trailed after me, grumbling. At the church, we found Father George seated on a bench beside Shade. My heart skipped. She was drawing! Could it be we would have the witch's portrait? Father George rose, greeting the inquisitor warmly and offering me a curt nod.

  "My boy, I can scarcely believe baroness Malko could be a witch! She has done so much for the orphanage—not merely buying herself off with money, like some." A disapproving glance my way. "She spent time with the orphans, played with them..."

  The inquisitor looked shocked. "You know her?"

  "Alas." Father George seemed grieved, disappointed. "And your ward is a truly astonishing artist. I never imagined one could produce such a detailed portrait from a mere verbal description..."

  I smiled smugly at the priest's naivety. "You don't think that's just ordinary talent, do you? It's simply that Shade is a little mad—"

  The handsome gripped my arm just above the elbow, hard enough to silence me.

  "May I see the portrait, if you've finished?"

  The face of a beautiful, dark-haired woman of about thirty gazed back at us. Black, slightly almond-shaped eyes, a small, neat nose, full, sensuous lips, a predatory chin. She was most attractive. Even through the drawing, one could sense the woman's powerful charisma and undeniable authority. The inquisitor frowned.

  "Father George, are you certain of the portrait's accuracy? This is baroness Malko?"

  "Of course. The drawing is as if alive; I have never—"

  "We must go." I interrupted the priest rudely. "Come, monsieur inquisitor, we have many families to visit..."

  "Wait." The inquisitor waved me off. "Father George, you mentioned baroness Malko helped at the orphanage. Tell me, were there any disappearances of girls aged seven to ten?"

  "Perhaps older—up to twelve," I added. I had no doubt of the answer.

  Father Georgy pondered for a moment.

  "Children often run away from the orphanage. It's a common occurrence; we cannot hold anyone here by force. I cannot recall any specific cases... Although... Two years ago, there was a girl, Valérie. Her mother died in childbirth, and her father was killed in some skirmish—he served in the western voevoddom. She came to us at eight years old, a very homebound child. I was quite surprised when they told me she had run away. It was so unlike her..."

  We emerged onto Clubfoot Street, a thoroughfare of artisans, merchants, and back-alley healers. The handsome looked thoroughly dejected but remained silent, unresponsive to my attempts at conversation. After inquiring about the tailor Izkhazi's whereabouts, we found an old house with a modest courtyard overgrown with grapevines. The yard appeared utterly neglected, and the door went unanswered for a long while. I had already turned to leave, disheartened at the prospect of hunting for the tailor One knows where, when the door suddenly swung open and a disheveled man appeared on the threshold.

  "Are you the tailor Artem Izkhazi?"

  "Yes, but I'm not taking commissions." He shrugged indifferently and moved to close the door, but I quickly wedged my foot in the gap.

  "Wait. We're here about your daughter. Eva."

  The man's lifeless eyes flickered; a desperate spark of hope kindled in them.

  "You've found her? Come in, please." He practically dragged us inside.

  The house was as neglected as the yard. A thin layer of dust on the furniture, unwashed dishes on the table, litter on the floor, and the entrenched odor of cheap wine—it all inspired a profound melancholy. The inquisitor hastened to introduce himself, and I caught an ineffable flicker of alarm in the tailor's eyes.

  "What's happened? Why has the Inquisition come to me?"

  "I am conducting an inquiry into the disappearance of another child, in which a witch may be implicated. There is reason to believe your daughter may also have been taken by this woman. Please, tell us everything you remember—every detail."

  The man sank, stunned, into a sagging armchair and began his account, his voice halting.

  "Eva disappeared three years ago. In July. She was playing in the yard; I was working on a large commission, and my wife..." He faltered. "My wife had gone to the port market for supplies. I needed a rare, expensive fabric for the order, so I sent her..."

  Izkhazi sighed heavily and dropped his head.

  "If only I had known! That accursed commission… When my wife returned, she found Eva gone. She thought the girl was in her room, but she wasn't there either. We searched the whole house, ran to the neighbors—thought she might have visited one of her little friends—but nothing. No one had seen her. She simply vanished into thin air. I filed a report with the commune investigation, paid the captain extra to spur them into action. But we never found our child..."

  The man sat with his head bowed, hands limp on his knees. I seized the initiative.

  "Please, try to remember—did anyone visit your house that day, or the day before? I know three years have passed, but perhaps you can recall..."

  Izkhazi lifted his head, blew his nose, his eyes watering.

  "I remember it all. Every detail of that day. In the morning, a neighbor came by, asked to borrow fifty silver—her boy had fallen ill, and she lacked money for medicine. Around noon, a wealthy client arrived for a fitting—the very one who'd placed that large commission. She wanted a dress of rare cut, and that day she decided to alter the trim..."

  The inquisitor and I exchanged glances. I took Shade's drawing and showed it to the man.

  "Take a look. Would this happen to be your client?"

  He fumbled in his pocket, produced spectacles with a broken earpiece, put them on, and peered at the portrait.

  "A very good likeness. I think so, yes..." His gaze shifted from me to the inquisitor, and he asked, bewildered: "Is this the witch? Did she steal my Eva?"

  The handsome lowered his head. He was clearly struggling to meet the desperate father's eyes.

  "I believe so." I had little patience for the tailor's anguish; my concern now was whether he could sew my dress.

  "What did she do to my daughter? Tell me, I beg you!"

  Izkhazi fell to his knees, clutching at my dress.

  "Get up, please." I hauled him to his feet and pushed him back into the chair, casting an angry glance at the inquisitor, who sat like a stone idol, utterly detached.

  "I believe your daughter is dead." I feared Izkhazi might faint. "Pull yourself together, I beg you. Where is your kitchen? I'll fetch you water. Monsieur Tiffano, watch him, would you?"