The question comes to her without warning, causing her finger to slip yet again, another spot of blood spreading across the taut fabric. She regards the needle embedded in her finger with cold understanding; the flesh is like ice, devoid of pain. The needlework is poor, a child’s fumbled attempts to mimic adult skill. It is tempting to blame the shell and its numbed digits, but this particular craft has always been beyond her. The memory is dim, as are all her recollections of childhood, but there was a woman once. A kindly woman, with a face of feline beauty, who could sew with amazing skill, her fabrics adorned with a clarity and art that could match the finest paintings. They would sit and sew together, the woman guiding her small hands, pulling her into a kiss when she did something right, merely laughing at her frequent mistakes. She is sure this memory is real, though for some reason her thoughts continually shy away from the woman’s name, or her fate. Instead they always shift, becoming darker and she finds herself abed, whimpering as she stares at her bedroom door . . .
A squeal of ropes and gears draws her gaze to the balcony. I have an exalted visitor to greet, my love, she tells him. An Empress shouldn’t neglect her duties.
Why? The thought is implacable, irresistible in its demand.
You know why, beloved, she tells him.
Images swirl and coalesce in her mind, another precious gift captured by his sight: flames erupting from the sewers of Viratesk, the Arisai fighting, killing and dying with all the fury she expected. One, ablaze from head to foot, whirls in a welter of flame, still killing and laughing even as the arrows slam home.
I know you have nine thousand more, he tells her. Where are they?
Her hands clutch the embroidery as delight surges through her, the wonderful resumption of their lost intimacy. This was how it had been during their journey, the joyful mingling of hate and love, every murder eroding the walls between them. She realises her heart is thumping, faster and faster like a trapped beast raging at its cage. Until now she had thought this shell incapable of all but the most rudimentary feeling, but he, of course only he, can bring it to life.
The gondola jerks to a halt outside the balcony and she glimpses her guest. She feels his alarm flare at the sight of her, causing her to wonder if jealousy might lead her to pitch this pretty thing from the top of the tower. However, a note from the song as the girl’s gaze sweeps over Lieza tells her such suspicions are misplaced.
