At the door to the drawing room, Verna stopped and looked at me intently.

  "Have you remembered something?"

  "No. May I ask you something, madame?"

  "Of course."

  Verna hesitated. "How old are you, if I may ask, madame? It's just... you look so very young..."

  "You may rest assured of my competence, Verna," I smiled, trying to conceal my irritation and impatience. The air of the estate was suffocating; I wanted to be done and go outside.

  "It's not that. It's just your eyes... They are an old woman's eyes... Forgive me."

  May a demon take her, such an observant one!

  "You are indeed very perceptive, Verna. It's a shame it didn't help you protect Cathérine."

  The words had a better effect than a lash. Verna flinched and stepped back.

  "Baroness Cartouat, did your daughter eat any mushrooms yesterday?"

  élise looked perplexed, first at her husband, then at me. "No, we had roast veal in white sauce for lunch. Verna makes it excellently, and also—"

  "Enough," I interrupted her, discourteously. "Did baroness Malko offer your daughter anything at lunch? Or perhaps she brought something to the table?"

  "I do not understand your vile insinuations against a noble lady!" élise placed her hands on her hips indignantly.

  "Just answer my question," I could feel my control slipping.

  "No! Baroness Malko did not bring anything and did not offer Cathérine anything!"

  "The baroness had a bag with her, I assume? How did she bring the doll for Cathérine?"

  "I don't recall. Yes, I think she had a bag. The doll was brought by a servant from the carriage. I... I am tired of your questions. I must ask you to leave my house."

  How she infuriated me!

  "Madame Cartouat, give me your hand."

  Not waiting for protests, I seized her wrist with one hand. With the other, I drew the dagger from my boot and made a shallow cut across her palm. The baroness cried out sharply, and her husband lurched toward me threateningly.

  "Be still! Now I will show you why I am acting this way."

  Keeping hold of the baroness, I retrieved the handkerchief with the fungal slime from my bag and wiped it over élise's bleeding palm.

  "This is the substance I found on the doll given by your guest yesterday. The doll was lying in the garden under a bush. I don't yet know what happened to Cathérine, but I suspect witchcraft is involved, and your baroness Malko may be connected to it."

  élise protested and tried to pull her hand free. I let her go.

  "Now, élise, look at your palm. Where the cut was. What do you see?"

  The baroness stared dumbfounded at her hand, clenching and unclenching her fingers. The blood was there, but the cut itself was gone.

  "But how...?" The baron was no less astonished, examining his wife's hand closely.

  "This is clearly witchcraft. I must ask you not to communicate with baroness Malko and not to tell her about me. In fact, tell no one what just transpired here. An accusation of witchcraft is a grave matter. And I need solid proof."

  The baroness slumped weakly onto a sofa, her eyes rolling back. The baron found the courage to escort me out personally. By the gates, I remembered about the painter.

  "Baron Cartouat, would you happen to know where one might hire a sketch artist in the city?"

  "A sketch artist?" The baron was surprised, then thoughtful. "Unlikely you'll find one. There is the Artists' Guild at the Academy, but those are the most talented; they wouldn't stoop to simple sketching. Their apprentices might, but they'd fear losing their place. You likely can't offer substantial pay, can you? There are also illustrators at the printing house, but they are well-paid, too. No, I'm afraid I don't know."

  "I don't need an experienced or talented one. Anyone capable of drawing from description will do."

  "Hmm, well, I can only suggest trying the slave market. You might get lucky. Though a slave with such skills might also command a high price. But why do you need a sketch artist?"

  I ignored the question, as usual.

  "Thank you. Keep an eye on your wife, ensure she doesn't do anything foolish."

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Near the estate gates, an anxious Anton was waiting for me.

  "Lidia, what are you up to? What's this about a golden goose? Are the maras acting up again?"

  "Everything's fine, Anton. We finally have a client who is not just wealthy but also noble. Though the case reeks of trouble."

  "What kind of case?"

  "A child's abduction. And witchcraft is undoubtedly involved."

  Anton flinched and grabbed my arm. "Lidia, let's turn it down. Please!"

  "I can't, Anton. If it's witchcraft, it won't just vanish. You remember the sorcerer. He was insane, committing atrocities, and no one could stop him. It's quite possible more children will disappear. Sooner or later, we'll have to face this. Better to face it now. Yes, we also need to check the commune's investigation office. There must be records of other missing persons."

  Anton's shoulders slumped. He remembered only a part of the horrors endured in that sorcerer's cellar, but even that was enough.

  "Home?"

  "No, let's check the slave market. Maybe we'll get lucky and find a sketch artist there. The bout is coming very soon."

  Anton slumped even further. "Again...?"

  I offered a pained smile. "Let's go. We must get there before they close."

  The heat had completely subsided by evening. A huge, leaden cloud was advancing from the sea. The street noise had quieted, tired people dispersing from the market to their homes. We reached the slave pavilion just before closing. No buyers were around. In the vast hall, eternally stinking of sweat, urine, fear, and despair, only one overseer paced lazily, checking latches on cages and doling out meager feed.

  Slavery was more prevalent in the south; here in the north, we hardly used slaves, except those brought in for construction work from across the sea. People became slaves for various reasons: after military raids and capture, due to debt, or being sold by family. The latter was utterly barbaric to me—how could one sell their own children? Especially since most slaves were driven to deadly, backbreaking labor in quarries, fields, or mines. A small percentage became so-called privileged slaves: prostitutes of both sexes—if one was lucky and had attractive looks—servants with talents that might interest a master, like drawing, music, or a good education, and gladiators for those who could fight. Such slaves at least had a slim chance of buying their freedom. Very slim, of course, but precedents existed.

  The pavilion was stifling and foul, the air heavy. Old scars ached, foretelling a change in weather. At the very least, a thunderstorm, perhaps even a gale. I approached the overseer.

  "My dear, I need a slave."

  "Welcome, madame," the fat man leered at me insolently, without a shred of respect, his gaze oily. "What's your pleasure? A house servant, a guard, or perhaps a boy for amusement?"

  I felt too unwell to tolerate this churl's rudeness. With a sharp motion, I twisted his arm behind his back, forced him to bend, and pressed my dagger to his ear.

  "Filth, you are addressing a noblewoman. And if you value this ear—" I applied pressure, admiring the thin trickle of blood running down his greasy neck, "—you will apologize immediately and offer me your finest wares. With all due respect. I can't hear you!"

  "S-sorry,madame. Got it, I understand, I'll behave. Just let me go!"

  I shoved the loathsome creature away.

  "I need a slave who can draw. And I swear by the One, if I don't find one, someone here will bitterly regret it today."

  The fat man cowered back in fright. His eyes darted feverishly over the cages, clearly trying to devise a way to placate the violent noblewoman.

  "Have mercy, madame! A batch of house slaves was bought out today. No one's left. Only the dregs remain. A new shipment from Gardnego is expected in a week. I assure you, I'll pick the finest for you then!"

  "I need a slave today. In a week, you can shove your wares up the hole that will be left of your ear."

  The fat man fell to his knees. "Spare me, madame!"

  A red-and-black veil was swiftly descending over my vision. On the edge of my consciousness, I knew I was about to simply stab the fat man, and Anton and I would have legal trouble again. And we'd just bought a house, started a business... I seized the boy's shoulder and rasped, "Anton, get him out of here, or I can't answer for myself..."

  The boy lunged, dragged the overseer out of the pavilion. I took a deep breath. I wanted to rage and smash things, to beat my head against the wall and sob uncontrollably. All at once.

  I raised my head, looked around, and shouted loudly: "Which of you can draw? I will buy you and give you a chance at a normal life!" My voice broke at the end; it came out poorly.

  The cages remained silent. The fat man was right. Only unsalable stock remained: old slaves unfit for work, young ones too maimed or diseased to have any value. I was desperate. I needed a damned sketch artist.

  "Alright then! Who is at least literate? Any of you?"

  A rustle sounded behind me. I whirled around, ready to deflect a blow, but it was the mara of Master standing there, gazing at me mockingly. If only I could nail this cursed mara. I threw my dagger at him; it passed harmlessly through and clanged against the cage bars. A faint murmur rippled through the slave rows. Inside a cage, a bundle of rags stirred. A pale shadow, only vaguely resembling a human being, raised its head and looked at me.

  I was already on the brink of hysterics. If you've ever had a fit of hysterics, you likely know how easily you slip into it and how hard it is to stop. When every sob gives birth to a wail, every breath carries a fresh grievance, when hiccups mixed with a swollen nose choke you, when you begin to gasp for air, and when you have no strength left at all—only then does the hysteria die. In agonizing throes. My grandmother used to snap me out of childhood hysterics with a sharp slap across the face. The fit would vanish instantly. Just like now.

  I was drowning in eyes the color of a warm summer sea, turquoise-blue, with dark flecks on the surface. A transparent haze of a beautiful summer morning enveloped me. A seashore, the sun bathing in the cool dawn on the horizon, a dark-haired, tanned girl in a white, airy tunic on the shore, her feet caressed by seawater. The girl is drawing, drawing the dawn and the sea, and herself on the shore. Her painting repeats the landscape, and the painting within the painting repeats the drawing, on and on to infinity. My head spun as if I were being pulled into an endless whirlpool, my breath caught.

  "You!" I clutched the cage bars. "What's your name?"

  The shadow remained silent. The eyes were already dull and gray, like the northern sea in winter. I caught my breath. My hands were trembling.

  "Listen to me. You can draw, I know it. I want to buy you. Do you hear? I can give you freedom."

  The shadow continued its silence, swaying indifferently to an inaudible rhythm. What to do?

  "Anton!" I roared. "Get the trader in here!"

  Anton came running, frightened, followed by the hesitant trader shuffling behind him. I didn't take my eyes off the woman. Her condition was pitiful. Her ribs showed through her rags, her arms were covered in scabs and bruises of varying ages, and a foul-smelling, gaping ulcer festered on her leg.

  "Who is she?" I nodded at the trader.

  "That's part of the cull. We're sending her to the mines tomorrow, though she likely won't survive the voyage."

  "What's her name?"

  The trader hesitated. "Noble madame, slaves have no names, only numbers. Hers is 18412."

  "And her history? Where is she from? How did she end up enslaved, and how long ago?"

  "Forgive me, I don't know. She arrived a month ago on a ship from Mirstena. I didn't bother with such details."

  "Leave us for a moment," I waved the trader away and pressed my forehead against the cage bars, my eyes locked on the slave. "The morning... the seashore... a girl in white... that's you... drawing the dawn... a true talent."

  The shadow flinched as if struck by a whip.

  "You had everything: talent, beauty, youth, comfort. What happened to you?"

  The shadow remained silent, but pain and despair flickered in her eyes.

  "Listen to me. In life, there is always a place for..."

  "Hope?" I flinched at the slave's voice. It was like the grating of a rusty dagger on glass. The bitterness of mockery twisted jaw.

  "No. Hope is nothing. In life, there must be a place for goal. If you have a Goal, you live. When you lose it, you are already dead, even if you still breathe and walk. Everyone chooses their own fate, do you hear? You just have to choose the right goal. Do you have a Goal?"

  The shadow was silent.

  "Listen, you're hurting, I know. But I've endured far worse... Do you know how much it hurts from the cold in damp cellars? When you stop feeling your own fingers, but the bruises still ache and your bones still throb? And the worst is the feeling... of your very feelings freezing over, when you lose the last thing—your own mind... But I survived, and now I stand in front of you. And my enemies... They cursed the day they... Well, it doesn't matter. I can help you. Say yes."

  The shadow was seized by a dry, hacking cough.

  "Why help if you can just buy me anyway? What am I to you? Leave me be. Let me die..."

  "I am not indifferent! You must want to draw and be able to do it. The ability to draw is a talent, part of the soul. I can buy your body, but not your soul. Please, tell me you will draw. You have no idea how much I need your gift!"

  The shadow grimaced into a miserable semblance of a smile.

  "Well, if you need it... then I'll draw. Just don't regret it later..."

  I spun toward the terrified trader. "How much for her?"

  "Fifty gold," the fat man answered without blinking. Afraid of me, but not one to miss his profit.

  "For a cull? Don't make me laugh. I'll give twenty-five, and only because I don't have time to haggle."

  "I can't..." he whined. I grabbed him by the scruff, shook him, and shoved his face against the cage bars.

  "Don't anger me. I am in a great hurry, you hear me? A great hurry. By the way, do you think prefect Vargas would be interested in your shady dealings with merchants from Mirstena?"

  The fat man blinked rapidly.

  "Mirstena is now part of the disgraced voevoddom of Chornogeria, isn't it? And trade with renegades is forbidden, correct?"

  "Alright, alright, take her," the trader waved a hand in defeat.

  We had to spend extra to hire a carrier; the slave was in no condition to walk. Heavy drops of a tropical storm, rolling in from the sea, drummed a frantic beat against the carriage roof. Anton and I remained silent the entire way, and the slave simply lay with her eyes closed. Maybe sleeping, maybe not.