Content Warning: This chapter contains violence.
Chapter 1
Anilia is skipping again, giggling as she hops on tiles that aren’t there anymore. Green only, never white or red. She does it every evening, back and forth across the floorless upstairs hallway. It used to drive her mother mad, when they were still alive.
It hears her faint laughter from its spot in the burned-out dining room, but resists the urge to go watch her. She’ll want to play if she sees it, but the dead can’t interact with the living, and she’ll start crying. So it stays where it sits, on a spot it swept clear of soot and debris, and focuses on its sewing.
It pushes its needle through the fabric in its cape, pulling the edges of the rip together and making the tear as invisible as possible. The Litarch—the eldest woman in the House—taught it to sew when it was eight. At least, it thinks it was eight. Its master had said it was close in age with Silinie, and she’d celebrated her eighth birthday that year. It remembers because it listened from the closet as they gave Selinie presents and sung her songs.
It liked the year it spent as Litarch Bellinisa’s companion. The old woman had insisted it make itself useful instead of hovering like a mosquito waiting to suck the blood from her neck. She taught it to sew and together they repaired half the House’s clothes. It smiles, remembering the way she gave it the sharp edge of her tongue and a poke with her knitting needles whenever it messed up stitches.
Litarch Bellinisa passed in her sleep, a month before the Cleansing that killed everyone else save one. They all died gasping and trying to staunch their bloody wounds, or choking and screaming as smoke filling their lungs and flames licked their flesh.
One last pull on the thread and it holds the cape up to examine its handiwork. In the early evening light shining through the broken window, the repair barely shows on the dark red cloth. It puts down its sewing kit and spins the cape so the fabric wraps its body. There is warmth and satisfaction in fixing things, even if the evenings aren’t chill enough to warrant it yet.
It wonders if it should make supper, then if there’s any food left. When the Scion left three days before, he had not given it permission to buy food, so it had taken to eating once a day. Porridge was one of the few things it knew how to make, and there was enough wheat left to feed it for a couple more days.
Though the window comes the loud squeal of the yard’s the side gate opening. Someone says, “Told you the House was empty. Two weeks I’ve watched. No one lives here anymore.”
“There’s ghosts,” says a younger, shakier voice. “They burned the manse with everyone in it. That means they’re all still here.”
It flows to its feet, leaving the cape behind, and moves in silence down the soot- and dirt-covered hallway, past the burnt-out library where the ghost of the Dirarch—lord of the House—lies weeping against the wall. His sobs, like Amilia’s giggling, are faint even to those who hear them. It wonders, not for the first time, why children’s ghosts are caught in happy moments, while the adult dead only relive the final moments of their lives.
In the back foyer it stops and peeks through the doorway. The door itself is gone, smashed and burned by the soldiers who Cleansed the house. Hidden in shadows, It watches as three intruders walking toward the small courtyard, bordered by four trees and flower beds. Once groomed and shaped to perfection, now the trees and flowerbed are overgrown and wild with weeds.
“The dead are dead,” says the first. He’s tall and burly, carrying empty sacks in one hand and a crowbar in the other. His wide-brimmed hat slouches over his face, concealing all but his beard. He wears a dirty labourer’s robe, belted with a length of rope, and sandals on his feet. A woman, dressed the same, follows him.
“My cousin sees them,” the second voice says. He’s younger and clean shaven, his tight shirt open to show his chest. His curly black hair is clean and loose, and he wears the pink kilt and red eye make-up of a prostitute. He’s cleaner than the other two, but unlike them, his eyes dart back and forth as he brings up the rear.
“Then your cousin belongs to the priesthood,” the woman says and laughs. She punches the younger man’s shoulder. “But you don’t, so quit being a coward.”
“Who’s a coward?” the young man, his voice breaking. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
In a low crouch, it slips unseen into the garden. It passes through the glowering spectre of its master, feels resistance in the air like a brief, chill breeze Its flesh shivers. His master, dead hands still gripping daggers, glares and shouts at it to kill the soldiers. It ignores him and moves behind the tree where Silinie’s terrified ghost cowers. The dead young woman begs it for help, as she had before the soldiers dragged her to the ground.
Four paths run from the courtyard. The one that the intruders have come down leads to the creaking iron gate. The second goes to the coach house, its stone walls and roof still standing, though the fire gutted it. A third path leads to the dock, its boards broken, but its frame still chained to the tall stone pillars with their hammer-smashed coats of arms. The last goes to burned-out manor.
“Not much left of it,” says the woman, as the three of them step into the courtyard. It’s true. The wooden top floor and roof are gone, save for charred rafters and beams, and the cut-stone walls on the first and second floors are scorched and crumbling.
“It’s a mess, but I be there’s something in it,” the burly man says.
“If no one else picked it over,” the young one says. “You want me on lookout?”
“Yeah, but from inside the gate. In this district they arrest whor—”
The big man’s words become a shout of pain as it slashes his wrist joint with its dagger. It is past him before the crowbar hits the paving stones. The young man’s mouth falls open in shock. It slashes, cutting through both his cheeks, then steps past and with a downward slice of its other blade, splits the woman’s nose. It spins and stabs the burly man’s left eye, deep enough to blind, not kill. The three scream their agony and tried to escape. It follows, slashing their legs so the thieves fall, wailing and begging.
It needs them on the ground. If they realize they’re bigger than it, they might try to fight.
“I am the Death of House Kilcharni.” It makes its voice a loud sibilant hiss so they won’t hear how light it is. The thieves huddle together, terror on their faces. “Tell everyone: House Kilcharni still stands. Now get out.”
The thieves crawl to their feet and stumble, weeping, out the gate. They curse and swear revenge once they reach the street, but don’t try to return. It lets out a long sigh and its hands tremble like they do after every fight. It closes the gate behind them and shoves the bolt home, then grimaces and heads for the house.
Violence makes it crave sweets and solitude.
It collects its cape and sewing kit and takes them to the ruined basement kitchen. From a low shelf it pulls a tin of cookies. It wants to start a fire, but they’re short of wood and it doesn’t have permission to buy more. It lights a candle instead, and nibbles on a square of almond flour with raisins until its shaking fades. From the kitchen it can’t hear the ghosts on the floor above. For a short, blessed time, it enjoys the silence
The brass bell on the front door jangles, breaking into its peace. It rises and goes upstairs. Two servants’ ghosts lie on the dining room floor, cut open bellies oozing blood that never touches the floor. It walks bast them and through the parlour. There, the Dirarch’s wife Kalinia sits, her face rigid with agony and her long dress crackling with invisible flames. The bell jangles again before it reaches the front foyer and opens the door. A messenger, young and of indeterminate gender, dressed in a white shirt and the pink and red striped kilt of House Tishia, gives it a haughty look and says, “Are you the thing?”
House Tishia is a semi-respectable brothel on the delta islands, good enough for House scions to slum in, provided they travelled together. Those going alone end up robbed on the way back if they are lucky, or the way there if they are not. It waits, eyes narrowing, not speaking. The messenger’s facade slips, and they swallow before saying “Your Dirarch said you must speak to me.”
“He isn’t the Dirarch,” it answers. “Give your message.”
“I quote,” the messenger says. “Tell the thing to bring me twenty sinet. I command it.”
A flash of heat and pain erupts from the House emblem branded on its chest, as strong as when they first pressed the iron into its flesh.
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