It was Samira’s idea to go to the second-circle market. Not that a woman of her status would frequent that place, but because there was no place where gossip spread as fast.

She had a point.

Now they were on their way, asking the sellers and every passerby about the whereabouts of this woman. Bobby showed the drawing of Mrs. Erskine. Large eyes and not much of a chin, small curls lining her face. Much like his daughter’s.

Gossip was abound, but it was all gasping and fake sorrow as if every person there was her best friend. The only person on the market with a hazy recollection of the missing corpse was the brown toothed fishwife.

“No, Sir. I swear, she came by this morning, she did.”

The woman said and nodded as if nodding harder would make it true, completely ignoring Samira’s question about what she was wearing as the corpse did her morning groceries.

Stallholders in the second circle’s marketplace were packing up. A few third-circlers in threadbare coats and ripped gloves lingered around to scavenge the best deals or make the best of the on-the-ground flattened potatoes, or wilted leaves of cabbage. Bobby tried to avoid their empty gazes. Their hunger made him shiver. Winter hadn’t even properly put its claws into the air yet.

Samira and Bobby were standing in the most uncomfortable place, their boots ankle deep in blood and fish guts. The smell of a battlefield gone wrong. The fish stall was tucked away in a corner of the square, a house behind it, the fishwife’s house, simple. The building leaned forward as if it might fall flat with the next storm. If you stared at it too long, you might think you’d see it slowly lose its battle against gravity.

“Very sure, Sir. She bought two eels and a pair of crabs off me this morning. Thought it was fishy business, she didn’t seem to have the slightest idea how to cook ‘em.” She was now staring up at him with her plump cheeks as though he would make a fine fish husband.

Her voice dropped in a whisper, and her breath wafted in his face. “They say strange things are going on, and it was a red moon not a week ago, it was. Unspeakable things happen when the red moon is about.”

Bobby’s stomach churned. The smell alone would kill him. Staring at those rotten teeth for the next decades would only be a bonus. “You look like you know a fish from a-”

“Right. Of course. Thank you, madame,” Bobby said too loudly as he bolted away so quickly it was impolite.

She shouted something else after him, but he ignored it as he and Samira walked off the square. Knowing nothing more than they did two days ago.

“This is odd to say the least. So what option will we be exploring? Necromancy? Dark magic? According to the works of Eddus Bulwer-Lytton, some cultures can raise the dead. Maybe we should look into that?”

Bobby scoffed, “There is no such thing as necromancy. Those are children’s stories. Created to keep the bored high society entertained. That woman is craving a good-” the words clattered to a halt in his mouth as he saw Samira’s expression. “attention. She is craving attention, and that’s it.”

“She said she saw her!”

“She saw someone. But a corpse doesn’t wander out of it’s casket to go to the fish market for some eel and crab.”

Samira shot him a poisonous look. “So where do you think she went?”

It was a darn good question. Could he trust the man at the morgue more than he could trust this fishwife? Knowing people, he doubted he could trust either, but the missing corpse was an… anomaly.

“Tonight I’ll go through all the information again,” he offered. Hoping he could find some time between the girls’ bedtime and his own. He didn’t get a response. Samira had gone. He turned. She had stopped in front of a brick wall, her head cocked.

He marched over to her to inspect what made her stop. It was a poster, a poster for the Opera, to be precise. “What?”

“Would you like to go to the Opera with me?” Samira asked, her voice strange.

Bobby’s eyes went wide, his mouth worked as if he had swallowed a lemon. “Not in a million years. Come, her parents are expecting us… ten minutes ago.”

It was one of the most lavish manors Bobby had ever been in. It reminded him of his deceased wife’s childhood home. Of course, it meant he had accidentally on purpose forgotten to wipe his shoes, and a trail of muddy prints now decorated the marble floor and rug carpet.

Old habits die hard.

Seated in an upholstered armchair, protected by its padded sides, Mrs. Erskine had an expression as if Samira had invited her to the Opera. It was evident where their daughter had a lack of chin from.

Her husband didn’t have a much more pleasant expression, as it had been years since a smile had cracked his face. If he had curls, they were covered by a wig that might only fool Samira.

Old money and bitter to boot. They had offered them tea, but their eyes shone with relief when Samira and Bobby politely declined.

Bobby let his gaze crawl over the furniture. The glass cabinets held sparkling wares, the deer head mounted on the wall, the painted ceiling, and the carpeted floor. It didn’t look lived in, it resembled a museum. It smelled like one, too.

The imposing grandfather clock ticked the awkward minutes away while the father ranted about his son-in-law. It was pleasant to at least agree on something. Bobby had plastered a neutral expression on his face, but it was cracking.

“-The good-for-nothing scoundrel came up to us to ask where she had gone. While he was the one who had taken our precious Rosavelle from us! Bah! He was the one who stole her, he was the one who shut her up in that house. He didn’t even invite us for tea on Holy Ventaris!”

While the man croaked, hissed, and spat about his son-in-law. Bobby became increasingly interested in his wife’s expressions. Custom had taught her to keep a straight face, but she would have been an easy victim in a poker match. Every time her daughter’s husband was mentioned, the creases above her lip multiplied.

Distaste.

Every time he mentioned a perceived insult, the right side of her lip drew down slightly. Discomfort.

“He didn’t even deign us with an invitation to the funeral!” The man spat. Her nostrils flared and her excuse for a jaw tightened.

“Well, I never!” Samira held her hand to her mouth. Bobby had to admit she was pretty good at mimicking high society. “You didn’t get invited to your daughter’s funeral?”

At this, the woman’s expression fell apart, and so did her silence. “She-she was to be buried in our family’s crypt. Together with all our ancestors. Now she won’t lie next to me in the hereafter. She’s all alone in that graveyard.” The woman said in fits, ending in a wail. Bobby bit his lip, and Samira offered the weeping heap of a woman her handkerchief. She took it, which surprised Bobby. “My baby!”

She dabbed it daintily to her eyes, messing up the face powder so carefully put on this morning, it streaked along her cheeks. “Why did she fall for him?” She wailed to no one in particular.

This shut both of them up. The husband peered down his nose at Bobby. “Why would we ever start to imagine why women would fall for those uncouth types?”

Bobby opened his mouth uselessly, but was saved by Mrs. Erskine. “He was a painter. It was romantic.” The wife’s lip curled upward for the first time, even if it was in mock happiness.

“And he needed her money,” The husband spat.

“So, he was a bad artist?” Bobby asked. Samira’s eyes widened like he had slapped her. It wasn’t etiquette, but he was here to solve a case. The parents shared a glance, it spoke volumes of distaste about the man’s art. This wasn’t getting them anywhere. “Did he use any type of… mind enhancers?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” the husband huffed.

“Would it be possible he hallucinated her in a crowd?”

They both stopped and stared at him. The woman’s chin had fallen slightly lower. A peculiar calmness settled over Bobby, while his mind tingled by the unexpected sensation. Samira continued, “He told us he saw her at the market.”

“Lies!” The man spat instantly.

Bobby didn’t bother to tell them the fishwife had thought the same. It wouldn’t get him anywhere. The wife’s eyes moved to the floor, away from him like a dog caught with the remnants of the family’s favorite pillow. Bobby exchanged a glance with Samira. “Thank you for your time.”

“Quite, right. Well. Yes.” The man muttered as they stalked out, escorted by the butler.

“Well?” Samira asked before the door was locked behind them and the calm feeling left him like shite after a bad clam. Sick crept in Bobby’s mouth at having experienced Samira’s power. It was highly illegal, akin to assault, to mesmerise an unsuspecting person. Doing it to a noble family could land them in jail for a good while.

“You can’t do that,” Bobby said, his tone sharp as a blade.

“It doesn’t hurt anyone,” Samira said absentmindedly.

Bobby huffed, opened his mouth and waved his arm toward the house. “What prevents you from using that on me?”

“Necessity,” she said simply.

“You are aware this is illegal?”

This hit a nerve. A tiny muscle twitched in Samira’s jaw. “People get drunk or take ottio all the time. What’s the difference?”

“Yes. And they also go to houses where they have people like you make them feel good. Doesn’t mean you can use it willy-nilly.”

“I don’t use it willy-nilly!” Samira hissed, her face flushed. “I use it to help us find a missing woman.”

Bobby crossed his arms, refusing to take a step back. “What says you don’t use it on me?”

Samira’s eyes were large, her voice even. “My word. If that isn’t enough, I’ll get you one of those gems.” There were certain types of gems that could protect you from any type of Gifts. Bobby would love one of those stones. Yet, he also knew the coin it would take. Nothing in him wanted to be in her debt.

They glared at each other, until Bobby blinked first. “I think you should speak again to Mrs. Erskine, she knows more about this.”