Page 137 of The Death Wish

They were at the base of an imposing imperial staircase. With two directions to choose from. Scarlet hovered at the top of the stairs on the right, jumping about like a colourful flea in irritation at their pause, chittering loudly enough to outdo the distant roll of thunder that menaced overhead.

‘What is it, Edward?’

‘Do you not hear it?’

He was staring up towards where Scarlet waited. Silas frowned. ‘The wisp? Or the thunder? Neither are very pleasant to listen to, if I’m honest.’

‘No, not either of those…the music.’ He closed his eyes, and his head tilted back. ‘Oh, Silas. It is magnificent.’

‘Edward, are you sure you’re alright?’

His eyes opened; their grey deepened to match the storm that gathered. ‘This way. I understand now.’

He raced off, taking the stairs two at a time, leaving Silas to catch up. Whatever Edward understood, Silas was still at a loss. But so long as it enabled him to reach Pitch, all the strangeness in the world could descend upon them.

Edward did not pause as he approached a pair of embellished white doors, very similar to a hundred others in this multi-roomed palace; gold lock sets and escutcheon, rounded crystal levers, and yet more gold in the detailed scrolling patterns, carved into the wood.

He stepped right up to the doors, planted his hands upon the knobs of gleaming crystal, and whispered something Silas did not catch.

The doors’ latches clicked, and Edward pushed forward.

The doors swung inwards. Blinking light burst from within, bringing with it a wash of prickling air that raised the gooseflesh on Silas’s arms. He shaded his eyes, searching for the source of the glare. A myriad of chandeliers hung from a high ceiling.

And the ballroom was full of silent dancers. Everyone stock still, in the pose of one beginning a dance. The colours of the gowns were brilliant, jewels sparkled on ladies necks’, in their hair and upon their wrists. Gems there too, for some men, brooches pinned to dress coats, and earrings that dazzled at their lobes. Silas searched for Pitch; holding his breath as he looked for that fine figure amongst the crowd. The fashions worn were wide-ranging, all manner of clothing that Silas did not recognise; or did not remember. Gowns with skirts of varying widths, and waistlines that sat at all manner of location upon torsos.

But he searched for only one costumed body of note. Barely noting how the scythe tightened on his finger; how his chest was heavy with a discomfort he could not name.

Scarlet startled him by settling on his shoulder, crooning quietly, stroking at his hair.

‘Is he here?’ Silas swallowed against the thickness of the air. The scythe held close, with a distant hum that spoke of caution.

The wisp flew off his shoulder, facing him head on. The emphatic shaking of that bulbous little head was answer enough. Scarlet poked a sea-green finger towards Edward.

The lieutenant moved through the dancers, humming to himself.

Silas scratched absently at his arm, where the room’s strange atmosphere bothered his skin. It was there in his head too, scratching like a cat eager to let indoors.

‘Edward, where are you going?’ he called.

The lieutenant stopped and looked up.

‘Here.’

He’d placed himself right beneath the strangest and simplest of all the chandeliers; the only one not made of crystal like all the others. White glass flowers formed the arms of the chandelier, Easter lilies with long curving stems, and blue flames where the yellow of their pollen should be. Silas stared harder, and knew he’d assessed the design wrongly.

‘That is bone, not glass,’ he whispered.

Bones with no death note to tell him who hung here in the ballroom. But he suspected. And he was thankful he did not have to hear Samyaza’s melody.

He hurried through the dancers, nose twitching at the heavy waft of bodily odour. He glanced at the assembly as he moved between them. No one looked to him, though eyes were wide, and chests heaved with recent effort. Sweat shone upon most faces, staining clothing, too.

Silas was almost with the lieutenant when he spied the first body. A woman of middle age, laid upon her back, hands still raised to embrace her partner. Her cheeks were hollow, blood trailed from her parted lips, and her eyes were already filmy withthe creep of death. A death Silas could not hear, nor feel. He curled his fingers, feeling the reassuring firmness of the scythe.

This room was dreadful, in ways he could not fathom.

‘Keep going, Silas,’ Edward said. ‘That is how you can best help them.’

The fallen woman’s partner stood over her, arms raised as though she was with him still. A full-faced man, with a beard that touched his chest, his long grey hair held up in a ponytail, and his knuckles thick with gout. He too was sweat-soaked, but Silas thought the larger bead, rolling down his cheek, may be a tear.