She waited, hoping he’d open the door and apologize, say he’d seen reason and would follow where she led. When he didn’t, she retreated down the steps and into the city. She was already late for work.

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Izza watched the woman enter Margot’s house, and waited. Island time flowed like cold honey. She walked the coin through her fingers and felt the soulstuff there. No surprise the woman had convinced Margot to let her in. He was all arm, and easy to twist.

Izza didn’t trust her. Looked local, but walked foreign: back too straight, chin high, shoulders square like she had something to prove. Some of that might be from her injury—she used a cane. But the rest spelled priest, and trouble.

I don’t want the kind of attention this guy attracts, Cat had said. And you don’t, either.

But if Margot was in trouble, so was Izza.

She bit the coin and inhaled its soulstuff. Most folk didn’t bother to taste souls, just sucked them down quick, hungry for that rush of life. Linger on a thaum or two, though, and you could feel the other spirit bitter on your tongue. Regret, here. Anger. Fear. More fear than she expected. Fear was trouble.

Izza crossed the road and climbed the stairs. When she reached Margot’s floor, she crouched low, crawled to the rear balcony, and waited beneath the open window. The curtains were closed, but she didn’t want to risk a flicker of shadow or skin betraying her.

Kneeling, she listened. The priest kept her voice down, but Izza heard the important words. “Theft.” “Idols.” “Muse. The priest thought Margot had stolen from her, thought he was in danger. Promised him protection, which sounded like jail to Izza. And when he refused to go with her, she threatened him, and left.

That last happened so fast Izza had no time to hide, or even to slip off the balcony down to the yard. The priest stood a few feet away, out of sight around the corner, close and quiet. Izza could hear the softest shift of shoe on stone. She withdrew deep into herself. Breathed so slowly a flower petal set under her nose would not have fluttered.

The priest swore. Izza wondered what her soul would taste like now.

Heels descended the stairs, sharp taps like the wood blocks in a Shining Empire orchestra. This woman didn’t seem the type to let go when frustrated, or back off when afraid. She’d return. Or she would send the watch, the Penitents, who asked questions and got answers and didn’t so much care how much pain they inflicted between the two.

If the Penitents snapped him up, then they would come for her next. And then they’d find Cat.

Which meant Izza had business with a priest today.

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