In one booth, a Healer works on a man’s face—changing the shape of his nose, the height of his forehead, the fullness of his lips. At first, I assume it’s for vanity’s sake, but then it occurs to me that the man is probably a criminal changing his appearance to evade punishment.

In another booth, Mixers offer patrons small goblets of potions in electric colors—bright greens and blues and oranges. Other patrons sniff finely milled bone powders from glass trays.

We pass tables of stolen goods, clothes studded with bone fragments, weapons in all shapes and sizes.

I spot a tannery displaying a selection of leather products—some of them tattooed—and revulsion swells inside me. Is this where Latham had the spell book made?

All around us things are happening that would shock us if we saw them in isolation. But gathered in one place, it’s a tsunami of illegal activity that leaves me craving a shower.

Finally I spot a woman working with a set of tools I recognize—small brushes, tiny spoons, flat blades. I think of Ami back in Midwood using an identical set in her duties as a Bone Handler.

“Maybe that’s her,” I whisper to Bram.

He touches my shoulder lightly. “I’m right behind you.”

The woman is tall and slender with raven hair that falls past her shoulders. Rubies shaped like teardrops dangle from her earlobes and she wears at least a dozen thin gold bracelets around each wrist. But as we approach, she pushes back from her chair and saunters away.

Bram and I exchange a look. Did she spot us coming?

We keep our distance as we follow her. We weave through the shadow market, trying our best to both catch up with the Bone Handler and to stay out of her line of sight. My breath stills when she glances over her shoulder. But she must not suspect us, because her pace stays the same. Slow. Measured. Like she’s not running from anyone. Finally she stops at a set of booths tucked into a corner. They appear to be workrooms instead of display areas. Thick curtains block their contents from view. The woman pulls back one of the panels and horror pushes up my throat.

The sight is nothing like either the bone house in Midwood or the one in Kastelia City.

Floating inside glass urns filled with liquid are severed body parts. Feet. Hands. Individual fingers and toes. All with bloated flesh that is starting to separate from the bone.

I gag.

Bram makes a choked noise. His face is ashen.

I don’t even want to think about how these body parts were taken. It horrifies me that there’s a market for this—people willing to buy the stolen bones of the living.

“It must be some kind of acid,” I say, looking over the containers. “She’s trying to accelerate decomposition.”