“Horribly rare,” said Iäna. “She’ll have work to keep her busy, considering some of the graceless oxen in my chorus.” He sighed and opened the door of the nearest box. “This is as good as any of them.”

The box was dark except for the distant glow of the footlights. Iäna said, “I apologize for the accommodations, but I thought thou wouldst prefer to be private.”

“I would, yes,” I said. “Will there be any trouble with the Opera taking on the two girls?”

“Trouble?”

“With the Marquess Parzhadel.”

“I see thy point. Yes, I’ll have to explain the new expenditures to him. I can never tell whether he views the Opera as a business venture or a very expensive hobby, but he is stringent about knowing where each zashan goes.”

“The marquess seems rather terrifying,” I said.

“Oh, he is!” said Iäna. “Decorous and very calm and utterly ruthless. I find him baffling, to tell the truth. He seems the last person who would support an opera company, especially when he can’t attend himself. But he’s never actually balked when we needed money.”

“Does he never attend?”

“I have been told he cannot leave his bed,” said Iäna, “and certainly I have never seen him anywhere else. It must be profoundly boring.”

“Perhaps that’s why he supports the Opera,” I said. “Vicarious excitement is better than none at all.”

“Perhaps,” said Iäna. “But here I’ve been nattering on and haven’t even asked thee the reason for thy visit. Is there something I can do for thee?”

“Thou didst wish to hear the rest of the story of the murder of the Marquise Ulzhavel,” I said, “and I have just heard that the marquess has committed suicide.”

“Suicide?”

“For grief,” I said. “I think he could not bear knowing that she had been killed for such a petty reason.”

“Thara,” said Iäna. “Stop and tell the story the right way around.”

“Yes, of course.” I explained about the photographs and the marquise’s discomfiture and the terrible price she paid for learning Min Tativin’s secret.

“But she achieved nothing by killing the marquise,” said Iäna. “She was still out of a job.”

“I don’t think she thought the matter through. I think she panicked, and maybe it was revenge as well. She did not seem angry, but she very well may have been at the time.”

“And so the marquise is dead, the marquess is dead, and Min Tativin will be executed within the week. What’s become of the pictures?”

“I have them,” I said. “I know where they came from, for Mer Nathomar could identify the photographer, but I have no idea how they reached the marquise. Well, no, that’s not quite accurate. They reached the marquise via a steward of the Amal’theileian, but I don’t know who purchased them from Mer Renthalar.”