The house was dark inside, great somber brocade hangings on every wall, and the drapes all drawn closed. I followed the servant through a snarl of narrow passageways and small interconnected rooms, wondering if the house had ever been renovated since it was built. Given the candelabrum the servant was carrying, it seemed unlikely that they had gas lighting; if anything, the house was becoming darker as we went. On the other hand, the house did not smell musty at all, and I admired the housekeeper.

We came to a closed door. The servant knocked and called, “The Witness for the Dead is here.”

“Let him in,” replied a voice from inside the room.

“The Marquess Ulzhavel,” the servant said and swung the door open.

Inside, at least there was candlelight, showing a somewhat larger room, though with the same dark brocade hangings on the walls. Against the far wall was a desk, and behind it an old elven man, with a stony face and bright, pale, angry eyes. He was dressed in formal mourning, black-on-black brocade with black lacquer combs and onyx beads in his hair. The emperor’s court would call him old-fashioned, but in Amalo, this was no more than was expected.

“We are Thara Celehar,” I said. “A Witness for the Dead.”

“Yes,” said the marquess, in a voice as stony as his face. “We have been expecting you. Please take a seat if you wish.”

I sat down, though cautiously, for the chair looked none too sturdy. “How may we be of service, dach’osmer?”

“You come straight to the point. We shall be equally forthright. We wish you to witness for our wife, Tomilo Ulzhavel.”

I knew, of course, that the Marquise Ulzhavel was dead. It had been in all the newspapers. It had also been three months ago.

“We beg your pardon,” I said, my heart sinking, “but after so long, there is nothing we can do. There is nothing of the spirit left.”

“Not that,” said Ulzhavel. “We meant what we said. We want you to witness for her. For we have discovered evidence that she was murdered.”

“Murdered?”

“Here,” he said and tapped something lying on his desk. “We found it among her papers.”

I stood up and came closer. The anger in the marquess’s eyes did not become less discomfiting. The thing on his desk was a note, creased as if it had been folded and opened and refolded many times. Printed across the paper in bold letters was the message STOP INTERFERING OR WE WILL MAKE YOU STOP. “We” was plural.

After a dumbfounded pause, I said, “Do you know what this note is about?”

“No. We have no idea. She never mentioned it to us, and she was involved in a number of charitable undertakings that might be construed as ‘interfering.’”

That was alarming. I said, “Surely a judicial Witness—”

“No,” the marquess said flatly. “We want a proper Witness for the Dead for our wife.”