I found him preparing for a sundown funeral. As frequently happened, several families whose loved ones were scheduled for burial on the same day had pooled their money to get a funeral at the most auspicious time. Anora disliked conducting multiple simultaneous funerals, but Ulvanensee was ancient and vast and chronically crumbling to bits, and its prelacy needed the money.

“If thou wilt wait, Thara,” he said, “we can dine together.”

“I would like that,” I said, and I spent a peaceful hour wandering among the strange, flat Amaleise gravestones while Anora performed the funeral rites for three old men who’d happened to die within a day of each other. Judging by the clumps of mourners, two had been elven and one goblin. Several of the mourners stayed long enough afterward to thank Anora effusively, to which he merely smiled and said, “We follow our calling.”

Then he and I returned to the ulimeire, where I helped him out of his coat of office. He hung it carefully, saying, “There’s another day dealt with. Will the Chrysanthemum suit thee for dinner?”

“Admirably,” I said.

As we walked, I told him about the Marquess Ulzhavel’s petition.

“Dost think he could possibly be correct?” Anora said.

“It seems unlikely,” I said, “but not so unlikely that the possibility can be ignored. Tomorrow, I will go ask Dach’othala Ulzhavar if he knows of a poison that looks like a thunderclap coronary.”

“It is terrible that someone might have poisoned a benevolent lady like the Marquise Ulzhavel,” said Anora.

“Yes,” I said. “It does seem possible that she could have angered someone unprincipled enough to resort to murder, although that is still only a theory.”

“If the marquess thinks she was murdered, he must have some idea of who would do such a thing.”

“He says he does not. He says he didn’t know anything about her charitable activities. Of course, he also says that if the note had frightened her, she would have told him about it.”

“And thou think’st that untrue?”

“She kept the note, and that’s not what anyone does with an unsigned note that doesn’t worry them.”

“No,” Anora said, “although that doesn’t mean the note had anything to do with her death.”

“True,” I said, holding the door of the Chrysanthemum open for him, “but I find the coincidence as suspicious as the marquess does.”

The Chrysanthemum was the sort of teahouse where people brought their families. The staff all knew Anora, and we were quickly seated at his favorite table in one of the window bays. It was not the table I would have chosen, but Anora liked to have a lot of light, and although the sun had set, there was a three-globed streetlight directly in front of the window.