Frank Tuttle - The Banshee's walk

“She might. She said she’s recovered nearly three hundred intact works from the ruins. And she plans to start reconstruction of her House next Spring, on the very same spot, of course. I wonder if Old Bones will still be dreaming, by then.”

I shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I know I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near there if the dreams turn bad.”

“Art is never without risk.”

“I know. I’ve still got a blister on my pinkie.”

Evis chuckled. “They came back to Rannit, you know. All of them.”

I didn’t ask what they he meant. I didn’t need to.

“I imagine their numbers have grown considerably. You did mention that the Corpsemaster was given an artifact by the alarkin, before we were returned.”

“I doubt any of the soldiers survived. I’m sure none of the sorcerers did.”

“And you’ve had no word from Hisvin at all?”

“None.” That haunted me. Every cab, every wagon, every carriage I heard on the streets made me look up and wonder if this was the hour Hisvin would send her black carriage for me, for another little talk.

Now it seemed that I’d need to seek her out, if she failed to send for me. Which would only serve to remind her that I alone in all of Rannit knew where she laid her head.

Which put me knowing two of her secrets.

Another silence fell. We filled it with beer and unspoken fears. When it lingered too long, I took my leave and left Evis alone in the dark.

Darla met me on the street. She’d hired a cab and brought me a yellow daisy for my lapel.

“Did it hurt?” she asked, wide-eyed and innocent.

“Did what hurt?”

“Falling in the brewery, dearest.” She laughed and leaped aboard the cab and patted the seat beside her. “And next time bring me one of those fancy cigars.”

I clambered up. If Hisvin’s black carriage was out there, it could go straight to Hell. There’d be time for talk of cannons and Regents another day.

“I’ll bring two,” I said. “We can smoke them in front of Mama, and watch her change colors. It’ll be like springtime, only louder.”

Darla smiled. “Buttercup learned a new word today.”

“What word?” The tiny banshee had demonstrated an inerrant ability to select and repeat curse words. Mama was nearly beside herself with shame, since Buttercup also tended to pronounce them with Mama’s trademark brogue.

“Chair. She calls everything that now. But she left her wings on all day. Mama said old Mrs. Gershon brought Buttercup a bag of sweets. I think it’s going to work.”

“Knew it would.” We’d let it slip to a number of neighborhood gossips that Buttercup was actually Gertriss’s stunted daughter from a failed backwoods tryst. Then Darla had a pair of silk wings made, which Buttercup wore on a harness beneath her dress. Mama introduced her to her clients as a rare friendly forest sprite, and while a few of the most gullible believed that most took one look at the obviously false wings and recalled the rumors about Gertriss and merely smiled and nodded.

Which allowed Buttercup to live without hiding, out in plain sight. At least for the present.

“So where are we off to, light of my life? A mysterious errand? A sinister rendezvous? A nice steak and a helping of baked potatoes?”

“I was thinking fish and wine. But they can be sinister fish, if you insist.”

I kissed her, right there in the open, and I didn’t care who saw me.

The cabman snapped his reigns, and Darla took my hands, and we headed back to our side of town.