“There is the only proof I need,” he muttered, his tone mixing disappointment with disgust. He let her hair drop back down. “Take her.”

Rough hands clasped her arms and she panicked at their grip in the darkness, thrashing and flailing her arms.

One thought persisted as she swore her innocence time and again—she had to retrieve Lady Astraea’s soul—what good was reanimation if one was doomed to wander soulless? “No!” she screamed, fighting her captors. She pulled, she pushed, she stomped her feet on theirs until they cursed and tried to hold her while dancing away.

“Enough of this,” Lionel ordered. She pleaded with her eyes when her voice clawed her throat.

He shook his head, his mouth downturned, and he brought the heavy brass candlestick down on her head and she flopped, limp, into the men’s arms.


En Route to Holgate

The world outside Jordan’s window whipped past in a series of darkening blurs, drops of water rolling across the glass as air whistled around the carriage and they sped beyond the boundaries of the city’s streets. And beyond the city’s walls.

Without stormlight the only light came from the moon and a sprinkling of stars high above. No stormlights meant no houses, and no houses meant they were beyond civilization and, more importantly, it meant Jordan was alone with her captors. Hoping to spot some sort of home or farm she wiggled as close to the window as she could without being anywhere near the Warden seated between her and it. It was not easy to do.

The carriage’s clattering wheels threw water up in occasional arcing sprays, surprising those seated inside as much as the four Wraiths clinging to the carriage’s corners. Stalwart against both the wind and weather they relished, tails of their long coats snapping against the windows like specters knocking for entrance with barely existent fists, the Wraiths rode.

Jordan curled in on herself, her eyes wide, stomach troubled as she peered out the window. Never had she been so far from home or so out of sorts. Never had she wondered so fiercely what everyone in her household was doing.

Without her.

She screamed, jumping back when the veiled face of a Wraith appeared at the window, peering inside and rapping on the glass. It growled something to the men inside, long gloved fingers moving in a distinct pattern mimicked by the watching Wardens, and turned away, pointing.

The wind tore at the Wraith, its image little more than the silhouette of a filled frock coat and top hat until the wind blew its veil back and Jordan screamed anew. A distended head faced her through the glass, features dented and wrinkled. Wisps of patchy white hair flew wild over ridges above strangely rounded eyes set on either side of a nose with a bridge that was too narrow and a base too flat …

It grinned, teeth sharp and thin as a cat’s fangs peeking out from between nearly nonexistent lips. For a moment it struggled with the hat and veil, but giving up it rolled back up and out of her sight, leaving Jordan a sobbing mess.

“There, there,” the Tester said, eyebrows aloft as he examined his hands with great interest. “That particular deformity only happens to some magickers. Who knows what might happen to you?”


Philadelphia

“Time, it is a-wasting,” the Reanimator muttered, raising his gore-covered hands before looking at one of the dozen clocks hanging on his wall between narrow shelves lined with hundreds of tiny faceted crystals—each flanked by small labels. “What time did she kill herself? John, was that your name?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t entirely know, sir … I wasn’t there at that moment.”

“I’d expect not. She was a good lady, John? Kind?”

“Yes, sir.” John rubbed his head, rearranging the wrinkles that crossed his broad, dark brow. “I reckon it was nearly half past nine or ten, sir.”

The Reanimator nodded and dipped his hands in a basin of water, rubbing along his arms until the water swirled with the lady’s blood. He dried himself on a colorful strip of cloth and reached a hand toward one clock, his finger outstretched to tick off time. “Should your partner not have been back by now, John?”

John nodded slowly, worry etched in the space beneath his eyes. “Shoulda been, yes, sir.”

“Well, John, I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is I still have a little time left to bring your lady back to her nearly normal living state and I’ve made some necessary repairs to her already.”

“And the bad news?”

“I have very little time left and without a soul she’ll be nothing but a flesh and blood automaton. Do you know what I mean, John? Have you seen the automatons—those things the government has recently created that look like giant metal and porcelain dolls?”

“I’ve heard tell of them, but never seen one with my own two eyes. Godless tailed things, folks say.”

“Exactly why I’m worried, John. You and I may face a dark decision very shortly. Can you make an important decision, John? Between life and death?”

“I hunt. Make those decisions often.”

“Excellent. The procedure takes half an hour; the window through which we can reconnect body and soul only stays open for a few hours before it begins to badly degrade. If your partner doesn’t arrive in the next ten minutes, John, we’ll either need to condemn Lady Astraea to the death she seemed set on, or you’ll need to choose a new soul for her.”

The larger man drew back at the idea, pulling into the cloak of the nearest shadow to hide. “Choose a new soul for her ladyship…”

“Yes, John, quite so. Well, not exactly a new soul … a new-to-her soul.”

“A new-to-her soul?” Terror crawled in John’s wavering tone.

“Yes.” The Reanimator motioned lazily to the multitude of shelves lined with sparkling crystals and strange dolls. “Any of those crystals, I daresay, will serve her well.”

“But…”

The man adjusted his mask and sighed. “Do not be tiresome, John. Ideally a candidate for reanimation has the soul that once belonged to him or her restored to them. But sometimes life itself is far more important than being exactly who a person was before death. Sometimes the sheer point of existence is of greatest importance. Sometimes what a person is is more important than who a person is.”

“But a person’s soul defines—”

The Reanimator stuck a hand in the air between them. “Do not be so simple, John. We are more than the sum of our parts. Yes. A soul makes a significant difference in a person’s behavior, but some live on for years without any soul. And, frankly, if you ask me, John”—he leaned forward and John leaned in as well—“some people are born without souls!” He laughed. “A soul is a mere detail in one’s life. Like spice in a recipe.”

John drew back, his arms across his chest, his stare hard.

“John. This is all very scientific. Her brain chemistry, humors, and cellular memory—”

“Cellular memory?”

He waved a hand impatiently. “Yes. Don’t worry about the specifics—as they say—the devil’s always in the details.”

John eyed the shelves suspiciously. “Seems you maintain a lot of details.”

“John, my friend, it’s nearly time to make a choice. Life or death.”

He blinked. “Miss Chloe believes Miss Jordan would be devastated if’n her mama ain’t home when she returns.”

“Returns? Weather Witches don’t—”

“Miss Jordan’s no Witch. Well, no Weather Witch at least.” He coughed. “I meant no disrespect, sir.”

“I doubt your Miss Jordan would be offended. I doubt,” he whispered to the corpse on his table, “that Miss Jordan is worried about anything other than saving her own skin right now.” He straightened and put his hands behind his back. “Your decision, dear John.” He swayed on his feet, a little bob, but a merry movement.

“Life,” John said haltingly. “Now I choose a stone?”

“Yes, make a good choice.”

He edged toward the shelves, mindful of his mass and the multitude of tiny crystals. Each label stood by its crystal like an elegantly handwritten name card at dinner and John grimaced. “I…”

“You what?”

“I don’t see so well.”

“As long as you’re careful you can pick up each card for closer examination.” The Reanimator went back to what he was doing.

John stayed perfectly still. “I don’t read so well,” he admitted after a lengthy pause.

“Ah. Then I understand your hesitancy.” He stepped to the side of the shelves. “If she was a religious woman, I have a nun who was caught in a compromising position, so to speak. Or … a woman who was a gifted hunter … a healer … a teacher … an artist—oh, no, I most certainly wouldn’t advise that—they’re nothing but trouble … Or you can do it the old-fashioned way, John.”

“The old-fashioned way?”

“Yes. Stick your hand out over the stones palm down, close your eyes, and try to see which one feels right for her ladyship.”

“That sounds simple enough.”

“And as Ockham himself would say, oft time the simplest answer is the best.”

John nodded and reached out his hand, turning it over as he’d been directed. “I should feel something?”

“Close your eyes,” the Reanimator reminded.

John pursed his lips and closed his eyes, slowly dragging his hand through the air inches above the crystals. “I don’t know—” He stopped and his brow furrowed. He tilted his head. “Yes,” he said. “Something here…” He opened his eyes. “This one.” He pointed.

The Reanimator plucked a card from the shelf. “Ah. A very good choice.”

“What does it say?”

After a moment’s hesitation he cleared his throat and read, “Lady Caroline of House Amalthea. A fine and noble lady of good breeding and manners with a kind heart and fine disposition.” He slipped the card back onto the shelf and picked up the crystal. “Sounds lovely, yes?”