Page 235 of Ashen Torment

“Indecent...”

“A person of that sort singing hymns to the Lord...”

I distinguish Nathaniel among the crowd and, without hesitation, approach him, seeking an anchor in the midst of all that murmuring.

“Nathaniel, what is happening here?” I ask, trying to understand amidst the whispers and worried looks.

“I thought you had already left.”

I adjust my sleeves with a nervous gesture. “I indulged in a walk.”

“Did you see anything interesting?”

“A toad,” I reply, lifting just a corner of my mouth.

“A toad? So late in the month?”

“And yet, I assure you, it was there,” I retort, staring at the ground to avoid betraying my amusement.

When I look up, I see he does not have the London Gazette in his hands.

“Such frivolities do not capture my interest,” he admits with a shrug.

“Yes, I know.”

“Though the lightness of this man is undisputed, he did not even attempt to mask his own malice.”

This man? Does Nathaniel not know Elijah?

“And, in all honesty,” he continues, “it was in poor taste for Fairfax to orchestrate such a public humiliation.”

“Julian does not intend to discern between what may be considered a jest and...”

“...and a public humiliation,” he completes.

I nod. In the distance, I spot Dorian, my eyes follow him as he moves through the hedges. He cares nothing for the buzzing of those present, nor for the wind that stirs the mist and shifts his hair. He stops beside the gazebo, in front of the photographer.

The man notices him, inclining his head slightly, Dorian observes him for an instant, then speaks in a low voice. I cannot hear a word of what he says, but I see Monsieur Viande stiffen. His hands grip the bellows of the camera, his eyes drop, then return to Dorian.

The photographer’s brow furrows.

In his pupils... I see terror.

32

Turbid

Dorian

The ox heart between my gloves is cold, glossy like freshly spilled blood.

Zver’ stares at the crimson piece of meat, keeping his neck taut and his yellow eyes alert. In an instant, the beak snaps; it tears, lifts shreds, and swallows with silent precision. The ferrous scent stings my nostrils.

“Moy barìn.”

I turn my head, letting the falcon continue its feast. Ivan stands still with his hands clasped before him, his blue eyes fixed on me. I tighten my grip on the glove, holding the now-halved meat, as he takes a step forward.

“Ivan, you are back already.”