Breath and Bones by Susann Cokal Page B

dirtier. He was too glum to catch Famke’s smoldering excitement.
    Without the shroud of snow, Christiansborg’s ruins made a black scar in the golden stone of the quarter, and the last harbor ice reflected their shadow. As yet there’d been no talk of rebuilding; the royal architects would have to outdo themselves, and perhaps they needed summer’s sun for inspiration. Troops of blue-coated guards still marched a circle round the ashes, but without real fervor; the valuables had already been recovered, either by royal servants or by looting commoners such as Famke and Albert. A good deal of the debris had been carted away as well, and men were working among the rest with shovels and a wagon. Overcoming her dislike of things related to fire, Famke headed immediately for them.
    â€œ
Hold op!
” One of the workers whistled. “
Hvad laver De?”
    Famke had a story ready. She explained that she only wished to look, that her mother had worked in this palace and died in the conflagration. She and her brother—she motioned to Albert, who had the grace to nod—had come to mourn. She let the light yellow shawl slide off her hair and gave the men the most demure expression the nuns had taught her. She even worked up a tear, more easily than she would have thought, to emphasize her point.
    â€œ
Kom så venligst.”
One after another, the workmen invited the two of them closer, won over more by the beauty of Famke’s face than her flimsy story. Even the guard who had dutifully appeared waved them on.
    â€œWhat is it you want here?” Albert asked.
    â€œShh,” she whispered. “No English. We are pretending you be a Dane.” To the admiration of the men watching, she began to step delicately through the ash heap, like a figure in a painting about sainthood or loneliness. The effect was good; no one seemed to notice the rough cloth of her skirt or the mud on her one pair of shoes, and even Albert appeared impressed as he followed her.
    â€œWhat are you looking for?” he whispered meekly.
    â€œI have an idea,” she said. “It is about ice.”
    He did not question her after that.

    Guards, workingmen, Famke and Albert: The only person whose presence among the ruins could not be explained was a tall gray-complected man in a dark suit and hat. He carried a long cane with a metal tip and he was poking it here and there into the ashes. Albert watched him moodily as Famke, on her knees, dug through the rubble. The workers and guards politely pretended not to notice what she was doing, thinking perhaps that she was looking for some last remnant of her fictional mother. The man did not look at her either, as her head was covered with the yellow shawl and they were too far apart for any but the most startling features to stand out. Still, Albert felt vaguely as if the other man had insulted Famke in some way, and he wondered what right such a fellow in genteel but shabby costume had among this royal ruin.
    The explanation came clear as the gray man drew closer, poking that long cane into the debris. The wind blew past him and up to Albert, who nearly gagged at the strong stench of camphor and formaldehyde. Obviously the man was a kind of mortician, or a mortician’s assistant; an apprentice to death, Albert thought, and savored the phrase. An apprentice to death, himself impregnated with needlefuls of scientific fluids that saved the body from the corrupting rot of blood. He must be out to drum up some business, though any reasonable professional would expect all the bodies tohave been removed from this place by now. He passed on without looking at Albert or Famke.
    Famke rocked back in the mud. “
Værsgo
. Here. Albert!”
    He looked down into her face, so delightfully full of life and color. The undertaker hadn’t registered with her, beyond a brief cough at the smell he carried.
    â€œAlbert, see,” she insisted, blinking up against the