thinking of Florian’s earlier revelation.
Edgar’s face went dark as thunder and his hazel eyes glinted dangerously. He picked up a paperknife, the handle decorated with the Capodel crest, and pointed it at her. ‘I’m
warning you, Citrine,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘nanyone will get in my way – not Hubert, not Florian and especially not you.’ He pushed her roughly aside and left the
room.
‘One day I’ll find out what really happened,’ called Citrine after him. ‘Until then, unlike you, I prefer to believe that Father might still be alive.’
She closed the study door, shaking from the intensity of her anger, annoyed with herself for losing her temper and more than a little alarmed at the way Edgar had brandished the paperknife. She
stood in front of the safe, hands on hips, but she knew she couldn’t possibly open it. Edgar had set a new combination. With the news about the will she had an ominous feeling that things in
the Capodel household were going to change, and not for the better. Frustrated, she sat behind the desk, deep in thought. It was almost 12 Nox before she jumped up.
‘I shall go to see Florian. He’ll tell me what to do.’
Shortly afterwards Citrine’s Trikuklos turned on to the street outside the Capodel Townhouse and took off down the steep incline of Collis Hill. She drove across Mercator
Square and continued along the cobbled side streets until she reached Malpraxis Mews, where she brought the machine to a skilful halt in the courtyard. She ran over to Florian’s green door
and grasped the knocker before noticing that the door was already open. Hesitantly she stepped into the warmth of the hall. A white cat hurried towards her and weaved in and out of her legs.
‘Hello, Henry,’ she whispered, reaching down to scratch behind his ear. ‘Where’s Mr Quince? And why is the door open?’
The cat ran off and Citrine went quietly down the hall to Florian’s office and poked her head around the door. The lights were low and she could not see very much, but she could smell the
familiar aroma of the old legal books that were packed into the shelves on three sides of the room. But tonight there was another, different, odour. Citrine screwed up her nose worriedly. Something
was scorching.
Florian was asleep in his wing chair by the dying fire and it was one of his trouser legs that was smouldering. She went over to him and touched him gently on the shoulder. Immediately, with a
sharp intake of breath, she recoiled, almost tripping on something underfoot. Florian was dead. Instantly a vision of the third card flashed into her head, the three corvids pulling at the bloody
entrails.
‘So this is Death,’ she whispered.
Shakily she turned up the lights and gasped as she illuminated a scene of confusion. The room was in utter disarray. Papers were scattered across the floor, books teetered half off their shelves
and the desk drawers were rifled and hung out of their seats.
‘Domna! What in Aether happened here?’
Citrine forced herself to look closely at the aged solicitor. Florian had not died a peaceful death, that much was obvious from the grimace of horror frozen on his face. His eyes were wide,
fixed in a horrified stare, the whites bloodshot; his mouth was open in a silent scream. The front of his smoking jacket was stained with blood that had run from a deep wound in his chest.
With shaking hands Citrine closed his eyelids. She spotted a small white fleck between his collar and neck and picked it out; it was a broken fingernail. Florian’s nails were short and
evenly filed; could it belong to the murderer, broken off in the struggle? The thought disgusted her. She looked closely at the old man’s neck. Certainly there were scratches on it, one deep
bloodied tear and bruising. Citrine put the nail in her locket, carefully concealing it behind the tiny Depiction of her father. There was little more she could do.
Moments later Citrine was pedalating
Edgar’s face went dark as thunder and his hazel eyes glinted dangerously. He picked up a paperknife, the handle decorated with the Capodel crest, and pointed it at her. ‘I’m
warning you, Citrine,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘nanyone will get in my way – not Hubert, not Florian and especially not you.’ He pushed her roughly aside and left the
room.
‘One day I’ll find out what really happened,’ called Citrine after him. ‘Until then, unlike you, I prefer to believe that Father might still be alive.’
She closed the study door, shaking from the intensity of her anger, annoyed with herself for losing her temper and more than a little alarmed at the way Edgar had brandished the paperknife. She
stood in front of the safe, hands on hips, but she knew she couldn’t possibly open it. Edgar had set a new combination. With the news about the will she had an ominous feeling that things in
the Capodel household were going to change, and not for the better. Frustrated, she sat behind the desk, deep in thought. It was almost 12 Nox before she jumped up.
‘I shall go to see Florian. He’ll tell me what to do.’
Shortly afterwards Citrine’s Trikuklos turned on to the street outside the Capodel Townhouse and took off down the steep incline of Collis Hill. She drove across Mercator
Square and continued along the cobbled side streets until she reached Malpraxis Mews, where she brought the machine to a skilful halt in the courtyard. She ran over to Florian’s green door
and grasped the knocker before noticing that the door was already open. Hesitantly she stepped into the warmth of the hall. A white cat hurried towards her and weaved in and out of her legs.
‘Hello, Henry,’ she whispered, reaching down to scratch behind his ear. ‘Where’s Mr Quince? And why is the door open?’
The cat ran off and Citrine went quietly down the hall to Florian’s office and poked her head around the door. The lights were low and she could not see very much, but she could smell the
familiar aroma of the old legal books that were packed into the shelves on three sides of the room. But tonight there was another, different, odour. Citrine screwed up her nose worriedly. Something
was scorching.
Florian was asleep in his wing chair by the dying fire and it was one of his trouser legs that was smouldering. She went over to him and touched him gently on the shoulder. Immediately, with a
sharp intake of breath, she recoiled, almost tripping on something underfoot. Florian was dead. Instantly a vision of the third card flashed into her head, the three corvids pulling at the bloody
entrails.
‘So this is Death,’ she whispered.
Shakily she turned up the lights and gasped as she illuminated a scene of confusion. The room was in utter disarray. Papers were scattered across the floor, books teetered half off their shelves
and the desk drawers were rifled and hung out of their seats.
‘Domna! What in Aether happened here?’
Citrine forced herself to look closely at the aged solicitor. Florian had not died a peaceful death, that much was obvious from the grimace of horror frozen on his face. His eyes were wide,
fixed in a horrified stare, the whites bloodshot; his mouth was open in a silent scream. The front of his smoking jacket was stained with blood that had run from a deep wound in his chest.
With shaking hands Citrine closed his eyelids. She spotted a small white fleck between his collar and neck and picked it out; it was a broken fingernail. Florian’s nails were short and
evenly filed; could it belong to the murderer, broken off in the struggle? The thought disgusted her. She looked closely at the old man’s neck. Certainly there were scratches on it, one deep
bloodied tear and bruising. Citrine put the nail in her locket, carefully concealing it behind the tiny Depiction of her father. There was little more she could do.
Moments later Citrine was pedalating
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