The gatekeeper belonged to the house, not the castellan, and made no difficulty admitting a pointsman. In fact, Rathe thought, he seemed more perturbed by the black‑bound spray of ghostberry decorating the main door. It wasn’t much of a sign of mourning, but it was more than he had generally seen in Point of Hearts. To his surprise, the stiff‑legged footman did not try to send him to the tradesman’s entrance; and Rathe waited in the entry as bidden, glancing quickly around. The footman had worn a mourning band, black ribbon over white, but there were few other signs of anything but formal grief. The incense bowl was cold, its sand drifted with only the faintest shadow of ash, and no one had bothered to cover the elegant long mirror that lengthened the narrow hall. The maid who appeared at last to escort him wore no black, and he wondered if she too, had been hired with the house.

The castellan was waiting in the receiving room, the curtains drawn full back to let in the most of the morning’s sun. The room smelled of flowers, and Rathe looked around, startled, to see a dozen forcing‑jars set on a side table where the light could catch them. All of them were in use, and greenery and flowers sprouted from them, the Silklands corms blooming in unseasonal profusion. He recognized a white type his mother called Mama Moon, and another golden trumpet, but the rest were strange, red and pink and green‑tinged yellow, vividly striped and ruffled, a landame’s ransom set carelessly to use.

“Adjunct Point Rathe,” the maid said with a curtsy, and seated herself at the far end of the room.

The castellan herself was seated on a chaise that looked as though it might be silk, and the remains of a hearty breakfast lay on the table at her elbow. Served on silver, too, Rathe thought, and made a careful bow. She was a small, plump woman, and looked utterly unlike her dead brother–if anything, she reminded him of a wren, though no wren was ever so brightly colored. At least she wore a mourning ribbon, fashionably stark against the poppy‑red silk of her bodice, but there was no reading her emotions in her painted face.

“Adjunct Point,” she said. “You’re welcome to the house.”

“Thank you,” Rathe answered. “Allow me to offer my condolences.”

The castellan smiled, and Rathe wondered how many other callers she’d had already. “I hope you won’t think me tactless, but I have a hundred questions for you. How did Visteijn die?”

Rathe took a breath. “The alchemical reports say that he drowned.”

“The alchemical reports?” she repeated softly.

“Yes, maseigne.”

“You had my brother’s body brought to an alchemist.”

“We needed to determine the cause of death, Castellan.”

She was silent for a moment, the sunlight slanting through the tall windows to glitter from the gold threads banding her skirt. “You didn’t seek permission. Permission that was mine to give.”

“I didn’t know who he was at the time,” Rathe answered, and from the look she gave him, guessed she recognized the lie.

The castellan sighed, and looked away from him, frowning at the flowers on the table. “It has been suggested to me that a death like this–of a relative, however close, who was more a nuisance than a help–should be kept as unobtrusive as possible. I don’t, however, agree. How could he drown, if he was found at the Tyrseia?”

“That we don’t yet know,” Rathe said. “Though we hope to find out. And to that end, Castellan, I would like to ask you a few questions.”

She waved a hand in careless permission. “Ask away.”

Rathe reached for his tablets, aware and mildly amused that she wouldn’t ask him to sit down–her tolerance of pointsmen extended only so far–and ran through the same questions he had asked DuSorre and Siredy the night before. If anything, the castellan knew even less of her brother’s activities–they each kept their own households, her brother’s consisting of a valet and a groom, and had no cause to spend much time in company.

“And now that he was in the masque,”the castellan went on, “I saw even less of him than before. He put his name into the lottery as a joke, or so I understood; I think he was a little put out at actually having been selected–more work than he was used to, you understand. But I don’t know of any enemies among his fellows.”

“Debts?” Rathe asked, and the castellan smiled.

“He wasn’t a careful man. He had debts, some of which I paid, some–” She glanced again at the flowers, frowning again. “Some of which I left him to handle on his own. That’s a piece of his folly, to spend crowns on those corms, and then let them bloom. They don’t come again that way, or so I’m told, you waste them, growing them in the jars. We quarreled over that, the last time I dined with him. But no one would kill a man for that.”

“No,” Rathe said, though, privately, he was not so sure. He could think of one or two avid cultivators who hated the idea of forcing the corms, who would rather wait half a year to see the flower just to be sure it would bloom again. But at least the landseur had gotten the pleasure of his purchases, instead of letting them rot for speculation. It was the most appealing thing he’d heard yet about the man. “There is one thing more, Castellan.”

“Name it.”

“Your brother’s horoscope. I would appreciate it if I could get a copy of it.”

The castellan’s eyes widened, but then she nodded. “I will have my secretary copy it out for you, and send to Point of Dreams.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said.

“I don’t want to see his murderer escape unpunished,” the castellan said. “I thank you for everything you’ve done so far, and expect you to do everything in your power to see this to its conclusion.” She smiled, a little ruefully. “You have only to name your fee.”

Rathe returned the smile, but shook his head. “That’s not necessary, Castellan. I will find out who killed your brother, or do my best at it, anyway, but–I don’t take fees. From anyone.”

“Are you a leveller, Adjunct Point?”

Rathe hesitated. “Philosophically, I suppose so, Castellan.”

“I thought you might be.” The castellan studied him for a long moment. Not so wrenlike now, Rathe thought, and tried to meet her stare without challenge. “So you do this out of conviction, or stubbornness?”

“I do enjoy my work, Castellan,” Rathe answered.

“Then I trust you will take a certain satisfaction in finding out who killed my poor fool of a brother. If there is anything further you need, you must not hesitate to let me know, or any member of my household. It shall not be denied you, I promise you that.”

It was dismissal, Rathe knew, and something more, a speculation in her glance that made him wonder if he’d been in Point of Hearts too long. Or perhaps she had: she might have to dance attendance at the court until midwinter was past, but from the look of the house, she was determined to enjoy herself. But still, he had what he needed from her, and with more grace than he’d had any right to expect. “Thank you, maseigne,” he said aloud, and the maid rose at her gesture. “I’ll send word as soon as I have any news for you.”

He paused at the corner of the road to look back at the narrow house, so neat on its sculpted grounds, wondering if there were other questions he should have asked the castellan, questions about her own intentions in Astreiant. But if he wanted to know that… He sighed. If he truly wanted the answer to that question, there was only one source for it, and he looked up as the clock chimed the quarter hour. Almost eleven: Annechon would be receiving by now, he thought, and wished the mere thought didn’t make him blush.

Her house was a fraction smaller than the castellan’s, and older, but the walls and the gatehouse were bright with new paint, and from the look of it the narrow garden had been redug over the summer season. And Annechon herself held the freehold of it, Rathe knew, not for the first time shaking his head at her acumen. No gift, either, there was no one great lover to pay her way, but a dozen or more dear friends, and a sharp sense of business had kept her more than solvent. That and the charm of manner that made women and men grateful to see their gifts sold to pay a chandler’s bills, he added silently, smiling in spite of himself. He had seen that charm at work more than once, and it frankly terrified him.