“Please, Adjunct Point, sit down,” she said, and seated herself in the chair closest to the hearth. A fire had been laid there some hours ago, by the look of the embers, but Rathe seated himself opposite her, grateful for the steady warmth. Estines folded her hands together, setting them on her knees like a schoolgirl. “I sent for you because the intendant had been a customer of mine, for flowers and such–I grow flowers for half the houses in Hearts, Adjunct Point, and herbs for the midwives, too.”

“I saw your stall,” Rathe said, “and your garden.”

Estines allowed herself a shy smile. “Thank you.”

“And the intendant?” Rathe prompted, when she seemed disinclined to continue, and Estines made a face.

“As I said, a customer of mine. And he came to me two weeks before he died–or at least I think it was then he died, the other pointsman wouldn’t tell me when, exactly, as if I’d sell it to the printers. But he came to me to buy flowers out of season–I have a glasshouse, and I make that a specialty of mine, I pride myself that I can have any flower all year long. At any rate, to make the story short, he came to me with a list of flowers that he wanted, and I had them all. But what struck me–you must understand, my dearest friend is a printer in University Point, she’s just done an edition of the Alphabet, a licensed edition–he was reading from a list, just like one of the posies the book calls for. I’m sure he was making a posy, and–” She broke off, ducked her head, her fingers tightening on each other. “I was afraid it might somehow have harmed him.”

“A posy from the Alphabet,” Rathe said. “Not your friend’s book?”

“Oh, no.” Estines shook her head for emphasis. “Not that edition. But there are so many, and I thought… Of course, I don’t know it was the Alphabet, but it seemed so odd, the choices, and so with the play and everything, I thought that had to be it. The other pointsman seemed to think so.”

Voillemin would, Rathe thought. No wonder he’d said “resolved” and “misadventure.” This was the perfect excuse, some experiment that went wrong and could be safely brushed aside, smoothed over to the content of the regents– and I suppose it could be that. Except I think Holles would have known. He said, “Does that mean you remember what the flowers were, mistress?”

“Oh, yes.” Estines smiled again. “That was what struck me so oddly then, and later, too. They don’t–I don’t know if you know flowers, Adjunct Point?”

“A little.”

Estines nodded. “Moonwort and trisil and trumpet flower and red star‑vine, bound with lemon leaves and demnis fern.”

Rathe’s eyebrows rose. The flowers were individually pretty, and the trisil was strongly fragrant, but its sweetness would be buried under the still stronger scent of the lemon leaves, just as the moonwort would be lost under the showier blooms of the trumpet flower. And the demnis fern was just the wrong shade of green to match the others.

Estines nodded again, harder this time. “You see. Not a posy for looks, or for any herbal use I know. So of course I thought of the Alphabet.”

And Leussi had a copy, Rathe remembered suddenly, a copy that’s locked in my own strongbox even now. Is that why Holles gave it to me? He shook the thought away–Holles was not the sort to play games, at least in their short acquaintance–and reached for his tablets again. “You’re sure of that list, mistress?”

“Completely sure,” Estines answered. “It’s my trade.”

That was unanswerable, and Rathe quickly jotted down the names. “Had he ever bought bunches like that before?”

“Never. Usually he liked seasonal flowers, small things, posies for a gift and the like.” Estines sighed. “He said once his leman didn’t like flowers, so he bought them for other people. I thought that was sad, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Rathe said. And it was sad, though not just for Leussi’s sake, meant that Holles would be unlikely to know anything about his leman’s research. But Voillemin still should have questioned him, he thought, and folded his tablets again. “Mistress, I thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

“You’re welcome.” Estines stood stiffly, easing her back. “Adjunct Point, I wonder. I understand you can’t tell me when he died, that would be improper, I was told, but I did wonder–I would hate to think my flowers had anything to do with his death.”

Rathe gave her a sharp look, but saw only honest ‑grief in her round face. “I don’t know, mistress. On the face of it, it seems unlikely.”

“But the Alphabet…” Estines let her voice trail off, and Rathe shook his head.

“I’ve yet to see a copy that can be said to be effective, and we– not just Dreams, but all the stations–have examined forty or fifty copies. So far, it looks like just another midwinter madness.”

“Like The Drowned Island,” Estines said, nodding. “Well, one can hope. I’m sorry to have troubled you, if it’s nothing.”

“No trouble at all,” Rathe answered, and followed her to the door. She let him out into the sharp chill herself, the air smelling strongly of a hundred fires, and he stood for a moment, trying to catch his breath and order his thoughts. If it were any other pointsman, he wouldn’t distrust the findings, would be willing to wait for the report, to see what other evidence could be mustered to support death by misadventure, but Voillemin was too eager to see this put aside. He would have to see Holles, he decided, ask about flowers, but first, he’d need to see if that posy was listed in Leussi’s edition of the Alphabet, and what it was supposed to do.

7

« ^ »

rathe made sure he was early to Point of Dreams, stirred up the fire in the workroom stove even as the tower clock struck nine, and reached for his tablets, unfolding them to reveal the list of flowers. Moonwort, trisil, trumpet flower, red star‑vine, bound with lemon leaves and demnis fern: not a common posy, he thought again, and fumbled for the key of the lockbox. If it was listed in Leussi’s copy of the Alphabet, he would have to talk to Holles, find out if Leussi had said anything about testing the formulae–though if he had, surely Holles would have mentioned it–and then… He shook his head unhappily. He still wouldn’t have positive proof that Voillemin was failing in his job, failing the points, might only have proved that Leussi’s death was after all misadventure–except for the bound ghost. That was the work of an enemy–or could it be some bizarre side effect of the flowers? It seemed unlikely, but b’Estorr might know, or would know who could tell him, if the posy was in the Alphabet. And he had been told not to pursue the matter. The best thing might be to take the whole thing to Trijn, and let her sort it out. She was the chief point, after all; Voillemin was her responsibility, and it was her responsibility to sort out what was really happening here. He made a face, wishing it was his case, that he didn’t have to sneak around the edges to try to make sure the job got done, and there was a knock at the door. He looked up as the door opened, and a runner peered through the opening.

“Sorry, sir, but this just came. It looked important.”

Rathe nodded, beckoned her inside. Whatever it was, it dripped with ribbon and seals, and he held out his hand. “Who brought it?”

“It was a runner from All‑Guilds,” the girl answered. “Stuck‑up little prig.”

All‑Guilds. From the regents? Rathe turned the letter over, his frown deepening as he recognized the symbols on the seals. It was from the regents, all right, and he could guess what it was about. “Is she waiting for a reply?”

“No, sir.” The runner shook her head. “Said she had other business. Silly cow.”

“Mind your manners,” Rathe said without heat. “All right, that’ll be all for now.”

“Yes, sir,” the girl answered, and backed away, pulling the door closed again behind her.