“It’s the pointsman, Frelise,” she said. “You knew they’d come. But there’s nothing to worry about, my dear, he’s my own son.”

There was a warning in her voice, and Rathe nodded, keeping his voice low and soft. “I’m Nicolas Rathe, mistress, adjunct point at Point of Dreams. I was with your brother when he died. I’m so very sorry.”

Frelise managed a watery smile. “Adjunct Point. Oh, that’s good of them, to send someone of rank, and Caro’s son, too. Tell me, did he suffer?”

Rathe dropped his head, hiding the wince. “No, mistress, not to speak of.” It was a lie, but the truth was unlikely to comfort. “I have some questions I have to ask, if you think you’re strong enough.”

“Yes.” Frelise nodded. “But–I don’t understand any of it! And Elinee, and Versigine, they kept saying that he must have done something, no respectable man should be murdered, not if he wasn’t doing something he oughtn’t…”

Her voice broke off in a gasp as she fought back tears, and Rathe glanced at his mother.

“The nearest neighbors,” she said softly. “I sent them packing, but not fast enough.”

“I wish it were true that folk were only murdered who deserved it,” Rathe said, and Frelise looked up at him, frowning, on the verge of offense. “I’m sorry, mistress, but I’ve seen people killed for no reason, for being an inconvenience, for having coin when someone else didn’t. It’s no shame to him or you that he was killed like this, just a tragedy.” He shook his head, aware that he was quoting Holles and his grief. “But we have to be sure, have to know if there was any cause, any old grudge, anything at all, that might help us find his killer.”

Frelise’s hands were locked together in her lap, and she fixed her eyes on them, still struggling for control. “I kept house for him, came in, oh, two or three days a week, dined with him perhaps one of them, but we didn’t talk all that much. He had his life, and I have mine.”

“So you don’t know of any quarrel, any enemy?” Rathe asked, his heart sinking.

Frelise shook her head. “No. He was stiff‑necked, stubborn, nobody’d know that better than me. But you don’t kill a man for being like that.”

Some people do. Rathe killed that thought, said instead, “Do you know who he’d been working for lately? They might know something.”

Frelise shook her head again. “A few, I think–it was busier than you’d think, this time of year, and the corms everyone’s mad for, they made for extra work.” She nodded to the jars standing on the narrow table. “Those were gifts, they’re supposed to be very fine. He said half the people buying them don’t know what to do with them, and so some of his regulars were referring new people to him, and he couldn’t say no. Not to the people, I mean, he could do that, but not to the plants. He couldn’t stand to see them mistreated.”

Caro nodded in agreement, and Rathe found himself nodding with her. He’d felt the same thing, more than once. He said, “Do you know the names of any of these people, the regulars or the new ones?”

“They’d be in his book,” Frelise said, and looked around almost helplessly. “Caro, did you see it?”

“Not yet,” Caro answered, her voice comforting, but she met her son’s eyes with sudden worry. “I’m sure it’s here.”

“Do you happen to know any of them yourself?” Rathe asked. If the gardener’s notebook was missing, that might well be a sign that it was one of his clients, or at least someone connected with their household, who had murdered the man.

“A few.” Frelise frowned, loosed her fingers at last to touch her temples, as though she had the headache. “There was a vidame, Tardieu, I think. And an intendant in Point of Hearts, I can’t remember, but it was a man. And the landame Camail. Donis, I can’t remember.”

Her voice rose in a wail, and Rathe glanced at his mother, wondering if he should withdraw.

“But there was someone else, dear,” Caro said. “You mentioned someone special, I think, all kinds of extra work?”

Frelise’s hand flew to her mouth. “Donis, you must think me a fool.”

“Never that,” Caro said. “Never that.”

“It was the succession houses,” Frelise said. “The landseur Aubine’s houses–four of them, Grener said, the finest in the city, and all of them busy just now, producing flowers for the midwinter masque.”

Ogier had worked for Aubine. Rathe closed his eyes, letting his head drop for an instant. So this was another theatre death, at least potentially, another death connected with the masque. Except that the manner was different, none of the theatricality of the other deaths, just a good, old‑fashioned knife through the ribs.

“And there was another thing,” Frelise said. “This I truly don’t understand. When I came in this morning, before the girl came from the Temple, I found clothes in the stove. Grener’s clothes, all burnt to ash. There’s nothing left but the buttons.” She shook her head. “I can’t think why he’d burn them. It’s more like him to sell them, or give them to the Metenerie.”

But I can think why. Rathe kept his face expressionless with an effort. I think I know why. He’d burned his clothes, was found wearing temple handouts, Istre confirmed that– he must have feared that someone would track him by magistical means, and tried to break the trail. And that’s another link to the theatre deaths: they have the stamp of magistry on them as well. “You’re sure they were his?” he asked, without much hope, and Frelise nodded.

“Oh, yes, his usual daywear. Clothes are my trade, you know.” Her face crumpled again. “I made that shirt myself.”

Caro patted her hand gently, and the other woman smiled her thanks, drew a deep breath. “I’ll look for his book, pointsman. I’m sure it must be here somewhere.”

I doubt it, Rathe thought, but nodded. “I’d be grateful, mistress.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Caro said. “If you’d like.”

“Do you have someone to stay with you tonight, mistress?” Rathe asked, and Frelise nodded.

“I live with my mistress–guildmistress, I mean, above the shop, she’s been very kind. And there’s a journeyman who’ll keep me company if I need it.”

Rathe smiled, relieved, and his mother said, “I’ll keep you company until you’re finished, and then I’ll see you home.”

Frelise nodded, and Rathe touched his mother’s arm, drew her aside. “And who’s going to see you home, especially if you’re late? The stars seem–chancy–these days, you have to admit.”

Caro smiled. “I’m not a child, Nicolas. I’ll take a low‑flyer, even if it is an extravagance.”

Rathe kissed her cheek. “Your safety’s not an extravagance.”

“Neither is hers,” Caro said, but her tone was less sharp than the words. “Or yours. Be careful, Nico.”

“I will,” Rathe answered, and hoped he could keep his word.

It was, as he had guessed, a little less than an hour’s walk along the Promenade from Ogier’s little house to the Western Reach, a pleasant walk, except for the carriages that crowded even the wide pavement. The sprawling complex of buildings that was the queen’s residence and the Reach were busier than ever, nobles visiting for the masque and the rumored naming of the heir tucked into every available room and rentable house. Rathe felt distinctly out of place, on foot, his shapeless coat hanging loose from his shoulders, and he wondered just what the passing landames thought of him, seeing the truncheon hanging at his belt.

There was no points station in the Reach, of course, but the adjunct at Point of Hearts was happy to direct him to Aubine’s residence–owned, she pointed out, not rented; the man was a permanent resident. He would have to be, to have built succession houses that caught Ogier’s fancy, Rathe thought, but thanked her nicely, and retraced his way through the streets until he found the house. It was smaller than its closest neighbors, but perfect, a jewel of a building, three storeys to the roof– which means, Rathe thought, that this younger son isn’t kept short of funds. This house required staff and funds to maintain both, and it would cost even more to maintain the succession houses. They were invisible, tucked somewhere in the gardens behind the building, but he knew from his mother’s conversation that even a small glasshouse cost a small fortune to heat, never mind the cost of building it in the first place. Four succession houses would easily consume even a landseur’s income, would explain why Gasquine had sought Caiazzo’s coin for the masque, content to let the landseur loan his name and flowers only.