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Gideon, who had spent the morning planning the wild, abandoned dance of joy with which she would greet Harrow’s dead body, turned back to Camilla and Palamedes. “I can take it from here,” she said.
Gideon shifted, so that the weight and heft of Harrow was more evenly distributed. Her brain had not come back online enough to register that weight, or to save it for later detail in her fantasies where she dropped the Ninth House scion off the side of the docking
He said coolly: “Because I’m the greatest necromancer of my generation.” The unconscious figure sacked across Gideon’s shoulder muttered, “Like hell you are.” “Thought that would wake her up,” said Palamedes, with no small amount of satisfaction.
EITHER HARROWHARK FELL BACK unconscious, having used her last remaining energy to spite Palamedes, or she was just already such a dick she could spite him in her sleep.
Gideon added, “And don’t push me. The places where I can and would stick this thing for safekeeping would astonish you.” “Puke,” murmured Harrow.
“This calls for rigor, Nav.” “Maybe rigor … mortis,” said Gideon, who assumed that puns were funny automatically.
The Reverend Daughter sighed heavily, then had a fit of coughing, which served her right.
“I wasn’t about to—” “Baseline standard of a cavalier,” said Gideon, “is you not dying in a bone.”
I am your creature, gloom mistress. I serve you with fidelity as big as a mountain, penumbral lady.” Harrow’s eyes flickered open. “Stop.” “I am your sworn sword, night boss.” “Fine,” said Harrow heavily.
It would have been pushing her luck to point out that there was no real way Harrowhark could have denied her; she had the key, the upper hand, and significantly more blood. So all she said was, “Okay. Great. Fine.”
“Teacher said that the facility was chocka with ghosts and you might die?” “Correct.” “Surprise, my tenebrous overlord!” said Gideon. “Ghosts and you might die is my middle name.”
There was nothing objectionable to this role, which was why Gideon was automatically suspicious of it.
“The arms kind of looked like swords. I want to fight it.” “You want to fight it.” “Yep.” “Because it looked … a little like swords.” “Yop.”
“Harrow,” she said, “if you wanted a cavalier you could replace with skeletons, you should’ve kept Ortus.”
“You are banned from squatting in my lobes and my hippocampus. I don’t want you pushing all the furniture around in there.”
“Don’t have an aneurysm, Nav. I cannot and will not read your thoughts, control your body, or look at your most intimate memories. I don’t have the ability and I certainly don’t have the desire.” “It’s for your protection, not mine,” said Gideon. “I imagined Crux’s butt once when I was twelve.”
“All right. Let me—hmm. You know that a bone construct is animated by a necromantic theorem.” “No way! I assumed you just thought super hard about bones until they happened.”
Harrow said, “No.” “I want to go,” said Gideon. “This sounds impossibly vapid.” “I want to eat a dessert.”
In any case, both she and Harrowhark turned up, gorgeously gowned in their Locked Tomb vestments, painted like living skulls, looking like douchebags.
“You came!” said Magnus Quinn when he saw them; he was too well bred to double-take at two horrible examples of Drearburh clergy on the loose.
Teacher said, “Now, the main event!” It turned out that the Fifth’s idea of a rollicking good time was a seating arrangement.
His hair was so perfect that Gideon kept staring at it, mesmerised, hoping some specific bit of the ceiling would break down and squash it flat.
Before she had come to Canaan House, Gideon had considered getting full a grim process of gruel and spoon and mouth that had to be done in order to maximise chances of not having her ass later kicked by Aiglamene in some dim room.
“Are your biceps huge,” she said, “or are they just enormous? Ninth, please tick the correct box.” Gideon made sure her necromancer couldn’t see her, and then made a rude gesture.
(“I told you so.” “Yours are fine?” “Isaac.” “It’s not like this is a bicep competition?” “Dumbest thing you ever said?”)
Well! thought Gideon, watching him slide back into the crowd. Hell! Then she remembered that the Sixth had a weirdo fascination with medical science and probably found chronic illness as appealing as a pair of tight shorts, and then she thought: Well, hell!
Harrowhark was too busy storming out of the room with her robe billowing out behind her in the way Gideon suspected she had secretly practised.
She expected some dismissive You could not have comprehended the dark mysteries only my mascara’d eye doth espy, and was not prepared for Harrow’s open astonishment.
“Harrow,” said Gideon, finding her tongue, “don’t say these things to me. I still have a million reasons to be mad at you. It’s hard to do that and worry that you got brain injured.” “I’m merely saying you’re an incredible swordswoman,” said the necromancer briskly. “You’re still a dreadful human being.” “Okay, cool, thanks,” said Gideon.
Harrowhark smiled. This smile was unusual too: it betokened conspiracy, which was normal, except that this one invited Gideon to be part of it. Her eyes glowed like coals with sheer collusion. Gideon didn’t know if she could handle all these new expressions on Harrow: she needed a lie down.
They had both come from their beds without bothering to dress, and hence were wearing astonishingly flimsy nightgowns, the only solace of the night.
upon waking she shadowed the Sixth instead, much to the ill-concealed annoyance of Camilla, who seemed to regard all incursions on Palamedes’s personal space as probable assassination attempts.
Currently everyone not stretched out on the floor of the dining room, lying in state in the freezer room, or huffing herbs was sitting around miserably clutching cups of tea. It was weirdly like their first day in Canaan House, in both suspicion and dullness, just with a bigger body count.
“Stop this now,” said Coronabeth. “This is madness.” The laughing golden butterfly was gone. She stood now, hands on her hips, chilly amber. Her voice rang out like a trumpet.
The Third left with dislocated proximity and the clenched jaws of three people on their way to have an enormous tiff.
We have a door to open.” “Yes, tomorrow morning after at least eight hours’ sleep,” Gideon suggested without hope. “An admirable attempt at comedy in these trying times,” said Harrowhark. “Let’s go.”
She said irascibly, “At the key, moron, not at me.” The moron looked at the key, but did give her the middle finger.
“Unlock it,” she said. “Don’t you want the honours?” “It’s your key ring,” said Harrow unexpectedly, and: “We will do this by the book. If Teacher’s correct, there is something around here that is fairly hot on etiquette, and etiquette is cheap. The key ring is yours … I have to admit it. So you must admit us.” She held out the key to Gideon. “Put it in the hole, Griddle.” “That’s what she said,” said Gideon, and she took the ring from Harrow’s gloved fingers.
Harrowhark had already drifted to the laboratory. She hadn’t drawn breath yet. She was going to have to, Gideon thought distantly, or she’d be out on the floor.
Gideon was amazed at how badly it hurt, all of a sudden. “He’s really dead,” she said aloud. “Yes. I will be more upset if he suddenly changes condition,” said Harrow.
“I must no longer accept,” she said slowly, “being a stranger to you.” “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Gideon, sudden sweat prickling the back of her neck, “yes you can, you once told me to dig myself an ice grave. Stop before this gets weird.”
Harrow still didn’t turn round, but Gideon knew innately that her eyes were rolling.
“Nav,” she’d said. “I could already make bone hunks. But now I can make them regenerate.” The outcome literally nobody wanted.
Maybe it’s that I find the idea comforting … that thousands of years after you’re gone … is when you really live. That your echo is louder than your voice.”
“This is not intended to be collaborative.” Dulcinea said, smilingly: “Why does everybody think that?”
