afforded her and relished the knowledge that Edgar had no idea how she defied him.
In the months since Hubert’s disappearance, he had slowly and insidiously restricted her liberty. He hired a stern governess, who accompanied her everywhere and taught her at home. And he
forbade her from going to the Manufactory. Edgar’s excuse for these draconian measures was that they were for her protection, in case the same thing happened to her as had happened to her
father, whatever that might be.
In Mercator Square Citrine steered slowly between the stalls until she reached a black kite wagon set back a little from the main thoroughfare. She put on the brake, climbed down and was about
to knock on the wagon door when it opened. A sun-wrinkled, aged lady stood there smiling broadly.
‘Citrine, how lovely to see you! I had a feeling you would come.’
‘Hello, Suma.’
Inside the wagon Citrine took a seat under the window, on a soft upholstered bench, and Suma sat on a spoon-back easy chair opposite. A small stove in the corner radiated welcome heat, a black
pipe carrying away the smoke through the roof. Citrine looked around, as she always did, taking in the familiar objects, noting new additions. On one shelf there was a row of five cachelot teeth,
each nearly six inches high and exquisitely engraved with scaly fish and octopuses and curling waves in black and brown ink. On another shelf there was a sculpture of a hand, and at the far end an
intriguing, if repulsive, leech barometer.
‘Cold, though not cold enough for snow, and the leeches tell me rain is coming,’ said Suma. ‘And how are you, my dear? A difficult week, this.’
‘I can’t believe it’s a year,’ said Citrine. ‘Edgar is . . . well, as bad as ever. I hardly see him these days – he’s always at the Manufactory or at
his club. I don’t care to see him, if I am honest. Is that a dreadful thing to say? I am not sure he thinks of Father at all. I thought it would be a good night to spread the
cards.’
‘Of course, but try to calm yourself or it will affect the outcome.’
Citrine loosened the string on the velvet bag and took out a rectangular box made from the blackest Gaboon ebony with inlaid mother-of-pearl stars sprinkled randomly across the lid. Inside it
lay a deck of cards in a baize-lined depression. She gave the deck to Suma and the old lady handled them with great care, though they showed all the signs of having been much used. She shuffled
them expertly with her gnarled yet nimble fingers. From the bottom of the bag Citrine retrieved four polished dice; one seven-sided, one nine-sided, one eleven-sided and the last thirteen-sided.
The facets of the first three were scored with varying numbers of parallel lines. She tossed them on to the table.
‘Lucky number three,’ she said, counting the visible score lines.
Suma nodded. ‘Now the fourth.’
Citrine rolled the fourth die, the facets of which were covered with pictures, and it landed with a large black bird uppermost.
‘Corvid spread,’ said Suma, and she cut the pack and took the top card. She did this eight times in all, then placed four of the cards face down in a vertical line and two
horizontally on either side, in the shape of a bird.
The cards were decorated with intricately drawn scenes – in the top corner of one a three-sided occupied gallows, on another a woman weeping at the feet of a fortune teller, and elsewhere
what appeared to be a sacrifice, human or animal it was not possible to tell.
At Suma’s nod, Citrine picked two cards from the left wing and one from the body. She set them in a straight line and turned them over. Her face fell instantly. On the first card a pair of
coal-black corvids fought over a gold coin; on the second, seven corvids perched on the arm of a gibbet; but the third card was the most distressing. It showed, in graphic and scarlet detail, three
hook-beaked corvids with oily black plumage pecking and pulling at the
In the months since Hubert’s disappearance, he had slowly and insidiously restricted her liberty. He hired a stern governess, who accompanied her everywhere and taught her at home. And he
forbade her from going to the Manufactory. Edgar’s excuse for these draconian measures was that they were for her protection, in case the same thing happened to her as had happened to her
father, whatever that might be.
In Mercator Square Citrine steered slowly between the stalls until she reached a black kite wagon set back a little from the main thoroughfare. She put on the brake, climbed down and was about
to knock on the wagon door when it opened. A sun-wrinkled, aged lady stood there smiling broadly.
‘Citrine, how lovely to see you! I had a feeling you would come.’
‘Hello, Suma.’
Inside the wagon Citrine took a seat under the window, on a soft upholstered bench, and Suma sat on a spoon-back easy chair opposite. A small stove in the corner radiated welcome heat, a black
pipe carrying away the smoke through the roof. Citrine looked around, as she always did, taking in the familiar objects, noting new additions. On one shelf there was a row of five cachelot teeth,
each nearly six inches high and exquisitely engraved with scaly fish and octopuses and curling waves in black and brown ink. On another shelf there was a sculpture of a hand, and at the far end an
intriguing, if repulsive, leech barometer.
‘Cold, though not cold enough for snow, and the leeches tell me rain is coming,’ said Suma. ‘And how are you, my dear? A difficult week, this.’
‘I can’t believe it’s a year,’ said Citrine. ‘Edgar is . . . well, as bad as ever. I hardly see him these days – he’s always at the Manufactory or at
his club. I don’t care to see him, if I am honest. Is that a dreadful thing to say? I am not sure he thinks of Father at all. I thought it would be a good night to spread the
cards.’
‘Of course, but try to calm yourself or it will affect the outcome.’
Citrine loosened the string on the velvet bag and took out a rectangular box made from the blackest Gaboon ebony with inlaid mother-of-pearl stars sprinkled randomly across the lid. Inside it
lay a deck of cards in a baize-lined depression. She gave the deck to Suma and the old lady handled them with great care, though they showed all the signs of having been much used. She shuffled
them expertly with her gnarled yet nimble fingers. From the bottom of the bag Citrine retrieved four polished dice; one seven-sided, one nine-sided, one eleven-sided and the last thirteen-sided.
The facets of the first three were scored with varying numbers of parallel lines. She tossed them on to the table.
‘Lucky number three,’ she said, counting the visible score lines.
Suma nodded. ‘Now the fourth.’
Citrine rolled the fourth die, the facets of which were covered with pictures, and it landed with a large black bird uppermost.
‘Corvid spread,’ said Suma, and she cut the pack and took the top card. She did this eight times in all, then placed four of the cards face down in a vertical line and two
horizontally on either side, in the shape of a bird.
The cards were decorated with intricately drawn scenes – in the top corner of one a three-sided occupied gallows, on another a woman weeping at the feet of a fortune teller, and elsewhere
what appeared to be a sacrifice, human or animal it was not possible to tell.
At Suma’s nod, Citrine picked two cards from the left wing and one from the body. She set them in a straight line and turned them over. Her face fell instantly. On the first card a pair of
coal-black corvids fought over a gold coin; on the second, seven corvids perched on the arm of a gibbet; but the third card was the most distressing. It showed, in graphic and scarlet detail, three
hook-beaked corvids with oily black plumage pecking and pulling at the
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