Too Like the Lightning (Terra Ignota) by Palmer Ada

Author:Palmer, Ada [Palmer, Ada]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2016-05-10T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH

Flies to Honey

“But this … this is a church!” Thisbe cried.

Carlyle checked the address a second time. “Probably it just used to be a church. See, the cross has been taken off the steeple.”

Thisbe found little comfort in that as she faced the stone and arches of [XXX], rue [XXXXX], Avignon, France. It had been a church, a simple one, but ancient enough to have the wet scent of a graveyard. The tangle of plants around it was almost tidy enough to be called a garden, and, as March’s lion turned to lamb, some hope-green sprouts were peeking from old branches, like stubborn stars piercing a foggy night. I did not see this. In fact, at my interview I invited Carlyle Foster to write this chapter himself, but he does not trust his skill with written words.

That day he trusted himself. “Let’s try the basement door,” he was first to suggest. “It looks more used than the big front portals.”

Thisbe did not have to be convinced, for her boots had already started down the garden path, threatening to crush the green blades, not yet crocuses, which crowded between the stones. I asked each of them to describe the scent that drifted from the windows. Thisbe called it hypnotic cooking, the kind that makes you crowd around the oven unable to stop watching the timer as it crawls toward done. Carlyle said only that it would have made a statue hungry.

Thisbe knocked twice. She had donned her best for this, a short jacket of tea-green silk which matched the landscapes of her boots. I still prefer her in her home clothes, loose and lazy like the lax wings of a flying squirrel forever ready to cuddle back in bed. It is not that the suit looks bad on her, but people have different faces for work and play. Thisbe’s home face may be menacing at times, but it is also a bit less false. “Excuse me?” Thisbe called, sweetly as any rose-cheeked princess. “Is anyone home?”

“Coming!” Rapid feet approached within. “I didn’t expect you so ear—oh…” The voice had a hint of paternal cheer, which faded as soon as the door opened enough to reveal the strangers. “Sorry, I thought you were the grocery kids. Can I help you?”

With the door open, the smell went from delicious to maddening. “I hope so,” Thisbe answered. “We’re supposed to follow up with Dominic Seneschal about some urgent work, but we can’t seem to find them anywhere. We were hoping you might have seen them around here.”

That won a chuckle. “You and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. What do you need them for?”

Thisbe’s false laugh is beautiful. “It’s rather absurd, but I’m supposed to be running a pro forma background check on, of all people, Tribune Mason.”

“A background check on T.M.?” The chuckle matured into a hearty belly laugh.

Thisbe joined it. “Yes, I know, but every new system has its paperwork. I’m supposed to interview associates, bash’mates, family’s going to be exciting.

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