“What exactly are you hiding?” Ignat’s voice scraped against the wet stone. He fanned Dagnija’s research notes, the paper rustling against his knuckles. His gaze swept over the milky residue, then settled on her knuckles. “Ostromar tissue-grafting. Unlicensed. Profoundly dangerous. And, I presume, lucrative. Unless you’ve suddenly developed a philanthropic streak, Rostova.”
Her fingers twitched against her apron. The numbness had receded into a rigid ache along the ulna. Dagnija held his gaze without blinking, letting her mouth tilt into a thin, caustic line.
“A philanthropic streak, Zverev? The day I begin gifting my work to the gutter is the day you win the Praetor’s Medallion for anatomical innovation. Which is to say, never.” She waved a dismissive finger toward her purloined pages. “Unless you fancy yourself an expert in deep-core grafting now? Last I checked, your specialty lay in stitching dead liver tissue into hounds, an exercise as graceless as it is redundant. A pity your petition for ‘Symbiotic Organ-Craft Reintegration’ died in committee. Again.”
Ignat’s smirk tightened, his eyes narrowing to slits. “My work is hardly redundant, Rostova. And even if it were, it doesn’t involve trafficking in forbidden somatic alchemy. The Sanctorum Praetors take a dim view of those who dabble in human essence manipulation. A full investigation, a formal accusation… it would mean not just expulsion, but full social dissolution. You’d be stripped of your titles, your assets, your very name. Cast out into the Voronyan fog, a ghost among the gargoyles.”
“And you would be elevated, I presume?” Dagnija tilted her chin. “The righteous prosector who exposed the deviant. All the glory, none of the labor. A classic Zverev maneuver. But tell me, Ignat, what exactly do you suppose I am hiding that merits such an ordeal? Seats on the High Bench? Influence in the Upper Spire? You know me better than that. My focus remains strictly anatomical.”
“Anatomical ambition that involves illegal grafting techniques on living subjects?” He took a step closer, his shadow stretching long and distorted in the sputtering gaslight. “Don’t play coy. This ‘Ostromar’ project, it smells of the Black Market, of whispered deals in the under-tunnels, of those who trade decades of life for a flawless facade. You’ve found a way to enhance longevity, haven’t you? Or perhaps to create the ultimate, unblemished somatic construct. A new line of… specialized clientele. Consider the power, Rostova. The wealth. You could reshape the whole hierarchy of Voronya with this.”
Dagnija laughed, a short, sharp sound devoid of humor. “You think like a shopkeeper, Zverev. To believe my work could ever be reduced to coin or council seats. Your mind functions like an unhoned blade, unable to cleave past the surface.” She tracked the stiff line of his shoulders down to his knuckles. “Speaking of blunt edges… your reintegration project. The reason for its perennial rejection was never the ethics, Ignat. It was the instability of your binding agent. Auric Resonator particulates, yes?”
Ignat stiffened. His smug expression faltered, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his features. “How… how would you know that?”
“Because it’s the only logical conclusion, given your past failures with cellular cohesion.” Dagnija took a deliberate step toward him, her voice dropping to a cool, clinical whisper. “You’re attempting to bind disparate cellular structures through a shared resonant frequency, hoping to trick the body into accepting the graft. A clever concept, I’ll grant you. But auric particulates are notorious for their short half-life under biological pressure. They degrade. They lose their resonance. After approximately… ninety-three days, by my estimation, the transplanted organ would undergo a catastrophic cellular rejection. The host would suffer acute systemic failure, a rapid, agonizing descent into necrotizing shock. All your neatly spliced constructs would turn to gray broth. You’re sewing time bombs into live ribcages, Ignat.”
The gray gaslight cast sharp hollows across Ignat’s cheekbones as his grip slackened. He had poured three seasons into that formulation, and she had dismantled its core flaw in two sentences.
A deferential rap sounded against the oak door leading to the antechamber. “Mistress Rostova?” a soft voice called. “Forgive the intrusion. A delivery from Casimir Vlas’s household.”
Dagnija flicked a glance at Ignat, a silent warning passing between them. He tucked her notes back under his arm, his expression hardening, though a tremor of unease still lingered in his gaze. “Send her in, Milena,” Dagnija called out, her voice regaining its usual cool composure.
The door creaked open, revealing Milena Kavčič. She was dressed in the severe, dark livery of Casimir’s new household, her usually bright eyes downcast in a posture of humble servitude. In her arms, she carried a wicker basket overflowing with what appeared to be common kitchen provisions – fresh bread, a bottle of cheap wine, a small jar of preserved fruit. Exactly the sort of mundane offering one might send to a recently disgraced ex-fiancée.
“My apologies, Mistress Rostova,” Milena murmured, her chin dipped, though her eyes flicked past Ignat. “My employer wished to ensure you had… adequate sustenance.” Her voice remained deferential and flat. But as she laid the basket upon the corner flagstone, her thumb pressed three times against the split-reed handle.
Dagnija reached into the basket, her fingers brushing against Milena’s. Beneath a linen napkin, instead of a common vegetable, Dagnija’s touch registered the cool, smooth surface of a small, leather-bound ledger. And nestled beside it, wrapped in dark cloth, were three slender, stoppered vials of a shimmering, opalescent fluid – reagents Dagnija had been unable to source anywhere in Voronya. Rare, potent, and utterly vital to her work.
“My thanks, Milena,” Dagnija said, keeping her tone dry. Casimir’s household runner had fulfilled the drop.
Milena bowed, features smooth as wax. “The household wishes for your continued health, Mistress Rostova.” She stepped backward toward the threshold, pulled the latch shut, and left only the heavy click of the iron lock in her wake.
“‘Adequate sustenance’?” Ignat scoffed, a sneer returning to his lips. He watched the door close, then turned back to Dagnija, his expression a mix of suspicion and renewed condescension. “Casimir Vlas, worried about your well-being. How touching. I suppose he’s still trying to salvage some shred of his reputation by playing the concerned patron. Or perhaps he’s just ensuring you don’t starve before you can finish your ‘political’ project.”
Dagnija ignored him, turning toward the slate workbench. She unwrapped one of the glass phials, the fluid inside catching the green tint of the gas jet. The catalyst was intact. Taking up an ampoule of tempered silica alongside a glass lancet, she felt the familiar vibration hum deep in her carpal sheath. She locked her elbow to steady it.
“You assume everything revolves around power, Zverev,” Dagnija said, aligning a sliver of ossified rib under the brass lens. “Some of us simply seek an exact fit.”
“An exact fit purchased at the risk of the Sanctorum’s gallows,” Ignat countered, circling the table. “You are reckless, Rostova. Always testing the brink. It was only a matter of time before you drew a line you could not suture shut.”
Dagnija gave no answer. She positioned the tip of the lancet over the ossified fragment. With a half-millimeter stroke, the edge scored the calcified casing. A minute core lifted free with a dry snap. Flawless.
As she shifted the biological core toward the receiver tube, a spasm seized her wrist. The lancet skidded sideways across the glass plate, nicking the pad of her left index finger. A droplet welled over the scored skin.
Ignat, still observing, let out a soft, sarcastic chuckle. “Careful, Rostova. Wouldn’t want to bleed all over your precious sample.”
But the fluid that emerged wasn’t red. It was a pale, ash-gray, thick and viscous, seeping sluggishly from the pinprick. It clung to her skin like dust, dull and lifeless.
Ignat’s amusement cut short. His gaze locked onto the crusting droplet. In two strides he crossed the flagstones and caught her wrist, his grip clamping over the radius like an iron band. He pulled her hand into the lamplight, staring into the chalky ooze before lifting his stare to meet hers. The calcification was written plain on her flesh.