Page 2

Now is not the time to dwell on Lord Iestyn’s invitation. I have a job to do.

The undertaker peels back the shroud, and I smother my nose with a crumpled handkerchief. Not even the perfume of rose petals and cloves inside the silk is enough to stave off the reek of death coming from the corpse. The stench no longer curdles my stomach like it once did, but it’s not something I’ll ever get used to. It’s not something I want to get used to.

“Well?” The undertaker peers at me through grime-stained spectacles, his mouth pinching as he waits for my assessment. “This here’s the second one in as many weeks. Head bashed to a pulp, same as last time.”

The man’s words are lacking in tact, but they’re not inaccurate. The corpse’s skull is caved in, bone shattered around a gaping hole. Delicate, spindly fractures ripple across the fragments visible through the bloodied skin and matted hair. I don’t need to examine the flecks of limestone tangled in the tissue to understand what happened here. Head bashed to a pulp, indeed.

I clear my throat. “Where was he found?”

“A few miles across the Welsh border, near the old ruins of Hyssington Castle,” the undertaker says. “Not much of the tower is still standing, but some of the young folk from town are known to sneak out there for…well…”

“Trysts?” I suggest, keeping my expression neutral.

His face was already ruddy; now, it turns puce. “If that’s what you want to call it. But here’s what’s odd: the young fella had a full purse on his belt and a fine pocket watch in his coat. Nothing was taken.”

“Except his life,” I point out.

“Yes, well…” A disgruntled look crosses the undertaker’s face. “All I’m saying is it clearly weren’t no robber. And I don’t believe he fell and hit his head like the constable says, especially with what happened the other week. Same injury, same strange circumstances. There’s something…unnatural about this. That’s why I put the notice up, see? Needed the opinion of an expert.”

Expert. The way he sneers it seems at odds with the respect the word should entail, but I’ve learned not to take offence at the wary glances and sceptical mutterings of those who engage my services. There must be something unnerving about a person who seeks out the kinds of monsters most people would flee from.

I turn my attention to the corpse on the table. The shattered skull, the flakes of limestone, the location of the body… It all points to a creature I’ve seen before.

“A redcap,” I tell him. “This is the work of a redcap.”

Even as I make the assessment, a sliver of doubt clouds my mind. Redcaps are far from uncommon, but they’re usually found much further north. If one has travelled as far as Shropshire, something must have drawn it here—the same thing that has been drawing all manner of fiends and vermin to Caelfeld, plaguing this quiet village with more trouble than it deserves.

The undertaker isn’t wrong. There is something unnatural about all this.

A shiver prickles the back of my neck. I feel the itch of the soil shifting, the buried past fighting to claw through the dirt. I focus on my breathing, willing my heart to cease its pounding. I can control this. I have no choice but to control it.

When at last I find the strength to raise my chin again, the undertaker is staring at me. His gaze is more than unnerved now; he looks like he regrets ever pinning that notice to the village board.

“Can you get rid of it?” he asks.

My fingers drift to the chain around my neck, finding the ring nestled against my chest. It sparks a warmth through my ribs, reminding me what this is all for.

I meet the undertaker’s eyes and nod. “I can get rid of it.”

It’s what I do, after all.

2

Someone has painted the cobbles on the main road leading out of Caelfeld. Perhaps the slapdash effort at colour is an attempt to breathe some life into the dreary street, but all I see is the futility of it. The pastel tones of pink and yellow are chalky and uneven, likely to be washed away in a few hours, judging by the sky.

Still, it’s not my place to begrudge the townsfolk their fun. Let them take some joy where they can find it, even if it doesn’t last. But something about it unsettles me. Like they’re covering up something festering beneath the town’s unassuming façade. By the time they realise the extent of the rot, it will be too late for them to dig it out.

I trudge past the ever-churning watermill at the village outskirts, the monotonous tch-tch of the wheel resounding in my ears long after I’ve left Caelfeld behind. Out on the rural roads tucked between the hills, it’s quiet. Not a whistle of birdsong disturbs the air. No wind rustles the trees, and the river’s gentle burbling is too faint for me to hear. For better or worse, I am alone.

My hand drifts to the rapier hanging patiently at my side. I have no reason to draw it yet, but the sensation of silver and steel waiting under my fingertips gives me a measure of comfort. My blade knows what might be asked of it. It’s seen as many horrors as I have.

Almost as many.

I shake my head and leave the main road for a narrower trail flanked by swathes of nettles and cow parsley. Cutting across the hills will get me to the ruins in less than an hour, and with the daylight already fading, time is of the essence.

The Onny is narrow here, and I wade through the river without fuss, boots splashing through the brown water. There’s something rather mundane about crossing it; you’d never realise I’d crossed from England into Wales in the same step. There’s no prickle of knowing, no innate sense of change. The whole thing is so entirely unremarkable it’s almost disappointing.

There was a time you’d have given anything for the unremarkable, a voice reminds me.