Page 16 of The Lies We Conjure
Like the “soul’s truth,” it’s completely magical in effect. I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s no sound, but if it’s a projection, there’s no visible source creating it. It really does appear to be bits of dirt, balletic in the bite of a rapidly cooling night.
Then, with one sweeping, coordinated movement, the grains dive toward the body. They knit together, as tight as drying cement, about an inch above Ursula’s form. In a matter of two breaths, and nothing more, the collected earth particles have encased the corpse in a protective shell, not unlike the volcanic ash forever swaddling the bodies at Pompeii.
Ursula was there. Now she’s not. And yet she is.
This isn’t an illusion. If I walked up, I could run my fingers along the earthen surface that curves around the newly skeletal lines of her body. The covering is as solid and smooth as molded plastic.
“It’s true then. She was murdered,” Evander says, almost as an aside, staring at the encased corpse as if it’s proof. Maybe it is.
“Of course she was,” Luna replies with a mixture of sage wisdom and pure annoyance. “Souls tell the truth whether anyone is around to hear them or not. Even if we’d all been sleeping off our champagne when she went down, the victim’s shroud confirms foul play. And her last will and testament will prove it.”
It’s an explanation but I’m even more confused.
Luna juts a birdlike arm out to her grandchild, who’s still at the other end of the table. “Infinity, help me up, we best get reading that will. My bones have other plans for eternity than rotting in a guest room at Hegemony Manor.”
CHAPTER7
RUBY
Eternity.
Somehow, I’ve gone from frustrated by inaction and jittery with panic to completely numb. All sound has dulled, the scent of earth and blood muted, the returned mountain wind nothing on my skin or in my ears.
I must be moving because Wren and I come together at the base of the wide, ornately beautiful stairs that lead up from the garden to the balcony terrace—the place where I first saw Ursula, welcoming us to her home, only an hour before her last breath. Some light has returned to the house, the wide, glass-banked room off the terrace glowing with warmth.
Wren’s fingers threading within mine grounds me.
“You’re bleeding,” she says, dabbing at my arm with a cloth napkin, the white fabric already dotted with her own blood. I am. My porcelain-nicked skin is weeping in thin tracks of crimson between the running pink of watermelon gazpacho.
Infinity has guided Luna all the way to the top of the stairs, the Cerises nipping at their heels behind. Evander is a stoic sentry watching everyone pass with a critical eye. Like it’s his job. And maybe it is.
Someone was murdered here tonight. The Hegemonys will need answers.
That’s when it hits me.
Allof us are suspects… butwe’rethe only imposters.
That icy numbness cracks and shatters. Suddenly I feel the burn of the climb in my tottering heels, the warmth of Wren’s grip, and the tickle of her breath in my ear. “Too much to hope we’re at a murder mystery party?”
If only—Hegemony Manor is certainly the perfect place for one.
But that death was real. As was every strange moment that came after it.
“Yes, too much.” We’re nearly to the top of the stairs, and everyone, not just Evander, is watching us ascend. I concentrate on my feet. “Act normal.”
When we land upon the veranda, Wren immediately captures and cradles the eldest Hegemony’s wrist, her true, tender heart immediately on display. “Oh, Evander, I can’t believe this is happening. I’m so very sorry about your grandmother.”
Evander stiffens under her touch—no one has consoled him. No one has consoled any of the Hegemonys, in fact, save for Infinity squeezing Winter’s elbow while passing by where she and Auden hold court on either side of the main entrance to the house. “Yes, we’re very sorry for your loss.”
When Evander answers us, it’s with a curt nod and a direct question.
“Where’s your grandmother?”
Oh. God. That’s why everyone is staring at us. Marsyas is unaccounted for—which is immediately suspicious. Which means we are too, without them even knowing the rest.
“I—I, uh,” I fumble, accent on sideways.
“She bolted for the loo,” Wren answers with a little shrug.Genius.
