Duilio stepped back out into the front room, eyes narrowing. The clutter hadn’t been wrought by the missing inhabitant, but by mice. If not for their predations, the stacks would have been neat and organized. He looked at the couch with new eyes; it was a filing system. Apparently the inhabitant simply hadn’t ever planned on having guests.

He turned back to the immaculate bedroom. The must-and-mouse smell carried through from the front room, and he could see evidence that the woolen blanket on the bed had been chewed as well. A small nightstand stood next to the bed. Duilio opened the single drawer, but saw only a dog-eared Bible within. He picked it up and checked for any inscription but found none. When he shook it out, nothing fell from between the pages. Sighing, he slid the book back into the drawer and closed it.

He’d hoped to find some clue where the artist had gone, but his gift didn’t seem eager to attach significance to anything. “I could use some help,” he complained to himself.

Nothing popped into his mind, so he threw his hands up and turned to search the drafting tables. A thorough going-over of the first revealed only the artist’s inks, pens, and pencils. The second had a neat stack of paper atop it, all of which appeared to be blank. Inside the drawer, he found a couple of blades for sharpening pencils, along with cleaning cloths and some wadded-up papers. It was unusual, given the neatness of everything else.

His interest piqued, Duilio began removing the contents of the drawer. As he pulled out the last cloth, his fingers brushed something solid crammed into the very back of the drawer. He tugged on it and it came loose, a leather-bound volume.

Duilio felt gooseflesh prickling along his arms, his gift alerting him. “Aha!”

He flipped the book open and scanned the handwritten pages.

He turned to the front of the volume and saw neatly dated entries, the first more than two years old. They appeared to be calculations of the distances from the riverbed to the ideal depths for the miniature houses. Grinning, Duilio tucked the journal into one of his coat pockets.

With renewed energy, he inspected the two doors on the far wall. One opened onto a very dark dressing room that had definitely fallen prey to mice, judging by the odor. Garments lay strewn about. Pinching his nose closed to mitigate the smell, Duilio shoved open the door as wide as it would go and dug through the scattered garments with one boot. They were plain-looking garb in the dim light, more like a workman’s than the flamboyancy he expected of an artist. He’d judged the man too readily by his occupation. A basin and pitcher had been knocked from their commode, the pitcher’s handle broken off on the hardwood floor. A struggle?

He cleared most of the clothing to one side and picked up the broken pitcher, then turned it over to view the unglazed base. Something dark discolored the porcelain, as if it had seeped into the porous material. Duilio crouched down. Near where the pitcher had lain, the cracks in the wood were darker as well. He felt sure it was blood, but couldn’t quite tell. Frustrated, he went back to fetch the lamp from the front room.

A twinge of warning alerted his senses before he reached the bedroom door, setting his heart to racing. Duilio sniffed . . . and caught the distinctive odor of kerosene. He heard the sudden whoosh of a fire igniting.

Duilio ran back to the front room and stopped in the doorway, aghast at the sight.

Flames leapt several feet high, blocking the doorway, and for a second he couldn’t breathe, panic freezing him there in that spot. He clutched at the doorjamb. One of the few selkie traits he had inherited was an irrational fear of fire.

Duilio squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t panic. Deal with this.

He opened his eyes again and tried to take stock. Flames already coursed around the edge of the room, feeding off the scattered papers. His eyes flicked around the room, hunting for some escape.

Damnation! How had the fire grown so fast? He couldn’t get near the door. Someone had splashed kerosene all over that wall.

But there were still the front windows. The fire had already reached the couch in front of them, but hadn’t yet touched the curtains. He could get out that way. He had to, or else the fire would trap him in the narrow bedroom.

Duilio ran back to the bed and stripped off the blanket, then returned to beat at the flames on the couch. Bits of charred paper flew up with the vigor of his actions, glowing on the edges. He took a deep breath, tasted ash, and started coughing. The flames roared, loud enough to drown out the sound of his harsh breathing. He cursed under his breath.

Calm down.

Covering his mouth with one sleeve, Duilio doggedly beat out the flames on the couch. He grabbed the top edge of the couch and flipped the whole thing over, sending more sparks into the air. But the backside of the couch wasn’t afire yet. He got behind it and shoved it over, away from the window. He grabbed the curtains and drapes and yanked them down, all in one heave, and tossed them over onto the upturned couch.

He wiped ash and sweat from his face, then pressed close to the dust-clouded window to peer out. There were a dozen or more people in the street below, pointing and crying out. They weren’t looking at him.

A huge groan came from the floor below his feet, and he knew.

The woodworker’s shop on the first floor was ablaze as well—a place likely filled with stains and resins and other chemicals that would burn hot. For a second his breath stilled. A cold sweat broke out all over his body.

Someone intended to bake him alive.

CHAPTER 17

Duilio looked out the window. It couldn’t be more than fifteen feet to the cobbles.

He grappled with the latch and finally got it open, the windowpane swinging out and banging against the stop. That caused another round of cries as glass sprinkled down to the cobbles below. Smoke began to billow over his shoulder, and Duilio glanced back to see that the flames had almost reached his feet. He had no time left.

He climbed over the sill and a second later dangled by his hands from the window’s frame. Voices urged him to drop, so he did so. He landed on his feet, but felt that jolt through his very teeth. People were still crying out, and there seemed to be chaos about him in the street.

Then water splashed all over him from behind, startling him out of his numbness. “What in Hades’ name are you doing?”

The man holding the bucket clapped Duilio’s shoulder. “Back of your coat was on fire.”

Duilio instinctively craned his neck, trying to look at the back of his coat. “Thank you,” he mumbled as the man strode away.

Something exploded in the shop then, scattering the pedestrians. Duilio backed away with the rest of the crowd. Another barrel or keg blew, this time shattering the front windows, and black smoke began to roil out of them, joining the stream that came from the upper floor. The Corps of Public Safety fought most of the fires in the city, but Duilio didn’t think they would get there in time to save any part of the building.

I should not be here when they arrive, he thought with sudden clarity. His sodden and apparently burned jacket would place him as having been in the apartment. He didn’t want to try to explain his presence there to them. Pulling up the collar of his coat, he eased away through the crowd, heading in the direction of the church at the end of the street. He felt again the sense of being watched, but was too tired to care at the moment.

Duilio settled on the stone steps before the church. His coat was ruined, so he tugged it off, rolled it up, and tucked it under his arm. His shirt and waistcoat were ruined as well, but weren’t as bad. He didn’t care, save that Marcellin was going to have a fit of apoplexy over this. A weak laugh worked its way out of his chest, then turned into a cough.