Winterveil by Jenna Burtenshaw Page A

spectacular sights.
    The Sunken Lake was a huge expanse of deep, clear water. The dying light gave the appearance of gentle waves shifting upon its surface, and small boats bobbed and scraped against one another around a little dock that was crossed with old chains. The banks were gently curved and lined with gray stone, but the water level was far lower than the land around it, exposing ruined pieces of Fume’s history jutting from the mud along the water’s edge. The stony arms of broken statues reached out of the earth, and what could have been pieces of railway track glinted in long layers where rain had washed the mud away.
    â€œPeople are rarely interested in what lies under their feet,” said Dalliah. “In my time, the spirit in the next wheel was so powerful that people suffered nightmares from being too close to it. Its anger leached into sleepers’ unconscious minds and tormented them. The wheel was lost centuries ago, but my people found it beneath the waters of the lake and raised it. I have not been able to study it myself. Two men died dragging it out of the water, and three more survived only a day after moving it. The spirit inside is damaged but strong. You will need to be careful. Do not touch the stones until I instruct you to do so.”
    â€œWhere is the wheel now?”
    â€œThe first two men collapsed dead on the bank as soon as it touched dry land. The others fell sick almost immediately, but they managed to move it. There.” Dalliah pointed to a small square building that seemed to cower in the shadow of the larger buildings nearby. While the others looked occupied, this one had long been left alone. Its small door was stripped bare, and its oval windows were glazed in blue. If Dalliah had not drawn her attention to it, Kate would not have given it a second look.
    â€œWhy did they put it there?” she asked.
    â€œThat is the records house,” said Dalliah, “where the bonemen recorded the names and details of every dead body and every soul that entered this city. There were trees here once. The records house stood alone upon the bank, and it was a beautiful, peaceful place. Now it is surrounded by people and stone.” She stood quietly, letting her thoughts carry her briefly into memories of a different time. “The spirit wheel used to be inside, until a new owner decided to remove it and throw it into the lake. That was during the early days of the High Council’s occupation. But the wheels are not meant to be moved. Each one was placed in a particular location for a reason. My men retrieved it eighty years ago. The wheel is back where it belongs.”
    â€œAnd now you are going to kill the spirit in it,” said Kate, trying hard to keep the bitterness from her voice.
    â€œI sealed it in there,” said Dalliah. “It is mine to do with as I wish.”
    Despite Dalliah’s warnings, all Kate felt while walking up to that house was sadness. Movement flickered in windows as she passed, and where there was no glass a shadow that was too large to be her own crossed the empty frames. She could sense eyes watching her as she walked up to the records house, and when she passed in front of one of the blue panes, she saw the presence clearly: a man with silver eyes, too solid to be a shade, too ghostly to be a piece of Fume’s history revealing itself to living eyes. The book in her pocket trembled again. She had seen this man before. He was one of her ancestors and one of Wintercraft ’s first book bearers. Whenever Kate walked a path that he had once taken with the book, she sometimes saw him as a memory locked within the pages. Now he was much clearer than she had seen him before.
    The lake behind him in the pale reflection was filled right to the edges, and the trees Dalliah had spoken of were planted in copses around the water. Few of the buildings were visible, leaving gravestones and towers stretching as far as she could