cane to a blade so fast. "
"Stay useful and I will. "
They entered Madame Cinders private quarters. The room was dark, as the shutters, which were carved in traditional Muslim geometrics, were closed to keep out the heat. Enough light came through the skylights that the opulence of the room was unmistakable. The walls were hung with tapestries and dark purple velvets. The furniture, a mixture of low Middle Eastern style pillows and benches, was mixed with elegant European pieces and upholstered in rich brocades. Delicate lamps of brass and milky glass dotted the room. Above an Empire-style desk was an oil portrait of a young woman. Her skin was creamy and pale, like liquid pearls, and her hair long and dark. She wore a high-necked turquoise gown of a simple cut, but even in the painting it was obvious that it was of exquisite material and expertly made. In her hands, the girl held a book whose tattered cover and cracked spine indicated its great age and constant use. Spyder wondered if the girl in the picture was Madame Cinders in earlier, happier times. It was hard picturing the wheezing wreck in the wheelchair as a girl, much less a pretty one getting her portrait painted on her birthday.
"Yes, young man," said Madame Cinders. "A book. That is what Ive brought you here for. "
"You want us to steal a book, Madame?" asked Shrike.
"The one in this painting?" Spyder asked.
Madame Cinders shook her head, moving the fabric of her hajib slightly. Spyder realized that the awful stench back at the greenhouse wasnt the exotic plants, but Madame Cinders herself. The heavy incense in the tower couldnt disguise the stink of her flesh.
"Youre right, I am rotting. " Spyder looked
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