"If you can't remember, I'm not going to tell you," Corrival said. "In the meantime, now that that's all sorted: Tipstaff, you can take your man here and find somewhere else to be. I need to talk to Skulduggery's detectives."
The tailor's soul hummed indignation, the sort of upright indignation of someone who decided that obviously they had better things to do with their time than cater to such low-minded individuals. Which was why he had no compunctions about leaving. Tipstaff lingered for a moment, as if unsure whether he should really leave all these people alone without a chaperone or not. Solomon grinned to himself, turned away to take down his waistcoat and shrug it on, but the moment he felt Tipstaff leave he took back the robes and turned back to toss them at Ghastly.
"Here, burn this before your soil turns to stone." Not nearly as funny as Ravel's pinecones, or Deuce's eels, perhaps, but Ghastly's indignation came in the form of leaving brittle clay everywhere.
"Someone close the door." Someone did so with a thud, and Corrival went on. "We need to talk about the Cleavers. Skulduggery, you've probably already figured this out, but for everyone else, they're reflections of Mr Bliss."
"Oh." Saint Gabriel's word was quiet but long, and he turned toward Solomon, the amusement dimming toward chagrin. "I probably should have warned you about them--I'm sorry. They're unnerving, aren't they?"
"To say the least," Solomon murmured, pulling his tie on over his head and thankful he'd had the foresight not to pull it out of the knot.
"What about 'em?" Saint Raphael asked Corrival with a shrug. "I can understand why Sol'd not wanna look to closely. I don't wanna look at 'em too closely. But they're not inherently evil or anythin'."
"No," Corrival said, "but Mr Bliss was murdered by Faceless Ones a year ago, and according to Solomon, his soul may be trapped in the maze of his reflections."
Archangels could pale, Solomon found in that moment. Though it wasn't paling, exactly. It was like a fast-receding tide pulling in on itself, and Saint Raphael cursed. More interesting, though, was Merlin's reaction--the way his soul flurried with a snowstorm, so sudden that Solomon almost felt the driving ice against his face and flinched. In that swirl he caught fragments, sensations of being trapped and helpless in a never-ending maze of glass.
no subject
The tailor's soul hummed indignation, the sort of upright indignation of someone who decided that obviously they had better things to do with their time than cater to such low-minded individuals. Which was why he had no compunctions about leaving. Tipstaff lingered for a moment, as if unsure whether he should really leave all these people alone without a chaperone or not. Solomon grinned to himself, turned away to take down his waistcoat and shrug it on, but the moment he felt Tipstaff leave he took back the robes and turned back to toss them at Ghastly.
"Here, burn this before your soil turns to stone." Not nearly as funny as Ravel's pinecones, or Deuce's eels, perhaps, but Ghastly's indignation came in the form of leaving brittle clay everywhere.
"Someone close the door." Someone did so with a thud, and Corrival went on. "We need to talk about the Cleavers. Skulduggery, you've probably already figured this out, but for everyone else, they're reflections of Mr Bliss."
"Oh." Saint Gabriel's word was quiet but long, and he turned toward Solomon, the amusement dimming toward chagrin. "I probably should have warned you about them--I'm sorry. They're unnerving, aren't they?"
"To say the least," Solomon murmured, pulling his tie on over his head and thankful he'd had the foresight not to pull it out of the knot.
"What about 'em?" Saint Raphael asked Corrival with a shrug. "I can understand why Sol'd not wanna look to closely. I don't wanna look at 'em too closely. But they're not inherently evil or anythin'."
"No," Corrival said, "but Mr Bliss was murdered by Faceless Ones a year ago, and according to Solomon, his soul may be trapped in the maze of his reflections."
Archangels could pale, Solomon found in that moment. Though it wasn't paling, exactly. It was like a fast-receding tide pulling in on itself, and Saint Raphael cursed. More interesting, though, was Merlin's reaction--the way his soul flurried with a snowstorm, so sudden that Solomon almost felt the driving ice against his face and flinched. In that swirl he caught fragments, sensations of being trapped and helpless in a never-ending maze of glass.