The plague killed faster than Veska Tallow could bury anyone. The marigold beds outside her workshop were full, so the new dead waited in the yard. By candlelight she pressed her thumb to a femur and the bone told her its truth, the way bones always did: fever first, then drowning in your own lungs. She had read ten thousand deaths this way. But the rib in her other hand stayed silent. No fever. No drowning. Nothing at all.

Veska held the silent rib to the candle and looked closer. A thin gray line was painted along the bone, almost too faint to see. She had never seen such a mark. Someone had touched this rib before it was buried and hidden how this person really died. She decided to find out who the body had belonged to.

Veska checked her burial ledger by name and date. The silent rib belonged to a young baker named Toll Hessen, buried six days ago. The ledger said he died of plague. But the bone said he had not. She pulled on her coat and walked through the dark to the Hessen house to ask his family the truth.

The Hessen house was dark and empty, the door hanging open, food still on the table. A neighbor leaned from a window. "They ran in the night," she hissed. "A tall woman came asking about the baker's bones the day before." Veska set out after the family and found them hiding in a barn, ready at last to name the man who killed their son.