Ethan stirred to the sound of floorboards groaning in betrayal and locks being tampered with.

  The parlour remained dark, the night’s last embers suffocating slowly in the hearth’s blackened throat, choking on their own ash. He did not rise, not until the cause made itself apparent.

  Vestiges of last night’s magically-induced headache pulsed behind his eyes, a thousand incorporeal cudgels hammering his skull with no end. Cold sweat collected at the nape of his neck, which he allowed to trickle freely. Such discomforts were familiar; they neither hindered nor surprised him. What did draw his interest was the rhythm of the movements beyond the door – tentative rattles, clumsy steps, feminine sighs.

  Lyra, evidently. And she was attempting an escape.

  He could tell from her frustrated breathing that she had neither the keys nor the knowledge to bypass the doorway’s mechanism. Judging by her muttered curses, she had discovered as much for herself.

  "Sneaking about like a rodent with a conscience does little credit to a guest," Ethan said aloud. He did not raise his voice. If she possessed ears worth the trouble, she would hear him plainly.

  The fumbling stopped.

  Her gait was punctuated by each creaking board she failed to step over without drawing noise – an admirable effort, if one appreciated futility. Ethan, now tired of posturing, pulled the chair’s lever and allowed the mechanism to retract with him still in it. He rose with the groan of stiffened joints, each osseous pop like a sigh of relief.

  Lumbar support my left foot...

  A glance at the clock told him it was barely past eight. Morning sunlight would soon begin its infiltration, and with it, the noises of a world he did not welcome.

  Though the world of Aerda often reciprocated the sentiment, he found.

  Lyra entered the room, ghost-like in the monochromatic greys of his darkvision, though hardly as silent. She paused at the doorway, still dressed in the same outfit – tight, striking, and utterly impractical.

  The sole of his foot began to itch.

  "You did not seem keen on joining me in your own bed last night," she stated without preamble, tone thick with contrived seduction. Her gaze wandered across his form with the hunger of a woman accustomed to getting what she wanted through performance and merit alike. "After all that staring, I expected a little more... enthusiasm."

  He ignored the implication. More pressing were her sleeves and the line of her thighs – plenty of places to hide a blade.

  She seemed to interpret his inspection as desire.

  "I had never imagined you’d possess a timid disposition, Ethan," she all but moaned the name, dragging fingers to her collar and unfastening her shirt one button at a time. The skin beneath was alabaster, smooth as ivory, marred only by the absence of restraint. "You seem the type who enjoys a little danger."

  "Uh huh."

  That was the end of his acknowledgement.

  Her lascivious simper faltered, silver eyes widening just a fraction. Hesitation – for but a heartbeat – and the seductress licked her lips and smiled wider still. She reached the third button. Her shirt hung half-open, revealing ample breasts of the same uncanny pallor. A nipple almost peeked from the folds as she leaned toward him, moist lips parting.

  “Perhaps a demonstration might convince you of my sincerity…”

  The kick came low and fast – aimed squarely at his right knee with enough force to cripple a man. He shifted before it arrived. Her leg struck only air.

  He pivoted, arm sweeping out in the same motion, and delivered the back of his hand across her cheek. The impact echoed in the empty room – a wet crack followed by a hiss of pain. She staggered against the settee, clutching her reddening face.

  "Valiant attempt," Ethan said, tone dry. "Unfortunately for you, I am neither dense nor desperate."

  Lyra straightened slowly, hiding her chest again behind loose silk. Her eyes shimmered with the kind of defiance usually extinguished by experience, though clearly she had not suffered enough of it.

  “I suppose I deserved that,” she said, buttoning up with something resembling remorse.

  Ethan made no reply. Her left hand twitched.

  The next strike came with less ceremony. A jab at his throat – the only target that might end the fight quickly. Sensible, but also predictable.

  He ducked under her reach, seized her sleeve mid-motion, and drove his shoulder into her sternum. The blow expelled the breath from her lungs in a wheezing grunt. She folded around him, but he was not finished. Taking her by the collar with his other hand, he pulled her toward himself while pivoting, tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

  Her back crashed down on the mahogany coffee table, the surface creaking dangerously beneath the impact. Her shirt buttons ripped away as she landed, sprawled and half-naked, chest rising in shallow, painful jerks. Her nipples – misted rose and erect from the cold, he noted – stood plainly exposed beneath the hanging silk.

  She would live.

  Embarrassed, bruised, winded – nothing more. He had not struck her hard enough to cause internal haemorrhage.

  Yet.

  The sudden pounding of footsteps warned him a moment before three more bodies poured into the parlour.

  Mary arrived first, eyes sweeping the room. Warren came second, already muttering prayers under his breath. Simon brought up the rear, shirtless and barefoot, wearing only his trousers and a sneer.

  Warren turned his back immediately. “Apologies,” he stammered, face redder than fresh beef. Simon, of course, wolf-whistled at the sight.

  “Now that’s a proper fuckin’ breakfast – raw, squirmy, and full o’ bite,” he remarked, before Mary slammed a heel into his instep. His yelp echoed off the walls.

  “We ain’t barged on yer romance, now, have we?” Mary asked, tone flat.

  “We were merely establishing some boundaries,” Ethan replied conversationally, his gaze on the pale elf wheezing shallowly from atop his coffee table. He adjusted his cuffs. “I believe they are now quite clear.”

  He turned his gaze back to the others. “Since you are all awake, dress quickly. We are going for a walk.”

  No one argued. Lyra did not speak at all. She remained on the table like an anatomical diagram, wheezing quietly, her pale hair spread like spider silk across mahogany.

  Ethan walked past her without comment.

  The matter, as far as he was concerned, had been settled.

  By the time they emerged from the house, predawn had begun giving over to the crimson maw of sunrise. A wash of blood-orange and hot pink painted the sky above.

  Or so one presumed.

  Ethan saw none of it, and neither did any of the others. The so-called Outer City of Oaleholder was blanketed beneath a yellow-grey smog so thick one could almost chew it. Seeing more than three feet ahead was impossible, the mist mingling with soot to form a clammy wall of air that clung to the skin like mould to bread.

  He led them at a pace as safe as their visibility and footing allowed. That is to say: poor as shite.

  The cobbles sweated underfoot, slick with November’s first grease, and the city exhaled its usual bouquet – charcoal ash, stagnant piss, rat-droppings, and boiled barley porridge served lukewarm from the many workhouses dotting the borough.

  “I still do not understand why I must wear this ghastly rag,” Lyra said, pulling at the collar of the old woollen cloak Mary had foisted upon her. The thing was too large, frayed at the folds, and reeked faintly of sheep and chimney dust. She limped forward nonetheless, hems dragging. Flanked by Warren and Simon, with Ethan taking point and Mary bringing up the rear, she was surrounded in a tactical box – an arrangement not chosen for her comfort.

  “Cos yer togged up like a harlot playin’ at a duchess,” Simon said without looking at her. His hood concealed most of his expression, but Ethan knew that tone well. “And round here, sweetheart, that’ll get yer nobby togs nicked and coin purse pinched. Worse if you’ve a pair o’ tits and no steel – like Ethan said – and yer carryin’ only one of those, yeah?”

  Lyra fell silent after that, though her fingers kept worrying the cloak’s hems.

  “Where are we bound to? Oof–” Warren grunted, skidding on a patch of frost-glazed algae. “That were me shittin’ ankle, nearly.”

  “Inner City,” Ethan replied, politely ignoring the sudden farmhand lilt. “Thought we might give our ward a guided tour of civilisation.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ civil ‘bout that place but its name,” Mary muttered behind them, her boots squelching in a puddle of unknown contents. “And even that’s all splash an’ no fish.”

  The fog thickened before it began to thin, as though reluctant to let them pass. But the closer they came to the curtain wall and its affluence, the louder the streets became. Though their eyes saw little, their ears were filled with the groaning of cartwheels over broken stone, muffled oaths shouted through woollen scarves, the dull thud of fists into flesh, and somewhere a woman sobbing softly through a door left ajar.

  “What’s happening?” Lyra whispered, drawing closer to Simon. “I cannot see a thing.”

  “Costers,” Simon murmured. “Peddlin’ their bits, right? Veg, fruit, rags, pickled lampreys if the Lord smirks. Don’t finger what ain’t yers and yer safe as houses.”

  At last, the sun – a yellow eye as faint as a ghost through the industrial murk – spilled some light down upon them. Long shadows stretched like drawn blades across the street. Fog thinned in hollow sheets, never quite departing. The city was revealed in part: soot-streaked tenements with wash-lines sagging like broken wings, half-broken chimneys coughing smoke into the open air, and iron gutters vomiting the morning dew into choked drains.

  A boy – no older than ten, woolly jacket hanging off his thin frame – was revealed rooting about in the back of a costermonger’s cart. The man spotted him too late.

  “Oi! Thief! Ketch the dogfish!” the costermonger shouted, dropping his sack of onions and bolting forward.

  The urchin scrambled, clutching a small handful of carrots and one fat potato. He did not make it far. Another coster tripped him with a practised sweep of the leg. The boy went airborne – limbs akimbo, eyes wide – and crashed into the slick cobbles. The stolen vegetables arced in a graceful parabola overhead, briefly catching the light before crashing down into the street and being flattened beneath unnoticing feet.

  The crowd descended without pause.

  Children – no older than the thief himself – struck first, boots finding bone. Then the grown men joined in. A woman with flour on her apron spat and kicked the child in the spine. Ethan counted at least six participants before the mob occluded the scene entirely. The boy’s screams were short-lived. Only the wet thuds remained after.

  Lyra stepped forward, peeling her hood back.

  Ethan gripped her on her shoulder. Firmly. She froze.

  “Don’t,” he said flatly, and tugged her hood back over her head. She turned, glaring.

  “Why not? He’s a child. They’ll kill him – he only stole to eat.”

  “If you interfere, they’ll assume you’re his accomplice and beat you as well. Then strip your corpse for resale.”

  She opened her mouth to protest further. He cut her off. “We’re on Seventh Street. No lawmen come here. Not unless someone’s overdue on a fine. It is policed by the people’s boot and fist.”

  And, right on cue, the vigilantes seemed to decide their work was complete. They drifted back to their posts like labourers at lunch call. Some whistled, others hollered, clapped shoulders. One of the girls, as young as the would-be thief, collected her father’s overturned basket and began sorting crushed carrots from whole ones.

  The boy on the ground did not move. His legs were twisted unnaturally beneath him, his face was a map of lumps and bumps with frothy blood bubbling out of a crooked nose and toothless mouth.

  If he was not dead, he would be by nightfall. Ethan had seen stray dogs pick more animate carcasses.

  “Come,” he said, already turning. “We have errands.”

  Lyra did not move. Mary gave her a gentle push, narrowed gaze locked exactly forward.

  The group trudged on, leaving the corpse – or soon-to-be corpse – to the street’s mercy.

  As they neared Pilgrim’s Way, the streets began to widen, giving way to the market proper. Costermongers hollered from all corners, their cracked voices worn to threads by years of shouting over one another. Some cried produce, others cloth, others still – questionably legitimate – elixirs in glass phials that glowed faintly in the foggy daylight.

  “Keaaarrrooots! Fine and fresh! Ha’penny a lot!” a costermonger cried in a rough voice from atop a shoddy cart.

  “Taters! Good as gold! Better for yer bowels! A groat a sack!” a young man hollered in a voice not yet broken by years of shouting.

  “Cress! Watercress! Farthing a sprig, broth like mama made!” a cress-girl passed by them, dragging her wares in a lopsided crate tied to her neck with string. The box looked to weigh more than she did. Her eyes were sunk deep into her skull, and her lips cracked from cold and thirst. She tripped, righted herself, and continued as if nothing had happened.

  Animals filled the street too – donkeys tied to posts, shitting where they stood, chewing the same cud since pre-dawn. A mule snorted and pawed the stones beside a stall of apples that had clearly been waxed to disguise rot.

  Ethan hated markets. Always had. Too loud. Too open. Too many hands brushing against your own, too many eyes watching your coin purse. He saw Lyra felt the same; her eyes darted nervously, hands still worrying at the cloak’s edge.

  Conversely, Simon was in his element. He flirted with a fruit-seller, pinched a pear, and then paid for it with a wink and a farthing. Mary and Warren exchanged nods and grunted greetings to a few familiar faces. Neither paused to converse.

  Pilgrim’s Way itself was even worse. The goods more expensive, the merchants louder, and the punters increasingly affluent. The stench of boiled beef and old perfume competed with the odour of dung and coal smoke.

  “Keaaarrrooots! Finest and freshest! A penny a lot!”

  “PO-TA-TERS! Goldies, reds, and kings! Ha’penny fer a look, tuppence if you touch!”

  Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose. His headache, dulled by the cold, had returned with interest.

  This is exactly why I do not leave the house before the afternoon…

  Among the peddlers were the buskers, all of whom eyed passer-bys with practised hunger. One man played a hurdy-gurdy with foot and elbow. Another danced atop a wine crate with glass shards tied to his boots. A third juggled rusty knives, catching the blades by their points with bloody hands.

  Ethan led them toward a makeshift food stall in the weed-choked front garden of a two-storey terrace. Wooden benches, stools missing legs, and trestle tables had been arranged around a portable brazier where a stout woman ladled stew from a copper pot.

  “Ethan, ye mackerel! Ahoy, scallop; ahoy!" Bertha bellowed the moment she spotted him, her cutting voice betraying her plumpness before one ever spotted her. “What breeze’s blown ye into me stewpot this bleedin’ early? Rare as a sober navvy seein’ ye ‘fore the fog’s out – rarer still with such fine whitings in tow! Tides n’ tatties, but I reckon they’d wrung every neck ya passed with how many a head they turned!”

  Mary smiled, cloak bulging as she rested a hand on her hip beneath it. Lyra simpered diplomatically – Ethan could bet a guinea she had not understood a word. Scallop slang required acclimatisation.

  Bertha cackled, her laugh emerging in fits, as though each guffaw hurt her lungs. Her apron bore a history of many a culinary engagement – grease, gravy, soot, and what might once have been a cabbage leaf. She wiped her thick hands on the sides of her skirt, transferring the mess rather than removing it, and motioned for them to sit.

  “Just breathing in the morning dew, Bertha,” Ethan replied politely but without affect, posture unchanging beneath the dark green cloak. He looked like a gargoyle pretending to dine. “How’s Frank?”

  “Bah!” She spat on the cobbles by way of punctuation. “Sodden sea-devil rolled in near cockcrow, lookin’ like he’d been plaice’d by a cart-horse and stinkin’ o’ piss and shite and gutter rotgut. If he makes it to our Bess’s weddin’, I’ll scoff me bleedin’ apron cold, I will!”

  “My condolences,” Ethan said mildly, though he vividly recalled kicking the man in the chest not twelve hours earlier. “Five plates of the breakfast, please. And coffee.”

  “Aye, I knows what yer like, same ol’, same ol’,” Bertha snorted, the laugh in her gut rising like boiling lard. “Plant yer arses, scallops! I’ll be back afore a gull squawks.”

  Ethan paid in advance – he knew the cost to the farthing – and guided the others to a vacant plank table pressed unevenly into the stonework. The legs wobbled with every shift of weight, though not more than Simon’s head.

  “Cod bollocks, are you treatin’ us to brekkie, then?” Mary asked, eyebrow cocked, tone too cheery to feign courtesy. “Don’t tell me seein’ a nice pair o’ tits turned yer heart all soft-like!”

  Lyra drew her hood further down, lip trembling, eyes fixed on her lap.

  “Ethan may act the brute, but he’s a kind soul,” Warren chuckled.

  “Hardly,” Ethan replied without inflexion. “You’ve yet to be paid for the last task, which means you are presently penniless. This will be deducted from your wages.”

  “I retract my former statement,” Warren murmured.

  “Don’t never trust that damn farthing-pincher! Wait – wait! Niggard!” Simon boomed, his laughter peeling back a loose pox scab on his right cheek.

  Bertha returned, thick arms balancing a tin tray laden with steaming plates. Cut bacon and sausages slices, fresh bread gone black at the edges, eggs with yolks like the morning sun, and coffee dark enough to pass for tar.

  Somewhere above the fog, the morning’s first seagulls began their discordant orchestra.

  Fortunately, Bertha had no time for pleasantries – the queue had grown thick with coal-smudged factory navvies and pickpockets in honest punters’ clothing. Someone was already shouting at her about a sausage that “weren’t no bigger than me thumb.”

  “How much was the food?” Lyra asked quietly, dissecting her egg with delicate precision, as though it might yet live.

  “A shilling,” Ethan replied between mouthfuls of beans. “Including a penny and farthing tip. Ensures we get the freshest scrapings from the pan.”

  “Is… is that a lot?”

  Simon snorted, not dignifying the question with a response. He was two sausages deep already and advancing on a fried tomato like it owed him a guinea.

  “For the average man, yes,” Ethan answered evenly. “Are you unfamiliar with Helveconean coinage?”

  “I – I am familiar, yes...” Lyra stammered. “Passingly. Mister Best and some retainers on the Isle managed such things on my behalf.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Mary gave a low whistle. “Ooh, lived cosy on the Isle, did ya? Tops the tide, that. Right too nobby-like for us lot, yeah?”

  “But surely you have some basis for comparison?” Warren interjected, interrupting Mary’s harangue. “Your people must utilise currency of some kind?”

  “We do, but our, ah, units of account differ. Slightly. Shall we say,” Lyra’s response was hesitant and barely composed.

  “Ein’t eh lhick o’ shenshe in any o’ dem whurds,” flecks of toast flew from Simon’s overfilled mouth with each grunted syllable.

  “Swallow that shite ‘fore ye choke on it, ya slack-jawed lamprey,” Mary snapped in an excellent impression of her mother. Ethan kept that to himself.

  “We do not use money – coin,” Lyra continued after a measured pause. “Tasks are assigned based on aptitude and need. Tools and necessities are provided. Housing and leisure are prearranged but freely given. As long as all contribute, effort replaces currency.”

  Warren nodded slowly, brows raised high. “That’s… clever. Efficient. Rather noble, too.”

  Lyra smiled with a quiet pride, her back straightening.

  “Who do you mean by we, precisely?” Warren pressed.

  She opened her mouth, hesitated. Whatever spark had been lit extinguished itself behind her eyes.

  “I’m afraid that is still confidential.”

  “Solid effort, Warren,” Mary muttered, giving him a sympathetic slap on the shoulder. He grunted and bit into a fried mushroom.

  The meal vanished in short order. When the plates were clean and the mugs drained, they offered Bertha their thanks – Ethan with a brief nod, the others with more warmth – and departed. Ethan retrieved a papelate from the tinder box in his pocket, lighting it on the brazier as he passed.

  They entered the Inner City through Pilgrim’s Gate, which still bled fog like a wounded beast, rolling downhill as it was. Its great stone arch had the sullen permanence of a tomb’s doorway. The guards barely glanced at them, too occupied with funnelling the deluge of pilgrims and late arrivals for the Hallows’ Feast.

  And precisely on cue, nine loud tolls sounded from the end of Pilgrim’s Way. Hold Divine Cathedral, striking the hour, and signalling the beginning of the day’s first Mass.

  Ethan wasted no time. He diverted them from the arterial road, where carts and boots made war against one another, and took a narrower incline northward. He idly wondered how Warren had managed to excuse himself from the pious precessions, and what his truancy would cost him.

  He did not care enough to ask.

  Craglen Street appeared at last, wreathed in rolling mist like the setting of a stage curtain. “It's so surreal,” Lyra said, pausing to look down the slope at the pooling mass of sunlit condensation, her eyes wide as saucers. “It rolls down the roads like a… like a cloud.”

  She moved more easily now, evidently accustomed to the bruises on her back. Her face, however, told a different story. The swelling had worsened, and the discolouration was now purpling toward the socket. Still, she did not complain. Not aloud.

  “Say, scallop, are goin’ to… y’know?” Mary asked, voice weak.

  “Yes,” Ethan replied, tobacco smoke trailing from his nostrils.

  The scallop lass groaned, long and theatrical – back arched, palms to temples, face skyward.

  “Where are we headed?” Lyra demanded, no longer confident in their destination.

  “To the nice lady who sold me yesterday’s tea.”

  “Oh,” she blinked, visibly relaxing. “Well, I ought to thank her. It was exquisite.”

  Lampmen were extinguishing the night’s vigils around them. Long poles with clasped pincers smothered the flickering oil flames, then siphoned the residue oil into barrel-shaped hauler carts. The men worked fast and quiet, not unlike the undertakers following last year’s riots.

  Even the cart donkeys chewed their cud with due solemnity.

  “If they don’t bleed the juice out proper empty,” Simon murmured to Lyra, pointing at the oil lamps. “Some sly sneak’ll do it first – then flog it back to ‘em double. And the callow pricks’ll lap it up like honey!”

  The contrast between Craglen Street and Upper Portside was immediate and cruel. A change in proximity to water gave way to a change of smell in the air: the crispness of damp stone soured into bilge, sewage, and salt-ripened putrescence.

  Low tide – the Matresa estuary’s effluvia clung to the sinuses like a film.

  Lyra gagged behind her sleeve. Simon, having laughed at her, caught a more potent sniff and doubled over, retching. No one spoke again until they stood before Aelielaya’s door.

  Ethan knocked – two raps, then four in swift succession. The door opened swiftly. The elf’s eyebrows rose at the sight of them, but she did not hesitate to usher them inside before the stench could waft in.

  Within, the difference was night to day. The scent of dried herbs, floral tinctures, and beeswax polish overtook their nostrils in a merciful flood. Heads bowed, hoods pulled back, cloths pocketed – each of them visibly relaxed in the face of clean air.

  “I must confess, Ethan, your return is swifter than I foresaw,” Aelielaya said, her voice a soft breeze across still water. “Yet it brings no displeasure – merely surprise. And it is a quiet relief to see your companions vim and upright.”

  “Pleasure’s ours, Liel,” Ethan replied, removing his hood. “This is Lyra. She is… a job. Under our protection, which is as much as we’re at liberty to say.”

  Lyra twitched downwards as though to curtsy, hesitated, and only offered a small wave – gloved hand peeking from under her old cloak.

  “Lyra, this is Aelielaya, an Augustine Elf, and a master of the healing arts – the magic variety.”

  The elf required no further introduction. She stepped forward and circled Lyra slowly, eyes set, pupils contracted. Her gaze lingered on the yellow bruise marring Lyra’s face, the tension in the pale elf’s shoulders, the calm manner in which her silver eyes tracked her.

  At last, Aelielaya stopped and murmured something in Elvish.

  Lyra straightened as though struck all over again, bug-eyed. But instead of fighting she only responded in the same tongue – halting, unsure.

  Simon leaned toward Mary. “Sounds like… leaves rustling? Aye?”

  “Or birds. Far-off ‘uns,” Mary replied, cocking an ear toward the conversing pair.

  Ethan turned his head slightly. They shut up.

  The exchange concluded. Aelielaya turned back to the group.

  “So,” she said mildly. “Lyra has expressed gratitude for the tea, yet remains unaware of the purpose of her presence.”

  “I would like you to heal her,” Ethan said. He pointed to the bruise with his palm. No flourish. No preamble.

  Every head turned toward him. He offered no explanation.

  “But… was ye what roughed her up in the first place, right?” Simon said, scratching a healing scab clean off.

  Aelielaya turned to him with a look. He could not quite tell what variety of look, but context suggested it was far from positive. The hypothesis was swiftly proven correct by her scowl – so abrupt and severe that even Simon recoiled.

  No mean feat, given his usual immunity to shame.

  “Is it as he claims, Ethan?” She asked. “Have you turned your hand against a guest entrusted to your care?”

  Her voice had taken on a warning edge – faint, but audible. The floor gave a subtle tremor beneath his boots, and for the briefest instant, his eyes flickered ghostly blue. The afterimage lingered like a migraine.

  “We were establishing boundaries, Liel,” he replied, more sharply than he intended, face falling into a scowl of his own. “And now that they are established, I would be greatly obliged if our ward were seen to – preferably before Mister Best discovers she was disciplined.”

  “Huh,” Simon muttered. “Clever.” He grinned.

  Ethan ignored him. “If not, then our visit is concluded and we shall find another physician.”

  Aelielaya’s glower lasted for a heartbeat longer, then spontaneously cooled. “Do not allow this to become a pattern,” she reprimanded.

  The tension in Ethan’s shoulders dropped a fraction, the aether no longer pressing down on him.

  “Do I not get a say in any of this?” Lyra flared, throwing her hands up.

  “Not while we’re lookin’ after ya, ye don’t,” Mary’s grin was as crooked as a street peddler’s coin. “Now let the nice elf lady patch yer boo-boos, an' count yer lucky scales.”

  They hung their cloaks – except Ethan – and swapped their boots for slip-ons before Lyra was led away to the clinic room adjacent to Aelielaya’s workshop. The rest of them were corralled into the parlour under the half-interested supervision of the elf’s assistant.

  Victoria.

  Ethan found her irksome in the usual way of half-elves who had inherited their sire’s smugness and their dam’s talent for self-pity. She was slender, angular, with good skin and bad taste in conversation. Fortunately, she and Mary shared a mutual disinclination to engage – a truce, of sorts, maintained through mutual disdain.

  “Sorry I didn’t roll out the rugs or steep the leaves proper-like,” Victoria offered, for what must have been the sixth time. “If I’d had a tick more warnin’, I’d’ve slapped the kettle on.”

  “Donchu go troublin’ a single fetchin’ hair on that pretty noggin o’ yours, Vicky,” Simon murmured, for what must have been the seventh attempt at seduction. “Your glow’s warmer than a brazier full o’ bacon.”

  She giggled. Naturally.

  The others winced in synchrony, as if someone had drawn a broken bow across a rotten cello. It was not difficult to see what fascinated Simon – her drooping eyelids suggested seduction even when she blinked, and her lack of strong brow definition gave her the perpetually delicate air of a woman about to faint into someone's arms. Her ears were still pointed, though barely; time and interbreeding had softened what little elven refinement her bloodline once possessed.

  The two of them drifted into whispered nothings, and Victoria resumed grinding and mixing herbs with a pestle at her workstation, thoroughly oblivious to everything not named Simon.

  Ethan stood slightly behind, cloak clipped to his right shoulder, observing the half-elf’s technique without comment. Her motions were passable, if inefficient. It would lead to wrist strain. The mortar had not been cleaned thoroughly enough from the previous concoctions.

  He recognised the current ingredients instantly: John’s wort, satavar extract, willow bark. She was preparing a syrup – a thick, dark liquid designed to counteract sea serpent venom. It was a coastal remedy, crucial to dockhands during the colder months when the serpents slithered further inland.

  “Where are we headed once Lyra’s been properly seen to?” Warren asked, warming his palms by the hearth.

  “Jinny and John’s.”

  “The bleedin’ baths?” Mary asked, frowning. “What now, yer rinsin’ her down ‘fore ravagin’ her up?”

  “Maybe I oughta take you for a scrub…” Simon murmured at Victoria, who giggled again.

  Ethan groaned aloud. Warren bit into his fist and turned away, hiding his grin. Mary responded with the kind of laughter that suggested someone had stepped on a rake and deserved it.

  Simon and Victoria glared at the trio, then retreated even deeper into their world of whispered romance.

  “It’s Friday,” Ethan said to Mary once she could breathe again. “I bathe on Fridays. Always. Call it habit, call it decadence – I call it hygiene,” he added the last part curtly, in answer to the look she gave him.

  “I could do with a proper soak,” Warren admitted, sniffing his collar and wrinkling his nose. “Reek’s a bit much.”

  “Aye… well enough,” Mary allowed, then hesitated. “But them baths cost more’n a plate o’ pie, and I’d rather toss me pennies toward mum and da.”

  “We require you there to watch over Lyra, so I shall cover the expense. Everyone’s, in fact. Clean clothing included.”

  A partial lie. Ethan had no intention of paying. The mistress of Jinny & John’s owed him a favour, and he was planning to collect.

  “Well, now that’s well and proper fishy-like, Ethan,” Mary replied, eyes narrowing.

  Then, with wide eyes and outrage in her voice: “Cod bollocks! Yer tryin’ to get both our britches off, ain’t ya? Ye randy sea-devil!”

  Before Warren could begin his inevitable sermon on fornication, Lyra and Aelielaya returned to the room. Excellent timing.

  “Ethan has always been incorrigible – a wayward breeze with no regard for direction,” Aelielaya said, voice like a gavel. “Victoria, cease your mooning and mind your flame – the distillery is moments from boiling over.”

  The colour drained from Victoria’s face as she lunged for the alcohol burner and extinguished it. She glanced up at her mentor, face now crimson.

  “You look as good as new,” Warren turned to Lyra, quickly changing the subject.

  Ethan gave him a subtle nod in thanks.

  “She’s a miracle worker,” Lyra replied, testing her limbs as though uncertain they were still hers. “Not a single ache left. Even the ones I never noticed before.”

  Aelielaya allowed herself the smallest smirk. Brief. Professional.

  “Tread gently upon yourself, dear,” she warned. “The aetheric weave must root before it may bear strength, as I’m sure you know. Even the stalwart oak bows and mends in slow measure.”

  “Yes, doctor,” Lyra said, stretching with deliberately audible sighs, her tightly fit clothing leaving little to the imagination.

  Ethan looked away. As did Warren, blushing. Simon did not – until Victoria noticed and swatted his arm.

  “Now,” Aelielaya clapped her hands once. “I fear I must reclaim my workshop. Our time narrows – there are tinctures to measure and lives yet to tend,” she flicked her hands at them. “Shoo.”

  Victoria, having apparently forgiven Simon’s wandering gaze, wiggled her fingers in a parting gesture. He blew her a kiss in return.

  The sound of five people groaning in unison echoed through the parlour as they hastened to the door.

  The fog had finally cleared, evaporated by the mild autumnal sun.

  High tide had also washed the human refuse up stream from the docks, sparing Portside most of the Matresa’s stench. The sun was doing its best to shine, hazed and half-hearted, though the dark bloom of a cumulonimbus mass loomed beyond the coast – boding rain or worse. Ethan led them southeast, toward the cliff side where the river had cut out its gorge.

  “Mary, if I may ask,” Lyra said behind him, a note of polite concern poisoning the air. “Why did you not ask Aelielaya to heal the small of your back as well? Surely it has not mended overnight?”

  A scoff, followed by the sound of someone rubbing an injury they were pretending not to have. “Thanks for remindin’ me,” Mary muttered. “But ain’t no point, yeah? Her magics don’t do nothin’ for us scallops.”

  “Whyever not?”

  Ethan could feel the confusion behind Lyra’s question. She was not pretending, unfortunately.

  “Ya daft?” Mary shrilled. “I’m human. Magic does nowt for us.”

  “Really?” Lyra’s surprise bloomed into something Ethan assumed was pity. “But… why?”

  “What d’you mean, why? It just don’t!”

  “No, I meant – ugh!” the elf groaned as she tried to twist herself to the rear of the group. “This walking arrangement is most unpleasant. Must we really continue like this?”

  “Harder for you to run,” Ethan replied, not looking back.

  “I won’t! I have learnt my lesson. I swear on my ears!”

  “Crackin’ ears, they are!” Simon quipped. “Be a proper shame to have ‘em lopped off over a daft fib.”

  “I must admit, I agree with Lyra,” Warren piped, his tone too diplomatic for Ethan’s liking. “It’s inefficient. And it draws far more attention than it prevents.”

  “Tch,” Ethan clicked his tongue. Warren was correct, annoyingly. In the Inner City, the formation was a liability – too rigid, too obvious. He said nothing until the pause stretched long enough for it to seem considered. “Break off. Lyra, you try anything, we’ll use rope and chain next time.”

  “Oh my,” the pale elf drawled. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, darling.”

  Simon nearly choked on his own laughter, and Mary was not far behind. Warren turned crimson, and to Ethan’s own dismay, the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

  “Well,” Lyra cleared her throat, regaining some composure. “Back to the matter at hand. If you do not mind, Mary?”

  The scallop lass scratched under her hood with a little more enthusiasm than necessary before retying her straw-coloured hair underneath. “Well, uh… magic just don’t stick to us, right? Like oil and water. Ain’t never gave it more’n a passin’ thought.”

  “Why?” Lyra pressed, unhelpfully.

  Ethan intervened before Mary could default to a shrug. “Humans are aether-repellent. An antithesis, technically. Any ambient magic that comes into contact with us dissipates,” he made a fist, glove-leather creaking, then flicked his fingers open. “Neutralised on contact.”

  A pause. A frown. “Most of us, anyway,” his gaze had not left his hand as he said it.

  Lyra gave him a look that implied she was unimpressed. “Is that all? There must be more to it, surely.”

  “There is,” he admitted, bringing the appendage back under his cloak. “But speculation outweighs fact. Some claim magical races – elves, dwarves, gnomes and the rest – possess an organ humans lack, responsible for storing or manipulating aether. But no autopsy has ever revealed such a thing.”

  His shadowed gaze fell on her. “Some even attempted vivisection – in the name of science, of course.”

  Lyra gasped.

  “Psst, Warren,” Simon whispered, not nearly quiet enough. “What’s veesivection mean?”

  “It means they cut you open whilst you’re still breathing, just to see what wriggles,” the priest-in-training muttered grimly, fingers tugging at his mole hairs again. Nervous tick or simply habit. Disgusting either way.

  Ethan pressed on, unbothered by Simon’s sudden retch. “The mystery cuts both ways. Faye tend to find our magical deafness just as baffling as we do their affinity. The dwarves believe it is due to environmental stagnation – humans simply never needed to adapt. Augustine elves like Liel posit a spiritual deficiency. They claim we are disconnected from their so-called Great Cycle of Death and Rebirth.”

  A group of men rounded a corner ahead: powdered wigs and walking canes. Upper class or pretending to be.

  Ethan’s grip tightened around the stiletto under his cloak, left hand brushing the pistol’s stock. Both groups fell silent as they passed each other, appraising.

  Conversation resumed a safe distance apart.

  “Hence their label upon us – The Soulless,” Ethan continued as Lyra glanced back. “Humans returned the favour by collapsing every sapient non-human under one word: faye,” he glanced at Warren. “Though such a move sparked more than a philosophical debate, later on.”

  Warren’s mouth twitched downward.

  “What does he mean by that, Warren?” Lyra turned to the erstwhile farmhand.

  The tall acolyte sighed – a sound which usually preceded a theological quandary. “The Good Book speaks little of magic. It teaches that all creation – man, faye, what-have-you – is made in the Lord’s image, wrought by His hand, and thus deserving of His love. And, by extension, ours.”

  He shot a look at Mary, who had opened her mouth, lips twisted. She closed it again with a snap.

  “Such is the gospel of Saint Mark. However, more than a century past, the then Pope declared all magic devilry. Not long after, he went mad and died. Rather convenient.”

  Lyra made a soft noise of distress. Ethan ignored it.

  “Well, like ye might’ve reckoned,” Mary pitched, “shite went well arse over bowline after that. Faye blood flowed like wine at a shark’s funeral.”

  “Not all of us accepted it lying down,” Warren added sharply. “Many an archbishop questioned the Pope’s lucidity – his capacity for such drastic decisions. The Holy House in Terdia fractured. A war of piety erupted soon after. The Great Schism, we’ve dubbed it since.”

  They turned a corner. The Citadel loomed overhead, its granite black and angles sharper than were strictly necessary. Its spires stabbed at the sky like they meant to draw blood. A muffled scream echoed from somewhere within – some unfortunate bastard confined to its dungeons.

  Ethan did not flinch. Lyra edged away from it’s wall.

  “Thus began the Papal Wars,” Warren murmured, crossing himself as the scream faded. “From the ashes rose two sects: the Traditionalists, who adhere to the Good Book… and the Reformists, who defer entirely to the Pope and the Holy House. Thankfully, the Royal House of Diaprepis sided with the Traditionalists. There was no Parliament then, so the matter was swiftly settled by His-then-Helveconean Majesty.”

  Ethan nodded. “Most of the northern realms followed suit. The southern kingdoms – Graflia, Borte, Falchovarii and the like – chose Reformism. Historians call that the true beginning of the Helvecone-Falchovarii rivalry.”

  “That, and the decades of border slaughter preceding it,” Warren added.

  “Ain’t worth two shites now, though, right?” Simon cut in, voice suddenly cheerless. “Froggies went and chucked the Book altogether. Still got ramrods o’ hate left for us, mind.”

  Lyra inhaled slowly, as though she had aged a decade in the past five minutes. “Is everyone on Aerda this… mercurial?”

  Simon snorted. “You say that like you ain’t from Aerda yerself, lily-white.”

  “I, ah… well–“ Lyra stammered, coughed into her fist, steadied herself. “I have lived a rather sheltered life, as you no doubt noticed. Please forgive my ignorance.”

  Ethan intervened before someone made it worse. “Most who do not know better will never learn. They cling to caricatures. Humans are bloodthirsty warmongers. Elves, woodland clerics. Dwarves, subterranean stoics. Fairies, sociopathic aristocrats.”

  He turned to look at her. “The unfortunate truth is: more often than not, they are right.”

  He faced forward again. “We have arrived.”

  The building ahead did not match its neighbours. A wide, three-storey cylinder of gleaming mahogany amidst polished stone and dour redbrick. A carved sign swayed above the double doors, absurdly cheerful in its font:

  Jinny & John’s Public Bathhouse.

  Lyra took one look and deflated. “It looks like a giant tree stump.”

  “Judge not a ledger by its binding,” Ethan said, and stepped forward. The prospect of heat, soap, and entertainment had turned his mood from flint to something approaching flannel. He gestured for the others to follow.

  The interior did little to disprove the pale elf’s assessment. It resembled the hollowed trunk of some arboreal behemoth – walls, floors, and fixtures carved from myriad woods, polished to a sheen and ornamented with trailing leaves, dried petals, and carved vines. It was humid, warm, and utterly devoid of the mildew stench such establishments often courted. Instead, petrichor and crushed herbs hung in the air, like an apothecary’s shop caught in a thunderstorm.

  A single figure occupied the foyer – a stunted, bald gnome with the discolouration of old parchment and the sheen of a butcher’s block. He stood atop a barstool behind the reception desk, his face arranged into the default slackness of the inattentive. As the party approached, he jolted upright like a puppet suddenly recalled to duty.

  “Welcome to Jinny and John’s, where we offer – oh, cod bollocks and gull blisters, if it ain’t Ethan!” his practised monotone collapsed into a raucous shout. “Yer early t’day, ye slum-humpin’ dogfish. And with the whole damned crew a step behind! Even Fat fuckin’ Warren’s here – hello!”

  The priest in training sighed audibly, but said nothing.

  “Graham,” Ethan nodded. “Is Caroline in?”

  “She is, and in a peacock mood!” came a voice from the side. Falchovarian lilt, tone heightened for faux amiability.

  A sliding panel opened, revealing a half-elven woman who sauntered forth as if the air itself parted for her benefit.

  Mademoiselle Caroline Boisseau was clad in a mint muslin gown, tight across the ribs, loose at the arms, cinched with a crimson sash like ivy strangling a tree. Her black hair framed a fox-like face – narrow nostrils, large eyes set too wide, and crimson irises that caught the lamplight like wet garnets.

  Yet her mouth – overfull and too red – sat atop a broad chin. The only two tells she was not a full-blooded elf.

  She crossed the floor with deliberate grace, seized Ethan by both shoulders with slender hands, and planted a wet kiss on each cheek. Ethan did not flinch, but his entire body stiffened as though each kiss was from a cat-o’-nine-tails.

  “And what do you bring me, cher?” Caroline asked, her grin widening just enough to show perfect teeth.

  Ethan wiped the residue off his face with the back of his hand. “Returning a kit. With a few novelties.”

  He handed her a pouch, followed by a weathered journal, an accounts ledger, and, lastly, a golden molar.

  Caroline turned the molar between two manicured fingers – lips downturned, nostrils flared – inspecting every surface. “Has poor Denzil gone bankrupt?”

  “He could not afford the full payment,” Ethan replied dryly. “His wife is down with consumption.”

  Mary gasped behind him. Ethan ignored it.

  “I thought perhaps you’d put it to use,” he tapped his cheek – the implication clear to anyone who trafficked in aether-imbued dentition.

  Caroline wrinkled her nose and returned the tooth. “No, thank you. Trés vulgaire.”

  “Suit yourself,” Ethan pocketed it again.

  “What’s going on?” Lyra whispered.

  “Those what ain’t knowin’ best left unknowin’, yeah?” Simon murmured. Mary, still wide-eyed, nodded absently.

  Caroline had already moved on, flipping through the pair of books they had pilfered off Baron Stonewater’s corpse with speed that belied her manicured elegance. “Oui, oui, oui…” she cooed. “This is excellent work. You continue to surprise, petit pétale. Graham, give them all the service spécial.”

  “With pleasure, Mademoiselle,” Graham replied, knobbly face folding into a crooked grin. He hopped off his stool with a dull thud and waddled away, chuckling the entire time.

  Caroline turned her full attention to the rest. “Mary, Warren, Simon – I know you well enough. A pleasure as always. But who is this?” her crimson eyes settled on Lyra.

  “Lyra, our ward,” Ethan replied, hand indicating Lyra before moving on to the Mademoiselle. “Caroline Boisseau, owner of Jinny and John’s bathhouse by day, underworld mistress of the Red Mist by night.”

  “A ward? My, my, is Monsieur Best running out of people for you to dispatch?” Caroline’s smirk twisted upward two degrees – a reveal for a reveal. “Still, delighted to meet you, chérie. I hope you find our humble establishment… restorative.”

  “Likewise, Lady Boisseau,” Lyra curtsied. “I am already impressed.”

  Caroline recoiled theatrically. “Mademoiselle, if you please! Lady implies legitimacy – marriage,” she spat the word. “Such an ugly affair.”

  Lyra frowned, but soldiered on. “May I ask a question?”

  Caroline’s eyes gleamed. “You may pose one. Whether I answer is another matter entirely.”

  “Why is the bathhouse named Jinny and John’s, if you are the proprietor?”

  Stillness. Even Graham, halfway through the door, stopped. Caroline’s smile took on a new dimension.

  “I like her,” she said, glancing at Ethan. “Directement au c?ur.”

  Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose. Mary shuffled back a step. Lyra stood her ground, but the chill was obvious in her spine.

  “I… acquired the establishment some fifty years ago,” Caroline said, tone light as silk. “Don’t give me that look – maintaining my appearance is an entire thesis! But I digress – Jinny and John were… insolvent. I liquidated their assets.”

  Lyra looked to Ethan for clarity. He ran a thumb across his throat – a concise translation.

  Caroline clapped her hands. “Alas, duty beckons. Au revoir, petit pétale. Do enjoy yourselves.”

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle. Your assistance is always appreciated. Bon vent,” Ethan replied in her native Falchovarian.

  As she turned to go, she added over her shoulder: “watch the pale one, Ethan. She is far more fox than flower.”

  The door slid closed with a faint click.

  Graham re-entered on cue. “Right! This way to the undressin’ deck, ye frowsty cunts.”

  He led them down a hall, somehow outpacing the taller humans despite his short stature – barely taller than Ethan’s knee joint, in fact.

  “Whilst yer all soakin’ like bait in brine, we’ll nick every rag off ye – weapons, linens, the lot. Washed, steamed, dried, pressed – even edge yer steel if it needs an edgin’. That’s a Graham guarantee, straight from me gnomish heart.”

  “Er, the devil’s a sirvees spesyal?” Simon asked, voice breaking midway.

  Graham grinned. “Ohohoho, lad! Ruin the surprise? Me? I look that gull to ye, huh? Bah! I’ll say this, though – soak too long and the soap’ll glue yer arse shut. Hole an’ crevice, both!” he cackled wetly as the others stopped dead. “Jest! Jest! Cocks an’ crabs, ya scallops got the humour of a dead whelk.”

  They reached the final fork – two painted doors, navy and azure.

  “This is where we part ways,” Ethan said to Lyra and Mary. “Try not to look so haunted. It’s only soapy water and humid heat. Mostly.”

  He gave a faint grin – more a yellow-toothed grimace – then disappeared through the navy door with Simon and Warren.

  Inside, they disrobed, hung up their effects, and fastened key bracelets around their wrists. Ethan walked in first.

  Steam enveloped the room like the morning’s fog, disrupted only by the hazed figures moving within. He recognised the layout at once. Pools tiered by temperature, alcoves shrouded in gauze, private nooks for the debauched or discreet. Nothing had changed.

  The figures emerged from the steam.

  Simon entered next and stopped dead, gawping like a rube at the theatre. His jaw slackened in anticipation of sins not yet committed.

  Warren crossed himself and whispered a prayer, as if the water might baptise as well as damn.

  Ethan, of course, merely exhaled.

  Back in Hell’s second circle, then.

  But at least this one had towels.

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