“We followed the rats. They fester in the cloth mills like weeds, sewering beneath the reservoirs, nibbling at the toes of our prey. Sure enough, we found the lot of them - black-clothed, half-starved. They fought with rusted knives and rotted teeth.

  In the dungeons, I made them scream. Listened to every plea and prayer. But no matter how many nails I tore from them, how much flesh I flayed, they never gave us the leader’s name. ‘And if I knew it, I wouldn’t share,’ one told me, his guts open and dangling. ‘There’s more to be scared of than you.’

  The girl arrived four days later. How she entered unseen, I still do not know. She was a pretty thing: high-waist, slender frame, skin pale as marble. She wore a black dress with a rough sack over her shoulder, bearing a face God only gives to high-born. She’s known twenty winters. At best. The only indication that she was the greatest crimelord in Northern England were her dark and smouldering eyes.

  “Release my men, and I'll leave with you,” she told us. “I am what your king demands."

  We laughed at her then, this waifish girl in her thinning dress, until she threw open her sack, and the Mayor of Leeds stared at us lifelessly. His tongue black with rot and poison, his blood still pooling on the table.

  “You are noble-bred,” I told her, after she was chained. "This work is well below your station. Why? Why live like this?”

  “Desperation,” she answered.

  “And are you still desperate now?”

  She did not reply.

  “I am not taking you to the King.” At last, my words caused her some shock. “You will soon be face-to-face with the most powerful woman in Britain. You may not know her name, but she insists on knowing yours.”

  "My name?"

  The woman the world knows as Blackbird met my eyes and answered:

  “Janet Lavender.”

  Letter by George Armond, then Reeve of the North Marches, to Joan Byron, then Kept of the Seneschal Caedmon, now and forever known as the New Sun. Dated August 13th, 1771.

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  2004

  “Impossible.”

  “It’s already happened.”

  “Blair wouldn’t dare try and-”

  “His party is tearing itself apart!”

  Soteris hisses through grit teeth. He’s staring down Kit Crowley, his ‘political analyst.’ An analyst who seems with each meeting to analyse less and less.

  “Chrysanthou, the PM has to regulate. Do you have the slightest idea of how large these protests have gotten? It was bad enough when the war started. But now, with no weapons? With the Americans wrong? The backbenchers are tying the noose!”

  “Then perhaps the backbenchers should remember who pays them for the ropes."

  “It’s an election year, Chrysanthou! All bets are off. That’s politics.”

  Soteris slams his hands on the table, watching the sweaty man leap back. Crowley’s a puffy man, always red-faced and shifting to try and cover his fat. A coward. The Sovereign is about to unleash on him, like any Sovereign should, but he pulls away, focusing instead on the eyes of his girl. She stares at him like a startled fawn, her ears covered by metal, her black suit-and-skirt unveiling a hint of her bra. Beautiful, like always, and calming to his worse natures.

  She still sulks, he knows, that she can’t participate in these sorts of gatherings. But on days like today, that's a service. Kept though she may be, worms like Crowley are beneath her.

  Soteris turns to the grey woman on his left. “Are we ready for an audit?”

  He can see her calculate. A worrying sign.

  “Depends on what they’re auditing,” she says.

  “Guess.”

  The lawyer sighs. “... If Blair’s friendly, he wants something potemkin. A clean enough surface that he can throw to these regulators like a bone."

  “You make that sound like it’s a problem.”

  “Because we don’t have a clean surface.” She gives him a look. “Perhaps if you gave my team the documents we need, o-or kept Avery off our backs-”

  “Not possible,” Soteris interrupts. “You don’t have clearance. It’s a matter of national security.”

  “Expenses aren’t national-”

  “Are you my lawyer?” Soteris raises his voice. “Do I pay you to squawk in my ear like a magpie, or to defend me with what you have?”

  There’s a shift in her eyes. Fear. The rumours still persist, then, about what happens to those who openly question him. True rumours, some of the time, but Mira is too useful. He’ll need to talk to her after hours. Get chocolate for her kids. Something to cheer her up.

  “She… she has a point, Chrysanthou.” Crowley nods to himself. “It would be easiest to appease Blair by-”

  Soteris lifts his hand, and the man goes quiet. The rumours are true for Kit Crowley. He’s overstaying his welcome. The exit ticket proved too expensive before, but with Hajime’s money, no longer. Hestia has grown far beyond the Parliamentary Committee of Science. It needs international hands. An American.

  His employees should be bolder.

  “If I want to appease the Prime Minister, I won’t do it like a schoolgirl, with notes in his desk.” Soteris turns on his heels. “I’ll talk to them myself.”

  “Soteris!”

  He shuts them out. His focus moving at once to his Kept. He snatches her by the shoulder, revelling in her little squeak, and guides her into the office hallway, watching her growing blush.

  “Come on,” he whispers as he flicks the mask’s release. “I need to relax.”

  It never ceases to fascinate him. How the mere mention of his touch makes this killer of thousands tremble.

  He thrusts open the door and pushes her towards her pillow. Moving to lower the office blinds when-

  “Vermillion in beads of gold. You have excellent timing, Chrysanthou.”

  Soteris scowls. And turns. By his desk, in a white turtleneck, with a bundle of papers clung to his chest, Randall Avery stares at him.

  And his Kept is biting her lip.

  Soteris doesn’t move. Eyes flicking between the two. “... Did we have an appointment, Randall?”

  “Not at all.” In the darkness, he can clearly see blue light in Randall's veins. “But I need to run some performance tests. On the Kept.”

  'The Kept.' Not 'your Kept.' As if this little demon of Caedmon’s can claim any ownership of her. Soteris looks at Fireside again. Nervous, then scared, and relaxed, then scared anew. Her expression keeps changing.

  She's not very good at this.

  Soteris doesn’t bother hiding his displeasure. “Why wasn’t I told?”

  “Addana and I are working with volatile materials. We can’t always know when we’ll have a stable-”

  “A phone call, then.” Soteris cuts him off. “This... spontaneity is unlike you.”

  “Alas,” Randall replies. “Such are the properties of aether.”

  His Kept stands between the two Courtmen, unsure of whom to follow. Soteris leaves nothing to chance by grabbing her arm, pulling her close, and giving Randall a look that dares. Her hair smells like the flowers back home. Her skin is still cold. He needs to work on that.

  “Fireside and I were just about to take a walk.” He says flatly. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”

  “These tests are important. You’d hold them off for exercise?”

  “I would.” Soteris has already re-opened the door. “You’ll have other times.”

  He hears the hitch in his girl’s breath. A foiled plan, he suspects. This whole time, she’s been acting too open, too willing, too quiet. They're conspiring together, must be. Paranoia? Perhaps. But he wouldn't have lasted eight years here if he wasn't paranoid.

  Unfortunately, Randall doesn’t stay behind like Soteris expects him to, gawking at whichever aura. He follows them out, his voice rising to match their distance. “That doesn’t seem very-”

  “It’s my company, my timelines, my equipment, and my Kept.” To make his point, Soteris turns around, and loops an arm around the girl’s chest, restraining her. “You can have your tests with proper warning and advance. Not now.”

  “Do you think Caedmon wants to hear those words?”

  “Caedmon would see a beaker, and think it a bludgeon. He knows nothing.”

  “That’s true.” Randall nods. “He believes whatever I tell him.”

  A minute passes in silence. The men staring each other down. The Kept's little heartbeat thrumming quicker and quicker. Until eventually Soteris laughs. And smiles.

  “Very well!” He moves his hand to Fireside’s hip. “Let’s go! I suppose a walk to the lab will still qualify.”

  “I’m sorry, Soteris, but I need Fireside alone t-”

  “Do you?” The humour vanishes from his voice.

  Randall watches for several moments. No doubt reading the canvas of colours across the room. “Aether is strengthened by emotion. You know that. To maximise the test’s results, I need a controlled environment, which means removing, where possible, external emotions-”

  “Are you implying that I upset her, Randall?” Soteris is practically crushing the girl in his grip.

  Randall pauses. Not drawing breath. “I imply only that you do not induce her phlegmatic humours.”

  A chuckle. Soteris twists his Kept around, and leans close, watching her blue eyes. “Mr. Avery doesn’t want us to walk. He wants you all to himself, can you believe?” He pulls at her cheek. “Are you fine with that?”

  She doesn’t move. Or reply. A deer in headlights, her nose curling up like a mouse’s. The sight stirs something in his chest. He pecks her forehead, smiling through her body’s chill.

  “Return her the moment you’re done.” He sends her along with a push on her bottom. She grabs the hems of her skirt, stumbling into Randall’s arms. “It feels like you’re taking a part of me.”

  Randall helps her stay upright. “Of course, Sovereign. Without delay.”

  Sovereign. Now Randall flatters. Soteris gives a final smile as he brushes past them, back into the office. Only when the door’s nearly closed does he looks back, through the windows. Seeing the way that she whispers into Randall's ear.

  It makes his brows furrow.

  Casually, Soteris walks back to his desk. Inhales slowly and counts to ten. Then grips the wood and squeezes. Squeezes until he’s sure it would snap in half with just an ounce of aether.

  It was inevitable, he knows. The girl doesn’t know how to keep quiet, and no matter how much of himself he offered Hestia, Randall would never trust him to share. If only he could deal with this at once. But he doesn't know who's more to blame.

  He’ll need something fresh. To keep them in line. But what? It’s never as simple as with Astrid. Ensei barely stirred, so what could possibly...

  A pause. Then a smile.

  Soteris shakes his head and grabs the receiver of his desk phone. "Always the Veneficii."

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  1867

  Winter

  Before she saw London, she saw the smog. Billowing out in great swathes, shrouding the world like smoke from fire.

  It follows the streets and strangles the buildings. Rolls over bridges and spills into the Thames. She knows where it comes from - a line of brick temples, visible from the sea, that spew smoke in the hundreds, more than she can count. A few lights pierce the veil, yellow blazes on iron rods, but they’re too few and far between. The docks, the houses, the wagons, the people. She can hear their shouts and swears and drunken songs, but all of them, all of London, is lost in the red fog.

  She grips the barge’s railing tightly, watching it all as the steamer travels down. Suddenly, a thick cough. As it trundles through the curtain, the air starts tasting like ash.

  "Harriet!" She feels cold hands on her shoulders. "Are you-"

  She lifts her hand, easing him, and looks to his side. “Was... England always like this?” She asks. “When ya left?”

  The Black Prince pauses, staring into the water. It’s foul to the smell, and so murky that it doesn’t cast his reflection.

  “... No.”

  He twitches when she reaches for his hand. Soft, and shaking. He squeezes it, tightly, as they pass through the spewing factories, and buildings start to peek out from the smog.

  There must be thousands. Strong and sturdy and impossibly tall, continuing far past her sight, surrounded by raft-works and chimney-smoke. The most impressive stands to her right, defiant against the smokestacks. A white dome as bright as the moon.

  "The church," Rowe tells her. "St. Paul's."

  She can't reply. A city of three million, they told her. She’s never been somewhere with more than ten-thousand. All of it is so...

  ... big.

  She pulls her gun close, looks out from the barge. For life amidst the bricks, soil against the grime. But there’s no flowers or trees or any hint of green. Nothing not made by man.

  Not a single star in the sky.

  “This is stupid.” Menowin’s brusque voice snaps her back, along with the whirring chimes of his footsteps. “People die meeting the Court on their terms.”

  “They offered a delegation.”

  “?ororo grast! Offers can be refused. Did you see the look on Erika’s face, when you said yes? We’ve soured ourselves to allies we haven’t even met.”

  “This isn’t Sunwalker’s Court. This isn’t Caedmon’s Court. I’d like to know what enemy we face-”

  “Joan Byron and her women are just Magisters with tits.”

  “And yet… she won.” Rowe tilts his head. “Besides, to come without Hospitality… that would just break custom.”

  “What if it’s a trap?” Harriet asks.

  “It won’t be,” Rowe tells her.

  “How do ya know?”

  Just then, the fog parts, and Harriet sees an entirely new city. A city of wagons, a city of music. A city of wrought-iron. A city of light. The people wear large dresses and Abe Lincoln hats, in greens and reds and blues and purples.

  "Because they aren't scared," Rowe finally answers.

  They drink and laugh and dance and the air smells clean. As if the poison cloud hasn't touched things here at all.

  On the docks the barge slowly crawls toward, one girl stands out, smaller than the rest. Her felt hat is as white as her dress, adorned with golden flowers, while the latter seems inset with diamonds that glisten against the moon. The girl moves gloved hands in sweeping motions, shouting at the boat with a strange, vibrant tone.

  “Gabh fois, neach-suibh tuirseach, yn gofod idir fod!”

  As she continues the odd ritual, Harriet looks back. “What’s she saying?”

  “She’s welcoming us,” Rowe answers. “In the Old Tongue.”

  Menowin smirks. “A tongue she speaks poorly.”

  “I, Regina, of the castle Dunstan!" the woman switches to English. “Handmaid of the dhaoine rosín and Kept of the New Sun, bid you to rest your legs and lay back your head! For you, weary travellers, are granted Hospitality!”

  Crash!

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The boat docks just as Regina lifts off her hat, and lowers her arms.

  “Welcome to London.”

  As the boat finally stops rocking, and the gangway lowers to the wood, the three men disembark. Their boots echoing against boards thick with algae and crust. Harriet stays in place. Her eyes locked to Regina. Not because of anything the woman has said, it's all nonsense, but because of her face. Her eyes.

  She's beautiful.

  Regina of Castle Dunstan might be seventeen, pearls tucked deep in a bed of chestnut brown. The woman looks downright choleric, her cheeks a rosy pink, her flesh a deathly pale. Her eyes are round, almost doe-like, and sparkle like the amulets and earrings that rattle with her every move. Blue then red then gold then green. Shining always like gemstones rotating in the light.

  “No guns?” Menowin quickly scans the dock. “Things have changed.”

  The words break the spell over Harriet. She blinks, readjusting her gun, and plodding to tuck herself behind Red’s arm.

  “The Court is a living body, like you or I. And all bodies react to the changes of the world.” Regina folds her hands, her lips made bright with make-up. “We seek a new way, a better way. You shall see, veneficii. No one is more committed to peace in our city than Her Grace the New Sun.”

  “Sure,” he smiles back. “Peace comes easy to those in power.”

  “Oh, enough with the politics. I’m already bored!" Regina’s smile wavers, but before Menowin can press, another figure slides past her. He seems to slither as much as walk, fiddling with a bowtie as he speaks. “Look, we can skip the pleasantries. God knows I want to. But as Porter, there's a few things I – hello.”

  Harriet shrivels back. The strange figure moves toward her, dressed in a three-piece-suit and easily six-and-a-half feet tall. She stares at his pale fingers and glowing emerald eyes, but only when he kneels down does she see that his sclera are a solid, sickly black. Something gross seems to follow. Little sounds, like whispers, in the back of her mind.

  His smile has too many teeth.

  “I didn’t know a human would be joining us.”

  Red puts his hand over her at once. His growl low, and his eyes boiling. "Step away from my daughter."

  The suited man rises, his eyes wild, like he's about to take Red's challenge. Until a hand reaches out and clutches his arm. “Ombras? Is that really you?”

  'Ombras' turns to see the Black Prince's smile.

  “By Hell, you’re a lot that without that armour!”

  The two men embrace, patting each other's backs, to the clear confusion of all around.

  "Gawen Rowe! Too long since I've seen that old face!"

  "Porter, now? So they finally caved, and gave you a title?"

  "Title? No no no! They gave me a job!" Ombras stamps his foot. "For centuries, I beg for a position, and what do they do? Give me the only one that requires any work!"

  As they chat, Regina walks ahead, her heels clicking loudly on the dockwood. Harriet finds herself freezing again when she nears. Eyes unblinking. Mouth hanging open. The girl’s voice sounds like soft silk.

  “Pardon my intrusion, but-”

  "I don't." Red pushes Harriet further back. It almost makes her gasp. Regina's stopped, and Harriet doesn't want her to stop. She wants Regina to get closer. “I've heard a' yer kind, Miss. An' I can taste the scent yer-"

  “It’s not something I can control.” She adjusts her gloves.

  "All the more reason fer ya ta step-"

  "She's a woman." Regina shifts her head, smiling calmly at the massive man. "... what effect could the charm possibly have on her?"

  Harriet wants to nod. And agree. And pull her closer. Closer. Closer.

  Regina takes Red’s silence as consent, and curtsies towards the girl. “What’s your name, little one?”

  Name? What is her name? It feels so small, so meaningless, but she forces it out. “F-Fireside."

  “Fireside. For your hair.” She speaks the way a parent might speak to a child, though they're clearly the same age. Regina reaches out, twirling a few red strands with her finger, and Harriet’s heart starts to melt. She smells so nice. Like apples in honey, or sweetbreads in cinnamon. “Must you dress her in such rags?" Regina asks. "I know yours was a rough country, but-”

  “I could buy her dresses, Ms. Dunstan, but the girl wouldn't wear them."

  “Really?” For a brief moment, those gem-like eyes glisten. “How... odd.”

  She pulls at the thread of hair, watching it bounce as she moves.

  “Red hair is special, you know? They say it comes from the Predecessor's blood. That it was worn by none other than Judas Iscariot.”

  A twitch of fear. A hitch in her breath. Harriet stares at the woman, wide-eyed, before Regina bursts into a laugh.

  “Sorry, sorry! A bad example. It was also the hair of Cleopatra.”

  She leans closer, ringed fingers tapping on Harriet’s shoulders.

  “Fireside,” she whispers. “I hope we can be friends.”

  So does she. There’s no words to explain it, but Regina is safe. Regina is warm. Regina can be her everything.

  The world only returns to her when the woman in white departs. The Black Prince and this ‘Ombras’ still talking like old mates.

  “It’s a good thing you came back,” Ombras says. “Too long since a battle like Chester. The scars you gave me have almost faded!"

  “There may be opportunities yet to grant you new ones."

  “One can dream, but no.” As Ombras shakes his head, louder, heavier footsteps march onto the dock. “I'm afraid I've have learned too much of greed. My fighting days are done. Though... if you are looking for someone to challenge…”

  The spurred boots stop about five metres from Rowe. Harriet has to lean in to see him. A man in a blue-buttoned uniform, with gold tassels on his shoulders and a black conical hat. It looks ridiculous. White gloves rest on the hilt of a decorated sword, and as he bows, stiffly and rigidly, she notes the stubble on his face. Just like Ombras, he sports a pair of charcoal black-eyes.

  “Lord Rowe." The man's voice is gruff. “By your leave…”

  “At ease. I'm no Lord.” Rowe watches the man as he stands at attention. “You are you still in service, seaman?"

  The man doesn’t quite smile, but Harriet can feel his pride. “I am Captain Edward Morris of the HMS Albion, having fought dutifully at Trafalgar, Navarino, and the Guinean Gulf in the name of Her Majesty, Queen by the Grace of God, Victoria. It is an honour to meet you, Black Prince. Tales are told of your-"

  Menowin bursts into laughter. The bells whirring with his belly. Morris barely looks at him. Unemotive.

  “Ombras, is this your Kept!?” Menowin points at the man, fangs in his smile. “There are looser tin soldiers!”

  “The Captain is a Kept no more,” Regina smiles. “The youngest

  “Ooooh.” Menowin gets close. “And how did he accomplish that?”

  Morris swallows. “I’m afraid that’s classified”

  “Of course! Always a secret.” Menowin claps his hands, looking into the sky. “Sa so si la?ho, you dogs!”

  Rowe tries to interject. “Menowin, we are guests here-"

  “Do you think you’ve impressed us? You gaggle of… Shadow-Cocks and their bitches!?” Menowin gets into Morris’ face, but the Captain doesn’t move back. “Caedmon would have killed me on the spot. Sunwalker would have killed me on the spot. And you can hide behind your pheromones and formalities, but I know you want to, too.”

  Morris blinks but does not reply. It makes Menowin scoffs.

  "Even in weakness, you wear your fucking masks." He turns around. "Already feels just like home!"

  "I'm sorry," Rowe says the moment Menowin's behind him. "Surely you can understand how some of us were... sceptical about your offer. But if there is something you wanted to discuss, I-"

  “No, no! Don't let me stop it!” Menowin lifts his hands. "Soldier Boy wants to play diplomat!"

  He slinks past everyone else, ignoring Red's angry glare, until he finally settles by the only other person left out. “Can you believe this, rakli?” He asks her. “These are the sort of shits we'd shoot in Montana.”

  Harriet pales at that, her eyes flitting about to make sure they’re not overheard. The wounds in her mind. “He’s… might still be mad ‘bout how things-”

  “Not at you. Never you.” Menowin reaches over, pulling loose strands of hair away from her eyes. “But do you wanna see who we're really dealing with?"

  She lifts her brow, uncertain. Menowin repositions himself, pointing beyond the Captain. "Look past. That white wagon, yes? Just beneath the streetlight?”

  She can see it. Like something out of a storybook. With four white horses and a matching white tarp. Gilded axles studded with gems.

  “That’s who’s really sizing us up,” he whispers. “The woman inside.”

  Squinting, Harriet can barely make out a shape. A shadow beneath the iron torch, a white-gloved hand that pulls at the canvas.

  "But... she can't hear us. I-It's too far away."

  “For a mortal. But this isn't a mortal's city. They say that wagon is the cage of Joan Byron’s Kept.”

  “The New Sun?" Harriet points at the doe-like girl. "B-but Regina said she was the-"

  “The face they want you to see.” Menowin nods. “But they said, even back then, that her real power wore a white, wooden mask. Everywhere, always. That she was scarred in battle, or wounded with acid, or that she never had a face at all."

  “Wh-who is she?”

  “No one knows. They all have theories. An assassin, or a witch, or some ancient queen of thieves. All I know is that her name is Blackbird, and she would order all of our deaths if only we would let her."

  He twists. Searching her eyes while his own thrum with heat.

  “Do you trust them, rakli? Do you think they will help us?”

  She trusts Regina. That girl seems nice. But she can hear the tone in Menowin’s words, and so she shakes her head. "No."

  “This isn't like Berkeley or Thompson. Not monsters made from men. These people were born monsters. These people will die monsters. And you'll only ever forget that because they've perfected the art of making you forget." Menowin pulls her close by the shoulder. “We need each other. More than we ever have.”

  They stay like that for a moment too long. Watching each other. Harriet, still trembling with fear. Menowin…

  …

  The diplomats’ words grab his attention before she’ll ever know what he was feeling.

  “Envoys?!” He shouts.

  “We’ve tried it in the past,” Henri checks his nails. “If the Court can’t work with the largest Freeholds, the city stagnates, chokes off. Food supply aside, it's better for everyone-"

  “You’d spy on us so openly?”

  “I’ve never met a spy who announced his arrival.” Ombras frowns, and looks at Rowe. “This is done in good faith, Gawen. To end disputes before they can start. You mention the distrust you felt towards our offer, but imagine the position of ourselves, when we heard news of you. Does that not prove that we're sincere?"

  “You’ve never been sincere, Ombras.” Rowe folds his arms. "What does the Court gain by-"

  “Do you remember the last time our war reached this city?"

  Henri reaches out, grabbing his shoulder. Rowe doesn't respond, beyond a flare in those dulled brown eyes.

  "Of course the Court gains something. Of course I gain something. But you know what will happen if we try to offer the other Freeholds a hand. Please, Rowe. If for no other reason, it buys the mortals some time."

  Morris steps forward, even as Rowe is still clearly deep in thought. Harriet watches the Captain take a long breath. That sense of pride and authority, stolen from his voice. “With your permission, I’d like to serve in that honour. The city has changed, and I can offer direction in which-”

  “HIM!?" Menowin rears. "I’d sooner eat my fucking cock!"

  “Menowin!” Rowe cuts him off. Harriet keeps her eyes on the Captain. He’s fidgeting more than he did.

  “My name is respected,” he continues. “Have me at your side, and no Reeve will question you. And as Sovereign, I have the right to act in mine own interest. To assist yourselves and the Court. To follow directives only in the ways I see-”

  “We’ve never met, Captain,” Red interrupts, standing more fully. “But when’d ya finish yer time at Dartmouth?”

  Morris blinks. That stale tone has returned to his voice. “Twenty-one.”

  “An’ when was yer first assignment?”

  The Captain pauses. Nervous. “... Twelve.”

  “Mmm.” Red nods, before his brows furrow. “That’s what I thought. An' it's admirable, ta some folks. But Captain, don't tell us yer gonna act in yer own interest, when ya've been 'followin' directives' yer entire goddamn-"

  Before he can finish, Morris is unbuckling his scabbard. The other Unbound spring to action. Two revolvers and a rifle aimed his way. But the Captain doesn’t unsheathe his sword. Just lifts it towards the Black Prince, until the hilt matches their eyes.

  “You hail from Cornwall, do you not, my Lord? I was born in Devon. A small estate off Saltash, not forty miles away.”

  Rowe’s eyes don’t leave the hilt. “They didn’t speak my tongue in Devon, Captain.”

  “No. But they heard your words.”

  He pulls open the blade. Not all the way, just to the strength, but it’s shining and polished, the emblem of the Company that crafted it clear.

  “Since I was a boy, I’ve heard them in taverns and docks and buskers’ calls. And I've heard your name. The Prince in Black. The noble who fought nobles. The man who gave up his lands and titles and life for a peasant's dream.” Morris inhales. “And now that name is not a name. Now it is flesh and blood, eyes that look back at me, a voice that I know could use my aid."

  The blade warps the reflection of the ragged, dark-haired Prince. His skin cracked by sea salt. His face sallowed by years.

  “Your man is right. I am not Unbound. Your beliefs stir no flame in my chest, and I will never stop serving my country, in this life, or my last."

  Morris stares into the blade, as well. Yet for him, there’s only metal. The reflection is lost. As murky as the Thames water, as foggy as breath on glass.

  “Let me follow that name. Let me hear the words that have lingered in our lands for centuries. Let me see the man, Lord Rowe, so that I might learn how men like ourselves are remembered.”

  The blade recedes. The scabbard returned to the Captain’s belt. Rowe’s face hardens, and he shifts, looking to his men. Menowin folds his arms. Red slowly nods.

  “.... You may join us. You, and you alone.”

  Morris stands at attention again. “With honour.”

  "The others will hate this," Menowin whispers to her. "Rowe's kindness will be his grave."

  She's about to defend him, like Menowin no doubt expects her to, when Ombras suddenly claps. Working his way to Red with an impossibly wide smile. “Apologies, but that outfit of yours is fascinating. Where did you get it?

  "Texas."

  “Really?” The Shadow-Walker licks his lips. “My condolences, for the war and all. And the geddup… I’ve seen ‘cowboys’ in road shows, very bold, very Cossack, but I didn’t think there were actually-”

  “We've gotta few.” Red scowls. “But then… every country seems ta have funny people.”

  “Hahah. Ha. Heh.” Ombras flashes that massive smile again. “Do you drink? Debauch? Game? Rowe’s always been a prude, I know, but I was hoping his men would be a bit more loose!”

  “His men, or their wallets?” Menowin asks as he brushes past them. Ombras puts a hand on his chest.

  “I don’t quite like that intonation, Gypsy! You of all people should know the dangers of incriminating!"

  The men surge ahead, and Regina returns to the strange, white wagon, but for a moment, Harriet remains. Perhaps it’s something in her head, or the tricks this smog is playing on the city, but she swears she heard… no, she hears it again. Chittering and chattering. She puts Pa's gun in her hands and swivels towards the source. A pile of crates, on the far side of the wharf, where the streetlights don’t reach a mass of fencing and broken windows.

  Curious, she squints, and takes one careful step, then two-

  “Don’t.” An arm grabs her. At once, she yelps, leaping back and aiming the gun at her attacker. Her breath only barely relaxes when she sees the Captain once more.

  “Springfield musket. A quality gun, I've been told.” His eyes scan the weapon. “I'm surprised you handle the weight so well."

  She’s silent. Takes her thumb off the trigger, but doesn’t lower the barrel. The Captain doesn’t seem to mind, his focus shifting back to the crates.

  “You’re not supposed to look back at them.”

  “Huh?"

  “The eyes they send. We all pretend we can’t see each other. More courteous, that way.”

  She hears him reach down, mess with his belt, and instantly pushes Pa's steel into his neck. As always, Morris barely moves. Just slowly lifts his arm until she can see his pistol, dangling by two fingers. "Shoot it."

  It’s an old thing; a muzzle-loaded pistol with specks of dirt that can’t be cleaned. It must be discontinued. She’s never heard of the model. Harriet lifts her brow at him, still unsure.

  It makes him laugh. “Did the Gypsy tell you not to trust me?”

  "He didn't need ta tell me."

  The Captain smiles. "Smart."

  Carefully, Harriet takes the pistol, letting her rifle fall to the side. She knows that Morris is watching her. Inspecting her form. But she just focuses on the crates. Breathes in--

  The bullet pierces clean through the wood, but no person screams, no shots are fired back. Instead, a half-dozen birds spring to the sky. Black as crows, but far, far larger. They charge into the smog. Sailing over the waters, the smokestacks, their caws echoing in her ears until they sink into that stenchful cloud and lose themselves to all.

  “The Rookery.” Morris announces. “They can speak to animals. The ravens are trained."

  “Rookery?" She squints. "Ain't heard a' no Rookery. 'At a Court thing, or..."

  “No.” He extends his arm, waiting for the pistol. “Freeholder.”

  She scowls. The pistol doesn't move. “I know the Freeholders. They wouldn't spy on us."

  The Captain reaches out. Slowly taking the pistol in hand. She doesn't stop him, and the weight eventually leaves her fingers. The Captain kneels down.

  “I’m going to tell you something, Fireside. Something your leader already knows, something every human who walks onto this dock needs to hear. In this city, you will be watched. Every book you read, every street you cross, and every bowl of stew you buy will be seen by someone, and known."

  He stands back up, looking down with pitch-black eyes.

  “Don't mistake of thinking you'll only be watched by one."

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  2004

  Harriet stares at herself in the mirror, bright red lips hanging open. “I can’t go out like this.”

  “But you look great,” Astrid whispers back.

  “That’s the problem.”

  For the briefest of moments, she had allowed herself to hope. When Soteris told her they were going out, after a month of stale air and glass windows, she actually allowed herself to feel… excited. Between philosophy readings, she’d find herself pondering where he’d take her. The movies? A concert? Or maybe a park. She could use a park. Maybe he misses trees as much as she does.

  But now that she’s here, trapped in her walk-in closet with Astrid helping her into her dress, she realises how deeply she underestimated Soteris Chrysanthou’s cruelty. How foolish she truly was.

  It’s a gala dress. A gala dress. A luxurious gown the colour of lapis lazuli, growing ever more sequined the closer it nears her matching blue heels. The measurements are precise; he had this shit custom-made. Expanding her waist, thinning her hips, and cupping her breasts at just the point where her entire collarbone is visible. Astrid’s touch is to tuck a blue rose over her ear. And the make-up?

  No.

  She doesn't even want to describe the make-up.

  Harriet can see the jealousy this get-up wants to spark. The whispers that will sprout. The heads that will turn. She looks both 19 and 30. Demonic and mouse-like. She feels like she’s wearing ten-thousand quid.

  And that’s because she probably is.

  “Bet yer havin’ the time a’ yer life,” Harriet pouts. “Gettin' ta dress me up like a Jane Austen character.”

  Astrid’s head pokes into the mirror’s view. “You’ve read Jane Austen?”

  “Th-” Harriet stops. Makes a face. “... Janet kept copies in her van.”

  “Well, I fink you should look at it as a step up.” The dhaoine rosín shrugs. “You keep vexin’ ‘bout goin’ outside! Shows ‘e trusts you.”

  “Oh, please.” Harriet scowls. “This has Randall written all over it.”

  It’s almost become a ritual. After every test, she comes back up to the apartment, and Soteris is right there, no matter what meeting he had to cancel. He asks her a dozen questions. What they tested, with what, for how long? She tells him she doesn’t know, that it’s sciency mumbo jumbo, that Randall’s cagey and should be asked instead. But Soteris never wants Randall’s answers.

  “I should be there,” he keeps telling her. “You people could be mucking it up, for all I know. It’s in my Sovereignty. I should be there.”

  He never comes, but even so, it’s hard for Harriet to find the joy she expected from gaining this power over him. Soteris just has a way about himself that makes any reaction hard to predict. Some days, he’s all business, barely noticing her presence. Others he’s all over her, critiquing every mis-posture, testing her on Hobbes and Hume. And then sometimes he just... flips completely. They spend hours talking, about his struggles, about her day. He’ll even ask her what she wants for dinner, if there’s any books or knickknacks or flowers he might get her. It's overwhelming.

  Today has the feeling of a bad day. That’s the only pattern she knows. Bad days always come the day after she tests with Randall.

  She scowls into the mirror. “I can’t, like, wear a suit or somethin’? Women wear suits. Thatcher wore suits. Dresses aren’t the future of Britain.”

  Astrid chuckles. “Uhhh, not sure you wanna cop Thatcher’s look ‘ere, ‘Arriet.”

  “Why? ‘Cause it will give Soteris a hard-on?”

  Astrid bites her lip. “... ‘Ave you seen the guest list?”

  She sounds serious. Harriet pauses. Her eyes searching. “No? Why would I care who-”

  “‘Arriet.” Astrid struggles to hide her smile. “You’re gonna meet the Prime Minister!"

  A rush of wind. A wave of fabric. By the time Astrid’s back up, having been pushed over in some hurried rush, Harriet’s nowhere to be seen. “‘ARRIET!?”

  "I'm not goin'." It comes from the corner. Two ornate dark blue heels tucked behind racks of clothes.

  “Wha-...” Astrid huffs. “You ‘ave to go!”

  Instead of a reply, Astrid watches the heels get closer together.

  “I-... He's, like, the most important man in Britain! Don't you wanna meet him?"

  “Oh, I wanna meet him.” Harriet pokes her head out, so that Astrid can see her scowl. “But I wanna meet him armed.”

  She ducks back in while Astrid stares wildly. “Wh-... what’s wrong wiff Tony Blair? He’s Labour, right? I thought you liked ‘ose guys!”

  Harriet loudly laughs. “Where ya wan’ me ta start?”

  “Well, I like him!” Astrid says it dramatically, like it wasn’t obvious. “He seems nice, an’ he’s helpin’ people, an’... I dunno, he’s kinda handsome.”

  Harriet's groan reverberates through the closet. “Astrid, here’s an idea.” She leaves the little cubby and presses her hands together. “Why don’t you go ta the gala? Since yer such a dyin’ fan?”

  “Wha? Me?” Astrid taps her chest. “Why would I go?”

  Because one of us LIKES being a show dog, she thinks. But Astrid would probably think it a compliment. “What if someone from the Court’s there!? Ain’t exactly a great many red-haired vamps!”

  “But you don’t LOOK like a vamp!” Astrid gestures wildly. “You look spic an’ span! You look beautiful!”

  “But ya know rich people. Ya have sex with them all the time! An’, no offense, but if he’s ploughin’ both our fields, wouldn’t it make more sense ta bring the-”

  “Ploughin’...” Astrid squints. “... fields?”

  Harriet stops. “Astrid, don’t play coy.”

  “I-I’m not sure I-”

  “Please. The comments, the gestures. An’ that trip ta Cyprus, what happened there? Did ya two jes’ get ice cream? Ride ferris wheels?”

  Astrid’s eyes go wide. “A-Arriet, it’s not what yer thinkin’-”

  “What should I be thinkin’?”

  “We’re just friends.”

  “Friends who sleep with each other?”

  “Once. We tried it once. A-A-And we were more just curious than-”

  “Astrid. I don’t care. Honestly, I prefer it! But that’s the point. He’s got a flock a’ girls he can have see Tony fluppin' Blair. If he’s choosin’ me, it’s ‘cause-”

  “He doesn’t.”

  Astrid interrupts, her voice softer. She's scratching at her arm.

  “Th-the flock. It’s gone.”

  Harriet puts a hand on her hip. “Astrid, this a bad time ta lie ta me.”

  “Ain’t lyin’.”

  “Astrid,his PA’s got cuff keys. There’s no way-”

  “I saw him do it meself. I-...” Astrid bites her lip, and inhales. “... he did it to me.”

  Harriet steps back. There’s pain in Astrid’s voice. Hurt and confusion and betrayal. “Wh-... when did he… why would he…?”

  “He did it the day after he got you.”

  There’s a beep from the door. Soteris walking in. Calling them. But Harriet doesn’t hear. Her mind is lost in morass, overwhelmed by information, trying to capture rogue pieces. Why? Why go on dates? Why make her dinners? She’s his captive, that’s all he needs, but-

  "Fireside is for us."

  She remembers how warm his kiss felt on her lips.

  "Fireside will make us human."

  She storms out of the closet before Astrid can react.

  “Wait! ‘Arriet! We’re not-”

  The door slams into the wall, and she’s marching toward him, so used to the heels that she no longer slips. She pulls her hand back, then forward, aiming for his cheek before the Keeping intervenes. The force of its magic jolts her, like she’s just hit a wall. Undeterred, Harriet tries again. A third time. On the fourth, he plucks out the frozen palm and brings it to his lips.

  “Mmm.” After a quick kiss, Soteris lets go, eyeing her up and down. “You look gorgeous today.”

  “Kill yerself.” Harriet turns around. Wagering that she’ll piss him off more by hiding over-

  “Stop.” He sets himself on her bed, ignoring the angry twitches her frozen body gives. “Turn around.” She turns. “Arm’s up.” Her arms are up. “I want to see you.”

  And Harriet’s back. Back to dread, and fear, and that crawling sensation that she’s just a doll on display. Soteris doesn’t stir from the bed, his eyes moving slow, like he’s memorising each detail.

  “You’ve outdone yourself, Astrid. She’s fit for the Court. Truly one of us.”

  Harriet stays focused on his eyes. Depthful, and blazing, the colour of Sun gold.