Just as we passed the lamppost, someone leapt up and grabbed the woman’s legs. The sudden weight snapped her neck. I saw the panicked light leave her eyes as we trundled away—eyes that, though they saw nothing more in this world, gouged into mine.
Markings appeared on the woman’s throat, around the noose. Soft, glinting copper tendrils, like ivy, crept into wakefulness as her life faded. For a few terrible moments they stood out, pulsing with the beat of her dying heart.
The crowd roared in approval, their bloodthirsty cries only increasing as the woman’s Entwined threads faded back into her now swollen, reddened skin—marking her death.
Then we were through. Mr. Stoke slumped back on the bench, his expression pale with shock and a resigned, bitter rage. I sat straight on the edge of my own bench, staring back at the hanged woman without truly seeing her.
Instead, I saw myself. I saw my sisters. I saw that helmeted soldier, resting the carved box in a nest of cotton. I saw threat and danger, and felt a hot rush of desperation.
“It’s getting worse,” Mr. Stoke observed grimly. “Did you see the police in the crowd?”
“No,” I said tonelessly.
“There were several. They did not try to stop it. No one did.”
“They are too afraid,” I observed. “Or they agree, or they do not care. Apathy is a deadly thing.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Stoke swore under his breath and pulled his hat from his head, slapping it onto the seat next to him. His dark hair, gradually lightening with an influx of grey, was mussed. “This cannot continue, Miss Fleet. Such cruelty, such brazen violence. This is not the city I grew up in.”
“The city you grew up in was ruled by Entwined,” I commented, though my mind was tumbling away from him, the hanged woman, and even the city itself. The guilt that had beset me earlier at Mr. Stoke’s talk of the future was gone, replaced with singular determination. “From what I hear that was no better. The problem, I fear, is not with the differences between humans or Entwined, but that which we share—prejudice, and avarice.”
Mr. Stoke was quiet for a time, resting one hand on the box at his side. “That’s insightful, Miss Fleet.”
The words were my mother’s, plucked from a speech she had given to the Continental Guilds when I was a child, but I could not admit that.
“Thank you, sir. Should I send word to Lord Stillwell, to retrieve the artifact and settle accounts? For tomorrow evening, perhaps.” I looked back out the window, noting the quality of the darkness. I would have enough time to get home before dawn, and the twilight that heralded it, but only just. “Or rather, that would be today.”
Mr. Stoke looked discomforted, even a little appalled that I had moved past the hanging so quickly, but whatever he saw in my face tempered him. “Yes, thank you.”
I nodded stoutly. “Very good, sir.”
A NOTEUPON: THEENTWINED OF THEMOON
Entwined of the Moon fall into the following classes of mage: Silver, Twilight, Starlight, and Sightless. Their abilities respond to moonlight, or the absence of light entirely.
Entwined of the Moon are, quite rightly, considered to be more dangerous than their daylight counterparts, from the Silver’s affinities towards physical violence to the Moonless’s ability to wield shadows.
The Vigilant Lady Traveller must not hesitate to distance herself, or defend herself, in the presence of such mages.
FROMTHEVIGILANTLADYTRAVELLER:
A GENTLEWOMAN’SGUIDE TO THEWORLD
Iwas many things: sister, daughter, and faux fiancée. I was secretary, swordswoman, and connoisseur of scandalous novels. But I could, in no way, claim to be a mountaineer.
Only a flailing grab for the balcony saved me. With my foot tangled in my skirts and my woeful climbing skills stretched far beyond their limits, I toppled from the wisteria and clutched at the rail like a drowning sailor. The wisteria gave a rustle of protest, showering my face with dead leaves, curling seed pods, and plaster dust as I hauled myself onto my balcony.
My landlady, true to her word, had locked me out of the building in protest to my wayward ways. My home was situated on one of the octagonal courtyards signature to Old Harrow, with apartments to every side and several deep archways leading out to the streets, each barred by ornate gates. Balconies, like the one I had so gracelessly deposited myself on, marked each of the six stories. They were decorated by elaborate railings and fine, curling moldings clung about with ivy, climbing roses and thankfully, rampant wisteria.
On a summer day the courtyard was lovely, faced with pastel plasters and blessed with the warm sun on the patterned paving stones. But here on a dark autumn night, dead plants rustling and the only light from the occasional illuminated window, my nerves frayed.
Dawn was nearly upon me, and I needed to be in the shelter of my room before true twilight.
I stood and dusted off my hands, flicked stray bits of hair from my eyes, and removed the wedge that held the balcony door open just enough to let in a small calico cat.
Tiny paws hit the floor and the cat in question came to twine around my legs. Bending, I scooped him up and planted a kiss between his ears. “Hello, Hieronymus. Heavens, you smell of cigars. Climbing in the neighbors’ windows again?”
Hieronymus forced his head into my hand, demanding a scratch.
