I stand there, eyes shut, lips still pursed, tongue half-out like a fool chasing smoke. Heat floods my face. De’s chuckle is low, fond, merciless.
I blink, grin, shuffle my feet like a scolded girl. “Goodbye, De. In case the road doesn’t cross again. I’ll miss you.”
Her smile is small, real. “Same, Evie. Stay alive.”
The door clicks shut behind me. The weight lands—clean, final, the way a head thumps into the basket. This chapter is severed.
Tears prick, hot and sudden and I let them come, but only for the length of the landing. Rats of regret scurry up my neck, whispering.You paid them in coin and compliments, never in truth. You called them friends while keeping them at arm’s length.I see Sparrow’s crooked grin, Sirena’s striped door, the Twins’ closed door. All slipping away because I helped shove them out.
Good. Let them be gone before the city learns what I am. None of them—least of all Sirena, whose life I bought with another’s—would stomach the smell of Maude’s burning hair.
I swipe the wet from my cheeks, straightening. Too late for apologies, and I don’t want to give them, anyway. Gray’s warmth drapes my shoulders like a cloak forged of resolve.
With one last glance at the faded sign—De-Vil’s Delights—I step through the side door and pull it closed. The latch snicks like a neck bone.
Maybe in another life.
Chapter Thirteen
I rideAda out into the bright midday sun. The clouds have thinned to wisps since this morning and a cool breeze carries the promise of rain and a salty whisper from the distant sea. A storm’s coming in a few hours, but I’ll aim to be home before it breaks. For now, I let the city speak—hooves clopping, voices overlapping, the pulse of London thick in the air. I drift without direction until the Tower looms again, slowing as I pass the work entrance and spot a gleaming black carriage with Crown livery, pulled by a pair of enormous draft horses.
My gut twists. Richard. I’m not ready to face him, but he’s here, at my workplace. Panic spikes and I dig my heels into Ada’s flanks harder than intended. She snorts in outrage and surges forward, carrying us across the Thames to Borough Market. It’s the loudest, most chaotic corner of the city, ideal for both eavesdropping and vanishing.
I stable Ada nearby, slip her a treat, and murmur apologies for the rough kick. She’s skittish, ears pinned, dodging my hand at first; it unnerves me so I talk softly, coaxing, wishing I could decode her grunts and snuffles. She finally relaxes, letting me wrap my arms around her neck and I stroke the trophies braided into her mane without thinking, listening to her heart thunder down to a steady rhythm. I notice the hair around my victims’ locks fading, bleaching to a pale grey.
Ada’s heartbeat steadies, and mine follows. I step back, give her a quick brush-down, then pull on my mask and hat before slipping into the market’s midday roar. Hawkers bark deals over heaps of wilted greens and dubious fish; urchins flit likeshadows, pockets lighter by the second. Beggars rattle cups, whores flash ankles and promise more for a coin. The chatter is familiar—witches, burnings, the lord with the charred groin—until a new thread surfaces.
“That royal constable? Two pyres in a fortnight. I also heard he burnt a witch up in York. Mark my words, he’ll have the killer who murdered the Lord and the man in the woods locked up before long.”
A slurred bellow slices through the noise and I edge closer, pausing at a fruit stall to buy two apples, then lean against a wall nearby, biting into one while I watch.
The man is shirtless, bald, face boiled red with drink. His trousers are a map of vomit, mud, and worse. He clutches a bottle like a prayer and roars to no one in particular.
“They killed my wife! The bastard… killed my Blair, my beautiful Blair…” He trails off, gulps from the bottle and draws a ragged breath like a man readying for battle. “They called her a witch! But she wasn’t! She was a good, God-loving woman, and they burnt her for it!” he bellows.
His voice cracks as he slumps against the wall, sobbing in wet, drunken hiccups. “I’ll kill ’em… I’ll kill ’em all… even the king…” The last words slur into a whisper.
I reach into my coin purse that's attached to my belt and I flick a coin. It pings off his chest.
“You’ll do what?”
“I’ll kill them all! Even the king!” He lurches upright from the wall, swaying, eyes scanning the crowd for the source. I melt behind a stall and into the mouth of an alley, peering out as the market freezes to watch.
I want no part of the centre ring, but I’m not leaving the show.
A bystander steps in, daring him to repeat it. Words flare into shouts. Fists clench. Just as the first punch cocks back, a voice like a cannon cracks across the square.
“Clear off, clear off! Break it up! City Guard!”
The mob pivots and William Richard strides through, constables fanning behind him. I sink deeper into the shadows, my mask hiding everything but my eyes.
Richard parts the crowd with the casual authority of a man who knows no one will test him. His hardwood club juts forward like a royal warrant; the wood is mirror-bright, oiled to a sheen. I know weapons, and that stick is loved the way I love Malenia—though his affection probably stops short of midnight blood rituals.
He plants the tip against the drunk’s sternum and shoves him flat to the wall. “Who, exactly, are you planning to kill?”
The man blinks, the fog of liquor thinning under raw adrenaline. Recognition dawns and his face cycles from shock to fury in a heartbeat. “You murdered her, you bastard!”
Richard tilts an eyebrow and the club whistles through the air, thumping onto the drunk’s temple. The blow isn’t brutal, just precise, and the man folds like wet parchment. I hate that I’m impressed.
