Nathan Gascoigne’s funeral was a quiet affair, attended by Margaret and Martin and a few of their close friends. Margaret was distraught, blaming herself and anyone nearby for the death of her father. Cillian had gone over after the service to try and speak with her, only to be cursed away. He tried to talk with Martin about revenge, but Martin turned him away as well, not because he was ready to let the matter rest, but because he had seen the results of Cillian’s so-called charisma. Cillian left the service alone, Sam nowhere to be seen, and Brendon stayed with Margaret by the grave until long after the rest had left. Shortly after the funeral, Martin went to Jacques to ask for his help locating the Scuttlers, a request Jacques flat-out refused.

  “Our resources do not exist for you to settle personal vendettas. I’ve warned you already about getting involved with cases like this. There is no gain for you or our master to pursue this vendetta.”

  Sly similarly refused to help.

  “Look, Martin. I know a few people on both sides of this thing, and I have no interest in getting in the middle of a gang war. Nate rushed in and escalated this thing, throwing yourself into it is only going to lead to more dead bodies.”

  Without any network of his own, Martin was left to stew in his regret, keeping himself away from the bars to avoid losing himself in the same spiral that had claimed the original Martin. The month passed by slowly as Martin tried to lose himself in routine. He continued to visit the church for weekly mass, avoiding the confessional even after Jacques' little birds had investigated and reported back that his church had only the weakest of the Church's spellcraft protecting it. Jacques was unable to unearth any information about the woman in white Martin had seen, so he decided it was safer not to take the risk.

  Work at the dockyard continued as usual. He would have the occasional word with Harrow when the opportunity presented itself, but Harrow was always noncommittal, and Martin was too wary of getting on Harrow’s bad side to push his case too much. Similarly lacking in progress was his search in the library. At this point, he had pretty much exhausted all the newspapers in the library’s collection and hadn’t found anything that could give him any insight into who he was or what had happened to his family. Jacques had warned him pretty clearly to keep his expectations low, but Martin still found it discouraging to be no closer to finding the truth of his past or claiming his revenge. The only thing he could do was continue to keep Elisia’s face in his mind so as not to forget the last thing tying him to his old life.

  He had learned to keep this silent to avoid upsetting Boudica with any more remnants from his old life slipping out into his new identity. He and Boudica had found their own rhythm, it seemed. She was still not completely trusting of his new pursuits of reading and cutting back on the drinking and dice, and knowing that he was regularly attending church was a wall between them that no amount of acting or presents could tear down. Still, she had seemingly stopped worrying about him for now, as her brother took priority. Stories came in every so often about the terrors befalling the Northern Village, but nothing had been substantiated with evidence.

  Since his last letter, Boudica had written back twice, urging Connach to move his family into the capital. There wasn’t much space in Martin and Boudica’s home, but it was enough to get them started until something more permanent could be arranged. Despite Boudica’s hatred of the church, she could still admit its power gave Alderbridge a level of protection not found in the countryside. Connach had yet to reply, and Boudica made a point of checking the mailbox as soon as she heard the postman go by.

  While both he and Boudica agonized over the lack of news and progress, Martin could at least take some pride in his training. His shooting lessons with George and Jacques had continued, and he reckoned he now could shoot about as well as any commissioned officer. They weren’t able to practice rifle shooting well in that small target range, but Jacques had done what he could to familiarize him with a rifle to the extent that a real soldier would be. He could clean one out and load it blindfolded at this point. Along with that, his close-quarters combat skills were also improving. He sparred weekly with Jacques, and while still far from being Jacques’ equal, he was able to last longer now in their spars, and Jacques dubbed him no longer the worst Faceless he had ever taught.

  As for Aelar, he had not been seen since shortly after that night at the Black Dog. When asked about his whereabouts, Jacques would simply say that he was preoccupied with his mission, and if all went to plan, they would hear the results soon. Martin continued to practice the breathing routine Aelar had taught him. That, combined with his practice with the dagger and lighter, brought him to a new level of comfort with his powers and helped calm the rage in his heart over Nate’s death.

  Despite these improvements, Martin did not evaluate his own abilities too highly. While he was reasonably confident about being able to win a fight against the average person, compared to someone with Cosmic power, he was still little more than a punching bag. Even armed with a pistol and his improved combat ability, Martin had little doubt he would last but a moment were he to face the servant of the Beautiful Goddess again by himself, and no amount of bullets would save him from falling into a spell like the one the Weaver God had trapped him in. Even with the progress he had made, he felt about as powerless and lost as he had when he first pulled himself out of the river.

  When he broached the topic with Jacques, he urged him again to be patient. Jacques had a new metaphor each time he had asked, comparing him to a kite in a storm, a caterpillar on a leaf, and, most recently and chillingly, given recent events, an ant on a spider’s web. He did agree, however, to give him a few more academic lessons, and he was beginning to have a clearer picture of the Cosmics who were present in the world, and some of their powers and abilities.

  Martin was trying to supplement this esoteric knowledge with more worldly knowledge. He had been taking out more pulpy novels from the library so as not to alarm Boudica too much, but now he was slipping in the occasional non-fiction work. Boudica would raise her eyebrow when she saw the titles, but didn’t comment. As he read through some of the tomes on economics or the basic scientific principles, he had a feeling that his past self had been familiar with a lot of these principles. From his speech patterns and the amount of knowledge he maintained from his past self, he had guessed he had been somewhat well-off. Now, he was reasonably sure he had received at least a rudimentary education.

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  To round off the academic with the worldly, he had been trying to increase the variety of stories he was reading with Will each week. Anything Will didn’t want to read or couldn’t, he would finish off in his own time before disposing of the paper, but Martin found the stories he read with Will particularly rewarding, not just from seeing the improvement in Will’s reading ability, but also from getting his perspective on things. He was a street urchin with limited knowledge of the outside world, but he was connected to Alderbridge in a way Martin wasn’t. He knew what the increase in the cost of flour meant for the bakers, and by extension for his boys who had to beg for bread. He was even able to furnish gossip on more than a few figures that made Martin laugh. As this month waiting for Aelar’s auspicious time passed by, these reading lessons with Will, and the occasional night out with Sly and the dockers, were the few moments of peace Martin had. He was headed there this afternoon for their weekly session.

  The Park of the Daughter offered its usual respite from the hustle and bustle of the city streets. Sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the well-trodden paths that criss-crossed the grassy expanse. Martin made his way down one of those paths, the rhythmic click of his boots echoing on the cobblestones.

  As he approached their usual meeting spot, he saw Will sitting on a weathered bench, engaged in animated conversation with a girl who sat beside him. Will’s unruly golden hair caught the sunlight, framing his face as he gestured to go along with his story, causing the girl’s laughter to ring out and mingle with the rustle of the leaves overhead.

  Curious as to who Will would have brought along, Martin quickened his pace slightly and approached the pair. “Good afternoon, Will,” he greeted with a warm smile.

  Will looked up, his eyes somehow brightening even more. “Martin! You’re just in time.” He exclaimed, gesturing for Martin to join them on the bench. “This is Eliza. She works at the matchstick factory on Tallow Street.”

  Martin took a seat and turned his attention to the young girl sitting beside Will. Eliza’s face was partially obscured by the brim of the large sun hat she wore. Still, Martin could see that under her youthful eyes, her face was beginning to show the early symptoms of phossy jaw, a disease that often plagued matchstick girls in Alderbridge.

  The girls were responsible for dipping the match tips into a paste of white phosphorus. Gloves were typically forbidden, as they made handling the thin pieces of wood too unwieldy. The hours of direct exposure in their cramped, poorly-ventilated rooms made the work incredibly dangerous. Eliza’s cheeks were slightly swollen and discolored, and her lips were drawn perpetually into a slight grimace. Despite this, she did her best to smile at him, exposing a few emaciated teeth. In time, the disease would only worsen, pulling the cheeks further back to expose a mouth of rotting and missing teeth, until the disease eventually claimed her life.

  Martin couldn’t help but think of his own Elisia, who would likely be around the same age as Eliza, and couldn’t imagine his own daughter suffering from such an affliction. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Eliza,” he said kindly, offering her a sympathetic smile.

  “Likewise,” she said. “Will has had so much to say about you. It’s nice to finally meet you,” Eliza spoke kindly, but Martin could see a hint of sadness in her eyes, and her voice was tinged with resignation.

  They settled in for a light chat, but Martin could tell there was something more serious on both of their minds. He finally decided he was the adult in this situation and he should try to help. “So, what brings you to the park today, Eliza?”

  Will and Eliza shared a glance before Will spoke up for them. “You see, Martin. It’s about one of her coworkers. She’s gone missing. Tell him, Eliza.”

  An immediate sense of dread rose in Martin, but upon seeing her hesitate, he offered a soft, “It’s okay to tell me, Eliza. If there’s something I can do to help, I will.”

  Seeing both of their kind faces looking at her allowed her to steel herself, and she began to tell them about her friend and coworker.

  “Her name is Lily,” she explained. “We’ve worked together at the factory since we were old enough to dip the matches. She went missing three nights ago.”

  Martin exchanged a glance with Will. There was one likely end to a missing girl in Alderbridge these days—The Grey Man. However, neither of them was willing to put that out into the air.

  “That’s terrible,” Martin said instead. “Have you informed the authorities?”

  Eliza nodded, her gaze dropping to her hands folded in her lap. “Yes, but they don’t seem to be taking it seriously. They say she’s likely just run off, but I know Lily—she wouldn’t leave without telling anyone.”

  Martin wasn’t surprised by that. It wasn’t uncommon for the authorities to turn a blind eye to the plight of the lower classes; he had just gone through that firsthand with Gascoigne. Alderbridge was the largest city in the Eldamris empire and riddled with crime. Even without the menace of the Grey Man, there were far too many crannies for a girl to disappear into and never come out.

  “Is there anyone else Lily would talk to? Someone who might know where Lily has gone?”

  “Not really. I’ve spoken to all the other matchstick girls, but no one knows anything. Just…”

  “What is it?” Will asked. “Even if it’s small, it might be helpful.

  “Lily never told me about this, which is why I’m not sure it’s worth mentioning, as she would tell me everything, but a few of the other girls mentioned she was seeing someone recently. A chandler by the name of Graham.”

  “I’ll check with my boys. We’ll find where Graham lives and pay him a visit. Won’t we, Martin?” Will said, his voice filled with bravado.

  “I’m not quite as connected as Will, but I’ll ask around and see what I can find. If it comes to a visit to this Graham, we’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you. Thank you both.” Eliza replied, a tear forming in her eye.

  Instead of their usual lesson, Will did his best to cheer Eliza up and take her mind off her friend. Will read an article or two to show off, and then tried his hand at teaching her the hard-earned basics he had picked up. Martin praised him or scolded him as appropriate to get a smile out of Eliza. After an hour or so, they decided to call it quits, Will leaving to walk Eliza back to the dormitory she shared with the other matchstick girls. Martin sat at the bench a while longer, reading through the rest of the articles in today’s paper, but hardly paying them any attention.

  Elisia. Margaret. Eliza. Lily.

  He wondered if someone above was giving him another shot to save an innocent, or if this was some hell he had damned himself to by making his pact with a Cosmic deity. Although he recognized his hypocrisy, he said a quick prayer to the True Creator that this story would reach a happier end than the last.