She kept walking.

  Greybridge Road bent southward toward the river. The buildings thinned on the left, and then the River Thein was there—grey-brown and slow, smelling of brine and silt, barges sitting low in the current.

  Florence was halfway across the bridge when she spotted them.

  Two men, standing at the far end of the bridge where the pavement widened into a small triangular plaza. They wore the heavy leather trench coats she had come to recognize, dark and reinforced at the shoulders, the collars high and stiff. Silver insignia glinted at their lapels—the open eye of the Department of Arcane Affairs, catching what thin light the morning offered.

  The taller of the two was leaning against the railing, arms folded, watching the foot traffic with the loose, patient attention of someone on a shift that had not yet become interesting. His partner—shorter, broader, with a square jaw and the kind of posture that suggested he had been told to stand up straight so many times as a boy that it had calcified into permanence—was turning something over in his hands. A pocket watch, silver-cased, the chain looped through his waistcoat button. He flicked it open, glanced at the face, closed it. Turned it over. Ran his thumb across the back of the case, where the engraved insignia caught the light. Opened it again.

  Florence smiled before she could stop herself. Something about the coats, the insignia, the way they stood—it put her in mind of Thomas. The same dark leather, the same silver eye at the lapel, the same habit of watching a street the way other people watched a stage. She wondered if he knew them.

  She was still smiling when the shorter one looked up from his watch.

  His eyes moved across her face. Then down to the satchel. Then back to her face. Something shifted in his expression—a tightening, a sharpening, the specific recalibration of a man whose morning had just become more interesting than expected.

  He nudged his partner's arm. Pointed.

  Florence's stride faltered. She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the pavement behind her for whatever had drawn the attention. A man in a wool coat. A woman pushing a pram. A boy on a bicycle weaving between pedestrians with the cheerful recklessness of someone who had not yet learned about consequences.

  Nothing unusual. She turned back.

  They were walking toward her.

  Florence stopped. Her fingers found the strap of the satchel and tightened. She looked left, then right, then down at herself, conducting a rapid inventory of possible infractions. Was she standing in a restricted area? Had she crossed at the wrong signal? Was it the revolver—could they sense it somehow, smell the gunpowder, detect the iron through the canvas—

  Oh no, the revolver.

  The two inspectors reached her. The taller one approached with his hands visible, posture open, expression professionally neutral. His partner was half a step behind, still holding the pocket watch, and his expression was not neutral at all.

  Florence pointed at herself. "Me?"

  They stopped. The taller one opened his mouth.

  "The Saintess of the Swan!" the shorter one said.

  The words landed like a brick thrown through a window. Florence felt the flush hit her face with the force of a physical blow—a wave of heat that started at her collar and climbed with ruthless efficiency, flooding her cheeks, her ears, the bridge of her nose. Every ounce of composure she had built over the course of the morning—the walking, the navigating, the quiet pride of a girl finding her feet in a new city—evaporated in an instant, replaced by the specific, full-body mortification of a person whose name had been printed in a newspaper and was now being spoken aloud by a stranger on a bridge.

  "I—" Florence started.

  The taller inspector's elbow connected with his partner's ribs. Not gently.

  "Ahem." He cleared his throat with the pointed emphasis of a man who had been doing this for some time and had not yet given up hope. "Apologies for my partner, Miss Bannerman. He read the Standard this morning and I'm afraid it's been the only thing on his mind since. We were among the officers dispatched to the Swan last night." He inclined his head, a small, respectful motion. "It's an honour, miss."

  Florence's mouth performed several abortive attempts at a sentence.

  "Ye—thank you. I mean—no, that's—it was nothing. I didn't—" She swallowed. Tried again. "Thank you. Both of you. That's very kind."

  The words came out in the wrong order and at slightly different volumes, and Florence was fairly certain she had thanked them for something without being entirely clear on what. The taller inspector either didn't notice or was polite enough to pretend.

  "Inspector Calloway," he said, touching his lapel. "And this is Inspector Whitford. D.A.A., Central District."

  "Miss Bannerman," Florence said, and immediately felt foolish, because they already knew that, because they had just said her name, because it was in the newspaper.

  Calloway smiled. It was a good smile—warm without being familiar, professional without being cold. He had the face of a man who had learned early that people responded better to calm than to authority.

  "We won't take much of your time, Miss Bannerman. We just have a few questions, if you'd be willing."

  Florence's stomach tightened. "Have I done something wrong?"

  "Not at all," Calloway said, raising a hand. "Nothing like that. There's been some petty crime in the area over the past day—started yesterday morning, actually—and we're doing routine enquiries. Speaking with anyone we encounter on the route."

  Florence blinked. "Petty crime? Like pickpockets?" She looked from Calloway to Whitford and back. "Shouldn't the constabulary be handling that?"

  "Under normal circumstances, yes," Calloway said. "But there's reason to believe this particular pickpocket is using magic."

  Whitford leaned in, his brow furrowed with the genuine puzzlement of a man who had been turning a problem over in his head and couldn't make it sit straight. "That's the part I can't work out. Why would a mage resort to lifting purses? Simply being a registered mage is profitable. Private sector, government contracts, consulting work. Even a Tier 6 can make a decent living. Pickpocketing is—" He shook his head. "It's beneath the investment."

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "Well," Calloway said, his tone measured, "we aren't entirely certain it is magic. The Grid hasn't detected any arcane activity in the area matching the incidents. No mana spikes, no signature flags. But the victims describe losing their belongings in ways that don't add up. Purses vanishing from closed bags. Coin pouches disappearing from buttoned coat pockets. No physical contact, no jostling, nothing out of the ordinary. Just there one moment and gone the next."

  He paused, choosing his words.

  "Our working theory is that whoever is responsible may be using an artifact of some kind to mask their magical signature from the Grid. It's the most plausible explanation for the discrepancy."

  Whitford folded his arms. "Could also be the Grid malfunctioning again. Wouldn't be the first time this month."

  Calloway let out a slow breath through his nose. It was a small sound, but it carried the weight of a man who had heard this particular observation before and did not find it reassuring.

  "The Grid is being monitored more closely now," he said. "After last night, they've doubled the watch on every district station." He turned back to Florence, and the professional ease returned to his expression. "Apologies, Miss Bannerman. The questions. We won't keep you much longer."

  Florence shook her head. "No, please. Of course. Ask whatever you need."

  Calloway smiled again. "Could I see your Imperial Magus permit, miss? Just for our records."

  Florence froze.

  It was a small freeze—a hitch in her breathing, a stiffening of the shoulders that lasted no more than a second—but it was there. This was the first time anyone had asked her for papers. The permit was new, barely a day old, and some part of her still expected someone to look at it and announce that there had been a mistake, that this document was not meant for a baker's daughter from Briar's Crossing, that she should hand it back and go home.

  Calloway read the hesitation. "Don't worry, miss. Standard protocol. We ask everyone."

  Florence nodded. She opened the satchel and found the card in the inner pocket where she kept it beside the pamphlet. It was stiff in her fingers, the ink still relatively fresh, the Registry seal stamped in dark red across the bottom corner. She held it out.

  Calloway took it, glanced at the front, turned it over once. His eyes moved across the printed lines—quick, practiced, already satisfied before he'd finished. He handed it back.

  "All in order, Miss Bannerman."

  Florence tucked it away, her fingers still slightly unsteady.

  Whitford leaned toward Calloway's ear. His voice dropped to what he clearly believed was a whisper and was, in practice, a murmur that Florence could hear with perfect clarity.

  "Is it actually sanguimancy?"

  Calloway's jaw tightened a fraction. "Yes," he said, not whispering, "and you're being rude."

  Florence looked between them. "What are you talking about?"

  Calloway hesitated. He glanced at Whitford with the expression of a man who had been given a partner he had not chosen and was making the best of it. Then he turned back to Florence, and something in his bearing softened—not quite apologetic, but acknowledging that the conversation had drifted from its intended course.

  "My partner wanted to confirm whether your registered affinity was genuinely sanguimancy. We were briefed on the details of last night's incident this morning, and Inspector Bannerman's field report included your intervention." He paused. "We found it remarkable, is all."

  "Remarkable?" Florence said.

  Whitford, apparently deciding that since the cat was out of the bag it might as well be introduced properly, stepped forward. His expression was earnest in a way that didn't have room for malice. "A family outside the noble houses producing two mages is uncommon enough on its own, Miss Bannerman. But both affinities being rare classifications—nullification and sanguimancy—that's not uncommon. That's extraordinary. There are bloodlines in the old families that have been cultivating single affinities for generations and can't produce what your family managed by chance." He shook his head, and there was nothing in the gesture but genuine admiration. "It's quite the miracle."

  Calloway's elbow found Whitford's ribs a second time.

  "Apologies," Calloway said. "Again. For him. Again." He shot his partner a look that promised a longer conversation later. "Inspector Whitford had limited interactions with regular citizens growing up. We're working on it."

  Whitford had the grace to look mildly abashed.

  "No," Florence said. "No, it's—it's fine. Really. I don't mind."

  She did mind, a little. Not the question itself, but the shape of the assumption beneath it—the quiet surprise that a family like hers could produce what families like theirs expected as a birthright. But there was no cruelty in Whitford's face, and no condescension either. He was impressed. He meant it kindly. That counted for something.

  Calloway straightened, clearly eager to return to professional ground. "Right. The questions. We truly won't take any more of your time, Miss Bannerman." He produced a small leather notebook from his coat pocket, the kind Thomas carried. "As there were no detectable mana traces flagged by the Grid, it's unlikely any mage on the street would have sensed the activity either. But have you noticed anything unusual this morning? Any strangers behaving oddly, anyone loitering or watching passersby?"

  Florence considered. She retraced the morning in her head—Baker Street, Harrowgate Road, the junction, the tram, the newsie, the bench.

  "Not especially," she said. "Three separate people have walked directly into me since I left my boarding house, but I think that might just be Dunwick."

  Calloway's mouth twitched. He wrote something down. "It is. Have you noticed anyone following you, or anyone who seemed to take particular interest in your bag or your person?"

  "No."

  "Has anyone asked you for directions, the time, or any other pretext that required you to stop and engage?"

  Florence shook her head.

  "And have you noticed your belongings sitting differently in your bag at any point? Anything shifted, lighter, or out of place?"

  Florence's hand went to the satchel on instinct. She pressed her palm against the side, feeling the familiar weight and shape of its contents—the pamphlet, the newspaper, the coin purse, the heavier mass at the bottom. Everything where it should be.

  "No," she said. "Everything seems fine."

  Calloway nodded, closing the notebook. "That's very helpful, Miss Bannerman. Thank you for your time."

  "I'm sorry I couldn't be more useful," Florence said.

  "You've been helpful enough," Calloway said. "Truly. Don't give it another thought." He tucked the notebook away and inclined his head again, the same small, respectful motion from before. "May eternity be with you, miss."

  "And with you both," Florence said.

  Whitford offered her a quick nod and something that was almost a salute before Calloway steered him away by the elbow, and the two of them moved off down the Greybridge in step, their trench coats cutting matched silhouettes against the grey river light.

  Florence watched them go.

  They seemed like nice people.

  The thought arrived simply, without complication. She turned it over. Calloway's calm, his patience, the way he'd handled Whitford's enthusiasms without sharpness. Whitford's bluntness, which had been graceless but never unkind. The respect in both their voices when they spoke Thomas's name, and the way Calloway had said it's an honour as though he meant it, as though the word had not been emptied out by overuse.

  Then the memory surfaced—Whitford's voice, bright and unguarded, ringing across the bridge like a bell: Saintess of the Swan!

  The flush crept back. She could still feel the echo of it—the stares from passing pedestrians who had overheard, the brief, curious glances that had lingered a beat too long before moving on. Nobody had approached. Nobody had said anything. But they had looked, and Florence had felt every look like a fingertip pressed against the back of her neck.

  Ridiculous, she thought.

  She was smiling.

  They had approached her on a public bridge and called her a saint and asked to see her papers, and they had been kind about all of it. They had meant well from the first word to the last. They had treated her not as a curiosity or a suspect or a girl who didn't belong, but as someone worth the courtesy of a proper introduction and a genuine farewell.

  Completely ridiculous.

  She adjusted the satchel strap, squared her shoulders, and kept walking.