Mister Best’s stagecoach was designed for six men of average dimensions – a fair enough standard, which comfortably fit four out of the five of its current occupants.

  Unfortunately, the engineer behind the vehicle had clearly never accounted for the Meat Man.

  Wedged between Ethan and Simon, the walking slab of sinew took up the space of two full-grown men and a mastiff besides. Ethan’s shoulder was crushed against the armrest, his right thigh pinned immovably against his companion’s bloated leg. Meat Man’s breathing – heavy, humid, and persistent – sounded like bellows in a forge. Every minute or so, he emitted a guttural grunt and readjusted his posture, causing the coach to jolt on its springs. Ethan endured each shift with silent patience, wondering who between the Meat Man and Jacob had more mass.

  The former undoubtedly sported better definition.

  Simon, on the other hand, looked and smelt like he had been fermented in a vat of soured cider. The odour hit Ethan harder than any punch he had ever taken – an acrid fusion of spirits, sweat, and the unmistakable tang of impending vomit. The drunkard whimpered softly to himself, occasionally dry-heaving into his own collar like a dog trying to eat its own sick.

  Rupert sat opposite the Meat Man. The valet’s pallid complexion had taken on a greenish tint under the low lighting. His moustache twitched with each breath, like a rodent trapped in the throes of a seizure.

  Mister Best, as ever, remained the picture of composure. He had not taken his eyes off Simon for the past ten minutes; when at last the smell grew too offensive, he reached back and cracked open the window behind him. He did so with the same glacial pace one might use to draw a sword, and without once breaking his stare.

  Points deducted for flinching first, Ethan thought dryly, savouring the small victory. Then he opened the small window on his side of the coach.

  He caught the brief gust of cold air and salt on the breeze. They were passing through the Inner City – no mistaking that particular cocktail of lamp oil and brine. Still, it told him nothing of their destination. Best would not be so cooperative as to announce his intentions aloud, and Ethan would not gratify the man by asking.

  He cast a glance across the compartment. Both Best and Rupert wore matching garb beneath their coats – white shirts, white breeches, black Hessian boots. Best had a burgundy waistcoat of expensive cut, and his tailcoat was black, formal, and newly tailored, the sleeves tight across the shoulders. Rupert’s own frock was blue – Royal Navy issue – with a white waistcoat underneath. A missing epaulette left a stitched tear along the shoulder seam.

  Master-and-commander uniform, Ethan observed. Interesting. Unlikely that a Royal Navy officer would stoop to valet duty. Unless he was no longer serving.

  The carriage slowed. The reins jangled above, followed by the rough rasp of the coachman announcing their arrival. The voice sounded as though someone had ground gravel through a rusted funnel.

  Mister Best looked to Ethan. “After you, Mister Harbinger.”

  Ethan narrowed his eyes. Bastard codger won’t turn his back on me even to disembark. Wise.

  He stepped down into the street. Salt air struck him full force, along with the chill of the night – kept comfortably at bay by the Elsian silk of his cloak.

  One of Best’s other brutes held the door – shorter than the Meat Man, but just as broad. The thug had shoulders like quarry stones and hands like dinner plates.

  Then Ethan saw the steps.

  “You have a sick sense of humour, Mister Best.”

  Simon leaned out behind him. “What’re ya – oh, piss and hellfire,” he said, face falling like a brick dropped in a latrine.

  Ahead of them rose the one-hundred-and-one polished limestone steps leading to the doors of Oaleholder Great Hall. The Hall loomed over them like a magistrate’s gavel at midnight.

  The building had a memory. It remembered their earlier bloodshed.

  Mister Best followed them out, accepting his cane from Rupert with a nod. “Much obliged, Rupert.”

  He turned to Ethan. “As previously stated, gentlemen, this is no trap, nor jape, but work. On this occasion, you are here for an introduction, rather than an execution. For now.”

  That final clause lingered in the air like a gunpowder plume.

  Best began his ascent, taking each step with the practised pace of someone for whom effort was a foreign concept. The others followed in loose procession.

  Ethan scanned the rooftops. Flat tiles with steep gables – limited cover, but ample height for a marksman. He caught the silhouette of a rifle stock near a chimney. Just one of several, he suspected. None of Best’s entourage were unarmed, either. Smoothbore muskets slung on their backs, blades at their belts. A squad equipped for siege rather than parlour diplomacy.

  Escape was a fiction.

  Simon tripped on the second step. He fell forward, belched, staggered upright, and sneezed so violently he nearly toppled backwards again. Ethan caught his collar without comment and shoved him upright.

  Why do I even bother?

  The question answered itself, as always. Because Simon was the last remnant of sentiment that Ethan had not entirely cauterised. Because loyalty was either inviolate or worthless.

  A shove from behind interrupted his thoughts. One of the thugs – not Meat Man, the stouter one – had grown impatient. Ethan turned to face him, glanced down at his boot, then back up, and began climbing.

  But not before subtly raising his heel and stamping the brute’s shin. Not hard enough to break anything, but just enough to make a point.

  The yelp was gratifyingly high-pitched.

  All heads turned. The thug was rubbing his leg. Ethan continued upward without breaking stride.

  “Your henchman exhibits a remarkable lack of finesse, Mister Best,” he observed over his shoulder.

  The Old Ghost snorted once, and Meat Man wheezed out a laugh that sounded like a strangled accordion. His eyes narrowed, lopsided, and glinted with amusement – or some simian analogue of it.

  Ethan counted the steps as they ascended. One-hundred and one. A deliberate number. Probably meant something to someone. Perhaps the architect. Perhaps no one at all.

  Pretentious waste of effort, he decided. Like so much in this confounded city.

  He kept climbing.

  By the time they reached the summit, only Ethan and Mister Best remained unaffected. The others, meanwhile, resembled various stages of collapse – Simon most noticeably, breathing as though chased uphill by a pack of devils.

  The twin ironwood doors opened with a soft click but no creak. Standing beyond them was a man of pristine posture and suspiciously theatrical grooming – a lacquer-black moustache, waxed to curves sharp enough to draw blood, sat beneath a powdered nose that implied an aggressive disregard for subtlety.

  A single nod passed between him and Mister Best. No words. Then the peacock turned smartly and walked inward.

  They followed in silence. As ever, Best’s theatre played to a hushed script.

  The architecture of the Great Hall was every bit as ostentatious as Ethan remembered. Externally, it was a rectilinear monstrosity – ornate finials, stone mullioned windows, balustraded walkways – like a cathedral that had got drunk on its own effluence. Inside, it only worsened.

  Every inch of wall and ceiling was gilded, carved, or inlaid with something absurd. Alcoves filled with glowering statues. Leaf-crowned columns where none were structurally necessary. Chandeliers the size of pinnaces hung from the vaulted ceiling, their crystal droplets refracting gold-tinged lamplight into dancing motes across the gleaming marble floor. The reflections added a disorienting sheen to each step.

  Ethan's eyes swept over the chamber automatically: statues, corners, alcoves, and – always – exit points. The sensation of aether prickled at the edges of his skull. Subtle, but present; enough to draw gooseflesh across his arms.

  Something, somewhere, was thick with the quintessence.

  Gnomish enchantments on the doors, perhaps? Would explain their unnaturally silent operation.

  Even his inner thief grew agitated under the weight of so much gilded fatuity. If left unattended for a single hour, half the city’s criminal element could retire on the proceeds.

  Simon, lagging beside him, had regained just enough sobriety to gawp.

  “Ethan,” he wheezed in a conspiratorial whisper, “theesh – these statues’ve got bleedin’ gold in ’em. Gold! Proper lined!”

  Ethan gave a slow nod, eyes still drifting. “Try not to lick one.”

  Their guide continued ahead, his coiled wig bouncing with a lack of tact that bordered on offensive. As they passed through corridor after corridor – each more self-congratulatory than the last – Ethan caught sight of an archway to the left. Broad and tall, its doorless entrance framed in oak with minute carvings.

  “What is in that wing?” he asked, voice pitched low.

  “The Grand Archive Chambers of Oaleholder, sir,” the guide replied smoothly, without turning his head. “The most extensive repository of knowledge in northern Omoritsi. Surpassed only by the National Library of Terdia in both volume and age. Access is restricted to senior civic officials, scholarly patrons, and those recognised by sponsorship – typically a peer, or by formal deed of standing.”

  Ethan blinked. The verbosity was unexpected. Truthfully, he had expected no answer at all.

  “Thank you,” he said, nonetheless.

  They passed beneath another arch – this one a redwood double door flanked by portraits large enough to smother a person. Generals, admirals, and other Peers of the Realm whom history would remember as icons rather than men.

  The chamber beyond was long, floored with red carpet plush enough to lose a dagger in, and lined with pointed windows climbing high above. In the centre, two figures turned at the sound of muffled footsteps.

  Mary and Warren.

  Both were dressed exactly as they had been hours ago – coarse wool jackets, canvas trousers, and tired expressions. No doubt dragged from their homes in a similar manner to Simon and him.

  Mary’s scowl pre-empted her voice. “Giddy aunts and raunchy uncles, Ethan, what’s he want now?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Ethan replied. “I was ambushed at home. You?”

  Mary’s eyes dropped, shoulders tight. “Aye. Two scruffy sea-devils said they’d break da’s arms if I didn’t come quiet.”

  She glared at Mister Best.

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Warren offered, clasping his hands. “My captors merely informed the monastery I had pressing visitors. Rather civil, all things considered.”

  Mister Best, with a bow so shallow it could be mistaken for a neck twitch, added: “Miss Brown, allow me to apologise for the discourtesy. It was not my intent that your escort should behave in a manner unbecoming of your character. Now, if you would be so good as to follow me, I shall explain all shortly.”

  His tone was flat. His expression unaffected. His apology hardly a simile of one.

  The Old Ghost led them across the chamber with the same confident stride as ever, ignoring the glances passed between them. Mary leaned over.

  “Is this place–”

  “Yes,” Ethan murmured. “But this time, we are meeting someone. Not disposing of them. Allegedly.”

  He met her eye, gave the smallest tilt of the brow. The message was clear.

  Watch your tongue – the walls have ears.

  No questions followed. She had taken the hint.

  As Mister Best approached the next door – a redwood affair in the corridor’s far corner – it swung open before he could touch it.

  Aether gusted from within – warm, potent, immediate.

  Ethan felt his skin ripple. Every hair stood. His pupils narrowed; irises glimmered. Beneath his collar, sweat began to bead, sliding down the spine with the precision of a blade.

  “Ethan…” Warren said beside him, half-whisper, half-tremor. “Your eyes…”

  “I know,” Ethan managed through gritted teeth.

  Mary inhaled sharply. Simon did not speak, but his footsteps faltered. Every sound felt like a mallet against his tympanum.

  The quintessense pressed against his skin like heat without the warmth. It swelled at the base of his skull – a familiar pressure, the herald of strong magic.

  And then he saw her.

  She stood at the centre of the room, beside a polished redwood table. Six soldiers in scarlet livery ringed her like fixtures, muskets with affixed bayonets held vertical, pistols and sabres strapped across regulation-pattern crossbelts. All of them aetherless.

  She, by contrast, might as well have been the sun.

  An elf. Or something akin to it. Faye, certainly – though not the same kind Aelielaya belonged to. Not the same kind as any of the ones had read about in the many textbooks his tutors had once forced him to absorb.

  The moment Ethan’s gaze settled on her, his symptoms intensified. Vision sharpened unnaturally – colours desaturated except for her figure, which seemed to glow with an impossible clarity. His heart thundered. Veins rose like cords on the backs of his hands. His skull felt too tight for his brain.

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  Needless to say, his irises were ablaze with incandescent blue.

  She was turned partly away, profile angled to the room, a porcelain hand cradling a saucer. Steam drifted upward from her cup, the scent of roasted chicory sharp beneath the air’s magical tang.

  White leather trousers hugged her frame tightly, tucked into brown cavalry boots from which the spurs had been purposefully torn off. A high-collared white shirt peeked out from beneath a navy spencer jacket, tailored closely and paired with gloves of the same colour, drawn up to the elbow.

  But none of that held his gaze.

  What did, was her skin.

  Pale beyond albinism. Not the pallor of the sick or subterranean, but something alien. Vigorous, lively. Nothing in common with the paleness afflicting his person. She bore no visible blemish, no freckles, no pores. The light that touched her seemed to flatten, as though hesitant of creating shadow.

  Ethan could feel his pulse behind his eyes. Every instinct screamed threat, and not the common kind.

  Her features were cut from a sharper mould – angular cheekbones, a proud brow, and eyes the colour of untarnished silver. Her hair, ghost-white and drawn into a ponytail, revealed pointed ears no longer than a thumb’s joint – far too short for the elves of the Augustine Weald. A faye neither local nor entirely foreign.

  A faye Ethan had no name for.

  She turned her head fully, taking them in as one might survey a hedge maze. The others received cursory glances, but when her gaze settled upon Ethan, it stayed. Her irises held a sheen of analytical disdain, as though she were confirming the presence of something distasteful but expected.

  He recognised the look – he wore it often enough in the mirror.

  And yet, he knew, without guessing, that her thoughts mirrored his own: weary, calculating, and unspokenly grim.

  The fragrant sting of Katagman leaf reached him a moment before Best spoke, placing himself between Ethan and the elf.

  "I present to you, Lyra," he said, letting the name hang, no surname offered. "A dignitary of His Majesty’s extended interests. You shall address her as such. Lyra, these are your new wardens – Warren Macintosh, Mary Brown, Ethan Harbinger, and Simon Gershom."

  Each name was punctuated by a flick of his cane at said person.

  The smoke coiled through the air in wreaths of amber and clove, cutting through the pall of aether that hung heavy as sodden wool. Ethan’s nausea lessened. The pressure behind his eyes ebbed. His hands, which had begun to tremble ever so slightly, stilled.

  Lyra’s expression remained fixed until her gaze fell upon Simon. One brow lifted. Ethan could not tell whether it was curiosity or contempt. Before she could speak, Mary stepped in.

  “Wait – what d’ye mean wardens?” she snapped, every word bitten off like a threat. “We ain’t here to nurse yer bleedin’ whitings, Best. That weren’t the–”

  A sharp crack cut her off. Meat Man had struck her with the butt of his musket. She crumpled to one knee with a sharp gasp, eyes watering, her hand reaching instinctively for the small of her back.

  Still standing, Ethan made a note: the guards were not merely ceremonial, they had permission to act.

  “Your protest is noted,” Best said without looking at her. “Let us not mistake the illusion of negotiation for the substance.”

  Warren, to his credit, helped Mary up without complaint, though he flinched under Best’s gaze as though expecting a second blow. “What sort of dignitary is she, precisely? And in service of whom?”

  “A subject of interest to the Falchovarian Republic,” Best replied, the word ‘subject’ slathered in irony. “Your charge, as directed by the Crown, is to prevent her falling into their possession. Acceptance is not optional.”

  Rupert produced an envelope from somewhere implausible. Ethan resisted the urge to ask where the valet kept such things. He would likely regret the answer.

  The seal on the envelope was unambiguous: the royal arms. A crowned helm over an escutcheon holding twin silver bears rampant atop a yellow glacier lily – fields red and blue, respectively. Another crowned bear on the dexter and a chained black wolf on the sinister acted as supporters, both rampant.

  The motto beneath, 'Caro Humana, Virtus Dei,' struck Warren visibly. Ethan caught the faint tic in the man’s temple – no doubt the same discomfort he had expressed back at seminary, where casual Helveconean blasphemy was supposed to be a dead language.

  Rupert handed the envelope to Ethan, who accepted it with deliberately steady hands. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter with all the enthusiasm of a man tying his noose.

  To His Grace, Lord Ethan Harbinger, The Most Noble Duke of Daesach, Marquess of Cadefal…

  The rest blurred into a syrup of hollow titles and deferential pap. All accurate in name. All obsolete in practice. All addressed to a version of himself buried beneath the burnt husks of his family’s bodies.

  Still, the meat of the thing was plain: the king – His Royal Majesty ?thelric the Doddering, long may his lunacy reign – had written to him personally. A royal command to act as host, escort, and shield to this foreign dignitary. And more importantly, to prevent her from being seized by foreign powers, especially Falchovarii.

  “Satisfied, Mister Harbinger?” Best asked, now standing beneath a curl of smoke that circled his head like a smug halo.

  Ethan folded the letter, slid it back into Rupert’s waiting grip, and said: “I have yet to meet an ageing lunatic capable of penning such legible correspondence.”

  In fourteen words, he had insulted the King, questioned the Crown, mocked the mission, and cast doubt on Best’s competence and allegiance. Words well spent, even by his standards.

  He felt the tension before he saw it: Lyra’s subtle smirk, Rupert’s eyebrows vaulting skyward, Mary’s sharp inhale, Warren’s stiffening, Simon’s barely-stifled whimper.

  And of course, a musket stock, coming for his back.

  He stepped sideways half a moment before the blow struck, caught the musket’s butt, and pushed it back and upwards. The muzzle struck the offender – Meat Man, again – in the eye with a wet crack that was part cartilage, part orbital bone. The brute howled, dropped the weapon, and fell backwards clutching his heavily bleeding face.

  The flintlock discharged as it hit the floor, its bark deafening. The leaden ball ricocheted off a nearby sconce then lodged itself harmlessly in the carpeted floor between Ethan’s boots. The guards did not hesitate – six barrels rose as one, all aimed at Ethan’s chest. Best sighed and waved the smoke away from his face.

  Behind them, one of the previously-silent aides began to laugh. A shallow, wheezy thing, like bellows gone to rot. Ethan recognised the voice: the shin he had heeled earlier now found satisfaction in schadenfreude.

  “What if we decline?” Ethan asked, frowning at the sulphuric stench of burnt powder. His head still rang from the magical pressure; he had yet to grow accustomed to the aether saturation. Even so, he kept his voice steady, and his hands at his sides.

  “Then you shall be executed where you stand,” Best replied, without affect. “And I shall, regrettably, be forced to source replacements. Preferably ones less prone to tantrum.”

  Ethan glanced to his left: Warren’s hands were clenched, but not raised. Mary looked ready to bolt, but lacked the foolishness to try. Simon was lost in the drunken fugue between panic and prayer. The guards did not waver. Rupert, with maddening calm, lit Best’s second pipe.

  And Lyra? She watched him still. No longer hostile. Merely curious. The sort of look one might give a new piece on the board – interesting, perhaps useful, but not yet tested.

  A moment passed. Then Ethan inclined his head, just enough to be unmistakable.

  “We accept.”

  The carriage rattled through the cobbled veins of Westbank with less nausea-inducing urgency than before. The air inside remained foul, but at least Simon had ceased emitting the sort of stench that might warrant clerical intervention. Small mercies.

  Mister Best and his entourage also had, blessedly, opted to remain in the Great Hall – whether from confidence or cowardice, Ethan did not know, nor care. It meant fewer people to watch. Fewer mouths to lie.

  This particular carriage was more conventional in its design than the one that had delivered them, with benches set at the fore and the aft rather than fore-to-aft. Ethan took his place at the rear with Warren and Simon. Lyra and Mary sat across from them.

  No one spoke.

  Silence, thick as lard, settled into the compartment. The others stole glances at their newly assigned burden as though she might sprout fangs mid-ride. Ethan stared at her openly. She did not flinch. Her posture remained upright and symmetrical. No twitch, no breath too quick, no swallowed movement betrayed her thoughts.

  She was watching him too.

  No attempt at subterfuge. Just observation, plain and deliberate. Her gaze was clinical, her irises catching what little light filtered through the slats with a sheen reminiscent of bleached pewter. Not unkind. Not kind. Just exact.

  A dull pulse pounded behind Ethan’s eyes – the headache had returned, possibly never left. The persistent throb of a magical hangover compounded by the irritation of being saddled with a guest whose presence made murder feel like etiquette. Still, she was neither fool nor prattler, and that made her more tolerable than most.

  The coach ground to a halt with a jolt. The driver – one of Best’s lackeys, likely condemned to servitude for the crime of possessing a rural accent – cleared his throat.

  “We’s ‘ere, ser.”

  Warren, nearest the door, disembarked first. Ethan gestured for the women to follow. Mary complied with a glance, Lyra with a pause. Warren offered his hand to both. Lyra’s eyes flicked to it, then to his face. She accepted. His fingers trembled when they touched hers.

  Ethan climbed out last. He flicked a penny with his thumb, angling it towards the coachman’s palm. The man caught it mid-air with the grace of someone who had practised. Perhaps not the first penny flung at him tonight.

  “Thank’ee, thank’ee,” he beamed, displaying a mouth with more gangrene than teeth. “Thee ’ave a g’night now, sers. Ladies.”

  He tipped a patched hat and snapped the reins, disappearing into the dark.

  Ethan's house loomed ahead, the same squat and unsentimental terrace – just like all around it. He approached it with the usual measured pace, reaching the front doors and unlocking each of the five keyholes in succession. No one commented, which he appreciated. He remembered Mister Best watching the ritual earlier in reverse, suppressing the urge to bounce on his heels like a spoiled child at the gates of amusement.

  Inside, the hallway pressed tight with bodies. Coats and cloaks were removed. Dirty boots replaced with indoor slip-ons. None dared bring mud into the house – not after last winter’s incident with the oriental rug. Even Lyra, to her credit, exchanged her footwear for the pair Mary offered. She performed the act without ceremony, without the slightest air of reluctance.

  Simon vanished in a blur of half-muttered apologies. His slipshod feet slapped down the hallway, followed moments later by the unmistakable splash of piss into stone and a groan of satisfaction that could have woken the dead. He had left the privy door open, because of course he had.

  Ethan resisted the urge to fetch his stiletto.

  The others filtered into the parlour. Ethan followed. He lit the Argand lamp and retrieved two collapsible verawood chairs from beneath the coffee table. The longcase clock in the corner observed his fatigue with silent disdain: it was nearly half past midnight, and the brass pendulum maintained its inexorable metronome.

  “Late,” Ethan muttered, almost to himself. “I shall put the kettle on.”

  A few murmured thanks. Lyra inclined her head, her eyes following him as he left. No platitude, just motion. He returned to find the hearth already ablaze, carrying with him a tray of steaming cups, rusks, and a plate of shortbreads, interrupting whatever idiocy Simon had been spewing about Matresa mudlarks warring with Oaleholder’s tosher-gangs.

  Apparently, the toshers were winning handily.

  Lyra had taken one of the fold-out chairs. Warren occupied the other. Mary and Simon lounged on the upholstered settee. Ethan placed the tray on the table and dropped heavily into his usual chair – high-backed, adjusted just-so, and perfectly moulded to the shape of a man who had long since stopped expecting comfort from anything else.

  He took a rusk, dipped it unceremoniously into the tea, and bit off the soggy part. The brew was the same Augustine blend he had enjoyed earlier at Aelielaya’s. He had not intended to share it, but tonight had become something of a parade of forfeitures. Dignity, sleep, privacy. One more indulgence lost to the wolves.

  He hated that.

  Warren sniffed the steam, eyes widening.

  “Ethan, is this…?”

  Ethan nodded. A slow, deliberate motion. Warren winced, Mary bit her tongue, and Simon looked like he might cry. Or spew. Neither would surprise Ethan.

  Lyra said nothing, but observed. Not the tea – him.

  He exhaled. The warmth did little for the headache, but it helped his fingers stop twitching.

  “Mister Best has already performed the necessary humiliations,” he said, eyes fixed on no one. “But allow me to complete the ritual.”

  He sipped again.

  “I am Ethan Harbinger. Eleventh and last scion of the venerable House Harbinger. His Grace, the Duke of Daesach, Marquess of Cadefal, etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam.”

  He said it as flatly as a death rattle – gentility had bled from the titles long ago. The silence that followed came pre-loaded with pity.

  He hated that too.

  “Sat adjacent to you is Warren Macintosh,” Ethan intoned, gesturing with a subtle flick of the rusk in his hand, “a postulant of Oaleholder Monastery, under the Hold Divine Cathedral’s yoke, presently enrolled at Oaleholder College in his bid to receive ordination.”

  Warren offered a brief smile, which Ethan ignored.

  “Next to him, on the left of the settee, is Mary Brown,” he continued, nodding toward the young woman. “Knows the gutters and back alleys of Oaleholder better than any rat ever could. Including the ones on two legs.”

  Mary inclined her head, her mouth full of shortbread.

  “Last,” Ethan said, pivoting his rusk with surgical deliberation. “And most certainly least. On the right – Simon Gershom. A whoreson by birth, a whoremonger by conduct, and the single greatest test of our collective patience.”

  Simon responded with a two-fingered salute, glowering face half obscured by his mug. Lyra choked quietly on her tea, Warren chuckled in his sleeve, and Mary wore the hollow smile of a scholar whom had never heard truer wisdom.

  Ethan did not react. He turned his eyes on Lyra, and let the weight of them settle. Her posture shifted imperceptibly – one shoulder tensed, her chin angled a degree lower. She attempted to appear unshaken, but he observed the precise way her thumb rubbed against her cup’s handle: a tremor being exorcised through repetition.

  “My turn, is it?” she asked, placing her cup down with exaggerated delicacy. Her voice held that faint musicality of Augustine Elves. The kind that lingered at the edge of one’s ear and made one question whether a harp had sounded somewhere distant. The accent was foreign, though not unrefined.

  “My name is Lyra,” she said, spine straight and expression schooled. “I am an agent of the Crown, commissioned to investigate artefacts attributed to the Ailbe and the Ailbean civilisation.”

  Warren’s smile vanished. Simon’s brows rose so far they looked like it might migrate off his face.

  Mary leaned forward. “Just Lyra? No surname? No title? Nothin’ to scribble on a tombstone, then?”

  “Just Lyra,” the pale elf replied, shoulders unmoving.

  Simon, still clutching his mug, squinted over the rim. “And what in Saint Bonnie’s bleedin’ teats is an ‘All-Bay’?”

  “Ailbe,” Warren corrected, his tone shifting from cordial to clerical. Zealous. “The Ailbean civilisation predates all recorded history by at least ten millennia. According to Scripture, they were smitten by divine wrath for blasphemies most foul.”

  He turned to face Lyra in full now. “Research into the Ailbe is, at best, theological treason. At worst–”

  “Heresy,” Ethan finished for him, leaning back as he dunked his second rusk.

  “I do not worship your God, Mister Macintosh” Lyra replied, her tone chilled. “Nor do I fear His holy smite. My actions are sanctioned by your Regent herself. You may take up your complaint directly with her.”

  “What does Falchovarii want with an archaeologist?” Ethan cut in before Warren could summon holy fury upon their ward.

  “Oh, aye,” Mary said through a mouthful of shortbread. “Ol’ Ghostie did mention some frogs were sniffin’ after ya all fierce-like, didn’t he? What’s that all about, then?”

  “That is…” Lyra hesitated, silvered eyes darting around the room but finding no support. “Confidential, I’m afraid. My sincere apologies.”

  “Kon-fee-den-shal,” Simon scoffed, stretching each syllable until it broke. “Aye, aye – just admit yer pullin’ shite outta yer lily-white arse, princess.”

  The pale elf’s eyes flashed briefly, like the first glint off a drawn sabre. “The details are confidential because your Kingdom’s stability is at stake. And if you lack the discipline to restrain your tongue, Mister Gershom–”

  “Enough,” Ethan cut in, his voice hardening. All eyes turned to him. “Best’s paying us to guard, not interrogate. Same as he’s paying her for silence, not chatter.”

  Mary looked away sheepishly, Warren’s mouth flattened to a line, and Simon – miraculously – offered no retort. Ethan turned back to Lyra.

  “Beyond that,” he continued, tone flattening. “There will be no more ‘Misters’ from here on. No titles of any sort. Formality is a candle in the dark – makes it easier for someone to aim. Especially in Westbank. Try calling someone ‘sir’ or ‘my lady’ around Seventh Street and you’ll swiftly find yourself purseless, clothless, and violated. Not always in that order.”

  Lyra, quietly horrified if her wide-eyed gawp was any indication, gave a silent nod – reluctant, but without argument. Her posture was a single slipped vertebra away from snapping in half.

  Ethan tried stifling a yawn. Failed. It began as a sigh and turned traitorous halfway through, stretching his jaw with embarrassing volume. The others caught it like a plague, yawning in chorus. He scowled.

  “That is quite enough for tonight, then,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and brushing crumbs from his lap. “The parlour is closed.”

  The snack tray was a battlefield of rusk shards and shortbread dust. The carpet would suffer. Again.

  “Mary, you and Lyra will take my bedchamber. Share the bed or make her sleep on the floor; I care not either way. Spare duvet and sheets are in the wardrobe.” He paused. “Both clean.”

  Mary nodded once – no snark, no jest, no complaints. Lyra did not protest, thought she seemed mildly unsettled by the arrangement.

  “Warren, Simon, you get the boy’s room. Keep your hands to yourselves. Simon, that means you.”

  “Ouch – Virgin’s tits, man! Yer suspicion cuts like a dagger!” Simon clutched at his chest, failing to suppress a grin. “I am wounded! Killed!”

  “I will fetch smelling salts,” Ethan replied dryly. “Should your condition worsen.”

  His friend’s face both scrunched and paled simultaneously, mind doubtless invaded by a rather specific memory half a year past. He said nothing further.

  Lyra tilted her head. “And where will you sleep, o’ gracious host?”

  Ethan patted the armrest of his chair with a grin that did not reach his eyes. “I prefer something with lumbar support.”

  No one found that funny, but no one questioned it either.

  As they filtered out of the parlour, Ethan guided Lyra to the water closet. He gave the same tour he had given Simon two years ago and Mary over a year later. He even delivered it with the same lack of enthusiasm one reserves for speaking to a tax collector.

  “There’s the basin under the mirror. Barrel and scoop are next to it. Wash or drown as you please. And that’s the toilet – yes, I am aware of what it looks like. No, I do not have a better one. It’s no match for the facilities in His Majesty’s Cullinan Palace but it is better than an outhouse.”

  Lyra inspected the modest restroom like a museum curator reviewing a forgery. Still, she nodded in a show of civility.

  The bedroom, for its part, had all the frills of a balance ledger. The bed was large, stuffed with goose-down, and covered in undyed silk of the kind typically worn by ascetics with money.

  Dwarven alloy bars sealed the window shut, just like the ground floor. The wardrobe could have held the belongings of three men, but currently hosted only a disciplined handful of shirts, boots, and trousers – all folded precisely or hung at even intervals. Everything in the room suggested a man who had prepared for siege more than comfort.

  Ethan said nothing as the group exchanged weary goodnights. He returned to the parlour, where his chair waited like an old warhorse.

  He sat. Pulled the lever.

  The frame creaked, clicked, and unfolded into a reclined length that supported his spine exactly where it ached. He neither removed his shirt nor trousers. There was no need, it would only create more work in the morning. The tea had done its work, and the day had taken its due.

  Sleep arrived the moment he permitted it.

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