“Pretend like you’ve got some sense, Jimmy. This ends two ways: either you hang or do a few months on the line. You gotta let her walk out of there intact, or the choice is made,” Sherman shouted from the waist-high gate leading into the Dagget family's front yard, a narrow little strip of dead grass and hard mud.

He had tossed his helmet aside to let a late evening breeze touch the thick, wavy mop of faded ebony he called his hair. It stopped past his chin, and he would often run his fingers through it, as he did now, both from mindless habit and to help clear his mind. Whiskers on his cheeks and chin were lighter gray, forming a thin, trimmed beard; the mustache he wore was thicker and closer in color to his hair. Crow’s feet nested on the sides of eyes that were the slick brown of river stones polished smooth by the waters.

He still wore his armor, the patinated leather almost black in the dimming light of the sun stumbling down to the horizon. A sleeveless boiled leather tunic reached mid-thigh, with rectangular steel plates riveted over the leather backing to add rigidity without losing flexibility. A broad leather belt around the waist kept the tunic snug and provided a means to carry a ring holster, shackles, belt lamp, and other necessities. An additional patch of leather lay over the plates on the left breast; this was where the Corthim Marshals displayed their painted rank insignia, in Sherman's case a bannerman's four-pointed star with five staves beneath it. Separate pauldrons were belted around the arms reaching from the neck down to the wrist, built from plated leather segments to either side of the steel shoulder caps. The open-faced helmet was more boiled leather and steel plates with a long skirt that kissed the pauldron, shielding the sides and back of the neck. The front face of the helmet's crown wore the bright white four-pointed shield of the Corthim Marshals. Beneath the armor was the midnight blue collared coat that reached the knees, black trousers, and knee-high black leather boots they wore both in and out of armor. Sherman's boots gleamed, somehow untouched by the dirt in the yard. His hands clenched inside armored gloves as he paced at the gate, eyes always on the big man inside.

Jimmy Dagget was well over six feet tall and thick as an ox, both in the shoulders and the head. Beneath a thick shock of brown hair, even his features were bovine—big eyes that were often vacant until they were full of whiskey. Still dressed in the sweat-stained shirt and patched pants he wore to work unloading ships in the bottoms, he held a long kitchen knife against his wife's throat.

Cindy Dagget’s eye was puffy where Jimmy had struck her, and she wept silently, trying not to move a muscle and force the steel deeper into her throat. She tried to speak for the hundredth time and stopped when she felt the blade draw blood. Cindy’s pale skin bore coppery metallic bands that started at her clavicles and ran out of her faded red dress's top and short sleeves. The loose bodice and the difference in fading around the square neck showed where the decorative lace trim had fallen away. A band around the waist pulled the dress in at the middle before it fell open like a blanket until it stopped at her ankles. The coppery bands ran up both sides of her neck to crisscross her face, covering her cheeks, nose, and forehead like freckles would appear on a non-drake; the same coppery color ran down her arms and spread across the backs of her hands and wrap around her fingers. The drake blood kept her hair light, and the odd strand gleamed like a polished coin when the light struck it right.

Threadbare tan drapes hung on the sitting-room windows, exposing Jimmy’s drunken fury to Sherman and the others outside. The sofa had been of high quality when it was new, but that was long ago; now, it and the other furnishings were scuffed and tired. The floorboards told the same tale, in dire need of varnish in the high-traffic areas where old rugs didn’t hide them. The open space became a kitchen at the linoleum dividing line, a checked pattern of blue and yellow scrolls. The table and chairs were as beat-up as the rest of the furniture and Misses Dagget. Cindy could see a thin line of rusty-red hair moving outside at the bottom of the kitchen window.

“Ain't got all day, Jimmy. Shift's almost over. Shit or get off the pot, man. Let her walk out of there intact,” Sherman bellowed again.

“Fuck you, marshal!” Dagget screamed back. Sweat matted his hair against his forehead. Angry eyes darted around the kitchen and through the window; a dozen Corthim marshals in full armor waited to beat, shackle, and haul him off to jail. He shifted the knife against his wife’s throat. “Shouldn't have cheated on me. This is your fault,” he said to her.

“C'mon, Jimmy. Burnin' daylight out here. I've got show tickets tonight,” Sherman yelled.

Jimmy Dagget sneered at him through the window. As he barked a long string of unimaginative profanity at Bannerman Marshal Kormac, he didn't notice a blue-clad figure peek up over the back windowsill. But Cindy saw it.

Her heart was already thudding in her chest as she met the rusty-haired man's dark jade eyes. He held one finger over his lips while keeping her gaze; Cindy couldn't move her head and instead softened her panicked face. It was enough to convey the message.

The unarmored marshal looked away and nodded. A moment later, Cindy heard Marshal Kormac again. His tone had changed somehow; it was a hair less urgent.

“Dagget! Last warning, you drunk fool. Let her go and come out peaceful, or I'm comin' in there to kick your stupid head in.”

Cindy whimpered as her drunk and outraged husband dragged her along as he headed to the door.

“You ain't got the fuckin’ stones, Kormac. I'll cut her damn head off and stick it right up your ass!”

Cindy watched the back door crack open as Jimmy was peppering his challenge with another generous helping of curses. A big hand in a blue sleeve pushed it open slowly enough not to trigger a groan from the hinges. Jimmy was starting to back away from the threats outside as the broad-shouldered marshal, with not a bit of armor on him, crept through the door like a burglar. He wasn't much smaller than Jimmy but somehow managed to move without waking up the old floorboards.

Cindy closed her eyes, pleading with him, hoping he'd get the message. He nodded at her and stabbed his finger toward her left several times before holding his fingers near his throat. She thought she understood and blinked several times; it was all she could think to do.

The marshal held up three fingers. Jimmy was still screaming that he'd cut through everyone out there like rotten meat—the empty bragging of a coward. Cindy licked dry lips and watched the marshal count down.

Three. Two.

Later, she'd remember how fast he had moved. She only saw a rush of blue as he lunged at Jimmy and wrapped those two big, strong hands around her asshole husband's wrist, locking the knife in place as she screamed and ducked away to her left. She hit the ground, arms up to shield her head while she wailed, overwhelmed with relief and fear.

Dagget growled at the marshal. The kitchen table splintered when Jimmy rammed the interloper right through it, stopping only when the marshal slammed into the wall. The marshal's eyes clicked away long enough to see Cindy on the floor in one piece, hands shielding her head. Dagget took the opportunity to crash a meaty fist into the rusty-haired man's nose, another in the jaw, and was sending a third into his eye when the marshal squeezed Jimmy's wrist in a way that made him howl in equal parts surprise and pain. The knife fell loose. Before it hit the ground, there was a meaty crunch as bones in Dagget's wrist snapped. The knife clattered as the marshal slammed his knee in Jimmy's testicles, and when Cindy's husband doubled over low enough, he drove his forehead into Dagget's face, shattering his nasal bridge.

Jimmy Dagget sprawled on the kitchen floor, bleeding and moaning, with the ginger marshal standing over him. “Come get the garbage, Sherman,” he shouted for anyone to hear. He looked down at Dagget with a disgusted look that softened when he turned his eyes to Cindy.

She was sweaty and panting on the floor, fingers testing her throat for blood. It took her a moment to notice the hand the marshal was offering her. His eyes were deep-set under thick eyebrows shaped to make his broad, clean-shaven face seem hostile even as his tone was soothing and helpful. As Kormac and the others entered the house in a clatter of boots and buckles, he said, “You should sit down, have something to drink. Where's your liquor?”

Once he’d helped her back to her feet, Cindy pointed at the little cabinet in the living room. She was still trying to slow her breathing as Sherman shook his head, eye-to-eye with the rusty-haired marshal.

“Look at you. You're a damn mess. And where the hot fuck is your armor, you moron?” Sherman asked as he scolded him.

The burly man in blue poured Cindy a tall glass of whiskey. “Armor makes noise, boss. Think that was the first thing you told me.”

“First thing I told you was to duck, you fuckin’ idiot. C'mere, lemme look at it.”

The rusty-haired man smacked Sherman's hand away. “Hands to yourself, old man. Here,” he said as he set the glass down in front of Cindy.

The three watched as Jimmy Dagget, bloody and miserable, was shackled and hauled out by his ankles.

“Cindy, is there someone you can go to? Somewhere you can stay?” the ginger marshal asked.

Cindy closed her eyes and, after savoring the alcohol, heaved an enormous sigh. It was a long moment before she shook her head, saying, “No. No, I ain't goin' nowhere. This'll be my first good night’s sleep in a long time.”

Sherman and the rusty-haired marshal exchanged a look. The older man shrugged. “Suit yourself. He won't be back till the end of summer, so I hope you can make ends meet till then.”

Cindy snorted and finished the whiskey. She sighed again, declaring, “I'll be long gone before then, sir. This city life never was to my likin'. Goin' back to the farm. Pa'll have the dogs on him before he ever gets near the house. Assuming he's dumb enough to come find me.”

Sherman grinned and nodded. “Fair enough. Sorry this happened, Cindy. You take good care.” He shot the unarmored marshal a long-suffering look and said, “C'mon, stupid. Need to get those looked at.”

“The hell you callin' stupid? It was your plan. You're calling your own plan stupid,” Cindy heard the younger man say as the marshals headed out the back door.

Cindy stared at the knife where it had landed after the struggle. It had been a wedding gift from Jimmy's parents. She blinked and startled, turning her eyes toward where Sherman and the other had departed. She realized she hadn’t even thanked them before dropping her head into her hands, exhausted.

***

“Changes nothing. You get hit; you’re stupid. You’re faster than that drunk fuckin’ shitheel but evidently no smarter. Simple Simon the Idiot Pie Man,” Sherman said.

Simon scowled as his eyes scanned the yard, passing over the handful of lingering marshals. “That has never been funny. You say that like you thought up something clever, and it's just dumb.”

“You're just dumb,” Sherman countered. He glanced at Simon’s damaged face again and grimaced. “You look like chopped steak.”

Simon snorted. “It's a couple of bruises and a little swelling. It's nothing. It's—"

“Unnecessary,” Sherman cut in. “Needless damage from avoidable risk. Reckless conduct unbecoming a Sergeant Marshal, Sergeant Maes.”

Simon shook his head. “Fussy old hen.”

“Don't test me, boy. And where the hell is your armor?”

Simon arched one of those slanted brows and pointed at a nearby canvas duffel. “I had Marty steal a bag from the closest station house. My gear’s accounted for. Where’s your helmet, wise and learned one?”

Sherman opened his mouth to reply and frowned. “Shit.”

Simon laughed.

“All right, smartass, go home and clean up. I'll see you tomorrow morning for the big send-off. Tell the girls I said hello.” As Simon walked on, Sherman said, “The hell are you thinkin', boy?”

Simon laughed again, and they embraced in a quick one-armed hug. “You’re gonna miss me when you’re bored on your ass up in Silverton,” Simon informed him as he strode away, the duffel bag over his shoulder.

Sherman was quiet as he headed in the opposite direction.

With the adrenaline gone and a few moments to himself, Simon realized how sore his face was. He touched his nose and frowned at the traces of blood on his fingers. It wasn’t the worst he'd ever had, but it was annoying. He scrubbed his fist across the red smears, hoping that he had taken care of it. Sherman was right—he could've avoided the blow, but that may have put Cindy Dagget in danger. What use was caution if all it got him was an innocent person’s blood on his hands? Better to give the big drunk an easy target to swing at and draw the heat. A bloody nose was a minuscule price to pay for a good ending.

Heading west, he left the houses of Price Hill behind. Unlike the Dagget home, most residences were in good repair, only lacking adornment or embellishment. Pride of ownership was plain in the swept walkways and uncracked paint. The buildings grew taller as the hill sloped down, and the crowds on the sidewalk grew. The clock tower standing tall at the center of Westgate began to chime.

Four bells. He’d managed to finish a shift on time for once.

Simon did some quick estimates in his head and figured he’d have plenty of time to get home, clean up, and meet the Weird Sisters. Alex had insisted he join them at the theater, and he had finally acquiesced. Layla would meet them at the restaurant beforehand, so that was one less thing he had to worry about. He only agreed to the meetup due to Layla's insistence and gradual sourness. With the appointment only hours away, he was still unable to shake a persistent feeling that it was a mistake. The wrong path, somehow.

As he jogged across the street, he reminded himself he had one more stop to make before returning home. He shifted the duffel on his shoulder again.

Westgate was not the largest city in Corthim—far from it—but it was by no means small. Even so close to Price Hill’s residential neighborhood, bare gray brick tinged with blue surrounded him on both sides of the street. Signs of different shapes and sizes, a dizzying array of styles and colors advertising haberdashers and shoe stores, taverns and diners, chemists and dry goods, a walk-up sandwich stand crammed together with a barbershop—all of it serving the needs of the East End of Westgate.

The clock tower lay in the heart of Market Square blocks away, and now that the workday was over for many, the evening rush was dumping thousands of bodies onto the street. The suits some men wore were practical affairs, dark shades of black, gray, brown, and green, colors that would hide dirt and could be worn more than once during the week—working men who couldn’t afford more than one or two suits but still bore enough pride to look their best.

While stopped at Ninth and Bralin, Simon heard his name and looked to his right. A shoeshine stand backed up against the wooden wall of a corner store, well beneath the gaudy green and red striped awning. Seated on the elevated platform of the shoeshine stand was an unarmored marshal in the blue-and-black whose name Simon couldn’t remember. He knew him to be a decent sort; a fellow Simon worked with for a handful of weeks before the marshal transferred to the East End station house. Simon held his hand up to wave back at him, still unsure of his name; the old drake man shining the shoes was fair-skinned but for the dark coppery scales covering his bald scalp.

A whistle sounded, and Simon turned back to the street: the marshal working traffic duty swung his arm in a circle and nodded at the people on the corner while he held his palm up at the carriages, carts, bicycles, and wagons grumbling on the cobblestones.

As he moved closer to the city center, the composition of the masses he passed through changed. Now the suits were outnumbered by tradesmen calling it quits for the day, heavy work shirts in durable canvas or denim, the sleeves often rolled back to the elbow with black mealboxes gripped in one hand and the coat they’d worn for the morning walk slung over a shoulder.

The stores and restaurants grew more expensive and the signage more ostentatious as they reached the commercial center at the city’s core. The suits became more ornate, the fabrics more expensive, with more effort spent on vain flourishes like pocket squares or small charms swinging on watch chains. These men were advocates and accountants, salesmen and bureaucrats, doctors and metaphysicians getting their exercise for the day rather than indulging in a carriage ride home. Across the street, Simon saw two marshals, the senior one gray-haired and grizzled, the younger one fresh-faced and lean, mediating a dispute between a baldheaded, chubby grocer in a stained white apron arguing with a skinny girl in a maid’s black-and-white uniform using some very unladylike language with her finger right in the fat man’s face. Simon couldn’t help but chuckle. Better to be heading home than forced to deal with that mess so late in the day.

Four- and five-story buildings surrounded the flat, open space of Market Square. Concrete benches around the square were always occupied during the day, often by someone eating the meal they’d procured from one of the nearby stalls or reading the newspaper while they soaked up the sunshine. The stalls were canvas and leather draperies hanging off strings and wooden frames, signs placed wherever they would fit and still be visible. Goods were on display in easy reach of the vendor always nearby, eager to lure new customers in, adamant about coming out the victor in any negotiation. Street foods like breaded sausages or chicken and peppers in thick flatbreads, hats, cheap jewelry, knives, coats, assorted kitchen cutlery, rows and rows of fresh produce hauled in from the surrounding farms, all of it watched over by Corthim marshals.

Simon shifted the duffel on his shoulder and set about hunting through the crowds, his mind turning toward the plan for the evening.

Layla wants to meet the "renowned" seamstress Beatrice Wenzler, and I get to make the introduction. That won’t be awkward at all. Alex will be up both of our asses wondering where the ring is and when the wedding will be, and it just isn’t like that. Layla is slumming it, and we both know it. I’m a fun distraction until her mother finds her a husband everyone approves of. The last thing that family wants is some clod with dirt under his nails, shitting the place up at their fancy estate.

Simon grimaced at how he expected things to go right after Alex inevitably asked Layla about her banker father. Not for the first time, he wondered if he’d made a mistake leaving his apprenticeship as a baker to become a marshal.

He broke through a clump of people and could finally get a good look around the square. He slowed and scanned the faces, sorting through a few hundred strangers and a few dozen people he'd arrested once or twice until he saw them. Jerome was a lanky smudge standing head and shoulders above everyone else, as roka men tended to do. His black beard was unkempt and his hair too long, hanging loose down to his lower back, but his face was clean, and his brown woolens were aged but still holding up well.

As Simon closed the distance, he waved at the reedy giant, who finally noticed and waved a bundle of flowers at the marshal.

Simon extended his hand. “Afternoon, Jerome. Business been good?”

Jerome’s green cat’s eyes gleamed as he grinned and shook with a firm grip. “It's been worse, that's for sure. Busy day?” He motioned at Simon's damaged face.

Simon sniffed and shrugged, wiping at his nose again. “I've had worse, that's for damn sure. Where's the boy?”

Jerome chuckled as he pointed right at his young son, standing over at the edge of one of the fruit stands. His skinny arms were filled with bundles of flowers, making it awkward to readjust the too-big floppy cap on his head. Like his father, his face and hands were clean and his thrift store clothes and second-hand shoes were in good condition. Despite the battered tin cup at Jamie’s feet, they were poor but had their dignity.

Jerome conducted his business with politeness and efficiency. His professional grin faltered when he saw Simon watching Jamie. “No change yet.”

Simon sighed. “Damn it. I need to get moving, Jerome. I'll settle up with the kid and see you the next day or two.”

Since Jerome's hands were full, they bumped fists, nodded, and Simon headed over to Jamie. When the little boy saw him coming, he grinned and shuffled the flower bundles aside so Simon could see the little homemade sign hanging around his neck: HI MY NAEM IS JAIME. He had his father’s pale skin and black hair kept short and tight, concealed under that too-big hat.

“Well, well. Look who's the aspiring baron,” Simon said as he approached the boy. “So. Big night tonight.” He tried to make it sound like a good thing.

Jamie's green cat’s eyes lit up. He glanced away long enough to sell a bundle of flowers and bow his head in gratitude before his eyes were back on Simon.

“Yep. Layla's meeting Alex and Bea. You remember Layla?”

Jamie's mischievous grin was huge. He nodded and held his hands in front of his chest.

Simon panicked for a moment and glanced back at Jerome, relieved that the boy's father hadn't seen anything. He was laughing as he smacked Jamie's hands away. “Yeah, okay, but stop that, all right? You're too young to notice that kinda thing anyway.”

Jamie glared up at him. He smacked the sign on his chest and let the bundles hit the ground as he held up eight fingers.

Simon pushed one finger down. “Yeah, yeah. Don't horse shit a horse shitter, kid.”

Jamie's eyes narrowed, but he let it go. He scooped up the two most enormous bundles from his pile and offered them to Simon.

Simon started hunting in his pants pocket. “Mmmm, those look awfully big. You got a third that size? Actually, you have one bigger than those? No, wait. Gimme one of those big ones and then two smaller ones. No, not that small. Yeah, yeah, those. Perfect.”

Jamie's face was the picture of confused skepticism. Once they had agreed on the merchandise, Jamie held up two fingers, indicating he was only charging Simon for two of the three bundles and expected to receive twenty cents. Simon counted out a silver dollar’s worth of coins and tried to be slick about dropping them into Jamie's little cup without the boy noticing the quantity. The marshal had his flowers and turned away when he felt Jamie grab his pants and tug.

“What? Jamie, I'm in a hurry, little man.”

Jamie held up two fingers and shook his head before tapping the cup with his shoe.

Well, shit. “You don't even know how to spell, you little goof,” Simon said as he yanked the boy’s floppy hat down in front. “You already showed me you don't know how to count.”

He felt a tiny fist collide with his hip to zero effect when he turned away again.

“Be good, Jamie!”

Simon drifted back into himself as he finished the journey home, distracted but still careful not to wander into the path of a horse team. Being run down by a horse while the driver was distracted was no way for anyone to die; it was a stupid death and anything but rare. The smells of horse shit, burn pits, body odor, a thousand different foods, spices, and the flowers piled in his arm filled Simon's nose as the blocks melted away. Before long, the taller buildings gave way to the smaller outlying structures, the poorer residents who could afford to remain within the city walls but not the convenience of living in its heart. Farther away suited Simon. He valued privacy at a premium.

He knew he was close to home when the wild poplars allowed to grow through the sidewalk replaced the manicured decorative shrubbery in the more excellent neighborhoods. One more left at the end of the block, and he could finally see it: Howard's Various & Sundries. Simon adjusted the duffel a final time, and once he saw the lamps flicker on, he doubled his steps.

The front of Howard’s was black wooden walls, a black wooden overhang within a gray-blue brick frame, white letters on the overhang, and windows spelling out the store name in white paint. Inside the spotless glass windows, the goods on display included shaving kits, clothespins, a children’s ball-and-cup beside a hobby horse whose mane was yellow yawn, a small bag of dried beans, and some cans of stewed tomatoes beside a box of salt. On the side of the three-story building was another black wooden overhang shielding the steps and pipe railing. The landing in front of the door on the second floor had small clay pots with colorful flowers beginning to bloom.

He took the steps two at a time. When he hit the top, the necklace with his key came out from his shirt. He heaved a heavy sigh and lay down his burdens once he was finally inside. The duffel was dropped by the door and forgotten. The flowers went on the long all-purpose table by the window.

A couple of old newspapers lay under a dirty dish here and there, missing any food but still needing a wash. His apartment had started as a storage space for the shop below—the open floor plan and after-the-fact addition of the visible piping made that clear. The floorboards would've matched those in the Dagget home, somehow worse without any coverings to break up the scuffed, bare patches. An oversized leather couch was at the center of the room, with patches sewn into one arm and two cushions. The unmade bed was right against the wall in the back corner. Opposite the bed was what passed for a kitchen, a counter bolted to the wall above a small, free-standing cupboard. A small porcelain sink had a brass faucet. Between the bed and the kitchen was a toilet with two walls and a door thrown down around it in a hurry. It was home.

He poured some water into the washbasin and finally looked at the damage Jimmy Dagget had done. It wasn't as bad as Sherman made it seem, but it was noticeable. He'd hear about it at least three more times before the night was over. He pulled off his dark blue marshal's coat with a grimace and tossed it over the old leather sofa. He splashed lukewarm water on his face and rubbed it into his skin, around the red whiskers that had started to sprout. He yanked off his undershirt, washed his armpits, and scrubbed his chest, neck, and behind his ears with a rag.

Simon looked at his square face and decided that was as good as it would get. His eyes were deep-set under a heavy brow. The eyebrows were the same rust as his head and slanted so that he always looked, as Sherman put it, “mildly furious.” He knew he looked like he should've been moving crates around the bottoms beside Jimmy Dagget and used that to his advantage quite a bit. People didn't assume big men were clever—at least not big men with a face like his—much less quick. It helped a lot.

He glanced down at his left forearm and the purple rose in its maze of scythe-like thorns. It wasn't a tattoo. It looked too real to be ink. It was the thing about himself he hated most and the heaviest burden he carried.

Off went the marshal's black boots and black trousers. On went the fancy clothes that Layla had demanded he buy once she had picked them out. As he pulled on some dark gray trousers that had costed far too much, he glanced at the unmade bed. He was squinting at something in the fading light while buttoning up a crisp white shirt that felt like he was wearing brambles. He grabbed the suspenders off the back of the chair and set about fixing them in place as he crossed to the bed. Smirking, Simon picked it up to scrutinize. It was one of Layla’s earrings, a tiny circle of silver with an even smaller circle of gold on top, what a rich girl wore when trying to look nice without drawing too much attention to her wealth. Simon considered bringing it with him to return during the night but thought better, confident he’d lose it somewhere.

Instead, he left it on the table, safe and sound, until Layla spent the night the next time. He paused long enough to light a candle in a protective glass cage before he finished dressing. He had the flowers in his arms and his hand on the doorknob when he remembered it would be chilly that evening. Layla had a terrible habit of forgetting any sort of warm clothing on nights like this. Smirking again, Simon lay the flowers aside and grabbed his old leather jacket from the peg at the door. It had the dark, thick patina of a twenty-year-old belt and bore several scars where tears had been sewn and patched. Wearing it destroyed the respectability of the herringbone outfit, but it wouldn't matter; he could drape it over his arm—or Layla—once he distributed the flowers.

He was back at street level, walking past the front of the store, when he heard, “Simon? Simon! Simon, sweetheart, can you stop in a moment?”

Damn it, Beth. The bell over the door tinkled as he stepped inside wearing a sour frown.

Beth Howard was the old widow who owned the store and his apartment. She was a wizened little thing of five feet and not quite one-hundred pounds. Her wits were all there, and almost nothing got past her. Simon had never seen her in anything sized correctly, the entire wardrobe seeming too big for her. Today she wore a dark blue dress buttoned up to her chin with the overlong sleeves rolled back to her wrists. The white apron around her waist was the same color as her hair, tucked back into a ponytail to keep it out of her way.

She smiled at him as he approached the counter. “How are you today, sweetie?”

“Kind of a rush, Beth, sorry to say. Did you need something urgent? I'm already late.”

“Well, I'm sorry, dear, I didn't realize. I just needed to know if you'd be at the poker game next week. We need a headcount to know how much food and booze we'll go through.”

Simon snorted. “No. Absolutely not. I lost my shirt last time and still need to cover my rent next month.”

Beth grinned and winked. “Oh, it wasn't quite that bad. Besides, that's what you get for thinking some little old ladies never learned how to play cards.”

Simon shook his head. “Find another chump, Beth. I get knocked around enough as it is. I don't need some old hens kicking my teeth in for me.”

“Speaking of which,” she said as she motioned at his face. “Did you tell someone else the bread joke?”

“Everybody is a fucking comedian today.” He sighed as he headed for the door. Beth was snickering as Simon looked at the rack of penny dreadfuls and dime novels. The one that found its way into his hand was titled The Legioneers: Leap of Faith and had Simon laughing from incredulity. “Oh, I wish I had you in my hands this morning.”

“There aren’t any pictures in that.”

Simon pointed his finger at her as he neared the door. “Old women fall down the stairs all the time, Beth.” The bells jingled as he opened the door to leave.

“I'd like to see you try it, cupcake. You'll ruin that nice suit.”

Back out on the street and headed toward the Weird Sisters, Simon was able to let his mind wander. The foot traffic had died down a bit, giving him ample room to breathe even at the crossings. Moving from the Cheapside neighborhoods to the Bricktop homes was a lesson in economic stratification. The wealth increased almost from house to house and block to block.

By the time he reached the decorative ironworks at the base of the true Bricktop, he was surrounded by Layla's tier of people: bankers, advocates, businessmen, metaphysicians. People who wore nice suits to work every day and never got their hands dirty. At least not the visible kind. The lamps lit up as the sun finished its descent below the horizon. Simon was getting more askance looks from the well-dressed people he passed due to the apparent incongruity—he shouldn’t have been breathing the rarefied air of his betters, and they knew it.

When he finally hit Hecate Avenue and turned left, he noted that the bricks forming the homes were almost pure blue, not blue-hued. It was a status symbol. When Corthim had been a slave colony of the Eternal Empire, the first homes had been built from the Corthim's renowned blued soil. Corthim finally broke away from the Empire and formed the Covenant with other upstart seditious colonies over a hundred and fifty years prior; the blue brick homes were historical now.

Atop the hill, he let himself through the chest-high wrought iron gate into Beatrix and Alexandria’s front yard, a tidy little strip of manicured green that formed an L when it stretched down the long side of the narrow building. The two-story home had three windows across the top floor and two on the bottom, the third replaced with a heavy wooden door stained dark and polished to a shine. Decorative crenellations were scooped out of the roof's short overhang. Flower boxes on the first-floor windows sprouted pink, yellow, and orange blossoms of species he had no knowledge of.

Far above him, soft peach tones filling the sunset sky painted an airship orange as Simon finally knocked on the door. He heard Alex shout from inside and let himself in. Immediately on closing the door, he was set upon by the half dozen stray dogs the girls were currently housing. They all wanted pets, belly rubs, and ear scratches, and it would not be forgotten that he had so callously cheated them all this evening.

Disgusted with his stinginess, the dogs returned to their own lives and left him wandering down the hallway into the enormous kitchen. Alex was sitting at the table, having just finished igniting the wicks in the lamps.

“Hello there, handsome!” she chirped up at him. Small, round, and always bubbly, Alexandria was a strawberry blonde that favored oversized sweaters and garishly colored frames for her glasses. He'd counted at least a dozen different colors and styles since he'd known her. Today it looked like a dark purple, or maybe a weird blue? It clashed with her red sweater, and she seemed to calculate her dressing to arrive at such a conclusion. Her cheeks were too big for her face, buttressing a small nose that turned up at the end, giving her a girlish look despite being in her thirties. She beamed as she pushed her glasses up. “Look at you in a suit! You're taking this seriously, aren't you? Did somebody hit you in the face again? There has to be a safer job you could do instead of the Marshals.”

“You sound like my mother,” Simon said while scrubbing his hand across his nose.

“That's rude,” she noted. Her eyes lit up when he pulled the bundles of flowers out from behind his back. “You’re so sweet!”

She reached for the enormous one and scoffed when Simon pulled back. He instead gave her a smaller one but every bit as lovely as the bundle meant for Layla.

“Extremely rude,” Alex said.

Simon glanced around the kitchen. “Where's Bea?”

Alex shot him a look over the rim of her glasses. She was inhaling from the flowers in her hand. “Upstairs. She's been in her reading room all day. I've not seen her since breakfast.”

Simon frowned at her. “That's... odd. Isn't it?”

Alex’s nose scrunched up as her head swayed. “It’s unusual, certainly. What she does with the cards may as well be ritual magic, so it follows that it would be a significant time commitment on occasion.”

Simon frowned at her. “I thought you got mad when I called it magic?”

Alex’s face took on a long-suffering look. “I get irritated when you call what I do magic because what I do is metaphysics. I went to university and studied a great deal to learn the art and science of utilizing metaphysics. What I didn’t do is crack open a recipe book my dear old nana left me, dump a bag full of ingredients into a pot, and chant over it until what I wanted to happen eventually happened.”

Simon’s frown deepened. “Does Bea chant? Does she have a cauldron up there now?”

Alex’s eyes narrowed. “You’re being awfully contrarian for a guest in this house.”

Simon stared at her for a long moment before raising his hands raised in surrender. “Hey, I’m just the hired help. So, I look decent enough? I'm not going to embarrass anyone?”

Alex raised her nose to look down it. She made a show of adjusting her glasses and grinned. “We-ell... no. Of course not. And I am so delighted to meet this girl finally. What? You're making a face.”

Simon's eyes rolled above a lopsided grin. “Now you sound like my grandmother. Besides, I've gotta have something to make up for this face. It’s not serious anyway. I’ve told you that more than once. She just wants an in with Westgate’s most sought-after seamstress.”

Alex snorted. “Simon, you may not think it’s serious, but don’t assume she takes it as lightly. Having said that, no, you look quite dashing. Except for that old jacket. Why are you wearing that raggedy old thing over such a nice suit?”

“I like this jacket.”

“That jacket looks like you slept in it on the street. More than once.”

He was tempted to tell her that was precisely why he bought it but held his tongue. No reason to get into all that sadness. “She gets cold,” he said.

Alex considered that and nodded. “Smart. Plus, it probably smells like you. That's clever; it’ll get her used to your scent. Make her crave it.” Alex tapped her temple.

Simon remembered the earring left in his bed and pursed his lips, nodding along with Alex. “So... do we get Bea? Is she ready? Is she not?”

She frowned. “I don't know.” She took another moment to think. “Yeah, let’s go get her. She can put on something fancy faster than anybody else I know. Come on, handsome.” Alex slid her arm around Simon's.

The dogs barked but didn't rise as they passed the main room, and then they were heading up the stairs to the second level. Bea's reading room was the only shut door he could see; the bedroom held a bay window piled with stuffed animals.

After a long silence, Alex knocked a few times and asked, “Bea?”

Bea didn't answer, and Alex added, “Honey, it's time. We need to get ready. Big night tonight, remember? New client?”

They heard muffled footsteps, and then the knob turned. When the door opened, Beatrix Wenzler stood there, her face pale and puffy. Sharp cheekbones in a triangular face gave her a vulpine look, embellished by bobbed red hair, brown eyes, and twisted, sly eyebrows. Bea was much taller than Alex, leaner and more athletic due to hours spent practicing with her staff in the backyard, a few years closer to forty than thirty. It was rare to catch her as anything other than well-composed, but now her three-button undershirt hung over a pair of old, broken-in flannel pajama pants.

“Godsblood, Bea, what's wrong?” Simon asked. He was searching behind her for some hint of an intruder or accident. Something. Anything.

Alex held Bea's hands as the taller, slender redhead stared at Simon. Her short-cropped hair was a mess. She had to sniffle twice before she could manage to speak intelligibly. Her voice was flat and thick. “I've been keeping a secret from you.”

Alex froze. What Simon saw of her face showed that she’d gone deathly pale.

Simon felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. “What secret?” His eyes were moving back and forth between Bea and Alex.

Bea motioned for him to follow her. “It's just easier.”

Simon knew damn well what she did in that room, which filled him with terrible dread. The hairs on his neck, back, arms, and legs stood on end. As Bea stepped into the gloom, Simon unfastened his collar and pulled his tie loose. It became damnably hard to breathe.

Crossing that threshold was an act of will. Lamps at the far side of the room gave only weak light. He wanted to scream and fucking howl as he gazed at the floor and saw the cards arrayed in a spiral. His cards. Each of them was bathed in purple roses, like the one on his arm, the thing that had ruined his life from the beginning.

Bea stood in the corner, hugging herself. Her voice matched her eyes: mournful and distant. “It was that first night Sherman brought you here for Alex to fix you. You had such a massive reaction to her treatment, and you kept bleeding and bleeding. There were six rags soaked in your blood. That's where I got it. I can’t even say why I did it. It just felt like the right thing to do.” Her snort was full of contempt.

Simon's chest was heaving. They were everywhere. The fucking roses. The thorns. And nothing on those cards was pleasant or happy or anything he'd ever want to see.

“You know what I do. I get someone's blood, paint their cards, and then remember things that haven't happened yet. I can tell them their life story before—" Her voice broke, and she paused to collect herself. “I can tell them the story before it happens. And it always happens, Simon. I'm never wrong about these things; I wish I were—" She wiped her cheeks, refolded her arms, and shook her head. “I wish so badly that I was. I'm so sorry. I don't know what it is. I can’t even tell you what it looks like. All I know is that it's out there in the dark waiting for you. It's hideous and evil and further out than I can see. And it never changes. Ever.”

She sucked in a breath before pushing on. “You're chained to this, whatever it is, and it is horrible. The thing is, Simon, I have never felt anything like this. I’ve never seen the cards be this consistent over so long a time. I shuffle and shuffle and shuffle, and they’re always the same. Every reading, every time. It never changes. I put them in a bag, shake it up, empty it in the dark, and spread the cards with my eyes closed, and it's always the same. I have never, ever seen that before.”

Alex rushed to her side to comfort her. The shorter woman's hurried feet had scattered a few outlying cards, but the spiral pattern was unchanged. The spiral reminded him of swirling water, of his future disappearing down the drain. There were dozens of the damned cards, more than just the major ones he'd heard Bea talk about. An entire deck was spelling out his life’s wretched course in a language only that lying bitch could understand.

Down at the bottom beneath the spiral were three cards: Tower. Death. World. The Tower looked like an old mill with what looked like—was that blood? Was it blood running from the windows down the sides?

Dear gods above, Bea, what were you thinking? Simon asked himself over and over.

Death was some figure with long white hair and a skeletal-thin frame inside some black carapace. It held a scythe whose blade looked half-chewed and ready to fall apart.

The World was a clawed black hand crushing a globe in its palm.

Purple roses formed the corners and borders of the cards and were embellishments within the images. The blossoms and the scythe-like thorns weren't as lifelike as on his devil's mark but unmistakable. Inescapable.

Simon blinked as sweat finally rolled into his eyes. With the spell broken, he looked up at Bea, huddled in the corner and weeping as she stared at him. He opened his mouth to call her a fucking liar, but Alex placed her hand on his arm to soothe him. Simon would have none of it. He grabbed her arm and squeezed her wrist, half reflex and half volition.

Alex made a terrified whimper. “Please, Simon, I was just trying to calm you down! You're likely to pass out if you keep—"

“HORSE SHIT! Do you want more blood? Is that it? More of my blood for your evil fuckin’ spells?” Alex tried to jerk free as he shoved her away. She fell back onto her ass with a thud, scattering more of the cards.

He pointed at Bea. “That was years ago. YEARS! You've had this for fucking years! What are you, some Pencer spy? Huh? You made a deal to save your own lives and let them roast me? Is that it? Some fuckin’ bargain where you save your own neck by tearing my throat out?”

Bea could only shake her head as she covered her face with her hands. Alex was crying as well while she denied the accusations.

Simon kicked the cards to scatter them and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The dogs were losing their minds, sensing something was wrong in the house but not knowing what; they defaulted to barking and snarling at Simon, who growled back at them as he threw open the front door and slammed it shut behind him.

It was a conscious act not to sprint back home. Panic fueled his mind and his muscles from Bricktop back toward Cheapside. Every face he passed was a Pencer. Every dark corner had one waiting with a bag and a sap, ready to drub him and drag him off to burn him, like they’d done to Salem, maybe haul him off to drown him as they’d done to his father.

Beatrix had known for years. Who had she told? Did Sherman know? No, there was no way Sherman knew. He wouldn’t have kept that to himself. He would’ve sent Simon back to Harry and the bakery if he knew the secret was out. What was there to do? Where could he even go? Was Blue Rock far enough? Did he need to leave Corthim entirely? Could he hide in another covenant nation, or did he need to go all the way to the Empire?

What about Layla? Did she know?

There in the street, Simon froze in his tracks. He was almost trampled, but the driver got the horse under control as Simon shuffled onto the sidewalk.

No, there was no way Layla knew. She never would’ve bothered with him if she knew what he was. Who he was. But Layla’s family, her father in particular, would take action. He’d send people to scoop Simon up and have him packed off to the nearest pyre with an apple in his mouth and a bow on his head. And he’d disown Layla. Disown her or worse.

His heart had slowed enough that the panic sweat began to dry. He hunched over in the dark of an alley, leaning against a wall covered in dirty, faded paint with his face aimed down in case he puked. He couldn’t see Layla again. Never again. It was too big a risk. Too much danger to put her in. If Beatrix had known about him for years from his blood, then any number of horrible possibilities were on the table. He was a marshal. He got into a lot of fights. His blood was all over Westgate for anyone with a mind to scoop it up. So, who else knew? Who else could do what Beatrix did?

The first thing he had to do was tell Sherman. He was leaving for Silverton in the morning. That was it, then. Simon would go with him to Silverton. They could worry about the logistics later. Forge some transfer paperwork, whatever it took. Was Silverton far enough? No one there knew him by any name. It could work if he had to start over, leave the service and pick up a trade. But what would he do about his face? A beard? Magic? Where would he even get that kind of money?

Simon squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force his mind to slow down, to become still. He failed utterly and banged his head against the wall.

Beatrix had known for years. Alex too. They didn’t keep secrets like that. Both of them had known and never let on. Never gave anything away. He had to assume someone knew, someone that remembered who Salem Mazarin had been and wanted to burn her grandson alive just like her. They’d hunt him down and kill him just like they’d done to his father. Simon was sure he was going to die screaming on a stake, or drowned in a lake like his dad but either way it was Bea and Alex who would put him there.

He heaved a sigh. His shoulders felt tight and heavy under his new burden. One thing was sure: whatever else may or may not be true, he had to leave. Tonight. Right now.

He dragged the tie off and tossed it aside, forgotten. Opening the crisp white shirt to his chest, he started walking faster without running. He kept his head down and stayed away from the streetlights. He could've taken the alleys, but the main streets were still faster. Bea and Alex could be in communication with someone already. He had to get his things and get out of town, even if it meant sleeping in the woods and dealing with the animals.

Howard's Various & Sundries was dark. He took the steps three at a time and almost kicked the door in. Once inside his apartment, he removed the nice new suit and cast it aside, forgotten forever. On went an old pair of black corduroys, his black uniform boots, and a faded gray shirt. His leather jacket as a top layer and a black felt hat completed his escape attire. He was packing another duffel of clothes and belongings when Beth appeared at his door.

“What in hell is going on up here, Simon? I thought you were being robbed!” Beth said.

“Leavin', Beth. I gotta go tonight.”

“Wh-what? Why? Simon, why? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

He almost laughed in her face. How could he tell her that a bunch of cult lunatics would tie him to a post and burn him alive if they ever found him? What was the right way to tell her they had found his father despite living under a new name and made his death look like an accident? What was a succinct but coherent way to explain that he could never hide from who he was because of the damned rose on his arm? That the devil marked him to make it easier for people to find him, kill him, and send him down to Hell? No, it would sound like he was a raving madman.

“Yeah, I am. And I need to get while the gettin' is good.”

Simon stopped packing long enough to look at her when she didn't respond. Her lower lip was quivering. “What'd you do? Is it one of those bastards you tossed in jail?”

He hated lying to her, but it was quicker. “Something like that. You should be fine, Beth. They won’t have a reason to bother you as long as it’s known I’m not here. Just put out the sign in the morning, and everything will be fine.”

The old widow wrapped her arms around him as best she could, squeezing her hardest. Even in his low-level panic, Beth's display was touching. Simon hugged her back with tender care—she was small and frail.

Beth touched his cheek with her papery finger. “You're a good boy, Simon Maes. I'll miss you so much. Go on, then. Don't make it easy for 'em.” She patted his cheek and stepped away.

Simon’s eyes landed on Layla’s earring sitting on the table. He had to be rid of it if someone were coming after him. “Beth.”

She glanced back from the doorway. “What, dear?”

Simon met her at the door and set Layla’s earring in her old palm. “That girl you’ve seen me with may come looking for this. If anyone asks about her, you’ve never seen me with anyone, okay? Please.”

Beth sniffled and nodded, pocketing the earring before she patted his cheek again. “You’re a good boy.” She tried to smile, but it looked strained. Then she disappeared down the steps.

May the gods damn you, Bea, you godsbloody witch bitch.

Less than five minutes after Beth's departure, his entire life was in two duffel bags and a guitar case. One duffel over each shoulder and the guitar in his hand, Simon looked back at the spot that had been his home for four years. He locked in on the unmade bed in the corner and felt a lance of hatred arc through his chest. He thought about Layla waiting for him at the restaurant, knowing he'd never see her again. He'd never be able to tell her why or apologize or say how sorry he was for putting her in danger.

Simon pulled out the necklace with his key. He locked the door to his apartment, hung the key on the doorknob to Beth's room, and headed for the train station.