Archive of Our Own ^beta

Just like an abandoned church or a cave of mysterious origin that had not been there a few days prior, one did not enter the parlor of Madame Hēi without taking certain precautions first. Foxfire candles and spare bullets would not save me, however; this operation required a tasteful suit, a dash of perfume and an appropriate gift. On all those things, I knew, I would be judged harshly.

The lady of the house regarded me calmly. Her lips, beautifully painted, offered me a smile, yet in her eyes resided the coldness of the Roof.

Gathering all my scant studies could offer me, I made an introduction in — I hoped — passable Mandarin. The Madame responded in turn, and, while I understood the first half of her response to be favorable, the second, which sounded like a question, eluded me entirely. Shamefully, I retreated to English and admitted my ignorance.

"Then you would do well, Detective, to not flaunt a beautiful language like a virgin with his pants down," the Madame responded calmly. "What do I care that you have it, if you haven't the slightest idea what to do with it?"

The vulgarity was a test; one I indended to pass. I offered a thin smile; not wide enough to be sycophantic, but enough to show my appreciation of the Madame's wit.

"I beg your pardon. Much like the proverbial virgin, I am all too eager to please."

My retort earned me a slight raise of her perfectly manicured eyebrow and a slight curve in her smile. This, I would learn later, meant that I had amused her.

"My, my; it has been a while since I've had such an earnest admirer. You will want to note that I am quite fond of rubies, and prefer gold to rostygold."

I promised that I would remember it, and expressed my hope that the humble gift I brought would suffice for now.

There he was, on the corner; the man which had become my shadow. Never did he approach close enough that I could see his face in detail, often hiding behind a raised collar or the brim of a hat; but he had chosen a skilled partner in this dance of stealth and observation. In brief glimpses, I'd been able to paint a half decent portrait of him in my mind.

He stood taller than me, but not freakishly so; his build not too large nor too slight. He moved with a tense sort of grace that to me suggested both expertise and anxiety. His hair was dark and cut slightly longer than the average gentleman would prefer; he dressed in blacks and dark greys, becoming a pale face wrapped in shadow.

On one occasion, I caught a glimpse of his eyes in my pocket mirror. They were the color of embers dying in the fireplace on a stormy night.

I decided then that I would nickname my new dance partner the Firehawk — for he certainly watched me like one, and I could feel his gaze like a burning brand between my shoulders, marking me for a fate I did not yet know.

Detective Jameson was right where I knew I would find them: reclining in their chair. Their desk, as always, was strewn with papers in a manner that seemed to me chaotic, yet to them appeared to be perfectly comprehensible. Today they flaunted a striking black vest accented by daring red lapels and buttons of brass; it seemed new, and I was fairly certain that I hadn't seen them wear it before.

We did not always see eye to eye. For all I've been told that I have a poet's soul, theirs was the way of the true eccentric; it seemed to me at times that they were unhappy with the lot of a detective, and would be much better served in the role of a playwright or some other sort of incendiary artist. Still, they excelled at their work; how they managed to untangle the truth with such precision from the web of rumour, scandal and pretense that was the upper crust of Veilgarden, I would never know.

Mr. Bates was their informant. I could chase after the gentleman for days and days on end, and only receive a handful of cryptic hints for my troubles; but Jameson had a strange kind of rapport with him. Enlisting their help would be the smart choice to make, even it it could be taken as admission of incompetence.

The memories of the last conversation I had attempted with Mr. Bates were still fresh in my mind. Or, I should say, they were recent; their clarity was questionable. I recalled the man's rumbling voice and the devilish glint in his eyes; I recalled being deeply disturbed by his sayings; I could not, for the life of me, recall what was being said.

The look of impish triumph in Jameson's eyes as I approached reminded me in some inconceivable way of that devilish glint. Indeed, I thought grimly, the two were well suited for each other. They even shared the same fondness for shiny brass buttons.

Slowly, my surroundings faded back into my awareness. I found them quite askance, the floor rough against my cheek and tilted at an odd angle and the walls unusually curved; a faint swaying motion pervaded my senses. In my bleary state, I thought it the effect of the poison finishing its fiendish work.

I then took note of two shadowed figures standing over me; from my current position I could not tell much more than one of them being taller than the other, and having, as it seemed to me at the time, strangely gleaming eyes.

A repeating series of short taps was reverberating through the floorboard, and, unfortunately, through my very skull and eyes. Then, abruptly, it stopped.

"Aha!" exclaimed the taller one. "Lieutenant, I do believe our guest isn't dead anymore."

Their voice, light with a slight erratic edge to it, was as painful to my ears as the previous noise.

I made an attempt to express that I was never dead in the first place — even envenomed, I hardly would have forgotten playing a match with the Boatman — but found it challenging to produce more than an incoherent rasp.

"I believe they can hear us, Captain," said the shorter shadow in a softer, more measured voice that turned one's mind to comforting things like the routine lighting and dimming of lamps and newspaper crosswords. It too was laced with anxiety, restrained but all the more apparent for it.

Captain. This single word made all scattered puzzle pieces fall into place at once: I was in the dimly lit hold of a ship. At zee.

"I should hope so!" the captain replied energetically to their lieutenant, and approached me. The sound of their footsteps explained to me the noise that startled me to alertness: it was the tapping of their foot.

Once close to me, they crouched, inspecting my ragged form. A long, thin finger poked unceremoniously at my shoulder.

"Hullo? Are you with us, Detective?"

The distance that still remained between us despite their bending down was impressive; they struck a tall figure. From my vantage point on the floor, my view of them consisted of polished boots, cascading hair, and what I now understood to be a pair of large, diamond-shaped green spectacles. The mere sight of them instantly adjusted my understanding of the situation.

I wasn't in the hold of just any ship. I'd been abducted by the Pirate-Queen themself.

Fog crawls the streets of London less often now that it has left the Surface, but even in the Neath the city is not fully free of it. On the nights it creeps in, familiar roads become akin to the crumbling paths of the Forgotten Quarter, and the wise Londoner stays indoors unless some urgent business takes them outside, for who knows what might lurk concealed in milky vapour?

It was on such a night that I took a markedly unwise stroll through Spite. The air around me hung heavy with moisture, and I was hardly enjoying the sensation of swimming through it; yet I persevered. The man I was seeking favored these sorts of nights for the same reason others avoided them: in the fog, one could not see danger approaching until it was too late.

A blade whistled through the air, pinning the edge of my cape to the door of a pub. Even as it startled me, ridiculously, my next thought was one of dismay; it was a very nice cape of thick grey wool, and I was loath to see it damaged.

A figure emerged from the fog before me. He walked as a wraith, soundless; it would be easy to convince myself that I was merely imagining him. There was a ghostly quality to his pallor and to the eerie calmness of his gaze; to be in his sights was to be observed with great focus, but from some far, far away place.

Had I been anyone else, I should have feared for my life. I was no match for an assassin of his caliber, and even the knowledge that he was hiding a lame arm under his cloak would not save me. However, I owed the man ten Echoes for drinks, and so was quite safe.

"You could have sent a note," said the Phantom of Flowerdene Street. "Or an urchin. You could have sent an urchin."

I produced one of my most charming smiles.

"And where would be the fun in that, my friend?

The man regarded me over the frame of his glasses, nodding in greeting:

"Monsieur Derring — or is is Mademoiselle today?"

Whatever else there was to say about the Frenchman, he had done his research.

"Monsieur will do just fine," I replied. "Although, in this case, Detective would be more appropriate."

"Ah." Somehow, he had managed to imbue this single syllable both with sympathetic understanding and amicable disappointment. "Business, then; not pleasure. Will you do me the honor of playing, regardless?"

With an elegant gloved hand, he indicated the chess board set in front of him.

I would not refuse. I could delude myself that this gentleman was simply sitting idly in the chess club, waiting for a partner, before I appeared; unfortunately, my skills of observation were too keen for such comforts. All the other tables were taken; some even had spectators hovering about, resorting to analysis and commentary as they waited their turn to play. And yet, none of those hangers-on approached our table; there was some sign, regrettably unknown to me, that prevented them from claiming the seat I was about to take.

"I hear that playing with you is a dangerous ordeal, monsieur," I remarked lightly as I settled.

"Surely not more dangerous than the Boatman himself, mon ami," he responded with a smile. "Yes, yes, I heard about your recent match. Seeing as you are with us once again: my congratulations on your victory."

Had we been dreamers meeting in our sleep, the red crust at the corners of his eyes easily could have been Attar. In our wakeful state, however, I was fairly certain that it was blood.

I thanked him politely, and moved my pawn to D4.

"I appreciate your concern, Detective, but I assure you: the situation is under control. Lizzie is safe here: no one will harm her."

"I do not doubt that," I said. "You are a powerful man, Mr. Crossby."

A faint ripple of displeasure ran across his scarred, delicate features.

"I'm just a man doing his best to offer what was never offered to me, when I needed it."

He lifted a hand up as if to brush back a lock of his long hair, but in this motion, I saw his fingertips ghost over the jagged shape carved into his cheek. The injury that caused it could not have been easy to endure.

"I am not here to threaten your ward or to take her away," I continued. "I bring a message from her sister. And, if it is possible at all that she might know something — " the man's brow furrowed at my words — "I would hear it. For Jane's sake, and for Lizzie's own good. It wears one down, holding on to a dark secret."

He hesitated a moment, considering my words. Then, he said:

"Very well. I will ask her if she would speak to you. I don't mean to cause harm to her sister, only — "

"Only to protect the child," I said.

"Yes. From those who would harm her — openly, or hiding under the guise of so-called justice."

"Justice is the pursuit of court and constable," I said. "I search for truth."

My answer seemed to satisfy him; when he directed me to a room where I could wait, he did so amicably.

"You must believe me," he implored. "I couldn't have killed him. It's impossible!"

He worried for nothing, for I knew my friend, and nothing about the murder suggested his involvement. True, he had feuded with the victim — passionately, even — but in the world of microscopy, spite manifested as insidious academic papers, perhaps tampered-with samples, not grave bodily harm. Blood and broken bones were simply too vulgar for this kind of crowd. Besides, there was also the matter of his particular eccentricity.

"I — I'd never even been to his home. He'd invited me once, only because he knew that I would decline. You know me, Derring; I'm a homebody. A man of habit. His house is on the other side of London, for God's sake! — "

I placed a comforting hand on my friend's shoulder; he nodded shortly, breathing deeply as he attempted to calm himself.

His claims were true, but I knew that the Constables would not see it as clearly as I did. For all of my Impeccable friend's efforts to educate the force, the subtler aspects of psychology yet escaped them; they would not take note of the genuine distress in his voice and the wringing of his hands at the mere thought of venturing across the city, as if he'd been commanded to zail all the way to the Elder Continent.

"Worry not," I said. "You and I both know that you are innocent; it stands to reason, then, that another person is guilty. If so, then they have left traces. I will find them."

I was doing fine work weaving my path through the gardens, staying well out of sight of any patrolling guards, when I was struck by an awareness that something had gone awry.

I sensed the weight of soft steps behind my back, motion more than noise — and then, suddenly, I was seized and pulled off the path against my will, a hand clamped over my mouth to prevent me from shouting. Foliage rustled and scratched over the exposed areas of my skin. I found myself in a small obscure space between the walls of the hedge maze, seemingly with no other paths leading in or out of it save for the narrow corridor I was pulled through.

Shock and caution both prevented me from immediately starting to struggle. Had my captor moved to harm me, I would have responded in turn, but instead we simply stood together in silence, like a piece of especially distasteful statuary tucked away from public view.

As I was getting my bearings, I saw through the tangled branches of the hedge strange movements: not the familiar uniforms and measured stride of the guards, but gowns and waiscoats, the unsteady gait of revelling drunks, and the disharmony of intoxicated voices approached us. Soon they were close enough that I could see their faces, and recognize — my very employers! Had my mouth been free, I would have taken an especially unflattering oath.

As the procession was passing us, I could hardly hear my captor breathe. Once the last revellers have disappeared, however, they spoke.

"You did not expect to see them here."

It was quite a pleasant voice, terribly wasted on whispering in the bushes — and tantalizingly familiar, at that.

I had heard it before, I realized; on Moloch Street, when hiding behind an ornate partition. I had not seen the speaker then; I did not see him now, but, with the details put together, I knew his identity all the same.

I made as if the glove covering my nose and mouth had deprived me of air, causing me to faint. My gambit paid off; as soon as my body went slack, my captor shifted awkwardly, trying to prevent me from falling into the hedge and exposing us both. In doing so, he forgot to guard himself, and paid for it dearly when my elbow struck him directly in the stomach.

The brief moment he spent disoriented from pain was all the time I needed. By the time he stood fully upright again, I had wrenched myself from his grasp, pulled out my Derringer and aimed it square at his chest.

His dark suit served well to help him fade into the shadows, but even in the faintest diffused lamplight, there was no mistaking those ember eyes.

"Mr. Firehawk," I said. "We meet again, and this time you even speak to me. Have you finally overcome your shyness?"

He stared at me, puzzled.

"Firehawk?"

"I'd fashioned a nickname for you; I chose it for your striking eyes. Do you like it? Or would you perhaps provide me with a proper term of address to replace it?"

I smiled as sweetly as one can while being keenly aware of the barrel of a pistol being pressed to their side.

"I must take this as a compliment. Whatever could I have done to attract such interest from a man who holds an entire city in the palm of his hand?"

To an observer, we were merely two Londoners strolling along the bank of the Stolen River, arms linked. Friends? Business partners? Perhaps a couple?

In truth, the river was likely chosen as the eventual destination for my lifeless body. I detested the thought; I quite liked the gown I was wearing, and it would likely have to be discarded on my swim back to shore.

That is, if the Diamond wasn't planning to remove me permanently.

"You do yourself a disservice, Detective," the veiled gentleman remarked with a hint of amusement. "You are not the first or last to attempt a robbery of my quarters. You are, however, the first in a while to see some success."

The press of the gun became painful.

"I would like my possessions returned."

Now I knew why I was still alive; what this farce of walking me to the river at gunpoint was meant to achieve. My opponent believed that I had something of his, which was of great import to him.

But I had not taken anything from his quarters other than memories. My pursuit was that of information, not material trophies. Could it be, then, that I was not the only intruder in the Diamond's residence that night?

I studied his veiled face as well as I could. He was man of dark complexion, clearly taking pride in his long, well-groomed hair; there was a sharpness to his features and a focus in his dark eyes that brought to mind a taut bow, a big cat ready to pounce, a rifleman taking aim. He was a hunter; me, he took for his quarry.

If I wanted to convince him that he was wrong, I would have to apply all of my mastery.

"Wasn't a spider-council," the Hunter stated the moment we set foot within the rookery.

"Curious," I said. "All three of my contacts in Benthic said otherwise."

She responded with a gruff noise, which I was not sure whether to classify as a scoff or a chuckle.

"Who are those contacts? Tell them they need to brush up on their education. See here — " she lifted a grizzled hand, with long sharp fingernails that in the dim light appeared not unlike talons, and indicated something just under the roof.

It took a moment of squinting and staring intensely, pressing my neathglass goggles closer to my eyes, until I could make out the sign she seemed to notice instantly upon arrival. A dark smear, half on the wall and half on the underside of the roof. To me, it was near invisible in the shadows.

"I see it!" I called out, and momentarily became embarrassed by my outburst of triumph.

"Ever seen a spider-council leave this kind of track?"

I admitted that I have not.

"In truth, I haven't seen any creature leave such traces," I said. "To me this seems more like a rogue splash of paint."

"Well, that's why you called me," the Hunter replied. "Step aside."

I did as she asked, and watched in wonder as she grabbed onto a support beam and swiftly began to climb up into the rafters.

It was a lovely Sunday. The lamplight was, of course, the same as it ever is, but it seemed to me that there was a certain friendliness to it today; the pale echo of soft and steady early-summer sunlight. I did not express my thoughts aloud, however, knowing that I would immediately be questioned and asked to demonstrate that I am able to quantify both the intensity and friendliness of lamplight, and then to provide proof that it is indeed much different today than it was yesterday.

Such was the Enquirer's way, and I had come to accept his scrutiny as good sport, and at times even a friendly gesture. Just on this stroll alone, as I matched my pace to that of his wheeled chair, he had already engaged me on the subject of the crown, the Rubberies' seasonal festivities, and the honey establishment that had opened a block away from his lodgings recently; today's sport, I surmised, was to force me to voice a controversial opinion and then defend it, even if I did not quite agree with it myself.

"I, for one, find the Rubbery Men's traditions fascinating," I was saying as we passed the Singing Mandrake. "It is a shame that the average Londoner recoils from them."

"So you would encourage the Londoner to be curious instead?"

"It would do us some good, I think."

"And you believe that the Rubberies would appreciate such an intrusion of their privacy?"

"I believe," I replied pointedly, "that the Rubberies would appreciate even the most boorish curiosity over simply being pelted with rocks."

"Boldly said."

"A commendation! Have I entertained you enough, then, and earned a right to ask a few questions of my own?"

My friend raised an eyebrow:

"Whatever left you with the impression that you must earn my answers?"

"This, I say, is a question we shall leave for another time."  I reached into my breast pocket and produced the folded photograph I'd acquired in the Flit a fortnight ago.  "I would have you look at this, and tell me what you know about the man pictured."

As the Professor poured us tea, my eyes wandered around his office. Most of our encounters happened elsewhere on campus, and the one time I entered the study before was cut short by the Dean's arrival. I thus had a unique opportunity to gather more information on the man, which was fortunate, as I was preparing to ask a great favor of him.

There was a more than handsome collection of books, of course. Most of them on linguistics, naturally; I also spied an especially decorated copy of Deveraux's "Ciphers", and several tomes on the Correspondence.

Aside from that, the office was tastefully decorated and comfortably furnished. There was a couch, perfectly neat but to the trained eye clearly slept-on; I was not surprised that the resident chose to spend both days and nights in his place of work and study.

The tea was delightful; a fragrant blend I did not recognize. I made a note to ask him for the name, later.

"Well, Miss..." He allowed a meaningful pause, and when I smiled and nodded, continued smoothly, "...Miss Derring, what brings you here today? I don't suppose you've come just for the pleasure of my company."

Even though I had not completed even a single term under his tutelage — my cover story exposed long before then — I was still Miss (or Mister, depending on the day) Derring to him; never Detective. I found it irritating some times, endearing at others. Today, perhaps this familiar approach would aid me.

"I find myself in need of your help, Professor; a matter only you can assist with."

"You require a translation, then?" he asked; there was a quality to his voice that made me think he already knew my answer.

"I'm afraid not," I said. "I require your other field of expertise."

It was time to lay my cards on the table.

"I need to arrange for a certain person to leave the Great Game."

A shadow fell on the Professor's face. I was ready, and yet still found myself struck by the sudden change in demeanor.

"No one leaves the Game, Derring, except in death. Some of us, not even then."

"That is what he told me," I agreed, taking care to keep my voice light, allowing the slightest tremble as I added, "However, I must insist on trying."

My last card. The ace up my sleeve, the lie that was perhaps not fully a lie, but I dared not to pursue that thought further. Of all people I could turn to, I knew the Professor would be the most receptive to it.

"...It is a matter of the heart."

I ran. Braving roof after roof, one precarious jump after another, I kept at my quarry's heels, as if I had become a hound overcome by instinct, its entire world narrowed to the hind of the prey creature before it.

In my case, I was guided by an ostentatiously long train of colored fabric; I could not tell whether it was gown or coattails or some combination thereof, nor could I imagine how my quarry maintained their nimbleness in such a garb to the extent of giving me trouble — and I, my dear reader, am not the slowest runner.

The Flit's rickety towers of wood and rope were now square before us, and I became certain that the thief meant to lose me there. But when we were just about to cross into the Topsy King's realm proper, the scoundrel stopped abruptly at the very edge of a roof and — to my astonishment — turned around and bowed to me with a flourish.

I was far enough behind, and with enough presence of mind even within the chase, to halt my steps in time; to find my footing on the slippery shingles, and to take aim. Seeing that, the thief immediately raised both hands, and called out:

"No need, Detective! We've had a wonderful chase, but I am quite tired; I stopped because I meant to thank you."

"I struggle to believe that," I replied. "Then again, I struggle to believe you'd nearly evaded me in this outfit, and that is quite true."

"I will take that for a compliment," the thief said. "Detective, may I remove my hat for a proper greeting?"

Regrettably, I could not allow that.

"I understand. Well, then, in a less than perfect manner — I am pleased to make your acquaintance! Fisher Steel, at your service. You have supplied me with wonderful writing material tonight; if you've the time, we could make it to my lodgings just in time for morning tea."

"Right. Here's the papers."

He handed me the stolen case files. Other than the few crinkles one would expect to see on papers that had been hastily transported under a thief's coat, everything seemed in order.

"Remarkable," I noted.

"They're just papers, Detective."

"Not the files; you, my friend. You could have made quite a name for yourself, had you brought these to anyone but me — and yet here we are."

In response, he simply hummed and shrugged in a noncommittal manner, the slightly-too-large grey patchwork coat shifting over his shoulders.

"Oi, he's 'humble like that, Detective," purred the tabby winding herself between his feet. "Warms my little cat heart, knowing I raised 'im right."

The thief snickered; even with the scarf hiding his face, I could see the amusement in his eyes.

"Found her in a back alley when she was a little kitten," he told me. "Way she likes to tell it, it was the other way around."

"Well, you'd be lost as a kitten without me!" the tabby declared.

I contemplated the man sitting before me.

The Suspect Academic was well-dressed and had the tastefully neglected air that successful academics often possess: disheveled enough to suggest that there are more important matters occupying their attention, but not so much as to outright rebel against their establishment's conventions of dress.

The expression with which he stared me down did not pair well with that presentation. It was a pointed frown, laced both with alertness and indescribable weariness; a look I would rather expect to see on a war-scorched soldier, but not on a scholar. His posture was tense, but not overtly guarded; the polished lenses of his glasses reflected the candlelight back at me as he slightly inclined his head. All this left me with the impression that I, too, was being scrutinized.

Usually I would be delighted to encounter such a puzzle, but, as it happens, I was pressed for time. My pocket watch informed me that only twenty minutes remained before the Constables would come to escort me out of the holding cell. This was all the time I had to convince the Academic that I was his ally rather than an enemy, and extract from him information that would allow me to advance the case.

I pondered my next move. He, doubtlessly, pondered his. When I spoke at last, the echo of my words off the stone walls much reminded me of the faint tap of a pawn being set down on a chessboard.

"Have you ever lost someone, Professor? Someone dear to you?"

The creature heaved its last breath and became still. It was strangely formless in death, the many waving appendages that made it so fearsome in life now curled up.

That did not mean that the danger had passed entirely, however. When I peeked out of my cover again, I did so with caution, and with my weapon still drawn. The spider-council may have been the other shot's main quarry, but I did not know that they would not take human prey too if given the chance.

It's then that I saw them: a lone figure, boots and coattails splattered with the mud of the marshes, trudging its way towards the spider-council's corpse. A fearsome rifle hung at their side; they seemed quite familiar with it.

They stopped by the corpse, poked the side of it with the barrel of their rifle. Satisfied with the following stillness, they looked up and around.

"Ahoy, whoever you are!" they called out. "It's dead. If you're still alive, you can come out now. I've bandages and such if you need them!"

The call was quite good-natured, and they did come to my rescue, so I reasoned that it would not be unwise to respond.

Slowly, I emerged from my shelter behind the rocks; my gun not yet holstered, but hanging from my hand and lifted up as to make apparent that I did not mean to use it.

The hunter — and I was quite certain by now that they were a hunter — noticed me, and waved as if I was an old friend.

We chatted pleasantly on the way back to my lodgings, discussing my new friend's latest work and the delightful strain of honey I'd acquired yesterday. So often I could not think of myself as anything other than Detective; it was rather refreshing to have made an acquaintance that knew me simply as an amicable gentleman of good taste. There would be no talk of theft or murder this evening, save for that committed between the pages of a book; or so I thought, until, on approaching my front door, I found it slightly ajar.

At once, I took alarm and told the Novelist to stay behind me. He seemed more than happy to oblige, and suggested that if the house had been broken into, he may call the Constables.

"In a moment," I assured him, somewhat distracted. In my mind, I'd conjured a handful of my latest cases, and was trying to decide whether any of the involved might have returned with a vengeance. At the same time, I'd drawn my gun and approached the front door. When it became clear that no noise came from within, I entered — and then, my worries multiplied in an instant.

A woman lay sprawled on the carpet in my living room, quite dead. Permanently so — as her head, along with some other parts of her body, was nowhere in sight.

The knock of a cane on my floorboards alerted me to the Haunted Novelist's approach.

"Heavens," he muttered at the sight of the body. Turning around, I found his expression resembling that of a man battling seasickness.

"Spare yourself the sight, my friend," I said softly. I felt somewhat queasy myself, but I'd grown used to grisly sights in my line of work; the same could not be said of an artist.

In an attempt to take his attention off the body, I jokingly added:

"I hope you will take my honest word I'd had nothing to do with it."

"It would be difficult to believe otherwise," the man responded flatly. "She's hardly been dead for more than a few hours; killed elsewhere, or we'd see much more blood; and carving up a body in this manner is hard work. I'd had you out of my sight for perhaps thirty minutes this evening; it would be quite a feat to murder someone, dismember them, and carry the body to your lodgings in that time. I suppose one could argue you could have ordered the killing, but it would be rather strange for you to invite me to your lodgings knowing that a corpse is here."

I stared at him bewildered. He'd rattled the points off as if it was habit, something he hardly needed to think about.

Under my gaze, the air of casual confidence drained from him as quickly as it had appeared; the look in his eyes became somewhat panicked.

"I, er — I only meant to say it would be reasonable to suppose that — " He seemed to fail to find an end to the sentence that was to his liking.

"You are full of surprises," I remarked.

He gestured to my gun:

"So are you. Do you carry a derringer to every Bohemian outing?"

"Well, poets do get rather zealous when they are being critiqued."

In the dim candle-lit space, smoke-veiled both from the candles themselves and the pipes of numerous spectators, my opponent and I circled each other. Oh, how small the arena seemed all of a sudden as I acutely felt all my aches from previous bouts, as heavy as the Clay-Woman was light-footed, barely a scratch on her sculpted flesh.

The reigning champion of the Ring of Wax stood before me.

In the luckiest outcome of things, I would see a night's worth of injury pay off at last, and have the answers I came for. In the unluckiest outcome, my next bout would be with the Boatman.

Wary of advertising my exhaustion, I waited for her to make the first strike. I needed not wait long.

Her fist came towards me with such speed and weight that I could hear air whistling around it. I dodged, and was immediately knocked prone by a swipe of her foot. She brought another foot down on me, and it crashed into the floor where my head was mere moments ago; I had rolled out of the way and brought myself back to my feet.

"Well played," I called out to her with a smile. I could not for the life of me explain why those words came to me then; I might have been simply too dazed to think clearly, my instincts in a dangerous jumble.

I would later learn that she had taken my compliment as condescending.

She lunged towards me then, her full dense weight propelled forward. I made to evade, but miscalculated; she crashed into me, I felt a sickening crack, and then the back of my head hit the floor with a resounding thump.

I was not dead yet, but soon, I would be. Her hand was on my neck, pressing down. I scratched at it uselessly, clay and blood mixing under my fingernails.

It was then that I'd noticed an irregularity. Even in my daze, I felt that the shape of her hand was strange; her middle finger chipped vertically with a sharp edge, making it more like a dull knife in shape.

The case file I'd read appeared before my eyes, as if I was holding it in that very moment. A thin red scratch on the victim's wrist, three inches in length — it puzzled the investigating detective then, and it puzzled me now, until this very moment.

"Everett," I croaked with the last of the air in my lungs. "Everett Heath."

There was a shifting, a recoiling; suddenly, the weight on my throat was no more. The name I spoke had affected her.

But it was too late. I could feel that something had been irreparably damaged; my awareness was laced with a persistent numb wrongness, and I could not get more than a tiny gulp of air into my lungs. The shouts of the crowd blurred into a dull, monotonous din.

I humbly accepted my defeat, and turned to greet the Boatman.

I had what I'd come for, regardless.