Harriet breathes through her nose, never relaxing her angry gaze. Soteris’ order still has her pinned in place, arms in the air, on display, so she can’t turn around or do anything to hide her ostentatious blue dress.

  No. Not her’s.

  “I ain’t seein’ Blair.” She exhales. “Ya can’t force me ta meet that rat.”

  "It’s not a matter of choice.”

  “Naw. But I can make other choices. I can choose ta dunk yer bribe money in the punchbowl. Spit in an MP’s frickin’ eye!”

  “Bribe mo-” Soteris stops, sighing. “Good Lord. Do you think I’m going to bribe them?”

  “We’re well past thinkin’.”

  “I’ll have you know, every contribution I’ve made to Labour was well within legal maximums.”

  She smiles at that. “An’ those are…?”

  “Per candidate, thirty-thousand pounds.”

  Harriet laughs, her body shaking as much as it can. Unseen, Astrid starts sneaking her way out of the closet.

  Soteris' face sets. "You disbelieve me?”

  “Never. Makes perfect sense. Who doesn't hand out military contracts ta Greek kids with no experience?” She tilts her head. “Meritocracy, is that right?"

  "You're getting on my nerves."

  "Ooooh." She gives a fake gasp. "They install the same system fer the politicians? It'd explain why they’re so cheap. Thirty-thousand pounds, pffft. I've met more expensive whores-"

  “I’m adding that word to the list.” Soteris turns around, marching to her dresser. “I forgot to give you something.”

  It’s not like Harriet can do anything to stop him. In the corner of her eyes, she spots Astrid still trying to tiptoe in heeled sandals. She's managed to reach the doorframe.

  When their Keeper returns, it’s with a silver necklace in hand. He pulls away Harriet’s hair so that he can gently tighten it around the omnipresent black collar. She looks down. It's covered with sapphires.

  “Ohhh, good thinkin’, chief! Now they’ll never find out!”

  “You’re on strike two," he warns.

  “Oh, no! I ain’t jokin’! This ain't exactly some heist on MENSA. It's the Labour Party we’re talkin’ ‘bou-”

  He grabs her mouth. The sides of her cheeks. Tightening painfully until she can’t make words.

  He’s breathing strangely.

  “Heyyyyy!” Astrid announces. “I-I don’t know if you’se can see the time, but I actually have a, um, uh-a-appointment right now! So, uh, heheheh! I’m just gonna…”

  She scampers away as Soteris lowers his voice. “Do you realise how petulant you always sound?”

  He loosens her grip enough for her to smirk. “I get that a lot.”

  “Do you really think that's how the world works? That I'm part of some big, evil, global capitalist cabal?" He puts a hand on his heart. "I must have missed the invitation. Maybe it's still in the mail!"

  “Blair betrayed us! He stabbed the unions in the back! He hurt my friends!!”

  “Your friends hurt themselves."

  “Go ta Hell!”

  “They are relics,” Soteris snarls. “Every step we take forward, they’d drag us ten steps back! Just like the Unbound. Just like you.”

  “We know when we’re bein’ robbed!”

  “Do you? So what happens when we hand you a knife? What have your Freeholders done, whenever they scrounge up a scrap of power!? They thieve. They rape. They ransom and loot and act like mongrels!"

  “I’ve never put a man on the street so I could take his bonus!” She shouts back. “I’ve never made a balance sheet green by lettin’ schoolchildren starve! Ya call us killers, but you choose the same, every single day. Yer folk kills people!”

  “‘My folk?’”

  “Bandits.” She seethes.

  He scoffs. “Really? How cute of you. Bandits are outlaws.”

  “There’s all kindsa bandits...”

  Harriet’s eyes lower into the bed. The gun, just out of reach.

  “... It’s jes’ that one kind is legal.”

  “You don’t know who you’re talking to. I've earned this life."

  “How’d ya earn it? Hard work? 'Cause I’ve met a lotta hard workers, if that’s the road ya wanna go, an' ya know how many got even a penny ta their name?”

  “Is that my fault?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not." She bites her lip. "I jes’ know that they ain’t the ones makin’ thirty-thousand pound contributions.”

  His muscles tense, and he exhales. Closing his eyes. "You don't know who you're talking to."

  She rolls her eyes. "I've gotta pretty good-"

  “I’ve known hunger. I’ve known war."

  She stops. Blinks. Soteris still isn't looking at her. His arms folded. His voice... less composed.

  "I’ve nearly died to diseases that British children never get, and I know what it’s like to sleep between sheets of metal with nothing above like the open sky. I've lived like you."

  Her reaction is muted. Silent, but keeps her scowl. Slowly, her eyes wander to arms. Mixed amidst the freckles... pockmarks.

  He takes a breath. “The Cyprus I was born to is not the Cyprus of today. Here, we work desk jobs, but then my father would crawl into the dawn, nets in hand, competing for scraps with the goliaths built by this country's shipyards. Here, we wear suits, but then I sold flowers from a pushcart to buy our uniforms for the schoolyear. Don’t tell me about the cliffs that exist between us, Fireside. I am quite aware.”

  It’s more than he’s ever told her of his past. It does nothing to calm her rage. “If that's true, why do ya act like this!? Why don't stop it!"

  “How could I? Why should I?" He shakes his head. "Do you know what their trade, their system, their money has done for that island? The average man makes four times what he did when I was born. Four."

  "There's more ta this world than money-"

  "Yes! Now, none question if there will be food tonight! Now none worry if they'll have the clothes they need! Because Cyprus adapted. Like I’ve adapted. Like Blair’s adapted. Like everyone has, except for you.”

  “I ain’t joinin’ a world a’ monsters.”

  “Fortunately, for both of us…”

  She hisses. He’s taken her arm before she can react. Marching to the door.

  “HEY!”

  “... the monsters can choose for you.”

  The grip tightens. They push through the hall quickly. Quicker than her heels allow. Harriet stumbles, almost sliding across the tile floor, while her heart thumps against the tight dress and Soteris starts to lecture.

  “Your aether stays on. Eat what you're given, and drink what they offer. You can excuse yourself to purge.”

  “C-COULD YA SLOW-”

  “Try to keep etiquette, but if that fails, act cute. You look young, and you can use that. Make them forgive you.”

  Her eyes widen as they near the lift. Young. It rattles through her brain. Young young young. “Wait! Y-ya can’t bring me! I look nineteen!”

  “- I can.” He taps the doors open, and throws her in. “I've seen them bring younger."

  The lift’s trundling before she can even guess what that means. Harriet blinks. Listening to windchimes, a hand tight around her chest. “I-” She starts, and stops. Soteris is still squeezing her hand. His eyes focused on their reflection in the brass.

  “... they’re wrong," she says weakly. "Ya know it’s all wrong.”

  Seconds pass before he speaks. “Keep eye contact when they speak with you. Smile and nod when you don’t know what they’re saying. They just want to impress you.”

  The doors open. Harriet’s staring at a black limousine. Seats of supple leather, a gorgeous display of wine. The windows are blacked out, and the driver is older, silent, an orange dastar placed over hair already grey. He’s Oathsworn, she knows. A harriedness in his eyes, but he waits for them patiently. Covering clothes. Folded hands.

  Soteris lifts two fingers to the driver, waits for the nod. “Remember to keep your dignity," he tells her.

  “This is revenge,” she replies. “Yer jealous of Randall."

  “The things you’ll say to get out of a dress.”

  He charges forward, shoving her into the seat. Slamming the door behind her, before entering from the other side.

  “How are those little experiments, anyway?” He buckles a seatbelt, checking his nails.

  “Wouldn’t you like ta know?”

  “I could order it.”

  “There’d be no point. He’ll tell me, an’ I’ll get maybe a tenth of it? Veneficii, ya know how they are.”

  "I suppose."

  She doesn’t actually know if he’s aware that she’s a Poisoned One. Hell, she’s barely processed that fact herself. But knowing it might explain some of his paranoia. Honestly, the way folks go on about people like… her… she’d half expect it to be worse.

  “Very well. I trust Randall’s discretion-”

  “Not how it seemed in that office,” she points out.

  “Doveryay, no proveryay.” A thin smile. His eyes spark. “Look out the window.”

  She has no choice. Robotically, her body shifts, hands clutching the leather, her nose almost tapping the glass. Outside, London. Tourists and briefcases and a sea of black cabs. The sky’s overcast, usual for the season, but without air or wind to guide her, she can’t tell if there will be rain.

  The streets are unknowns; corners she’s never seen, buildings she’s never been to. This is the old City, what the Unbound call Court Town, a place of banks and business and all the secrets they'd never want to know.

  “Do you see the people on those streets?” He asks, his voice still magnified. “The thousands of stories flitting through that window?"

  She does. Students laughing as they cross the street. An executive stuck in his phone. An old woman hobbling past, clinging to her purse. Children. When they pass a green space, she sees children. In jackets and dresses. Strollers, in mothers’ arms, or waddling around.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  “This is Britain,” he tells her. “This is the heart of what we’re building."

  “This is a den.” She scowls into the glass. “A lair. No matter what props ya people wanna put in front a’-”

  “You still see them all as vermin.”

  His voice echoes against her skull, sending shivers through her.

  “Something to dismiss. Something to be slaughtered.”

  “That’s-” She takes deep breaths. Gripping the leather. They both know he’s wrong.

  But not as wrong as he should be.

  “You cling to a time that’s past. A broken way. A dying world.”

  “Then let me!” She shouts. “Use my powers an' move on. I don’t want yer help. I don’t need any savin’!”

  “Turn back.”

  She does. Matching the flare in his skin.

  “You need to see our world, Fireside, but I know that you'll refuse it. Tonight is not a punishment. Tonight is a lesson. And the good thing about lessons? They only require your eyes."

  Too late, her face falls. “W-wai-”

  “... they don't require you.”

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  They stand in their hundreds. Bundled up and huddled together under proud and colourful signs.

  ‘TALKS, NOT BOMBS,’

  ‘WAR IS TERROR.’

  ‘THEY LIED TO US!’

  Stars and doves and crossed-out jets. Flapping in the wind like the banners of old.

  “END THE WAR! END THE WAR!”

  Across the street, blocked from them by cops and guard posts and fleets of black cabs, the Savoy on the Strand. A world of curtained windows and tuxedoed valets, concierges circling their clients like vultures. Each time a car door opens, the crowd roars. Screaming against faces and rumours and hints of red ties. They buck forward, the police panic, boundaries are crossed and protestors thrown down.

  “END THE WAR! END THE WAR!”

  Inside, jellied chickens. Curacao sorbets. The men who rule Britain laugh and jostle and sway with each new glass. They loop arms around pop stars and kiss dignitaries’ hands. Hiding from the shouts, until they almost forget them.

  From this river, a black vessel emerges. Longer and slimmer and richer than the rest. Its wheels slow on cobbles, its ancient driver climbs out. When he opens the door, he's joined a man in black, with fake glasses and messy hair, and a woman in sapphire blue. He pulls her along, towards the hotel, but she stops him, briefly. Listens. Breathes.

  Feels the night air and the light of the moon.

  The woman looks past the police barrier. At faces old and young and soft and grizzled. Wind blows orange hair into bright red lips. She wants to join them.

  Run to them.

  Hold them tight and grab the first gun.

  But she can’t run. Can’t move, and certainly cannot cry. She still feels it, the rage and anguish and shame, but cannot say their names, because they are Harriet’s rage, and Harriet’s anguish. Not Jessica Connolly’s.

  Jessica Connolly, the new occupant of this body, who is joining her boyfriend for dinner.

  “Come on,” he pulls again, his eyes averting the crowd. “They just want attention.”

  And so she turns her back, and enters a world made new.

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  It’s a disgusting sound, the slurping of shrimp meat. So many little grotesqueries take place: gnawing teeth, satisfied groans, the clenching of so many muscles as the throat forces it down. She forgot how revolting the act can be, when she hasn’t digested in centuries. But as Harriet listens to these old, suited men prattle on, there’s little else worth watching.

  Restaurant 1890 looks like it belongs in a painting. Flickering candles, silken white tablecloths, an evening dress requirement that makes the Wilds scream deep inside her. A golden fresco covers the walls, and dull chandelier light turns everything into half-shadow. She’s been watching the trays the maitres present. Roast duck and boar sausage and always the smell of honey and grease.

  “Still using the woods, mostly.” Soteris sounds calm, his hand warm as it holds her neck. “Haven’t been on the greens enough to really get used to the drivers."

  “A damn shame.” She doesn’t know the names of the two men he’s talking to. They haven’t introduced themselves, or even really looked at her. “You’ve got that plant in Aberdeen though, right? There’s a fantastic course just twenty miles north. The Americans don’t even know about it!”

  The rest phases out, lost to the windchimes, but she smells the shrimp in their breath when they start roaring with laughter.

  She’s watching the tables. Her expression is frozen in a soft smile, her eyes wide and intentionally youthful. Around her, old women and aristocrats and toddlers in suits. They all have a look, like she’s expected to know who they are. But she only recognises a few older union men. The ones who abandoned them first.

  She breathes strangely. It's the only thing left to her. The space is cramped to the point of claustrophobia, a mass of people ever-shuffling to keep up with whichever MVP. It’s hot, and sweaty, and smells like so much blood, but she can't so much as twist without Soteris' direction.

  “Ah!” She's snapped to attention. Soteris is watching her, waiting for her to speak. His command tilts her voice up, changes her accent to something Southeastern. “Pardon?”

  “Golf? Do you play?” One of the men taps Soteris. “Your boss is quite the aficionado.”

  He isn’t, she wants to tell them. He watches them on Sundays so he can better tells his lies. But for Harriet, the answers are no longer as simple as opening her mouth. There’s a blocker, keeping her throat back, her tongue still, until she finds the words that Jessica Connolly would want to say. nd there’s precious little Jessica wants to say.

  Soteris only had a car ride to invent her.

  “I… could learn!” The accent is posh. It's driving her mad. “But, actually... I play a lot more…”

  Another awkward stop. Harriet doesn’t know her options. Baseball? Fishing? Horseback-riding? That’s a sport to these people, right?

  “Cycling.” She looks at the man who answered for her. Soteris is frowning. “You’ve looped the Tour de France twice now, haven’t you?”

  It’s like inserting one of Janet’s burner CDs into her skull. Fake memories pummelling into her. “T-Tried! Tried twice. But I only finished the one. My first time, there was an injury.”

  “That’s terrible.” Someone says.

  “Oh, it’s just sporting, is it not?” Her lips curl back against her will. A toothy smile. “Even you, gentlemen, could…”

  She’s blocked from finishing the way she wants to.

  “… get… hit by golf balls!”

  She pauses. The men seem confused, but aren’t given much time to stare. Soteris is reaching for their hands, exchanging quick ‘thank yous’, dragging her back into the crowd. “You could at least pay attention.”

  He knows she can't really fight back. Jessica doesn’t like to disagree! “I… tried.”

  “Try harder. I can’t tell if you’re looking for exits, but I’d rather not shake you in public.” He stops in front of a tray, rows of shrimp displayed delicately before him. She can feel the mischief in his eyes. “S-Soteris..."

  "Here's an idea." He plucks one out, waggling it over her head. “Open wide.”

  “I’m…” This fucking command. “... n-not really hungry..."

  “Open. Wide.”

  An awkward smile grows, and Harriet lowers herself, mouth open. With that horrendous smirk, Soteris carefully drops the shrimp on her tongue. Her eyes go wild with flavour, and she wants to scream.

  “... mmm.” Even as Harriet’s stomach writhes, Jessica expresses joy. A few more twitches. The venom in her eyes is telling.

  Soteris laughs, rustling her hair. “We should do this more often.”

  Suddenly, a figure bursts from the crowd. Approaching with excited steps.

  “Is that Soteris bloody Chrysanthou!?” Before either can respond, he’s charged into the man, crushing him in a tight hug. “I came the moment your driver called! Just in time to save me from these - heheheheh - asinine lobbyists."

  Harriet stands back. Forced to awkwardly grip Soteris' hand. Her eyes confused and wide.

  Soteris smiles, patting him back. “When I want something from you, at least I come and ask myself."

  “And thank God you do! Politics, it’s like a dying art!" They part, and the man gestures. "The way my father tells it, Blair seems six months aways from outsourcing his speechwriters to Kenya!”

  The man turns, finally noticing the decoration in Soteris’ arms. She studies him, too. He looks unlike anyone else in the room. A good thirty years younger than most, blonde hair sitting like a mop on his head. He has a stubble that refuses to grow and a face still scarred by acne. She thinks he might look better in trackies than his over-large suit, but all her observations melt beneath the vibrant blue of his stare.

  “Hello!” He leans down. “Who is she?”

  “Jessica,” Soteris answers for her.

  “Jessica! Can I call you Jess? I'm gonna call you Jess!"

  "This is our host for the evening. Spencer Harcourt, future Viscount of Ashford."

  Spencer pouts. "Grandpa's title is not a prop for you to impress your girls with."

  Soteris smirks. "Just for you?"

  Spencer sticks out his tongue. She didn't need to be told that he was a Harcourt. Those blue eyes, they're the same as the Defense Minister's. She had a great chance to see them outside.

  They were on half the signs used by protestors.

  “It's a p-pleasure to meet you," she stammers.

  "Ooh, Kentish! Really broadening your horizons now, are you Chrys?"

  “She’s my marketing intern."

  “Intern?” Spence’s eyes go wide. “Like, from a school?"

  "U Surrey!" She's forced to say.

  "My word, Soteris! And you’re just carting her around the government? The scandal! Someone's gonna stop this! People will think you're breaking the law!"

  Soteris looks briefly around the room, before Spencer cackles with wheezy laughter.

  “Oh, I almost... heheheh, come on, come on! There's some crab legs at my table. And trust me, at the pace I'm going, you'll have the one chance to try!"

  “Flattered, Spence, but actually, my driver called because I needed some assistance with-"

  "Well, I'm my own driver, and I say need assistance with my date!"

  “Your date?” Soteris seems flabbergasted.

  “We met at a metal concert!” Spencer giggles, hugging himself. “But it's not going very well. That's where you can come in, Soteris! You've got charm! I bet you'll love her!"

  He loops his arm around Soteris, pulling him into the crowd, Harriet haphazardly dragged behind them. She's just watching the boy with wild eyes. What metal fan is dating Spencer???

  They push their way through, passing wine bars and ice sculptures and all sorts of nouveau-riche finery. Both Soteris and Spencer flit through it like water, shaking hands, exchanging names, while Harriet just clings to his arm. For once relieved that she has him to hang onto.

  A new world, he called it, and yet she feels exactly the same. She remembers the houses her gang once attacked, pearl earrings, scents of roasts, politeness, smiles, Mozart - issit Mozart? - droning along in the background. Perhaps, to an untrained eye, it seems calm, and quiet, even pleasant. But she can feel their arrogance. Their obstinance. They smile now. They tip now.

  But in moments, they're all monsters.

  “Jess!" Suddenly, Spencer's flung around, holding her arm. “Have you tried the crab. They say by Gordon Ramsay, famous chef, have you heard of him?”

  She blinks. He’s talking a hundred miles an hour. "Wh-what?"

  "From the telly show?" He smiles. Fingers constantly tapping his leg. “I don’t usually trust that type, you know? Why make a show when you already cook? It just sorta screams fraud! But Jess, trust me, whenyouactuallytrythebloodythings-"

  “Spencer!" Soteris interrupts. “I hear you’re running for office.”

  Spencer looks up, and she knows at once what's wrong. The fidgeting, the laughter, the awkward twitches. His eyes are bloodshot.

  Like Aisling’s used to be.

  “Am I?” Spence puts a hand on his heart. “You have an amazing informant. That news is so breaking, I haven't even heard it!"

  “Is it a baseless assumption? You left Oxford with top marks. Vice-President of the Student Union. And that Tory friend of yours, Mallory, wasn’t he-”

  “Mmmm.” Spencer raises a finger, visibly prickled. “I graduated from Oxford. That doesn’t mean leaving! Learning doesn't stop after you've got the degree!"

  “But it's election season now. You either run next year or in-"

  “You ever listen to him, Jess?" Spencer turns to her. "Even at dinner, he’s like a door-to-door salesman! What's next, an '87 Impala for 50 APR? Heheh, how do you stand the guy?"

  Oh no. Please don’t drag Jessica into this. “He’s nice!” She adds worthlessly.

  “Well, of course he’s nice! To you.” He pauses, eyeing Harriet up and down. "With a face like yours, Jess, I think you’d find few men who’d ever get…”

  Immediately, an arm slides over her. Soteris is pulling her towards himself. Sinking low. With a growl.

  Spencer blinks at him, before taking a few steps back. “...angry.”

  Once Spencer’s certain he won’t be skewered alive, that obnoxiously wide smile returns.

  “I can't run in elections now, Chysanthou! I'm twenty-four. Barely got a head-start on your… heh… ‘intern.’” He uses fake quotes.

  “But we need someone young. I can help."

  “Ohmygod.” He gives Harriet an exasperated look. “And he still wonders why he doesn’t keep girls? Soteris, I’ll start when I want to. I hate to say it, but you're screaming nouveau riche type right now. You never shut up about work!"

  Her breath hitches. Soteris is squeezing her. Breathing through his nose. But only for a brief moment. With an exhale, the tension disappears.

  “And what are you hoping to still learn at Oxford, Spencer?"

  "Ket. Opium. Bath salts, psilocybin, I've got the full list at home. And..." He rushes ahead to show them. His tongue, out and wagging. "... some, uh... lessons involving tongues."

  The two men have a good chuckle, while Harriet's stomach sinks like a stone.

  Suddenly, Spencer halts. Eyes quickly scanning the table. “Oh, bullocks! Sh-shhh-she’s run off again! Fuck!”

  "Run off?" Soteris looks at him. “Is that not normal?”

  “Sh-she... heh.” It’s a single laugh. Like a chicken clucking. “It's neh-not that she's r-ruh-ruh-running, it's... oh fuck!"

  Harriet lifts her brows. It’s like a switch has gone off somewhere. The giggles have gone nervous, his face his gone red. And his moth keeps… oddly moving. “Spencer?”

  “I g-guh…geh..” He takes a few quick breaths, blinks, and then marches back into the crowd. “Enjoy the crab.”

  She watches him go. Sweat beading down his forehead. She feels Soteris get closer. “What’s his deal?" She asks. "Some side effect of the coke, or-”

  “You need to laugh more.”

  She turns. “Excuse me?

  “His jokes. You didn't laugh at his jokes. He was waiting for you to laugh."

  “W-Was the tongue thing a joke?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He squeezes her wrist. “He was watching you the whole time. Checking your reaction. And when you don't react how he likes, that sets us both back."

  “What in the blazes are you on about? He was having fun!”

  “But not because of you.”

  “Why-oh my God.” She squints. Things clicking together. “He’s your ticket, isn't he? Ares, Harcourt, that was all him. He owns you."

  He makes a face. “You’re acting hysterical.”

  “No, no, that’s the Defense Minister's son, isn’t it? That’s how you got the Ares contract! Through him-mmmpphhhh!"

  He leans down, his hand over her mouth. “I don't have to listen to these accusations.

  She yanks it off her lips. “You said you acted clean!"

  “I do. It’s a friendship. Is friendship bribery now? Is having friends illegal?”

  She smoulders at that. “Pen?”

  He blinks, confused, until Harriet jabs an open palm into his chest. Hesitantly, he takes a pen from his pocket, and she snatches it, crossing over to the table, and grabbing a napkin. A few seconds later, she's back, with a little scrawl.

  Briefly, he read it aloud. "'Friendship' costs more than I thought you bought him for.' You know, that doesn't seem very Jessica."

  She waves the napkin like a flag in his face. Keeping her scowl.

  “He’s a step,” he whispers back. “A foot in the door.”

  “Guys!” A shout brings them back. “I found her!”

  Harriet’s ears prick up. She turns, curious to see this ‘plus-one’ that couldn’t flee the building fast enough. But once she's there, she freezes. And in the corner of her eye, she sees her Keeper freeze too.

  “Soteris Chrysanthou,” the woman growls. "Caedmon's favourite parasite."

  The woman stands proudly before them, tall and dignified. Her blonde hair is bunned up, her searching eyes a dull brown, like the colour of dried blood. she wears an appalling sequin dress of red, white, and blue. Belatedly, Harriet recognises the Union Jack shape, St. George’s Cross cutting through the woman's midriff. It's a marked difference from how Harriet last saw her: heavy boots, a black beret, a green armband, and a sieg heil.

  "Ms. Stirling." Even Soteris seems at a loss.

  The woman bares teeth. "You stole Traynor from us."

  “Ohmygosh!” Spencer bounces, clapping to himself. “Perfect! You guys already know each other!”

  Of course they know her. Everyone knows her. As a figure to wince at, laugh at, and most of all, fear.

  Lianna Stirling, of the dhaoine rosín. Member of the National Front, founder of Albion Guard.

  Spencer's 'date' is the Curator Britannica.

  zeitgeist early-on in Blair's rule called 'Cool Britannia' where owning and wearing exceptionally British things was hip, and what better character exists to tap into that? It's similar to how Americans buy 'patriotic' gear, except that Americans never stop.