Disclaimer: More than most, this installment of Fireside has deeply disturbing imagery, including sexual violence and violence against minors. Please read only as you are comfortable, and, as the Fed likes to say, viewer discretion is advised.

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  She didn’t expect so many children.

  She should have. She should have thought of the workers torn to pieces, the beggars aping for scraps. She should know, better than most, that’s something’s always left behind.

  They stare at her with large, hollow eyes, aged five and nine and two. Their bellies are wafer-thin, or else bloated by sheer hunger. When she walks too close, they scatter, clambering down rat-filled trapdoors or up shit-covered stairs. They wear old blankets, torn sacks. Sometimes, they wear nothing at all. A handful are covered head-to-toe in soot. Others in scabs, still bleeding. But whether they’re banging rusted pots like drums or fighting over a feline's corpse, they stop when she passes. Not Harriet, but Finnerty. Fionnachta. A large raven stays perched on the girl's shoulder, even as she beats the kids.

  “PISHER!” She slams the bludgeon into an eight-year-old’s face. “VAU ISH EST!?”

  Blood pours from his mouth. “Ikh ob-"

  Her next blow knocks him unconscious, and he flops into the wall.

  “See ‘is one?” She smiles and points, kicking his belly. “Fahker's plump. It's always the plump ones. Shodomach! You'se fink I’m too busy not to RIP YOU'SE A NEW ARSE!"

  Harriet wants to look away. The child doesn’t seem any ‘plumper’ than the others. But the raven girl’s appearance keeps her there, like a spell. It's unlike anything she's ever seen. Wild. Strange.

  She’s barefoot, her skin cracked and yellowed, her head done up in a strange headscarf while hundreds of dark feathers flap free. She’s smelled before she’s seen, horse dung and sweat, that bird on her shoulder always primed to squaw. Harriet would cover her ears, if it didn't leave her nose exposed. The stench of this place, the faeces, the ash, the two corpses she’s seen since entering. It’s unbearable.

  Eventually, Finnerty kneels down. Starts digging her fingers through the boy's curly hair, and springs up when she finds small bits of gold.

  "See. See! What I fahkin' tell ya?" She bites the largest slab, testing it, before spitting. “I’m Harav's best collector, I is. The ovvers lose half ‘eir hauls to these shits, but not me! I’ll pull the filin’s from ‘eir fahkin’ teef! 'E says I'm 'is little soldier."

  Julius Haverforth, the mortal from church, stands there with mouth agape. He recoils, allows the Black Prince to speak for him. “Your Harav must be proud."

  “Oy. Starer." Harriet blinks. The raven girl's winking at her. Her hips sliding back and forth. "Likin' what you see?"

  Harriet pales, then turns away quickly, leaving only Finnerty’s cackle behind.

  “Goyim!”

  Finnerty takes the lead again, feathers shaking as she plods. If Julius is shocked by it, they don't show. Maybe he think it’s a birth defect. Maybe the East End just breed these sorts of monsters.

  Harriet would ask why Ratcatcher, the ‘Hermit King’, would send this girl as their guide, but she already knows he never did. A man named Rathe Haversham was supposed to meet them. He said as much in a message, delivered to them by a naked child that crawled down their chimney, that demanded their utmost silence. But when they arrived at the spot, ten minutes early, only Finnerty was there. Half a dozen teenage boys at her feet, beaten into the cobblestones by loose bricks and lots of biting. ‘Harav’ was offering free blood to whichever of his ‘Kepts’ could bring him the Black Prince. And she needed blood, Finnerty said. Quickly.

  What should probably have been a tour has instead become a walk through piss-smelling streets, and alleys so narrow that one can only push through them side-face. At one point, they reach a market, desperate to shove their goods in her face, and filling her ears with foreign words. They sell broken necklaces. Loose blue beads. Single shoes.

  She can’t see the tops of the crooked buildings, the smog is so thick. Inside her, the windchimes are roaring.

  The Black Prince walks with hands folded. He pauses frequently - at every ruined building and fire pit. When people pass, he always smiles. Julius pulls in behind, putting more and more weight on his cane as they go, his face much more sour.

  “How many people live here?" He asks.

  Finnerty snorts. “More than you can convert.”

  “We’re not missionaries.”

  Finnerty grins. “Sure.”

  Rowe turns when he hears them. “I’m glad to have seen your true face, Raven, though I’m alarmed that your ‘Harav’ is so comfortable with its presence in public.”

  "Presence." She snarls. “Why should we care? It’s a Court law. If ‘ey want it enforced, ‘ey should come ‘ere.”

  “Even if you do not care for the Law of Secrecy, your appearance could frighten people.”

  “Ohhh.” The girl suddenly stops. Walking past Rowe and staring Julius down with her yellow eyes. “Do I frighten you?”

  She bites at the air when she gets close. Walks around him with a hiss.

  “What scares you the most, I wonder? The claws. The teef? Or maybe it’s just the ovver stories 'bout people like me.” She gets close to his neck. Purring. “'Ey're all true, you know. I really do drink blood of Christian babies."

  She cackles, and pushes off.

  “You fink I'm a monster to 'ese people, Rowe? ‘Ey've seen worse. An’ if not... maybe I ought to put some fear in 'em. If you can't understand why, you'se gonna be bad fahkin' missionaries.”

  Finnerty pushes ahead, pointing at whomever they pass.

  “‘At’s Old Amos,” she points. “An’ Avrim. Moishe, Zelda, an’ Ginny’s girls. GINNY’S GIRLS! Oh, 'ey’s good girls, if you wan’! An’ I ain’t even fahkin’ paid to say ‘at! Virgins are only a few more shill's!"

  Julius avoids looking at them. “We’re not interested in that sort of thing.”

  “Kids, ‘en? Buggers? Dogs? Cah’mon. You’re West End. Why else are you'se ‘ere, if not to fahk us?” She pauses when another barely-clothed human bumps her shoulder. “Oi. OI! Oi, you take 'at bitch? ‘Ere’s a tax for 'at!”

  An argument breaks out, then a fight, but despite being twice her size, she brings the 'taxpayer' down as easily as she brought the toddlers.

  Harriet feels an arm pull her aside. It's Menowin. Coursing through the streets like barges course through rivers.

  "Hey." She hopes the smirk will make her look calmer than she is. "Not gonna try Ginny's girls?"

  His steps are barely heard over the coughing that's gripped this part of town. The veneficii doesn't reply.

  "... Ya haven't spoke yet." She notes.

  His brows furrow. “... I’m remembering.”

  “Ya’ve been here?" She shifts when he nods. Leans closer. "Issit much the same?”

  Menowin’s eyes shift up to the buildings. Tall and careening, walls cracked and crumbled and smashed into the next structure’s side. “It’s gotten larger.”

  Harriet looks away as they pass a man with empty sockets instead of eyes. “What happened?”

  “What always happens. Cities grow. Men flood in. But there’s never the right talents, never enough jobs. They give up everything for their one chance here, and after the landlords and muggers have their turns, they find themselves here. With the unwanteds.”

  Harriet pauses to listen to the beaten man shout as Finnerty takes his wallet. It's not her tongue, but the Irish boy's. Fionn's.

  “I don’t think they're English,” she says.

  Menowin frowns. “Unwanteds rarely are."

  He squints, watching a mother pass the scene, spy Finnerty counting bills. She pulls her children close, and then they're walking back down the path they came.

  “This didn’t start as a Kingdom. There were dozens of gangs, some Noct, some not, and the coppers still came, if only for the sport. We were told to watch the raids. Watch, but never stop them.”

  “Raids?” Harriet squints. "The Court? Unbound?"

  “No. Something worse.”

  Finnerty giddily bounces as she shows the Black Prince the coins she’s just taken. The beaten man sobs on the ground.

  "I'd know if they're here." Menowin squints, his eyes shifting up, to the iron bars on the rooftops. The gibbets hanging from wires. "Someone must have stopped them."

  Finnerty suddenly lifts her hand, her eyes lighting up. “Holy shit.”

  She rushes ahead, to a closed-off area, sequestered by a small fence. Harriet doesn’t notice, at first. She’s watching a man retch his guts out into an open window. Seeing flecks of blood. But Julius’ voice brings her back to it.

  “Christ alive.”

  Finnerty can barely contain her grin.

  It’s a tight courtyard, maybe half the size of Harriet’s Iowa home. There must be dozens crowded within. All men. They hobble on crutches, or crawl about with their hands. One without arms stares at her, the beggar’s bowl tied by strings to his neck. Another walks past with half his jaw cauterised, the rest hanging open. There’s no walls or ceilings, but all the clear signs of life. Half-washed pots. Fly-ridden scraps. She can’t tell which bits of straw are beds, and which others are latrines.

  Her stomach twists when she realises they don’t, either.

  Finnerty bounces along the fence, fangs in her smile. “‘At’s where ‘ey fahkin’ moved it!”

  “Wh-what is this?” Julius looks sick.

  “It’s where we put you’se!” She taps his cane. “Cripple Corner!”

  Harriet studies their clothes. Ragged blue uniforms, the threads of workmen tunics. These are veterans. Labourers. Menowin barely gives it a glance.

  “Cripple Corner was bigger when I last saw it,” he says.

  “Well, ‘at’s the fing wiff cripples.” Finnerty bobs her head. “'Ey come and go like the tide!”

  She stops when she spies a group of teenagers, boys in rags and black-and-white dressed maids. Finnerty quickens her steps, brandishing the club, and the children instantly start to sprint. She lunges at one, pulling the girl’s hair.

  “OW! OWOWOW!”

  “You weren’t at fahkin’ collection!”

  As she screams into the maid’s face, one of the boys stops. Looks back. Briefly locks eyes with Harriet, before he fidgets. Delays.

  “I-I-I-I already paid ‘is week!” The maid shouts.

  Finnerty growls. “Heard ‘at one before.”

  “I’s serious! Rathe’s man-”

  “Do I fahkin’ look like I’m Rathe’s fahkin’ man!?”

  “I tried to avoid ‘em! I tried! But ‘ey said ‘ey’d beat-”

  Finnerty grabs the scruff of her dress. Pulls her so close that the poor girl is hit with spittle. “Whose bitch are you!?”

  “F-Foygl-”

  “WHOSE BITCH ARE YOU!?”

  Harriet keeps watching the boy. The boy who sees his girl crying, and just slowly backs away.

  “Why doesn’t he stop this?” She asks, quietly. "Why doesn't... anyone?"

  Menowin turns to see her hand fall back to the stock of her gun.

  “Every city has this,” he tells her. “Places they don’t want to see. People they don't want to remember.”

  “Menowin, we shouldn't be here. These aren’t Unbound.”

  “You don’t know the Unbound-”

  “These. Aren’t. Unbound.”

  He blinks. She’s standing taller. Brows furrowed. The hand on the gun’s stock now set in a firm grip.

  “And what would you have us do? Kill them?" He asks. "Root them out like we rooted out Montana?”

  “Yer the first person ta tell Rowe when he’s wrong-”

  “And he is. But not for what you’re saying.” Menowin lowers down, meeting her eyes. “Fireside, do you know why these people watch on? Why that boy would never move?”

  “Fear.”

  “Fear. But you don’t know what they fear. None of us do, except her.”

  He shifts back to Finnerty, still standing in the alley, salivating over her loot.

  “Keaton could never take this place,” Menowin says. “The Court could never take this place. And try as they might, the cops, the church, the Queen herself, they'll never own a single corner. These people would sooner die. They'd sooner bite and claw and disembowel. And they'll do it for him. Ratcatcher could take their wives, and they’d be silent. He could eat their son, and they’d offer a daughter. He could slit their throats and they’d still whisper his name with their last dying, gurgled breath.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because he’s one of them.” Menowin stands. His eyes fanning out to the orphans, the street sweepers, the hobbling mothers. “And the moment these people leave their King’s walls… they remember why that matters.”

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  “Fuftsik-ein, fuftsik-tsvey, fuftsik-aun…” Finnerty's sitting on the throned man's lap. Putting each coin in his blackened, pock-marked hand.

  Eyes growing more as the number gets ever higher.

  A suited man seethes on the left side of the throne. His top-hat and greatcoat layered in coal soot. “Du iz es!? Du lozst zi antloyfn!?" His mouth is missing teeth. "She stole my contract. She beat my men! The Black Prince was mine to show-”

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “SHTILE!” The Ratcatcher barks, and as he does, the dozens of dogs that stalk this place rise to join him. His words are barely heard beneath their rattling chains, their growls. “She’s still countin’.”

  Harriet lowers her head. Her cheap shoes creaking on the rotted wood, and the weight of hundreds of eyes fully felt on her.

  Maybe, once, this place was a church. It’s decorated like one, flecked white paint on the walls, windows of broken stained glass. The pews have been moved to the sides, forming bunkers, barricades, and hiding within them are more children than she thinks she’s ever seen in one place. They watch from holes in the woods, or else climb each other's backs to look down on her. With blackened eyes. Clearly bruised hands.

  Almost always, an adult’s there to beat them back. They wear suspenders without shirts, uniforms without the shoes. Carrying clubs and axes and leashes. Almost all of them are scarred, deformed, missing eyes, gashes through cheeks. The only one that seems unscathed is the largest of them all, bearded and even taller than Red. The police baton he carries seems to squish between his thick fingers.

  “Tsvey-hundart!” Finnerty finally empties her purse. “Tsvey-hundart aun tsvelt far Harav!”

  “Du hast genart!” The suited man snarls at her. “Dos iz alts vos-”

  “And where is your donation, Rathe!?” Ratcatcher shifts, rattling the girl he holds. “Did you leave it wiff the men you let grow soft?"

  Rathe blinks, suddenly panicking. “H-Harav. This bitch uses tricks! My men would never-”

  “Genug!” The Ratcatcher lifts his hand, looks out at the hundreds that crowd his ‘throne room.’ “Der foygl hat bavizn ir nutslekhkeyt tsu aundz. Heynt nakht, she has earned... the Gift of Feeding.”

  Harriet hitches a breath. The whole church has started to rattle. Stamping feet. Banging drums. Soon the dogs panic and bark, joining the throngs of children too young to even fully understand their words.

  “FOYGL! FOYGL! FOYGL! FOYGL!”

  Finnerty’s red in the face. Blushing and full of pride. Her feathers swell as Ratcatcher grabs her hair and pulls her face close. She seems to melt beneath his smile.

  “Enjoy it, bitch!” Rathe mouths off. "I only sold you when you was six ‘cause your c*** was too small for my-”

  “GEY AVEK!” She shouts, her face harried. “Ihk hob! Ikh hob! Ikh-”

  She freezes when she feels Ratcatcher’s breath on her neck. A pockmarked finger curling through her hair. “Foygl…”

  Finnerty turns. Her lips hanging open.

  Harriet has no idea what the girl sees in him. He’s short, just a few inches over her, his nails ragged and the aether pink as it flows beneath his skin. His face seems a bile-like yellow, his eyes the colour of urine. He wears a fur hat, the mink falling down until it touches the tips of his light grey whiskers. His head moves, and he watches the Black Prince. As if he’s only just now realising that the man stands in his room.

  “Foygl…” He whispers. Takes her chin by the hand and shoves her around. "Tell dem. How many days it been since I feed you."

  Finnerty pales. “F-Five days, Harav.”

  “Five days. And ‘ave you drank any blood in 'ose days ‘at’s not mine?”

  She seems panicked. “No, Harav! Never. Never!”

  Ratcatcher laughs. “Look at ‘em, Gawen Rowe. Have you ever ‘ad a man so loyal ‘at he starved himself to please you?”

  Rowe’s hands are folded. His eyes never leaving the girl. “You have amassed quite an army, my-"

  “Not an army! A kingdom!” Ratcatcher slides his hand down. Seizing Finnerty by the hip. “Four-thousand orphans. Two-thousand beggars. Sweepers, thieves, brutes, shit-men! ‘At’s what it takes to defend ‘is city! At’s what it means to own a Freehold!”

  “Harav…” Finnerty tugs his sleeve, staring at his veins. “Harav, bite. Ikh bin hungerik-”

  “Nisht!” She whimpers. He’s stricken her across the head. “Tell dem what I mean to youse.”

  Finnerty slides up his lap, staring with increasingly harried eyes. “Di Rukeri endikt zikh mit Harav!”

  To Harriet’s shock, the throne room joins. “DI RUKERI ENDIKT ZIKH MIT HARAV!”

  “HE OWNS THE EAST END!” She shouts.

  “HE LOVES THE EAST END!” They join.

  “OUR LORD!"

  "OUR FAT’R!"

  OUR MASTER!"

  "OUR KING!”

  “Aun di goyim veln keynmol nisht gein.” Ratcatcher smiles, turning back to the raven girl. “Go. Show dem what I give you.”

  By the time she’s done, Harriet can only see white.

  It’s slow, at first. Finnerty leans in, and Ratcatcher opens his lips. Her fangs file out, clear in her overbite, and she pierces the skin. Lightly. Soon, moans echo through the church. Hers and his, as he takes the back of her neck, and forces her deeper.

  “Mmmmnn!”

  It’s too much movement. Rocking. He slides her against his lap as he does it. Kissing deeper and deeper and deeper, until there’s tears in her eyes and she making sounds like choking. Only when she’s rattling in his grip does he finally part.

  “There.” He smiles and wipes a loose drop of blood from her chin. “Until tomorrow. Don’t get greedy.”

  Finnerty’s eyes are hollow. She's hanging on every word.

  Ratcatcher stands, shoving her off. “You’se shorter than the stories say, Gawen Rowe.”

  Julius shifts as the man’s view bears down. Only Menowin keeps looking into his eyes.

  Rowe starts to speak. “I find most stories are only as true as the men who tell them-”

  “Issat why you’re here?” Ratcatcher tilts his head. His voice low. “To… bashtekein stories?”

  “Aubrey Keaton came here before. Warning that you could either join him, or die.” Rowe stands taller. “I do not make threats. You will join us, Harav, but only because I have an offer.”

  Ratcatcher laughs. A chuckle at first, but it slowly descends into something loud, belly-shaking. “Join?" He spits. "I've children. Not an army. This ‘Revolt’ you'se dream of is no dream for-"

  “I don’t need an army,” Rowe explains. “Just fifteen-thousand of your men. Women, children, thieves, if they're clean, it doesn't matter! They will hold nothing but signs. Shout nothing butslogans!"

  "Just fifteen-thousand!?!?" Someone shouts.

  And then the whole church erupts into arguing. Dogs bark, and a dozen languages grace Harriet's ears. Ratcatcher screams louder than all the rest.

  "The Black Prince after two hundred years to tell us to fahkin' protest!?"

  "'Ey tried 'at in Manchester!" Rathe Haversham shouts. "Peterloo! 'Ave you not been 'ere long enuff to know what fahkin' 'appened!?"

  “I didn’t say they wouldn’t fight back,” Rowe replies. “But they won't win if we keep marching."

  “Issit ‘we’ ‘at fahkin’ quickly?!” Ratcatcher seethes. “Don’t fahkin’ tr! We wanted to join the Unbound! From the start! I sent dem letter after letter, Kept after Kept! What did we get!? Spit an’ mockery! Beatin’s an’ attacks! ‘Ey called us monsters, an’ showed us the DOOR!”

  “I cannot speak for the other Freeholders," Rowe says, "and why they might-”

  “PISS OFF!" Ratcatcher shouts back. "You KNOW why!"

  Harriet starts to shiver. The children are jeering from the pews. The raven girl, nowhere to be seen.

  “Rothschild. Disraeli. Salomans." Ratcatcher snarls at the name. "All dem high an’ fancy lords fink if ‘ey put on a suit, you’se won’t see ‘eir noses. We know better. We know we don’t belong, we know we’re not wanted. We know 'at we'll be monsters eivver fahkin' way! So why hide it? Why stop it?" He sits back on his throne. "It ain't nobleness in an Englishman's blood. Don't call you'selves fahkin 'we.'"

  Something in Julius Haverforth's face twists. He hobbles up, slamming the cane. "That's it!? That's all the Hermit King has to say!?"

  "What else you'se expectin' boy?"

  "Do you want to be mocked? Do you want to be hated!? We are giving you a chance out. A chance to redeem yourselves, redeem this city! Do you think they would still see monsters if it was a Jew that broke their-"

  Rowe grabs him. "Julius, enough-"

  "I want to-"

  "You are too young for a man like him."

  But despite those words, Ratcatcher watches on. A finger near his mouth, so he might nibble the nail. "Gypsy. Poisoned One. I'm surprised to find you'se back."

  Menowin scowls at him. "We both feel the same."

  The Hermit King grins at that, with yellowed eyes, crooked teeth. "An' 'ow did Rowe get a man of your talents to fight on 'is side? Jewels? 'At girl? The promise 'at you'd be a footnote in an English man's history page?"

  "Would you trust if I said that I believed him?"

  Ratcatcher chuckles, and shakes his head no.

  "I know what you're trying to do," Menowin says. "You're trying to play him, and play him hard, in hopes that he'll let you loot this city. Give you whole boroughs to carve up and make just like this one. And Rowe won't, I can tell you. He's not that kind of man."

  For a moment, Ratcatcher seems furious. Aether glistening in rage. Menowin speaks on.

  "But if you want to be rich... truly rich... that is on the table." The Poisoned One gives a vicious grin. "By the time we're done, this city will be empty. Of bankers. Of politicians. All those Rothschilds and Disraelis, they'll be gone, but the things they gave to this city... those will need to be filled. Those will still remain. Do you know how those shits in Court Town made their wealth, Zalman? It wasn't by looting."

  For once, Ratcatcher is silent. His face slowly relaxes. His hands come out. Even Harriet can see the thoughts spinning in his head. "You’re a clever man, Poisoned One."

  Menowin breathes. The Black Prince allows a soft smile. But then Ratcatcher claps.

  And Harriet feels it. A rush of wind. A thrust of force. The Black Prince is soaring back. Sailing across the church floor, and crashing loudly into the rotted rafters.

  “ROWE!”

  Ratcatcher cackles. "A clever man, an’ a shit fahkin' banker!"

  Harriet screams. Rushing to Rowe even as the children cheer. The man who punched him stands tall. Flexes his neck. How he got there, Harriet doesn't know. He was across the hall mere seconds ago.

  They shout his name. “CAP-PIE CAP-PIE CAP-PIE!”

  “C’mon.” She’s on her knees. Tugging Rowe's clothes. There’s black marks on his skin, blood in his hair. “C’mon, c’mon, c'mon!"

  Rowe reaches up. “I’m fine, I'm-GET DOWN!”

  He pulls her out in barely a blink. Just as quickly, tattered floorboards, dirt and soot. Harriet’s eyes turn large as she sees a beast of a woman pull her bloodied fist from the wreckage they left. Shaking off the pain like she merely chipped a nail. Her arms are as thick as Harriet’s sides, shimmering with a golden glow. The children, still climbing their barricades, add her name to the man's.

  “CAP-PIE! MAGS! CAP-PIE! MAGS!”

  Dogs are pulled back. Men clear the way. And Harriet realises too late why the church is so cracked, the walls so crumbled. This isn't a throne room.

  It's an arena.

  “You see, Gawen Rowe, ‘ere’s somefin’ ‘at’s got me bogged,” Ratcatcher’s whiskers twitch as he stands. “I bring my men, my children, unarmed, to march ‘gainst whatever the Court puts up to stop you'se. An' for it, I get the promise of some bitch place, at some bitch table, when the Man Wiff Ten-Fousand Faces and his Prussian DOG won’t even hide their fahkin' knives!?"

  Rowe’s holding Harriet close to his chest. Watching the two bruisers as they circle like predators.

  “See, if you was a charlatan, I’d understand. I’ve seen HUNDREDS. But you’re the Black fahkin’ Prince! You killed Sunwalker’s first son! An' now you're spewin' like a con-man in a cessyard. YOU WANT ME JEWS!?" Ratcatcher unfolds his arms. “I want Gawen Rowe. Not the pathetic Christian he pretends to be, but the man we'll see when fings get bloody."

  Menowin rushes to him, eyes flaring, one hand on the hilt of his sword. “I told you." He whispers. “I fucking said-"

  “Be quiet,” Rowe hisses. Harriet feels Rowe shift her away, as his bounce between the man, the woman, and Ratcatcher, last of all. "What are you asking, Ratcatcher? That I kill them?"

  "I'm not asking anyfing of you," Ratcatcher grins. "But I know what I'm tellin' dem."

  "Rowe..." Julius reaches them. His voice barely heard over the cheers of the children. "Parlay. Bow. You can't win this fight."

  "If you bow, Ratcatcher will slit your throat," Menowin replies.

  "You don't know that! We have to-"

  The Black Prince is silent. Watching Harriet. Staring her down. She shakes her head slowly. Gripping his sleeves.

  He looks up again. "I ac-"

  He's not even finished when the dogs start howling, and the children start slamming their wooden barricades like they would the faces of drums. Ratcatcher’s face twists up as his teeth grow larger and larger.

  Harriet can barely hear Rowe's whisper. "Take her."

  “What?” She springs. A rough hand has grabbed her shoulder. Menowin's. Pulling her to the door's. “No, no! Wait! ROWE!”

  “When you were told of the curse, you told me you wanted to see everything.” Rowe looks Julius in the eye. “Is that still true?”

  Harriet’s fighting to keep her feet on the ground. “THEY’LL KILL YOU!”

  "Yes." The boy's quiet.

  Rowe takes a breath. “What you are about to see, no one can know. Not Josiah, not Morris, and especially not her. Promise me, Haverforth. Promise me."

  “ROWE!” Harriet turns her head. Starts slamming her fists into Menowin's arms. Rattling the bells. “Ya can’t. YA CAN'T-"

  He meets her gaze. Silent and sure.

  The rest happens quickly. She pounces off his foot. Forces him to the ground. She’s running, sprinting, to kill Cappie, to kill Ratcatcher, to whip out her rifle and shoot every dog and crook she finds. But then Rowe screams, and she stops. Watching. Horrified.

  His skin hisses like steam. Veins twisting through him like a thousand grasping arms. A force compels her back. Compels her to turn. Compels, in every bone of her body, to not look at something that was never meant to be seen.

  Menowin shouts.

  A flash of light.

  A flourish of his hand.

  And she's gone.

  The church doors at her back, now in front of her.

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

  She barely holds in that first breath.

  Cold, wet air. Drizzle on her skin. The stench of the East End floods her nostrils, and as she blinks, adjusting to the night, she hears a crack from the church, a blow strong enough to shake the earth. She runs to the doors, yanks their cold handles, and when that doesn’t work, starts bashing against the wood. Screaming at it. Ignoring the pain that rockets back up her spine.

  “ROWE!!!”

  More noises. Wind, then a crunch, then shouting, then howling, chittering. She can't tell who's winning. She can't tell who's losing. She feels her heart pick up, sweat bead down her brow, and then she’s bashing again. Bashing and bashing and bashing. Splinters shooting up her hands.

  “Rowe… Rowe…” She slams her forehead on the door. “ROWE!"

  The walls are too close. The smog is too choking. The windchimes are ringing, and she can’t cover her ears. She sees face after face. Keaton, Erika, the Irish boy, the hanged men. Cripples and beggars and orphans, and not a tree in sight, not a patch of soil or a tuft of grass. She wants water that’s clear. Stars she can see.

  He doesn’t trust her.

  He's never trusted her.

  And no matter what she does, who she kills, who she saves.

  He's never going to trust her.

  “You know ‘ey bar the door, right?” Harriet bristles. There’s a voice at her back. “Not stupid enuff to let ‘em goys in wiffout proper-"

  Harriet moves fast. Grabbing the body and slamming it to the door. Finnerty barks, loose feathers springing out. Harriet unslings her gun. Puts the bayonet to her throat.

  “Fahkin’ shiks!” The girl flails. “Zent ir meshe?!”

  “What? Ya don’t like that?!” Harriet blinks, and brings the blade a little closer. Watching as the tip turns Finnerty’s neck red. “Didja think ya could bully me like the toddlers ya rob?!"

  “You came out ‘ere, bitch! I’s just eyein’-”

  “An’ maybe I’ll take that fuckin’ eye!”

  Another crash from inside. Harriet tilts the bayonet up, forcing Finnerty to rise with it. Her throat is trembling, and she’s raised her hands.

  "Look. Look." Finnerty tries to smile. "You just saw me give 'at cash to Harav, so-"

  “Yer killin’ him,” Harriet says through grit teeth. “Yer tryna kill him, ya lil' bastard, an' he's the best man in this world."

  The gun shakes in her hands.

  “If he dies, I’ll kill ya. I’ll kill all of ya. Stick ya up like a goddamn pheasant, so that yer Harav can see yer mouth hooked ta my horse when I blow his goddamn-” She stops. Finnerty’s laughing. Laughing, even as her neck gets nicked by the blade. “What’s so fuckin’ funny?”

  “You’re gonna stop us?” Finnerty’s grinning. “A mortal? Unreal.”

  Suddenly, a clawed hand springs up, squeezing the gun. Harriet scowls, trying to force it back from her, only to find that the oblong won't. “Wh-what-”

  “I can bend ‘is barrel so fahkin’ far ‘at when it fires, it blows out your brains.” Finnerty makes a face. “Do I have to prove it?”

  Harriet swallows, steps back. The blade finally leaves Finnerty’s throat, and the girl takes the chance to wipe the blood off her neck with a finger.

  “Don’t take it too hard,” Finnerty licks it off. “Everytime some fahker bitches ‘bout Harav’s cock, I’s be slingin’ the same fings.”

  "Shut it." Harriet scowls. “Ya’ve been watchin’ me.”

  “The birds watch. ‘Ey watch everyone, all the time. Not my fault I’m the only one who listens.” Finnerty starts circling around her. “Where you from, girlie?”

  “Iowa. K-Keo-”

  “I don’t care. An’ this city won’t eivver. You’ve gotta learn it, ‘cause it will never learn you.” She stops at Harriet’s back. “I seen you’se type. Old, but not old enuff. Smart, but never clever. An’ you follow ‘ose men like ‘ey’ve got the biggest cocks in the world.”

  Harriet blanches. “The fuck does that-"

  “Three years. Maybe four.” Finnerty eyes her down. “‘At’s what I’m gettin’, first glance. But don’t worry. You won’t have it so bad. Red-heads are always premium.”

  Harriet’s eyes go wide when she realises what the girl means. “They wouldn’t let that happen."

  “Never seen a man who hasn’t."

  “Rowe doesn’t treat people like dogs-"

  “But you’d let him, aye?” Finnerty smirks. “If he wanted you to?”

  Before Harriet can curse back, more sounds from the church. Waves of force. Splintering wood. Finnerty tilts her head, feathers rising from the back of her neck. “Course… ‘ey can’t sell shit if ‘eir corpses.”

  Harriet stands still. Her eyes on the doors. “Do ya think yer tough?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Do ya think all that swagger an’robbin’ an’ fuckin’ ‘fahks’ make ya sound scary? Yer a skit,” Harriet snarls. “A gnat in a goddamn shit-pile.”

  Finnerty puts a hand on her hip. “Least me shit-pile’s gotta name-”

  “We never had ta steal from kids," Harriet says. "Eat stews with mystery meats. Take our shits on the goddamn street-stones.” Finnerty’s clearly souring with the words. “Ya ever leave this place? Are ya allowed ta? ‘Cause if ya did, ya’d realise that no-one sane would be proud of this rock. The people outside, if they don’t pity ya, it’s ‘cause they’re fuckin’ laughin’-”

  “QUIET!”

  Harriet blinks. Finnerty’s standing taller, her feathers ruffled, an accusatory claw pointed straight at Harriet’s chest.

  “No one.” Her lips quiver. “Laughs at me.”

  “Yeah?” Harriet frowns. “Someone should tell Ratcatcher.”

  Harriet turns around. Letting the pre-dawn drizzle touch the tips of her hair. Listening to the fight inside and trying to push down her panic by forcing out rage.

  Minutes pass. She’s pulling on the strap of her rifle. Can still hear the raven girl kicking stones. But her thoughts shift. To Morris. To the bayonet. He said he felt righteous when he made bad men die. But the men on that ship were bad, and she still saved them, right? Or did she even do that? How many hands did she shoot off? Hands used in jobs. Hands used to feed families. What fate is Rowe saving them from if they'll starve two years later in 'Cripple Corner?'

  She told Morris when she killed a man, she felt nothing. But nothing should always be nothing.

  How can Harriet feel less?

  Finnerty is petting the raven on her shoulder when another noise bursts from the church. A scream. A loud crack. Then another. She turns to it, and the raven launches, back flitting into the smog-clouds. “Battle’s done," she shrugs. "You’se an’ I’s gonna be lots closer, I fink. We’re marchin’ buddies now.”

  “Rowe won?” Harriet squints. “How do ya know?”

  “Victor broke the ovver’s arms.” Finnerty flexes her shoulders and starts to move. “Cappie don't do it ‘at cleanly-"

  “Wait.” Harriet lifts a hand. “... ya gotta name?”

  She’s surprised when Finnerty stops. “Aisling.”

  “Ashlin’. Can I ask ya somethin’?”

  Finnerty snorts. “I’m not gonna care.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if ya did.”

  The girl’s face twists, but she holds her tongue.

  Harriet stops and looks around. The buildings with broken windows and rotted doors. Smoke from so many chimneys. The distant howls of trains.

  “I can’t leave Rowe.” She exhales. “I can’t... but I wanna leave."

  She unslings the rifle. Puts the barrel in her hand.

  “He wants ta save this city, but... this isn't a place fer people." Her lip shakes. "This isn't a place ta be saved."

  Finnerty watches, silent, but her breaths are turning heavy, and her feathers are turning slick.

  Harriet turns. “Why? Jes' give me a reason. Why should I help him? Why help you?"

  The raven returns. Bending down onto Finnerty’s shoulder, its bill coursing through her hair. Harriet will never forget the next four words.

  “... who says you're helpin'?"

  As Finnerty leaves, the girl known as Fireside looks up. Up and into the swirling clouds. Dawn will soon come. The colours already change. She closes her eyes and whispers a prayer, her first in a long while. She asks God to bless a man who thinks he’s been cursed by God.

  She can’t imagine a London that’s clear.

  She can’t imagine a London that’s starry.

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

  my end to see which of my ideas for Rowe's storyline are and aren't working. Hopefully the road wasn't too bumpy!

  him? And what would you do, in Harriet’s shoes, if you were asked to protect this city that is so unlike anything you’ve seen, and so unwilling to do its own saving?

  Next time, we’ll be returning to the modern(er) world, and seeing the consequences both of the Court’s learning of Harriet’s Keeping, and the impact of Soteris’ words. I’ll see you all in Chapter 20: The Orphean!