Chapter 13
Hatha House was quiet when Marlow slipped through the front entrance. The common area was desolate, and the only person she passed on her way through was Ciaran, busy at his office desk.
Since he divided his time between Fallowmoor and Bedwyck, she never knew whether to expect him, but his presence was always a welcome surprise.
As usual, his salt-and-pepper hair was parted neatly, his beard trimmed short and tidy, but his suits made him stand out.
They were similar to what the nobility wore, but flashier, with shiny buttons and brightly coloured linings.
She wondered if it was a common style over in Bedwyck, or if Ciaran just liked gaudy things.
He acknowledged her with a nod before going back to the ledger in front of him.
Marlow’s ma died during childbirth, and her da left when she was eight. Ciaran found her wandering the streets and took her in. He was her family, as were the other long-term residents who called Hatha House home.
Ciaran was a decent man. A nonwielder who saw her kind as people.
He opened the shelter over a decade ago.
A refuge for wielders (and a handful of nonwielders) with nowhere else to go.
He made most of his fortune through illegal activity.
Fencing dens, apothecaries that dispensed more than what the law allowed, and black-market sales of magically enhanced items. By all definitions of the word, he was a criminal.
But Marlow figured she didn’t care how he funded the good he did, only that he cared enough to do it.
Hatha House was a narrow townhouse divided into small rooms. Just enough space for sixty wielders to live in almost comfortable quarters.
Copperhill had rotted into an overcrowded slum, its population swelling like a bloated corpse as its buildings crumbled into disrepair, all while Crestwell and Conaeld thrived.
But Hatha House stood at its heart, a bit orphanage, a bit homeless shelter. Restored, radiant, and defiant.
Hatha. Hope.
That was what Ciaran had given them. Hope in a world that seemed to have nothing but hatred for them.
Some wielders stayed for years, others lasted only a few months. Lately, though, the temporary ones were becoming more common, wielders staying mere days before vanishing without a word.
Ciaran insisted it was a good thing. If they were leaving, it meant they no longer needed sanctuary. They’d found work. A home. A better life.
But none ever said goodbye.
Marlow knew better than to doubt her instincts.
If they had found somewhere to go, wouldn’t they still be here in Fallowmoor somewhere? Shouldn’t she be able to find them? Instead, they were just . . . gone.
And in the past month, the disappearances had shifted. Not just newcomers anymore, but fighters in the resistance. Her friends, her allies. No, this wasn’t chance. It was deliberate. First, those no one would miss. Now, rebels, just as the movement was gaining ground.
Felix had promised to help her look into it. The trouble was, for all his good intentions, he was easily distracted. Pretty faces, social ladders, good food.
And his newest distraction, Lady Farrows, had managed to consume most of his free time.
Marlow rolled her eyes. She hated the nobility and everything they stood for. She had to admit, though, that she admired Felix’s determination. The thought of him in some important governing role felt fitting.
Felix had always been able to draw people in. He had a presence that made him a natural leader.
Marlow used to wish she could borrow some of that confidence. Growing up, she often felt as though she’d slipped into the wrong reality, like she existed in a realm parallel to the one she was meant for. She’d stare into the mirror, searching for herself behind the reflection that stared back.
She’d put on her loose-fitting trousers, part her cropped hair to the side, and act the way everyone expected, because when people looked at her, they saw a boy. But it was playacting. She knew what they saw wasn’t who she really was.
Her friends dragged her into the same idiotic games all the boys played. They fawned over girls in low-cut dresses. Marlow fawned, too, but for a different reason. She wasn’t drawn to them the way the others were. She envied how freely they got to be themselves.
It was never just about the hair or the clothes—even now she bounced between trousers and skirts, depending on her mood.
It was about the quiet certainty the women carried, the way they seemed so sure of who they were.
She knew when those women looked in the mirror, they saw someone who belonged there.
Someone who felt right in their own skin.
And she doubted Felix ever questioned himself. He’d always known exactly who he was, even if the world forced him to hide it.
Marlow was still searching, still shaping herself with each step, but she no longer felt lost. She was proud of her strength, proud of the identity she’d fought to claim.
And playing her part in the resistance gave her purpose, a way to channel that newfound strength into something big. Felix had his own way of fighting back, and she had hers. The problem was, their goals didn’t align. He wanted to be part of the thing she was fighting to tear down.
She hated keeping secrets from him. But she’d made a promise to keep him out of it, and she intended to honor that. For now.
He was helping already, without even knowing it. Gathering information, learning the layouts of places none of them had ever seen. With his knowledge and his magic, he’d make one hell of a resistance fighter.
Her fingers traced over the rough, worn wallpaper as she drifted down the stretch of hallway.
The rest of Hatha House was quiet, most of the residents out working the night market.
She pushed open the door to her shared sleeping quarters, a cramped space with rows of bunkbeds.
Compact, yet cosy. Her gaze lingered on the newly-vacant ones, the freshly washed sheets folded and piled at the foot of each.
Focus, Marlow. Wielders were missing. Some of their best resistance fighters. Someone was targeting them, and she needed to find out who.
“Hey, Mar.”
She jumped, spinning to find a girl with dark hair perched on a pillow in front of the full-length mirror.
“You scared the hells out of me, Aine.”
In the glass, the girl arched her brows. “Jumpy?”
“No,” Marlow said, and then, “Yeah, I guess so. How was work?”
Aine was a shifter, meaning she could use her magic to change bits of her appearance, though she only used it to hide the purple rings in her eyes. She played the role of nonwielder well and had recently found a job as a maid for a wealthy family in the Conaeld District.
“It was fine,” Aine answered.
Marlow sat on the floor beside her. “Glad one of us can hold on to a job.”
Aine swiveled to face her. “What happened this time?”
“Doctor Riley’s a gobshite.”
“And I take it you told him as much,” Aine said with a smile.
Marlow shrugged. “Didn’t pay me near enough to tiptoe around his fragile ego.”
Aine fiddled with her locket and shook her head. “Are you sure you won’t let me hide your rings? You could be a doctor someday, Mar. You know more than most of them already.”
“I’ve lived here my whole life. People know me. If my rings suddenly vanish, at least one person will question who did it.”
Shifters were executed for using their powers. No way she’d risk outing Aine.
“Alright,” Aine said on a sigh. “We’ll figure this out. I’ll help you find another job, but in the meantime, you know Ciaran won’t let you go hungry.”
“I know.”
Ciaran pushed the wielders here to find work, to pull their own weight, but he never held it against them when they couldn’t.
Marlow, however, despised asking for help. She hadn’t depended on Ciaran for her meals since she was old enough to steal for them.
She’d manage just fine on her own.
Aine cast a glance at the closed door, then leaned in close. “We’ve word from Bedwyck. A letter at the dead drop. They’ve gone and sabotaged a shipment of weapons leaving the West Docks for Fallowmoor.” She gave a quick smile. “It’s a massive win, Mar.”
“It’s not enough. We’re sitting around doing nothing while our numbers drop. We’re losing fighters faster than we can find new ones.”
Aine’s face sobered. “What’d Raesharinn say? Any word back?”
Raesharinn, whose alias meant “Iron Rose,” was an extraordinary woman who had been fighting for wielders for years, despite having no magic of her own.
Even before Marlow knew her as the leader of the resistance, she’d admired her.
Raesharinn was compassionate and cunning, strong and protective. Felix reminded Marlow so much of her.
“Nothing yet, but she only sent the letters a week ago.” The resistance had fighters in most of Atheran’s cities, and Raesharinn had sent word to every dead drop to see if the missing wielders had turned up. “She’s taking it serious at least. Can’t say the same for many others.”
“Hey, I’m taking it serious.”
“I know that. It’s just . . . I’m restless. Wish we had the numbers to actually do something, y’know?”
Ciaran called for her as he pushed through the door, and Marlow flinched at the name he used—the wrong one. He quickly realized his mistake and muttered a quiet apology.
“It’s fine,” she said automatically, and repeated the assurance when Aine gave her a pitying look.
The name change was relatively recent. Six months was a short time. And his slipups didn’t happen as much these days. She knew he was trying, but it still stung. Felix had known Marlow since they were kids, and he never slipped.
Ciaran scratched his beard, eagerly moving on. “I have a job for ya.”
Marlow shared a look with Aine before asking, “What kind?”
Ciaran’s jobs ranged from running products to threatening people who owed him money. She preferred not to be involved with either, but when he was shorthanded, the pay was too good to turn down.
“Just a quick run,” he answered. “Nothing more.”
Aine turned back to the mirror, leaning in to study her reflection. Most likely confirming her rings were still absent.
Ciaran didn’t know she was a wielder. He assumed she was just another orphaned girl who needed a roof over her head. Marlow had lived with her for months under the same assumption. Until she showed up at the pub, looking for Raesharinn, hoping to join the resistance.
“Where’s Liam?” Aine asked, sparing Ciaran a quick glance. The scrawny boy was usually the one tasked with making pickups and deliveries, and Marlow only stepped in when necessary.
“Already out on another. Now, there’s somewhere I gotta be, and I’m already late. I don’t have time to wait around, Mar. You need some extra caern or not?”
With a sigh, Marlow agreed, and after jotting down the address on a torn piece of newspaper, she gave Aine a smile and headed back out.