Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
My morning unravels like a frayed rope and I jolt awake in a hush of dread, the echo of nightmare screams—“Witch! Murderer!”—still clawing at my heels as I flee through black woods that swallow light.
All morning, the world, as if tasting my bitterness, conspires against me.
Cups slip from my fingers, my boots snag on nothing, and the barn becomes a gauntlet of small betrayals.
Milking Milly turns into a comedy of spills and even Ada, my steady mare, flicks her ears and sidesteps as though I carry a storm in my skin.
Only Benny, my cantankerous rooster, spares me his usual venom.
He crows at the sun, then—impossibly—brushes a wing against my ankle.
Strange.
He hoards his softness for his hens alone; I’m merely the hand that fills the trough.
Breakfast is a minor miracle: nothing catches fire, though the skillet hisses like it wants to. I set my knife and fork down with deliberate care, lean back, and reach for Gray.
The air thickens, warm as breath against my neck, yet the comfort feels…conditional. Why does my ruin amuse him? Why offer no balm? The thought sours, and I scold myself like a petulant child before rising.
Outside, I linger with Ada. I stroke smooth her coat and, I hope, the morning’s static between us.
I murmur nonsense about pastures and shade trees, slip her an apple core, and feel the knot in my chest loosen.
Her earlier wariness has pricked deeper than I care to admit; if the scent of blood clings to me now, if it frightens the one creature I might love, then what am I becoming?
At last, I swing into the saddle, the leather creaking like a warning. I’ve dawdled long enough. The city waits, and whatever work is there, waits for me.
The ride is almost merciful. A cool-warm breeze drifts across the fields, clouds floating like lazy sheep, the sun spilling gold between them.
Ada’s gait is a metronome, each hoof-fall sanding the splinters from my nerves.
I leave her at the city stables with the stableboy, and he catches my sleeve before I turn.
“Two more shoes by week’s end, Miss?”
I nod, clasping his calloused hand to shake. As I step away, his gaze snags on the mask. I turn and think nothing of it as I head towards Bernie’s tower.
He’s hunched over ledgers, a cup of something dark and sharp in his fist—it’s too early for that, even for him. The room smells of ink and worry.
I linger in the doorway. “You alright, Bernie?”
He startles, then softens. “Mary. Door, please.”
I shut it, then settle in the chair opposite him. “What’s the word, boss?”
“No blades today.” His eyes flick to my empty hands, to the space between us, measuring the distance like I’m a loaded crossbow. “Sorry, girl.”
I lean back, palms open on my knees. “Whoa, easy, I’m not lunging at you for this.”
Regret shadows his face. He drinks, swallowing deeply. “Witch-hunts have the whole city knotted. Nothing moves unless it’s rape or murder. And the murder they can’t pin…” He meets my gaze, voice dropping. “Whoever carved that poor bastard did things that’d turn your stomach inside out.”
The words strike like a thrown knife and my pulse drums in my ears, but I keep my face still. He can’t know. He can’t.
I need to leave. I stand. “Tomorrow, then?”
“Might be something. Might not be blood.” A tired shrug. “See you.”
Outside, the tower green is too bright. I drop onto a bench, drag air into lungs that feel lined with frost as my hands tremble and my heart batters my ribs.
The morning’s clumsiness, Ada’s skittishness, Benny’s unearned kindness—omens, all of them.
The hunt is on, and the rope is already brushing my neck.
I have to vanish before it kisses skin.
I fetch Ada from the stables, her ears pricking at the sight of me and we ride the short distance to De-Vil’s Delights. The brothel’s painted sign peels like old skin, raining down debris as I tie her out back, give her neck a grateful rub, and step inside.
The place is a hollowed-out shell. No laughter, no perfume thick enough to choke on, just dust motes drifting through the stale air. Sparrow’s bar stands abandoned. A girl I barely know—Alli, she tells me—is moving bottles with the quiet efficiency of a funeral.
“Hey, Evie. Sparrow left yesterday. Half the girls are gone. Twins are still here, Sirena too—she asked us to send you up if you came. De’s in her office, I think. We’re shutting soon, so say your goodbyes.”
Straight to the point attitude, I like that. I offer my hand. Alli hesitates, glances at the grime on her fingers, then sets the rag aside and grips mine firmly. I nod at her and move on.
Down the hall, the Twins’ door is ajar, and I knock once. Their voices braid together: “Come in!”
They squeal my name in perfect unison, leaping from their beds, and pulling me into a storm of silk and warmth. White nightgowns cling like moonlight; the scent of jasmine and skin wraps around me and a tumbler of my favourite whiskey appears in my hand before I can blink.
“We leave tomorrow,” Scarlet says, nodding toward Raven. “Going to go back to my family’s estates in Yorkshire.”
I laugh, startled. “Estates? You’re rich?”
She shrugs, unashamed. “Rich as sin. I came for the thrill—sex on someone else’s coin, a life that glittered. Then I found her.” Her gaze slides to Raven, soft as candlewax. “Couldn’t leave her behind. Didn’t think I’d leave any of you. Until now.”
Raven takes over, her voice trembling. “She’s the other half of my whole.”
The words hit me like a thrown stone. I feel the bruise bloom. They’re crying quietly, tears catching in lashes like dew. I stand. They stand. Then comes the hug—fierce, fragrant, a tangle of limbs and whispered promises.
“Be safe, Evie,” Scarlet murmurs into my collarbone. “You’ll always be our favourite.”
“Don’t go getting dead,” Raven adds, half-laughing, half-sobbing.
I nod, throat thick. “Love you both.” The words feel clumsy in my mouth, but true enough. They echo it back in perfect harmony as I slip free, heading upstairs.
Sirena’s door is a riot of uneven stripes—red, gold, green—like a child’s fever dream. I knock and a low, smoke-rough voice answers. “Come in, please.”
Inside, the room is stunning. Embroidery, tassels, cushions heaped like treasure. Sirena is folding clothes into a crate on her table. On the bed lies a long leather coat, a floppy hat, a worn backpack, and two foot-long knives, edges catching the light like wicked smiles.
I whistle low. “If only you’d had those the other night…”
Sirena glances up, lips curving in a slow, bruised-orchid smile. “Evie,” she husks, voice scraped raw by the night she nearly lost it. “Forgive the croak—a souvenir from that bastard.”
I nod, eyes sweeping the room’s bright chaos. “Packing to vanish?”
“Within the hour.” Her dark curls bounce as she tucks a strand behind one ear, then flicks a glance at the bed: coat, hat, knives gleaming like twin promises. “You’re right—if I’d had these, I’d have carved his prick off at the root. He reeked of rot and cheap gin.”
A short laugh escapes me. “He won’t stink up the world anymore. Neither will Mad Maude.”
Sirena’s face hardens and she spits to the side, a sharp, satisfied sound. “Heard she burned. Good.”
I let the silence settle. “Where to?”
“Everywhere.” Her grin flashes, sudden sun through storm clouds.
“Where are you starting?”
“With my people. There’s a camp outside the walls—brothers, cousins, the whole family.” She winks.
I fish in my purse, coins still heavy from the haul. I press a palmful into her hand. “For the night I never bought, for the road, for goodbye.”
She blinks, startled, then palms the gold with sleight-of-hand grace. She’s against me—ginger, smoke, and warm skin. The hug is fierce, brief; she kisses each cheek, soft as moth wings. “You saved more than my life, Evie. Find any Romani and speak my name; someone will remember the debt.”
I nod, throat tight. “Safe roads, Sirena.”
“‘Til the wheel turns again.” She’s already folding a scarf as I ease the door shut.
If only I believed in second chances.
I drift down the corridor to De’s office, I knock twice and ease the door open.
She’s hunched over her desk, a tumbler of something black and bitter at her elbow, papers fanned like a losing hand.
The sight jolts me—Bernie wore the same slump this morning.
Then I really see her: no kohl, no rouge, no corseted glamour; just a plain linen tunic, hair scraped back, the years she usually erases etched plain on her face.
She must be in her late forties, maybe fifty. Exhaustion has stripped her bare.
“Evie. Sit.”
I drop into the chair opposite, glance at the ledgers. “Holding it together, darling?”
She scrubs at her eyes, smearing ink across one cheekbone, and snorts when she notices. “Packing, selling, playing mother-hen to girls with nowhere to go. Sanity’s a distant memory.” She drains the glass. “You?”
I wobble a hand. “Witch-hunts killed my day job. Bernie’s twitchy, and this place…” I gesture at the walls that have soaked up years of moans and coin. “I’ll miss the smell of it.”
De leans back, refills her glass, slides one to me. “Truth? I’ll be glad to see the back of it.”
My brows climb. “Yeah?”
She laughs, low and cracked. “Twenty years, Evie. Started whoring at thirteen, maybe fourteen—mouth for bread, cunt for a corner to sleep. Took this place at twenty when the old madame wanted out. Thought I was ready to run girls instead of just keeping myself breathing. I wasn’t.
Still, I learnt and saved who ever I could, watching the rest get used like chamber pots by men who called it ‘a bit of fun.’” Her lip curls.
“I love sex, always have. But the men who pay? Rarely worth the spit. I’m bone-tired of swallowing their stink and calling it a living. ”
I sip the whiskey, letting it burn. We’ve fucked a hundred times but never traded origin stories. I’m not sure whether to apologise for never asking or to keep quiet while the past spills out.
She tops us both up. “So yeah, I’m done. Might sail back to Ireland, buy a scrap of green, raise sheep that don’t talk back. Find a decent man who washes and keeps his hands to himself—well, except on me.” She winks, weary but real. “You?”
I school my face; De reads lies like tarot cards. “Got the forge, the cottage, the beasts. Need the killing work to slack off or the smithing to pick up. Mostly I’ll keep my head low. They light pyres on rumours these days.” I meet her eyes. “You watch your back, too.”
She nods, then flaps a hand at the chaos of paper. “I’d beg you for one last tumble, but these accounts won’t balance themselves and I’ll only end up riding you on the desktop. Out, woman, before the whiskey makes me stupid.”
Grinning, she stands and opens her arms. I step into them—warm, solid, smelling of ink and home.
I can't help myself as I dip my lips to hers. The kiss starts soft, it’s farewell, not foreplay, but as always, it flares, familiar heat licking up my spine.
My groan hums against her mouth and my hands find the perfect curve of her backside and squeeze.
She laughs into the kiss, shoves me back, and drops into her chair so fast my fingers close on nothing but the ghost of warmth.
I stand there, eyes shut, lips still pursed, tongue half-out like a fool chasing smoke. Heat floods my face. De’s chuckle is low, fond, merciless.
I blink, grin, shuffle my feet like a scolded girl. “Goodbye, De. In case the road doesn’t cross again. I’ll miss you.”
Her smile is small, real. “Same, Evie. Stay alive.”
The door clicks shut behind me. The weight lands—clean, final, the way a head thumps into the basket. This chapter is severed.
Tears prick, hot and sudden and I let them come, but only for the length of the landing.
Rats of regret scurry up my neck, whispering.
You paid them in coin and compliments, never in truth.
You called them friends while keeping them at arm’s length.
I see Sparrow’s crooked grin, Sirena’s striped door, the Twins’ closed door.
All slipping away because I helped shove them out.
Good. Let them be gone before the city learns what I am. None of them—least of all Sirena, whose life I bought with another’s—would stomach the smell of Maude’s burning hair.
I swipe the wet from my cheeks, straightening. Too late for apologies, and I don’t want to give them, anyway. Gray’s warmth drapes my shoulders like a cloak forged of resolve.
With one last glance at the faded sign—De-Vil’s Delights—I step through the side door and pull it closed. The latch snicks like a neck bone.
Maybe in another life.