Chapter 30
A sharp knock cut through the thin quiet of the morning. Rowan stepped inside without waiting for permission, cloak damp with London fog, jaw set with clipped purpose.
“Both of you, up,” he said. “The Council wants you moved.”
Poppy rose immediately, daggers at her sides. “Moved? Already?”
“Too many eyes marked you at the Winter’s End Ball,” Rowan replied. “Half the aristocracy noticed who arrived together. Then you vanished. We don’t know who’s asking questions yet, or how quickly speculation is spreading, but the Council wants you relocated to a quieter district.”
Mingxi pushed himself upright, one hand braced against his ribs. “Secondary safe house.” Rowan nodded. “North London. Less traffic. Stronger wards. Less gossip.”
A second Guardian entered, dropping a small satchel of supplies, bandages, salves, a lantern, a cloak thick enough to keep out the damp.
“Travel light,” she murmured. “London’s colder tonight.”
Poppy slipped her daggers beneath her cloak. “Do we meet with the Council first?”
“Briefly,” Rowan said. “Five minutes. No more.”
She flicked a glance at Mingxi. “Can you walk?”
“I can walk,” he said.
She didn’t believe him, but this wasn’t the place to argue.
The lower chamber of the London Hall was dimly lit, with only a few Councilors present at the late hour. No ceremony, no debate—just tired officials and the scent of extinguished incense.
An older Councilor stepped forward. “Lady Penelope. Councilor Shen. This relocation is precautionary. You will be transferred to a secondary safe house until dawn. After that, the Council will reassess your positions.”
Poppy folded her arms. “Are we in danger?”
“Not tonight,” the Councilor said.
Mingxi’s eyes narrowed. “But possibly soon.”
A too-careful pause followed.
“We will have answers in the morning,” the woman said. “For now, go. Guardian escort is waiting.”
Rowan gestured sharply. “Move.”
They slipped out a side entrance into London’s fog-damp streets. Gas lamps glowed in pale halos, blurring in the mist. A carriage rattled somewhere down the road. Somewhere else a cat yowled from a windowsill. A man stumbled out of a tavern, cursing at the cold.
Everything felt perfectly, absolutely normal.
Poppy stayed near Mingxi, close enough that if he wavered, she could steady him. He didn’t, but she stayed close anyway.
“Your ribs are still hurting?” she whispered.
“I’ve endured worse,” he murmured.
“That’s not an answer.”
His mouth softened at the edges. “Then… yes. But I will manage.”
The secondary safe house was a narrow brick townhouse tucked between a shuttered bakery and an herb shop, plain, forgettable, exactly what a safe house should be. Rowan unlocked the door and stepped aside.
Inside, the air was warmer, carrying the faint scent of rosemary. Wards glimmered faintly across the doorframe—old, heavy, thoroughly reliable.
“Supplies are on the table,” Rowan said. “Water, bandages, tea. A healer will check on you at first light.” He looked between them, voice softening just barely. “Rest. Dawn will come quickly.”
Poppy nodded. “Thank you.”
Mingxi inclined his head. “We’ll remain inside.”
Rowan seemed satisfied. “We’ll be stationed outside. Knock if you need anything.”
The door closed behind them with a soft click.
The safe house settled into silence long before midnight. Guardians had left them with lanterns, bandages, and a thick ward-net layered over every wall and window. Poppy had checked each rune twice; Mingxi had checked them thrice, breathing through the pain in his ribs.
He lay quietly on the cot, and she could tell he was half dreaming, half listening, his fox ears flickering into view every time the wards hummed.
Poppy sat beside the door, daggers across her lap. She couldn’t sleep. Her moonlight, or whatever had awakened in her earlier, rested like a low-burning ember under her sternum. Warm. Steady. Too loud in its quietness.
Outside, the city was still. Too still. Even the lanterns didn’t flicker. Something in the air pulled tight, and Poppy’s fingers curled around her blades.
From behind her, she felt Mingxi stir.
“You feel it too,” she stated, finally looking back.
He shifted upright, golden eyes faintly luminous in the dim light. “The wards are uneasy. Something is pressing from the outside,” he said.
“Revenants?”
“Maybe, but not only revenants.” His voice went low. “This feels… sharper. Intentional.”
Poppy crossed to the window, feet silent over stone. She reached the frame and then stopped. The glass reflected nothing, not her, not the room, and not the lantern behind her. Only black.
A shadow deeper than shadow.
“Mingxi,” she whispered. “It’s here.”
She heard his breath sharpen and felt the air tighten, as if her lungs were drawing in a scream.
He pushed to his feet, pain flaring across his ribs. “Poppy, step back.”
She didn’t.
A crack split across the warded window—silent, delicate, spidering through the sigils etched into the glass.
Then another. Then another. The sigils flickered, guttered, and went dark.
Mingxi reached for her—too late.
The wards buckled. Not broken—bent as though something enormous pressed a hand against the safe house from the outside. The lanterns blew out. Darkness swallowed the room, and then…
A revenant’s hand emerged from the wall. Not breaking through it, passing through it, as though the stone were water.
Poppy wasn’t afraid.
She was furious.