We didn’t show up on Irimina’s doorstep immediately, of course. Not only were we all exhausted, clawed (Ash), and drenched in blood (Faith and me), but there was the matter of presentation to consider. More specifically, Faith required time to preserve the head, line a Leech’s tool case tidily with layers of brown butcher’s paper, pack the head in just so, and then tie a shimmery black ribbon around the box to complete the look.

We went first thing in the morning.

The poor, unsuspecting Lady Kinclaith lounged on her usual settee, a pot of fresh tea steaming tranquilly in front of her. “Good morning,” she drawled in that upper class accent Faith had appropriated last night. “I hope you have good news for me.”

“Indeed!” chirped Faith, traipsing forward eagerly. “We brought you a present!”

Rather primly, Ash explained, “We did our best to minimize the attention we attracted so that we can continue our association in the future – ”

Faith stole his punchline: “What my lovely associate is trying to tell you is that we found a doppelganger for Lady Vhetin. And we got you this!” She gleefully extended the beribboned box.

Looking slightly apprehensive – which proved that she knew Faith only too well – Irimina carefully untied the ribbon, undid the clasps, and raised the lid.

And found herself face to face with the murdered woman.

It would have been the height of mauvais ton to squeak, but a slightly shocked expression did flit across her features. (Irimina’s, that was.) Obviously, whatever “business dealings” we were un-impeding didn’t involve many severed body parts. Looking simultaneously fascinated and revolted, the lady poked curiously at the head and parroted mechanically, “Ah, yes, very good. I will have Rutherford bring your payment.”

Satisfied with that response, Ash moved on to the next topic. “There’s another concern,” he told her matter-of-factly.

I wasn’t even sure she heard him.

Faith happily squeezed onto the settee next to Irimina and began educating her on the subtleties of dismembered corpses. “If you poke there,” she instructed, “you can watch the residual blood drain out.” “See that gradient of pallor, running from greenish-white to grey? If you put your thumb right there, you can watch the pressure propagate across the flesh….”

I looked on in a horrified trance of my own. Despite – or perhaps because of – the grisliness that characterized my family relationships, Mother and Father had never let my brother and me near any dead bodies.

“We can dispose of that for you,” Ash tried again. “It’s within the bounds of the contract, obviously.”

Breaking out of the macabre examination, Irimina replied with admirable bravado, “Yes, that might be for the best.” She stared at the head some more. “Although I do appreciate you bringing it to me.”

Satisfied, Faith lifted the box out of her lap, gave the head’s matted curls a fond pat, closed the lid, retied the bow, and set the box on the floral carpet. Irimina’s appalled gaze followed every single motion.

Still trying to reclaim our employer’s attention, Ash said loudly, “Lady Vhetin had a tattoo – ”

“How gauche,” remarked Irimina absently, tearing her eyes away from the box at last.

“– of a bee,” Ash finished.

Irimina went nearly as white as the blood-drained head. “The Hive,” she breathed. “Oh no. Oh gods….”

“From your reaction, I assume you didn’t know about this.”

“No, no, I didn’t. I’m sorry. The Hive. Oh gods….”

“Yes, well, the doppelganger didn’t know about it either, which is not ideal, but rest assured, she is very competent. For now, the Hive will not be a problem.”

Her hands trembling, Irimina picked up her dainty porcelain cup. It rattled on its saucer. Taking a sip of tea, she composed herself by sheer force of will and said in her very best nonchalant voice, “Well. You’ve given me a lot to think about. Rutherford will have your payment. I’ll send a message once I have a better idea of what to do about…this.”

“Yes, milady,” agreed Ash, who was probably already calculating how to convert complication into profit.

“Your attention to detail is a joy,” pronounced Irimina, effectively dismissing us.

We left her to her now-cold tea and collected our payment from the butler.

Back in Coalridge, Faith dissolved the head with her chemicals, stinking up the railcar and its environs for days. Luckily, the Old Rail Yard smelled pretty foul anyway, so no one noticed or cared, least of all the scruffy, three-legged mutt that had taken to hanging around at mealtimes.

Evidence of our latest escapade safely disposed of, Faith drooped about our common room, declaiming theatrically about how her shoulder still ached weeks after the score and how in addition to that, her fair flesh had been marred by a hideous bullet wound. Naturally, both of these injuries were worthy of much complaint, except – as she earnestly assured me – she wouldn’t dream of subjecting to that anyone who had introduced her to such a good doctor last time.

I took her hint.

With a sigh and a roll of my eyes, I bargained, “I’ll take you to see Sawbones if you don’t get us shot or stabbed.”

“That would be counter-productive!” she protested. “The whole point is to get un-shot!”

Good enough?

Somewhat to my disappointment, there was no sign of Bazso in the Leaky Bucket, but the usual mix of Lampblacks and Crows ribbed one another in the booths, and Mardin greeted me from behind the bar as soon as we entered. “Good evening, Glass!” His smile slipped very slightly when he caught sight of Faith and her ruffles.

“Evening, Mardin,” I called back. “Is Sawbones around?”

“Yep.”

He pointed to a booth near the back, where the good doctor was nursing a mug of ale. I immediately started in that direction, but Faith pulled me over to the bar to buy a shot of whiskey before we approached him.

Like Mardin, Sawbones recognized her instantly.

“Good evening, miss,” he said neutrally, shoving his mug aside and gesturing for us to sit down across from him.

“I just couldn’t resist your charms,” Faith explained sweetly, sliding along the seat and filling the bench with her many-tiered skirts. I pushed some of the fabric out of the way so I could fit. “I had to get injured again just so I could come visit!”

A grudging smile escaped Sawbones, but he shook his head. “I don’t believe it. Shoulder still bothering you?”

Faith handed him the shot glass of Skovlander whiskey. “These wounds just appear, you know!” She waved her hands helplessly. “You look away for one instant and they just show up out of nowhere!”

Shaking his head again, Sawbones downed the whiskey and led us to the infirmary (which was actually Mardin’s storeroom). While Faith hopped onto a large wooden table, I ambled around the room, examining kegs of beer and burlap bags full of mushrooms, and guessing at the Leaky Bucket’s supply chain. In the background, the good doctor was directing Faith to move her shoulder so he could test its range of motion. That done, he taught her a set of daily strengthening exercises.

“Now, where’s that new injury of yours?” he asked.

“Right here!” With the other arm, Faith pointed at her side. “Oh, wait, you can’t actually see it. Isha, do you mind disrobing me?”

Thank goodness Bazso wasn’t around.

With the very tips of my fingers, I unbuttoned the back of Faith’s dress and helped her peel off the bodice so Sawbones could examine the bullet wound.

At the sight, his eyebrows shot up. “This isn’t what I expected,” he remarked.

Faith heaved a dramatic sigh. “You’re at a wonderful show, learning all about Skovlander viewpoints, and all of a sudden there’s a piece missing from your side!”

Halfway through threading a needle, Sawbones froze. “You were at the riot?” he demanded.

“You mean the party?” Faith corrected him.

“You got tickets for A Requiem for Aldric?” he asked incredulously. “But why – ? How – ?” Catching himself, perhaps recalling what happened to doctors who asked too many questions, Sawbones finished simply, “I’m jealous, miss.”

“Yes, it was such a wonderful party! What a shame it was cut short! Next time, I simply must attend the afterparty!”

Shaking his head, Sawbones stitched up her side and bandaged it thoroughly. “No sharp movements – or parties ­– for the next week,” he ordered. “Not unless you want to rip it open again.”

Faith leaned over and gaily kissed him on the cheek. “You’re just as kind and gracious as I remembered!” Wriggling off the table, she pressed a handful of slugs into his hand and flounced over to the door. “The next time I have tickets, I’ll take you,” she promised.

The front page of this morning’s Doskvol Times had screamed with reports that the hapless playwright, Ian Templeton, was sitting in Iron Hook Prison on charges of sedition. Speculation was rife in the Dockside Telegraph that the Lord Governor would censor and publicly burn all of his works.

Rather drily, Sawbones remarked, “I really doubt that, miss.”

Faith’s next order of business, as my archivist reported that evening, was to visit the Sensorium. “She told Madame Keitel that she had memories from a ‘tragically recently deceased member of the Hive,’” he whispered, darting petrified glances around the bustling stalls of the night market.

Ripping a candied mushroom off a skewer with my teeth, I gestured impatiently for him to continue.

“She said that the memories weren’t ready for public consumption just yet – ” (or ever, I should think!) – “but she wanted to see what the, um, member was up to. And Madame Keitel said, ‘This is the hottest thing I’ve held for a while.’ Then she told Mistress Karstas to wait, that she could process it right away.” The mousy little man gulped. “And – and – while she was doing that, she questioned us. Mistress Karstas, I mean. She wanted to know what happened, a while back, when someone beat up Madame Keitel.”

Ah, that must be the personal project for which Faith had “borrowed” crew coin.

“And what did you tell her?” I inquired, flicking the last mushroom to a scruffy, three-legged mutt that had materialized by the next stall and was staring at me pleadingly.

“I told her the truth!” he exclaimed, terrified and indignant at the same time. “I told her what all the rest of the staff told her – the Bluecoats took Madame Keitel in for questioning about that Dagger Islander Whisper!”

The mutt gulped down the candied mushroom and stared at me some more. I frowned at it, trying to determine whether it was the same one that hung around the railcar. Don’t tell me it followed me all the way to Nightmarket on the off-chance that I’d feed it! “And how did Mistress Karstas react?”

The archivist’s entire body drooped. “She didn’t believe me. She said no self-respecting Bluecoat would care about some dead Dagger Islander, so there has to be more. But I really, really don’t know anything else!”

The poor fellow had gotten into such a panic that it took some time for me to work the conversation around to the important part: “What memories did Madame Keitel extract?”

“Lots of great theater.”

That couldn’t be it. “What else?” I snapped. “Stop wasting my time and yours.”

The archivist swallowed hard, sidled closer, and breathed into my ear, “The member is related to Commander Orris, second-in-command of the Hive. She was a sort of…mascot or pet for them.” He shuddered. “They were very protective of her. Oh gods, they’re going to kill me too!”

Well, not if Faith discovered that he was reporting to me and got to him first.

“It will be all right,” I said soothingly. “You did well.”

I passed him a pouch full of slugs, bought three skewers of candied mushrooms for his kids, and left him in the middle of the market.

By then, the mutt had vanished.