Of all the people involved in the new management of the casino, Irimina turned out to be the most excited – and not for the expected reasons either.

On the day we met to discuss the transfer of ownership and division of labor and profit, her butler ushered us not into the usual parlor but a large drawing room I’d never seen before. I followed Ash through the doorway and stopped so suddenly that Faith trod on my heels with a loud squeal.

“Isha! The idea of walking forward is to walk forward!”

I couldn’t even speak.

I was in U’Duasha again.

All around me hung silk scroll paintings of flowers: abstract black-and-white ink washes of hibiscus or jasmine, infinitely detailed renderings of frangipani or orchids. Beneath the paintings gleamed a profusion of rosewood tables, carved with stylized clouds and birds, and lovingly polished until the dark veins stood out against the reddish-brown wood like tiger markings. Each one bore an arrangement of Iruvian artwork – vases of all shapes and sizes coated in the famous black glaze and speckled with golden flecks like the night sky (and the day sky too, here in Doskvol); intricate mosaic pieces depicting elaborate Hadrathi glyphs surrounded by flowering vines; rock crystal ewers carved with fantastic creatures and topped by gold filigree lids; and exotic animals the size of my thumb carved from white and lavender jade.

Irimina’s voice emerged from the back of the room, where she was busy adjusting a display of ivory panels. One depicted a butcherbird impaling a lizard on thorny vines. “What do you think of my art collection, Glass?”

I needed a moment to remember that I was Glass. “It’s impressive,” I said at last, with perfect sincerity.

She looked incredibly pleased by that assessment.

“It could be more pink,” Faith commented, eyeing the pieces critically. “Have you considered acquiring more pink pieces?”

“Have you insured this collection properly?” was Ash’s contribution. “It looks very valuable.”

“Yes,” Irimina said to Ash. To Faith: “As it turns out, our new joint business venture provides me with an opportunity to remedy the lack of pinkness.”

“How so?” Ash and I asked at the same time.

“Brannon and I have discussed renaming and redecorating the casino,” she explained. “I intend to donate much of this artwork to the enterprise and treat it as a tax write-off.” Looking more animated than I’d ever seen her, she practically babbled, “It gives me the opportunity to order more pieces for my personal collection. For a while, I’ve wanted to branch out into rare books and manuscripts – I hear there’s a tragically recently deceased Vaasu scholar whose family intends to auction off his collection – but I just haven’t had the space. But Brannon and I were filling out paperwork for the casino, and I rather fancy the Orchid Salon as a new name, so Brannon suggested redecorating in a floral theme, and then we remembered you, Glass, and we thought, ‘Why not make it more exotic to attract patrons?’ It certainly works for the Moon’s Embrace Spa.”

I hid a wince as best I could. “Indeed, it does,” I admitted.

Irimina looked exceedingly pleased with herself.

“The Orchid Salon?” protested Faith. “That’s so prosaic! How about…Your Money or Your Life? That seems appropriate, doesn’t it? Or…or…oh, oh, I have it! The Brown Venison!”

Irimina actually laughed, exhilarated by the prospect of draining her finances (again) to splurge on, er, invest in objets d’art. “Thank you for the input, Faith, but we’ve already filed the paperwork for the name change.”

Over the next few days, Ash spent a lot of time at the Bluecoat station in Silkshore, patiently answering questions about what happened in the spa. Conveniently, during the initial struggle with the Golden Stag, he’d dropped a bottle and splashed red wine on himself. All he had to do now was mesmerize the Bluecoats into believing that he fainted upon discovering Helene’s body, and then silly eyewitnesses mistook the wine stains for blood, panicked, and caused the entire uproar. Ash, as we all knew, could be very persuasive. The Bluecoats never stood a chance.

Remira also suspected nothing when Ash handed in his resignation. “My delicate nerves render me unable to continue serving this fine establishment,” he explained woefully to the proprietress, who only ran a hand through her hair and sighed. She had bigger worries than the specific reason one bath attendant was leaving. The rest of her staff was also quitting in droves.

Ash even found a way to convert heat reduction into coin: by selling his story to the tabloids. He sat down for an interview with a “reporter” from the Dockside Telegraph to expound upon the theory that Iruvian demons had taken offense at the cultural appropriation and cursed the spa and all who set foot on its premises. (I gave him pointers for what enraged demons.) Then he fielded questions from the North Hook Gazette and Doskvol Times in order to “set the record straight: I saw no signs of demonic involvement whatsoever. The patron’s death was a tragic accident, and to suggest anything else is criminally irresponsible. Has the City Council considered banning the Dockside Telegraph? It does a lot more harm than good – in fact, I can’t think of a single instance where it’s done anyone any good,” the Gazette quoted him as saying sententiously (and disingenuously, considering how much good the tabloid had done us). The Times ran an editorial on the perils of overindulging in luxury, also quoting Ash extensively.

After that, no one even thought to question the nature of Helene’s demise.

Once life had settled back into its usual routine, I finally found a spare moment to see Sawbones about my legs. As I approached the Leaky Bucket, the Lampblacks loitering around the front door straightened smartly. “Good day, Glass!” one said in a heavy Skovlander accent, saluting clumsily. Another even rushed to open the door for me.

Inside, Lampblacks interrupted their conversations to greet me cheerfully. Hands even reached out to pat me on the shoulder or thump me on the back, only for their owners to get a scolding from their neighbors. “Don’t touch her! That’s so disrespectful.” “Hey, you nearly knocked her over!”

In his corner booth, Bazso raised an amused eyebrow and cleared his throat, quelling his gang. I cocked my head to a side, asking silently, “Did you tell them about Ronia Helker?”

He spread his hands in a gesture that might have meant, “How could you expect me to keep that a secret?” just as easily as, “Well, you know how Sawbones talks.”

Disgruntled, I bought a shot of the doctor’s favorite whiskey from Mardin, who granted me an approving smile, and hurried into the back room.

“Everyone seems to be in a good mood,” I remarked to Sawbones, feigning casualness. I hopped onto the table and rolled up my trousers.

“Mmmm, yes, miss,” he replied absently. He inspected the scars and shook his head. “You’ve torn some of them open again. They’ll never heal if you don’t rest.”

“I couldn’t help it,” I pointed out.

“I know, I know,” he sighed. “That’s what they all say.” Getting out a roll of bandages, he started wrapping my legs. “You’re a hero now, you know.”

I thought of Tocker Helker and how much he’d loved his wife. I thought of their two kids, grieving and motherless. My voice came out harsher than I’d intended. “No, I hadn’t known.”

Sawbones paused in his bandaging to eye me curiously. “General Helker did some terrible things in Skovlan during the war, miss,” he pointed out gently. “Some would argue she went far beyond the call of duty in the Massacre of Lockport.”

It wasn’t called that by the Akorosi, of course. Officially, it was known as the “Pacification of Lockport,” as if a bunch of women, children, and old people with mutated internal organs were in any position to put up resistance.

Sawbones’s voice went hard. “Some might even accuse her of genocide.”

Experimentally, I confided, “My mother’s family lived in Lockport.” They’d all survived, of course, safe within the enclave of Imperial loyalists. But Sawbones didn’t need to know that. “Did you have family there?”

“Yes,” he replied shortly, jaw tight. His tone ended that line of questioning. Straightening, he nodded at me professionally. “You’re all set, miss. Try to refrain from strenuous physical activity for the next week.”

“I will.”

He looked entirely unconvinced by that promise.

“Glass!” called Bazso when I returned to the common room. “Do you have a moment?”

Squashing my annoyance with the Lampblacks for broadcasting my involvement in the murder of an Imperial general, I stalked over and threw myself down across from him. “Did you need something?” My voice was cool.

He studied me for a moment and wisely concluded that I was displeased with him. “Is everything all right?”

Was everything all right? I’d told him that someone was hunting me, hadn’t I, the night I saw him outside the Iruvian Consulate? You’d think Bazso would have sewn shut his gang’s loose lips, not encouraged them.

“Yes,” I said shortly, in the same tone Sawbones had used when I asked about his family.

Bazso gave me one of his looks, reminding me that no matter how I spoke to him in private, he couldn’t tolerate open disrespect in public, especially not in front of his gang.

Forcing down my anger, I closed my eyes briefly, counted to ten in Hadrathi and Akorosian, and then smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry, Bazso. I had an…unsettling encounter recently.”

More than one, in fact. Him, of course, and the Golden Stag made manifest in Helene, and every single interaction with Faith, when I stopped to think about it.

“Did you need something?” I asked. After all, he was still wearing his hat.

“Hmmm?” He looked startled. “Oh, no, nothing in particular. Sit with me. You haven’t been around lately. I thought it might do the gang some good to see you.” He nodded at the Lampblacks, half of whom were gawking openly, the other half of whom were eagerly repeating increasingly exaggerated accounts of Ronia Helker’s demise. Pickett stalked into the common room through the kitchen, caught sight of me with her boss, and scowled. At least that much hadn’t changed.

“Umm.” I didn’t like the publicity, but an order was an order. “I’d be happy to.”

Bazso’s smile was warm and oddly sympathetic, as if he knew exactly what was going through my head. “Come to this side.” He rose and ushered me onto his bench, then sat down again, effectively penning me in.

Pickett’s nostrils flared, and her lips compressed into a thin line. “I have matters to discuss,” she snapped at Bazso.

“Have a seat then,” he replied pleasantly.

She glared pointedly in my direction.

“Glass wouldn’t dream of repeating anything we discuss here, would you, Glass?”

I met his gaze. “Never.”

“Good. Have a seat, Pickett.”

She snorted but obeyed, flinging herself onto the bench with enough force to rattle the booth. He pretended not to notice.

Propping my chin on my hands, I thought of the first time I’d sat in that spot.

Two years ago.

The bloodstained office in the abandoned coal warehouse.

After the blue-eyed man, the one named Bazso, ended the interrogation, I must have fainted. I woke to an insistent pressure in my ribs – significantly harder than a nudge, a touch lighter than a kick.

Opening my eyes, I looked up a very long way into the face of the head interrogator, Pickett. “Go on,” she snapped. “Get out.”

Someone – probably the Sawbones that Bazso had mentioned – had already swathed me in bandages. Grandfather lay majestically across the desk, as it had throughout the torture, and my shabby little knapsack huddled next to it like an abused dog.

“Out,” repeated Pickett.

Somehow, I dragged myself to my feet, collected my belongings, and staggered out of the warehouse – right into a freezing rain that stabbed into my wounds like thousands of stilettos. With absolutely no idea where I was, I picked a random direction and half-stumbled, half-crawled along the street, searching for shelter. At length, I came across a flophouse, handed over an exorbitant amount of slugs for a bed, and collapsed in a feverish haze.

Before me rose the black crystal spire of Ixis, clouds of smoke seething out of its facets, and Grandfather’s voice insisted, Child, you need to –

Then the smoke vanished and he bent over my bed, concern in his blue eyes, and he urged, “Signy, you can’t – ”

The blue eyes stayed, but the features around them wavered and transformed into those of the thug with the silk top hat. He was saying to someone I couldn’t see, “Can we move her?”

A different face materialized, wrinkled and weather-beaten, assessing me like an onion in the market. “Maybe in another day – ”

And then I was falling – falling – falling –

When I woke again, I was in a tiny room, empty but for the bare necessities. Slowly, moving only my eyeballs, I surveyed the iron frame at the foot of my bed, the chipped washstand, and the small writing desk under a window with crooked shutters. This didn’t look like the flophouse. At least, I didn’t think it did.

An old lady bustled in and said briskly, “Good, you’re awake, dearie. I’ll send word to Bazso.”

Bazso. A vague memory stirred. That was what the head interrogator had called her boss, wasn’t it? The man who’d believed me at last when I said I wasn’t a red sash, and told me to buy new clothing?

“Where – where am I?” I croaked. It must have come out in either Hadrathi or Skovlander, because she frowned and shook her head. I tried again, making sure to speak Akorosian this time.

“You’re in my boardinghouse,” she replied. “I’m Madame Bell.”

I didn’t think that was the name of the woman I’d spoken to – or more likely, slurred at – the night I escaped the gang’s clutches. “Why – how – ”

She shrugged. “For the ‘how,’ the Lampblacks brought you here. As for the ‘why,’ Bazso has his reasons.”

I couldn’t imagine what they might be. My head was too fuzzy. As I sank back into blackness, I thought I heard Madame Bell saying, “Not today, she’s still too sick….”

It took another few days before I was strong enough to wobble over to the tavern where Madame Bell told me I could find a certain Bazso Baz, head of the Lampblacks. According to her, they were one of the three main gangs in this district, which she called Crow’s Foot. (Had I heard her wrong? Why would anyone name a geographical location after an anatomical part of a bird?) The other two gangs were the aptly named Crows, who were led by Lyssa, and an Iruvian gang known as the Red Sashes (now the interrogation made more sense), who were controlled by Mylera Klev (not a name I recognized, to my relief).

A small group of thugs in black overcoats lazed about outside the Leaky Bucket (what a name for a tavern!). As I tottered towards the door, they stiffened and scanned me up and down. Despite Bazso Baz’s largess, I was still wearing my ragged Iruvian tunic and leggings. All my reserves had gone towards paying for the room and medicines, and even if they hadn’t, I lacked the energy for shopping.

“What do you want?” one thug sneered. “We don’t want your kind hanging around here.”

Which was pretty rich, considering our relative socioeconomic backgrounds and education levels.

“Mr. Bazso Baz requested my presence,” I said politely. “Please inform him that I have arrived.”

The thug scowled. “Why would Bazso want to – ”

Another thug elbowed her. “Bazso said to look out for a blonde girl, remember?”

The first complained in a surly tone, “He didn’t say nothing about an Iruvian.”

The second shrugged. “Stay out here,” he ordered both of us. “I’ll check.”

Within moments, he returned to escort me into the tavern, past a bunch of rough-looking men and women, also in black overcoats – I made a mental note, guessing it was their uniform – all the way to a booth in the corner of the common room. A large, sturdy man with light brown hair and blue eyes the exact same shade as his rose from his seat when we approached. His smile of welcome faded very slightly when he registered my attire.

“Please, miss, have a seat,” he invited. “Whip, you may go.”

Bazso Baz waited until I’d lowered myself stiffly onto the hard wooden bench before sitting down himself. I gave him points for good manners – then deducted a few for his choice of doormen.

“What would you like to drink, miss?” he inquired politely.

Folding my hands demurely in my lap, I matched his courtesy. “Whatever you’re having, sir.”

Amused at something only he understood, he arched an eyebrow. “Indeed.” Flagging down a passing barmaid, he ordered, “Tell Mardin two shots of whiskey.”

When the glasses arrived, he slid one across the table to me. Oddly enough, he lifted the other reverently towards an empty glass on the side of the table before toasting me. “To good health.”

I raised mine in return. “To good health,” I echoed, and waited for him to drink first.

He inhaled deeply and took a sip, rolling it around in his mouth while studying me closely. So he was testing whether I appreciated fine Skovlander liquor, was he? While it wasn’t exactly the national drink of Iruvia, Father had acquired a taste for it in Lockport, and Mother imported it by the cask from Skovlan. I’d watched them drinking it often enough to know how it was done.

Holding up my glass, I took my time admiring the rich amber hue and the way the electroplasmic lights glinted through the liquid. Then I stuck my nose into the glass and sniffed a few times with my eyes shut. Finally, I took a careful sip, swishing it around my mouth and trying to identify the flavors. As far as I could tell, it tasted like the whiskey my parents served the night he was promoted.

“Smoky, with notes of sea brine,” I pronounced, sounding as authoritative as I knew how. “Probably from one of the distilleries in northern Skovlan. Islay Finlaggan?” I hazarded a guess, based on the labels I’d seen at home.

Bazso Baz’s eyebrows went way up. Apparently he hadn’t expected a girl in Iruvian clothing to know this much about the national drink of Skovlan. “Islay Birnie, actually, but not bad,” he remarked. “What do you think of the vintage?”

His condescension irked me. “Not bad,” I replied in exactly the same tone.

At the tables around us, the black-overcoated thugs went dead quiet. A barmaid froze in the middle of setting down a tray of beer mugs. Silence rippled out across the tavern until even the bartender stopped polishing his glasses and straightened up. Bazso Baz’s eyes caught mine and held for a long, tense moment. Chin up, I stared right back.

Then he burst into laughter. “I like you,” he pronounced, and the common room sagged in relief. Chatter and the clink of mugs erupted around us once again. “Miss – what should I call you?”

I noted the phrasing. Not “what is your name,” but “what should I call you,” as if he expected an alias. Ever since I’d fled U’Duasha, I’d been going by my old wet nurse’s name, but I could use that as my “real name” here in Doskvol. Which meant I needed a different street name. But what?

Sipping his drink, the gang leader waited patiently.

My eyes fell on the glass of whiskey in his hand. “Glass,” I told him. “You can call me Glass.”

He followed my gaze and smiled wryly. “Glass it is, then,” he agreed. “So, Miss Glass, I have a job for you….”