Over his shoulder, Ash shouted at Faith and me, “He’s been training for Bluecoat questioning. I’ll just go and see how he does.” The speed with which he vanished belied his callous words, though.

At the Crow’s Foot precinct, Ash immediately noticed that our usual lazy, unkempt, and conveniently corrupt Bluecoats had been supplemented by new people in much crisper uniforms. The latter eyeballed the former with disdain, while the former clumped up and muttered resentfully about “those uppity Brightstoners.” Finding the Crow’s Foot desk sergeant in the break room, Ash slipped him two coin, acted out the whole crying-father routine (which didn’t require too much acting, given the two coin he’d just surrendered), and managed to collect a slightly-traumatized Azael pre-interrogation. (None of us had any idea how the Crow’s Foot Bluecoats were going to explain losing a prisoner – from the cells, no less! – to their Brightstone counterparts, but none of us really cared.)

“So,” said Ash breezily as the two of them walked back towards Strathmill House, “what did you learn?”

Even though he’d escaped with no more than a nerve-wracking stint in the cells, poor Azael was distraught because he thought that he’d shamed our crew. “Ummmm….” He hazarded a guess at the answer Ash wanted: “Definitely don’t say anything for the first two hours, because you have to give your crewmates time to come find you?”

“That’s an excellent start,” Ash lectured. “You’re lucky that we’re here to come help out – ”

“I know!” Azael half-sobbed, as though he expected that to be a prelude to disownment.

“ – but in time, some of you will have to get one another out. Eventually. For now, we’re happy to help out – ”

“Believe me, Mister Slane, we know!”

“That’s true. I guess you do,” Ash allowed, and let the lesson end there.

After the three of us conducted our own postmortem, we concluded that, far from Azael’s actions reflecting poorly on us, it had been the exact opposite. Oops.

In the weeks after we assassinated Djera Maha, Spirit Wardens combed the city for the culprits and even started searching Coalridge, so we temporarily moved our headquarters to Crow’s Foot. However, if Doskvol at large had become more dangerous and hostile for us, Strathmill House proved even worse for me.

For some inexplicable reason, the orphans kept peeking at me around corners and doorjambs while whispering, giggling – and running away at my approach. At last, it was Moth who worked up the courage to ask after class, “Miss Yaaaa-ra? Can I ask you something?”

“‘May I ask you something,’ not ‘can,’” I corrected her automatically, even though it wasn’t a distinction I observed either. “And yes.”

“Miss Yaaaa-ra, why can’t you tell Miss Karstas that you love her?”

I was stunned into silence, which Moth interpreted as a confession.

Encouraged, she pressed, “If Miss Karstas has an un-re-quited love for you, why can’t you tell her how you really feel?”

I finally sucked enough air into my lungs to demand, “Who told you that?”

Actually, on a second thought, I knew exactly who’d started that rumor, and I was going to challenge her to a duel and slaughter her, and it would serve her right for quitting my beginner lessons.

“Ummmm….” Moth scuffed a toe, unbearably torn. “I can’t tell you that, Miss Yara. I promised not to.”

Quelling my outrage, I wheedled, “Moth, that’s very admirable and very grownup of you, but obviously someone is spreading stories that simply aren’t true. So it could be a very useful exercise for us to track down the source of this misinformation. That will tell us something about why the rumor started in the first place.”

It still took a lot of cajoling and finally outright bribery with a wildly impractical lace scarf (why would you make a scarf from lace? All those holes defeated the entire purpose!) that Moth had had her eye on for a while. Suffice to say that after a great deal of bother, I traced the rumor back to Azael – and from Azael to Ash.

Who showed no signs of repentance when I cornered him in the conference room. “Well, you embarrassed me in front of my secret contact!”

“Wait, that’s what’s bothering you?” Seriously, Sigmund hadn’t even been that upset. I’d seen him much, much angrier.

Obviously, Ash hadn’t. “Yes! Once I realized where we were going, I wasn’t going to back down! But he told me explicitly not to visit him, which was entirely sensible!”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “And you’re getting even with me for that?”

“Yes! And I’m almost entirely certain that you were partly responsible for the cat-ear situation too!”

“Oh.” Even if I hadn’t originated or implemented the prank, I had gone along with it. “That.”

“Yes, that,” he repeated sarcastically. “So I feel very sad that you can never express your true feelings for Faith because you’re already betrothed – ”

“Betrothed? I am not betrothed! To anyone!”

“Try convincing the orphans of that,” he retorted. “Haven’t you noticed the little love letters they keep ‘accidentally’ dropping everywhere? The ones that are supposedly from you to Faith?”

“Oh gods.” I had noticed more note-passing in class than usual, but I’d ascribed it to kids being, well, kids. And I’d figured that any writing practice was useful. “Just – all right, I’m sorry, okay? I panicked! I wasn’t thinking when I dragged the whole crew to see Finnley! And he already chewed me out for that. Now make them stop!”

I didn’t know what Ash told the orphans, but the flurry of interest in my love life did subside – in the orphanage, that was.

The next night, I was preparing for bed in Bazso’s townhouse, hopping around on the cold floorboards and stripping out of my street clothes as fast as I could, when I heard him enter the room. Before I could react, he strode right up behind me and tangled his fingers through my hair to hold me in place.

“Bazso!” I complained indignantly, straining to reach my nightgown. “Let me go! It’s cold!”

His fingers only clenched tighter. His voice growled in my ear, “What’s this about a childhood betrothal that you can’t break?”

Twisting around, I caught sight of his face, which was taut and grim. Fuming silently at crewmates who took a little tongue-lashing much too seriously, I lifted my chin, met Bazso’s eyes, and stated, “There’s no such thing. I am not, and never have been, betrothed.” Just for good measure, I added, “Ever.”

Bazso’s hard stare never wavered. “That’s not what I hear. And – even allowing for some amount of distortion by the grapevine – from what Bug and the other runners say, the information comes straight from your own crewmate.”

I was going to kill said crewmate until he was very, very dead. “That’s just Ash getting revenge because I accidentally embarrassed him in front of someone he wants to impress,” I snapped.

Unfortunately, creative torture wasn’t Ash’s usual modus operandi – at least not before Faith got hold of him – so Bazso said in a dubious tone, “You’re positive.”

“Yes!”

At last the tension started to ebb from his face, although he still didn’t release me. “Good.” He thought for a moment, decided to believe me, then sighed in relief. “Well, good, then.”

As far as I was concerned, there was nothing good at all about the situation. Wrapping my arms around myself, I hunched over as far as his hand would allow and asked sarcastically, “So, if that’s all settled, can I put something on before I freeze to death?”

He smiled all of a sudden, the last of his anxiety melting away. “Well, if you’re not promised to anyone else, I can help warm you up a different way,” he offered.

By now I was covered all over in goosebumps and thoroughly grumpy. “Then maybe you should get around to it before I die from hypothermia,” I informed him.

At that, he laughed outright. “Oh, Isha, ever the romantic.”

But he did, indeed, get around to it.

After seeing how he reacted to the betrothal rumors, I opted not to mention them to Sigmund at all.

Even after that fiasco, Ash wasn’t quite through with me.

One uncharacteristically non-rainy afternoon, while the children were playing outside and I was prowling through Strathmill House in search of the battle plans, I stumbled across the oddest scene in an empty classroom. All the little desks had been shoved into the corners, and under a giant, elaborate rune drawn in chalk on the blackboard sat a very smug Faith. As I peered around the doorjamb, she blinked as if she’d just woken from a nice nap, looking somehow more clear-eyed than she had in months. Scattered around her lay several empty bottles that had obviously held a red liquid.

“Flying,” Faith was murmuring to herself. “A deep desire for wealth.” She stretched a little, knocking the bottles into one another with little clinks. “Aaah, I feel so much more intact now. I know I should have gotten to this ages ago, but it just didn’t seem important.”

Or maybe she’d heard me coming and was talking to me.

“Mmmm,” she remarked, rising and smoothing down her dress, “I could grow a pair of wings – but my seamstress would be unhappy with me. Wings are terrible for dresses. Plus, it’s Doskvol. In the best-case scenario, I’d have to wear an open-backed dress, which would be cold, or I’d have to use an intricate button arrangement, which just never looks right.”

That, I really wanted to point out, was what separated a mere seamstress from a true couturier. During my brief stint as a shopgirl in Nightmarket, I’d passed a haberdasher who specialized in concocting fantastically well-fitted hats for the Tycherosi. He could accommodate any shape, size, or arrangement of horns and ears.

Tiptoeing back down the hall, I returned with a louder tread, jerked to a stop outside the classroom, and stuck my head through the doorway. “Faith?” I asked incredulously. “What are you doing? What is that rune?”

She played right along. “Oh!” she cried, as if surprised to see me. “Why, Isha, as an Iruvian, shouldn’t you already know this rune? You see, this bit of sigil right here – ” Without waiting for my response (which she already knew would be an emphatic “No!”), she launched into a long, tedious, and shockingly accurate lecture about the intricacies of demon binding. To my own distaste, I realized that I had indeed absorbed the basics in spite of myself, simply by growing up in U’Duasha. (There, demon-binders were slightly more reputable than Whispers were in Doskvol. Although anyone was more reputable than Faith.)

Cutting off her lecture, I pointed an accusing finger at one of the empty bottles. “So what’s that?”

“Why, that’s blood! The blood of my enemies! Who were so cruelly beheaded by foreigners from the – ” she paused for the briefest second to visualize a map of the Imperium – “southeast. Ideally, the blood needs a little bit more salt, though. And there’s something missing – maybe a bit of lemon juice?” She pushed her lower lip out in an enormous pout. “It wasn’t quite as good a snack as I’d hoped.”

“Wait!” Even though I’d gone catatonic after killing Djera Maha, I vaguely remembered Faith getting that poor acolyte to help her vacuum up the blood. “Are you telling me that that’s – ” Just in the nick of time, I remembered where we were and lowered my voice to a hiss. “That’s Djera Maha’s blood? What are you doing with it?”

Faith licked her lips, then smacked them noisily. “Isha, do you think you can go to the kitchen and get me some mint?”

“Why is it here? In the orphanage?”

“Haven’t you been listening to me?” She sounded indignant. “To eat. Would you like some?”

“No! Why would I want demon blood?”

“Because it’s tasty! Not quite as good as demon eggs, though.” Another pout, a piteous one this time. “You can’t make it into mousse.”

“Did you really drink it?” I demanded. “What did you do?”

Darting forward, she wrapped her fingers around my wrist and tugged me towards the rune. “Why, I’ll happily show you, Isha! Come sit over here, I’m just going to stop by the kitchen for some additional ingredients….”

“Uh huh?”

Dropping my wrist, she scrambled out of the classroom and dashed down the hall, shrieking, “Ash? Ash! Ash! Come quick! Isha’s performing demonic rituals in the classroom!”

I didn’t have time to flee.

Into the room ambled Ash, followed by a gaggle of wide-eyed children.

“Isha, what’s happening?” he asked, sounding offensively amused.

“I don’t know,” I told him, exasperated. “Faith says she needs mint and lemon juice. To accompany this.” I gestured at the empty bottles at my feet.

Ducking behind Ash as if I might attack her and clinging to his arms, Faith wailed, “Ash! Ash! Look what she did! She had a jar of blood! Look what she did to the classroom!”

Ash just chuckled and started to turn towards the orphans. “Kids, clean up – ” Then he caught himself and surveyed the empty bottles. “I was wondering what you were planning to do with that,” he remarked to Faith, and attuned openly to study her.

She pursed her lips and gave him a prim, disapproving look that said, I will forgive this indiscretion, so long as you continue to mock Isha.

Whatever he learned from his attunement must have come as a relief, because he relaxed and chided me, “Isha, if you wanted demonic powers, you could have just asked us.”

“What are you talking about?” I snapped.

“I assume you were jealous of – ” He gestured between himself and Faith.

If I were, I would already know how to attune and could have deciphered Faith’s ritual without resorting to asking either of them. “No. What is all this stuff? What is this rune?”

Very slowly, as if he were talking to someone who wasn’t quite right in the head, he explained, “It’s for imbuing demonic power into other people. I assume that’s why you wrote it in the first place.”

“Wait, Faith is imbuing herself with demonic power?” I asked, perplexed.

“Noooo!” she objected at once. “Don’t try to blame me for your demonic adventures!”

Ash snorted derisively. “Where did you think all these powers come from? The air? Spices? I mean, Faith is the expert here, but I could probably teach you, if you want to learn more.”

“Are you saying that all Whispers are part demon?” I demanded.

“I thought that was obvious!” Ash cocked his head at Faith for confirmation. She nodded wisely. “Did you think there was some god of magic that we worshipped?”

Given that it was Ash, that was not such a preposterous notion. However, I didn’t believe a word he’d said. No one (reputable) had ever suggested that demons conferred Whisper powers, and in general, Akorosian Whispers didn’t have any demonic connection at all. Their abilities were geared towards manipulating ghosts.

Turning to the fascinated orphans, Faith started to explain that I was preparing a ritual. “You should note the shape of the rune and the precise arrangement of the bottles,” she instructed.

In about ten minutes, that new rumor would be all over the orphanage.

Across the children’s heads, Ash grinned at Faith. “Well, you’re looking a lot better,” he commented.

“Mmm, indeed,” she sighed, contented. “Next time, I’ll go for basil, though. Well, Isha, I’ll let you get back to your ritual. Please don’t let me distract you.”

Ash announced to the children, “I’m sure that if you stay and watch, kids, you will learn a lot. Keep a safe distance from demonic rituals, though. Six feet at least – they’re very dangerous.”

Faith conspicuously backed out of the room, nearly bowling over the orphans behind her.

Snatching a bottle that still held a bit of blood, I shoved past Ash and stalked down the hall. Behind me, I heard him laugh and ask Faith, “What else can you do with that blood?”

“You can make it into blood pudding,” she replied with all seriousness. “Or – what’s that sausage called again? Blutwurst.”

“In any case, well done,” he congratulated. “It’s quite impressive to do surgery like that on yourself.”

“Indeed. Thank you for your help with Isha.”

The next time I saw Bazso, he inquired – half-seriously, half-skeptically – whether I’d developed my unhealthy obsession with demons before or after that canal demon nearly sliced my legs off.