Okay reader, I’m not going to bore you with the hours of details. I’ve always viewed Aisling as my real sister. We’ve grown up together, we’re in business together, and we’ve seen each other through the deepest lows and the tops of highs. Nothing, and I mean nothing, has threatened to break our friendship like this drawing of the Sallow Man.

That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but frustrations were absolutely shared.

His eyes are bigger, no, now they’re smaller. His hair is oily. No, I’m not sure how you’re supposed to capture that. No, not wet, oily, and stringy. Bigger forehead. Sharper nose. Not thin, sharp. Bags under the eyes, not wrinkles. He’s not 80 years old, he’s probably in his 40s. He doesn’t look tired, he looks evil, like that’s coming from inside and making his outside ugly. NO, I DON’T KNOW HOW YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO DRAW THAT!

Honestly, by the end of it, I had almost forgotten what he looked like. But when Ash showed me the final product, scraps of paper laying like snow around our ankles, it ended up a better likeness than I could’ve imagined. The picture almost gave me shivers, remembering the man in The Magic Four, imagining him strongarming young women into carriages.

“That’s perfect, Ash. Wow, you really captured it.”

“This is what the Sallow Man looks like?” I nod, and Aisling makes a noise of disgust. “He really does look like a villain. Okay, so let’s go show this to the couple at the fishmarket. I’ll get changed-”

“Wait,” I cut her off. “First, we need to get copies made of the picture so I can give them to people. Then, I’m going to buy you a drink.”

Aisling looks at me skeptically. “How is that important, Em?”

“This,” I gesture to the wall, “all of this… It’s personal for me. Or at least, I think it is. It’s important that I don’t get tunnel vision. If I focus too hard on it all, I could get lost in the woods. I need to let my brain idle sometimes, maybe work on putting the puzzle together in the subconscious.”

Ash narrows her eyes at me. “You managed to fit three different illustrative metaphors in that attempt at persuasion.” Aisling knows that I get overly poetic when I’m lying.

“Okay, I want to take you to The Magic Four. I do want to buy you a drink to thank you for your work on this portrait, but I also want to learn more about that place. I need to know if that place is another piece of the puzzle, or just a random meeting place.”

“So…this is part of the case.” She still sounds skeptical.

“In a roundabout way, yes.” Ash isn’t quite ready to agree yet, but I know what she’s holding out for. “You can wear whatever you want from my wardrobe.”

She grins and finally relents.

Aisling puts together two ensembles for us, both ornate and dark. She puts me in a low black blouse and matching bustled skirt, with a black underbust corset overtop, and a black lace collar around my neck. She chooses a green satin dress for herself and wears a floral red corset over it, tightening it to an uncomfortable level of bosom-enhancement.

“We look like toffers, Ash.”

She smiles, wrapping a string of pearls through her hair. “That’s exactly what I’m going for.”

I sigh, and then shrug. I suppose distraction could help with the information I’m trying to gather this evening. Though I am sure that Aisling put these outfits together, partly at least, for our trip to the copyist.

Evaki raises her head from her slumber as we walk towards the door.

“No, Eva, you stay home tonight,” I tell her gently, hoping to not offend her. She immediately closes her eyes and lays her head back down, asleep again before we’ve even opened the door.

The copyist, which is also a portrait studio, consists of a very small front room- capable of a limited amount of portrait set ups and backdrops- and a seemingly infinite back room. A completely encapsulated revolving door leads to a dark room, as would be standard in any portrait studio, but the one time I was allowed to stand within the door and look in, I saw an endless row of machine arms and conveyer belts. These machines, along with the artist in charge, create a type of lithograph of the subject to be copied, and can produce an amazing amount of copies in a very short time. They advertise 100 copies in a day, but that is when they have more orders than once.

Akinette Jolliffe is the artist and copyist, and she brought the technique and machines over from France. Her husband, Alistair, is the photographer, and they are the most lovely, adorned, and flamboyant couple in Etherbury, or perhaps England. Akinette told us that France had so much style and vogue that when her and Alistair were married it was too much to fill the country, so they had to leave. The story, adorable as it may be, is of course, not true. However, reader, if you were to look upon the Jolliffe’s- Akinette with her many beautiful wigs and dresses which look like expensive frosted cupcakes, and Alistair with his stylish makeup and brilliant jewell-toned dandyism- you might just believe it.

The Jolliffe’s, being odd and adventurous, are some of the many strange friends and associates Aisling and I have collected in our time being businesswomen.

Though Etherbury, at first glance, holds many of the conservative ideals and values that the rest of Victorian England cherishes, one distinct difference makes the city a little more colorful. The Etherbury MP of many years ago had a very strong-willed and intelligent wife who persuaded him to pass an initiative, making it easy for any person, regardless of gender or race, to open a business, even going so far as for the city to invest a little money in property for the minority business owner. This proved to be illustrious for Etherbury, and the initiative has never been overturned, bringing many different types of industry and trade to our city that the rest of England is without. This initiative allowed people like Zhao and the Jolliffe’s to prosper, and certainly made the way easier for Aisling and I. Though taverns and private detective agencies aren’t exactly uncommon, the fact that we are two women with complete proprietorship over these properties is anomalous enough that it has allowed us to join the ranks of the more curious and peculiar business owners, which all do their best to support one another.

In other words, reader, we have good friends in strange places.

“Mes bijoux!” Akinette exclaims as we enter their store, a beautiful royal blue painted front with silver decorative pillars and letters that read The Artistic Copyist. She rushes to us, her gigantic pink champagne skirts brushing against the velvet wingback armchair and the large camera tripod, simultaneously. “Bisou!” She grabs both sides of my face with her purple satin gloved hands and kisses me directly on the mouth. “Bisou!” She does the same to Aisling. “It has been many weeks since you have come to see me, mes amies! You leave my heart bleeding!” She pouts her perfect lips, painted the exact same color as her gloves.

“We would never intentionally hurt you, Akinette!” Aisling clutches Akinette’s hands between hers.

“Oh, I know, I know. You ‘ave been busy. You are, eh, femme d’affaires, um, women of business. You have money to bring in. And speaking of money! Look at you both! I would pay pounds of gold for you both right now. You both look like ze maitresse-en-titre!”

Neither Ash nor I respond, unsure of what exactly that means.

“It is a compliment,” Alistair appears from the revolving door with an explanation. He is matching his wife today, as they usually are, with a light pink jacket and pants atop a plum waistcoat. My preference in men tends to lean a little simpler, fashion-wise, and more damaged, emotionally, but Alistair is extremely conventionally handsome. Alongside his wife, however, they are works of art. “She is saying you are mistresses worthy of a King, and, as in all things, I agree with my wife.” Alistair kisses us on the backs of our hands before pulling us both in for one enormous hug. They are as demonstrative as they are extravagant.

“I have a feeling you are here for business and not for ze glass of champagne that we always have chilled for you,” Akinette says as she pulls me to sit next to her on the chez lounge in the studio.

“Unfortunately, mon amie, yes.”

“Ah!” Akinette’s face lights up and she claps in delight. “Tres bien! You sound like a natural! You are all dressed up, is it portraits that you want?”

“Ooh, yes!” Ash says excitedly.

“No,” I cut in.

“No,” Ash repeats. “We need something copied. Something I drew. Can you do that?”

“Ma moitie can do anything,” Alistair sits on the arm of the chez lounge behind his wife and kisses her on the exposed part of her shoulder. She smiles as her eyes dart to him, and then looks back at Aisling.

“Let me see it please.” Ash unrolls the drawing and hands it to Akinette. She makes a noise of disgust. “Affreux! Why did you draw zis hideous man? I would not want to look at him once, let alone copy him and let him loose on ze world!”

“Unfortunately, we need it Akinette. I believe this man is responsible for the abduction of many young women in the area, many of whom were with child. It may be an ugly picture, but Aisling drew him exactly the way he looks. I want to hand these copies out to people to see if they’ve seen him, and to make sure they’re aware of him.”

An incredible sadness comes over Akinette as she looks upon the picture. Alistair puts a protective and comforting hand on her shoulder, as her free hand drifts softly, almost instinctively, to rest on her stomach. Aisling and I look to each other, quizzically.

After just a moment, she re-composes herself and smiles back at us, her face set with determination. “I will help you with this! We must help our sœurs, our sisters! I can have this copied onto a plate in just a few hours, and 100 copies can be ready for you to pick up by ze morning!”

“Thank you, Akinette, thank you so much. Can we pick up the original later tonight?”

“Oui, as late as you like, we never sleep! Now scurry off, mes bijoux, let me get to work.” Akinette takes the picture and disappears into the back room. I wonder if the emotion she was just trying to hide from us was beginning to overcome her.

Alistair seems to believe that as well, and his face betrays a bit of worry. “My darlings, it is lovely to see you. I should go and help my wife. Have a lovely evening, go and dazzle the city, we’ll see you later tonight!”

Aisling and I take our cue and leave after another round of hand kissing.

******

The same doorman grants us passage to The Magic Four, and this time he smiles at Aisling. He lets us both in on just my passcode, meaning the club must not be entirely exclusive or elite. Perhaps the place operates on word of mouth, or on people canny enough to notice and solve the riddle like I did. It still doesn’t explain the purpose of The Magic Four. And I still don’t have a plan as to how I’m going to find that out. Perhaps that why I made sure to bring Aisling.

Aisling is a natural social butterfly. She’s pretty, with a warm smile, so people tend to decide they like her before they even meet her. Once you have met her, you learn that she is charismatic, outgoing, and a bit cheeky. She has a lot of stories to tell- mostly from running the Sparrow- and she is a good story teller. She doesn’t mind striking up a conversation with a stranger, and she is practiced in the art of making someone feel important. Mostly, however, these qualities rub off on me when we’re together, so having her with me on this reconnaissance mission doubles our chances of making friends with the right person to lead us to the right information.

We start at the bar, and I sit in the same seat I had been in just a few nights before. The bar tender is different, though it is still a woman in a three piece suit.

“There it is,” I say to Ash after we have ordered our drinks.

“What?” She looks around the room. The Magic Four is slightly more full than it was the night I followed Nehemiah here, but still there are a lot of empty seats.

“The drink chiller machine.” Ash sighs. “Look at it, watch how she uses it. It’s amazing!”

“You can also just use ice, or an ice bucket with a spout in it, or an ice chest…”

“No, this is different.”

“How?”

“It just is. Just watch her and then drink your drink, Ash.”

Aisling rolls her eyes and watches as the bartender makes her drink. The alcohol goes into the tankard, the frosted pipes make a short hiss and puff, and then out it comes, frosting over the glass beneath it. Ash thanks the woman for her drink.

“Amazing, right?”

Aish cuts her eyes to me and answers dryly. “Yes, it’s amazing. It’s exactly how you said it would be. How have we survived so long without it?”

I give her my expertly crafted annoyed face.

“Can you just tell me why we’re here and what our goal is?”

“Okay, as a recap, this is where I followed Nehemiah to and this is where I first saw the Sallow Man, and right there is where he handed him the swan card.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that.”

“I would like to know what this club is used for. Is it a convenient yet private meeting place? Or is it the headquarters of the whole organization? That’s unlikely, as they let us in here, but I’m not ruling anything out until I see for myself. Also, you see those doors on the back wall?” I nod subtly towards the row of riveted doors. “People go in them, but they only open from the other side. Someone has to let them in. So what goes on in there?”

Ash looks around a bit, at the doors, at the other people in the club, into the smaller rooms, thinking.

“Okay, so if we outright ask these questions, they’ll know that we’re not members.” I nod. “And if we ask the bartender about the Sallow Man… well, this place seems like they value discretion, so we probably won’t get an answer.” I nod again, well done Ash. “So what we need to do is ingratiate ourselves with another member and try to draw that information out of them.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I believe I have a mark already.”

I follow Aisling’s eyeline to a table of three men, at various stages of graying, handsome of the rich enough to pay extra attention to myself variety. This is a con that we have run before. There are other tables that are perhaps more appropriate for us to approach- a table of two younger men, or a group of socialites, 20 somethings, with their inheritances to squander- but the table of three is definitely the tactical choice.

Firstly, they were most likely expecting a quiet evening of drinks and business talk, so a disruption to that will throw them off guard. They will then be flattered that we chose to focus on them and not the gentlemen who are actively looking for women to spend their time with. Lastly, as there are three of them and two of us, they will start to compete with one another for our affection or attention. Therefore, this mark is the most likely to divulge the information we need. I have, indeed, taught Aisling well.

She asks the bartender for a bottle of wine, and with the bottle in one hand, and her drink in the other, she makes her way across the club to the table of three, and I follow.

“You gentlemen look like you need some wine and want some company,” she smiles at them, and it is her most charming smile, the one she reserves for patrons that always leave her little gifts.

The three men look up abruptly, but return her smile.

“Oh, my, thank you,” says a man wearing a well-kempt beard and maroon waistcoat. “I didn’t think this was that type of establishment.” He turns to the youngest looking one in the group, a shorter man with a square head and thick blond hair, slicked away from his face. “Jerrem, you told me it wasn’t that type of establishment. After the last time, my wife-”

“We’re not working women,” Aisling cuts him off. “We’re patrons as well.”

“We are investors,” I chime in. “We just moved to Etherbury and a friend told us we had to come here.”

“Oh, you’re looking to make friends,” Maroon Waistcoat says with a cheeky grin. “Well, I think we could all use more friends, don’t you lads?”

They agree as they shift their chairs to make room for us at the table.

“I’m Lyra,” Aisling introduces herself as she slides in very close to Maroon Waistcoat.

“And I’m Vera,” I say, taking a seat next to the one called Jerrem. They look at us oddly. “Our parents had a sense of humor.”

They laugh, the ‘rich man with a bit too much to drink’ laugh.

“I’m Titus,” answers Maroon Waistcoat as he begins doling out the wine, “this is Jerrem, and Emery.” Emery is broad shouldered and tall, but slender, with dark curly hair that is long enough to graze the bottoms of his ears, and bits of silver flecked throughout. He is quiet, and looks at me with a skeptical smile, which I return.

“It’s lovely to meet you all,” Lyra places a delicate hand on Titus’ arm. “It’s very difficult to be in a new city with no friends.”

“You said you are investors?” Jerrem asks us.

I smile. “We have to do something with daddy’s money, don’t we?”

“I believe most people just spend it,” Titus jokes, and we make sure to laugh along with them.

“Well now why would we spend it when we could just… make more?” Lyra quips.

“Ah, you are the intelligent type of women,” Jerrem smiles.

“I’ve always thought it’s good to keep a few of those around, though not for every occasion,” Titus jokes again. I want to gag, but Aisling and I laugh along anyway.

“Is this your first time to The Magic Four?” I ask Titus.

“It is, Emery’s as well.”

“Yes, we both work with Jerrem, and he is always hearing about new places. He always manages to convince us to join him.”

“What do you all do?” Lyra asks.

“We’re solicitors at a firm in Canmere. Emery is in Employment Law, and Jerrem and I are in Property Law, where the real money is,” Titus smirks.

“I make quite enough money,” Emery gives an exasperated laugh as he takes a drink of wine.

“I don’t…I don’t even understand that sentence,” Titus looks to Jerrem.

“It doesn’t even mean anything,” Jerrem replies.

“Employment Law, is that like… labor problems, unions, things like that?” I ask.

“Points to you,” Emery raises his glass towards me.

“Oh, don’t indulge him, Vera. He’s one Workhouse visit away from being a full on Communist.”

“I just believe that everyone should have the same opportunities in life. More people making money means more people spending money, which is good for any economy. It’s simple mathematics, Ti.”

“Would you listen to this bleeding heart?” Titus looks to us, almost apologetic for his friend. “Not everyone was meant for indulgence, Emery. We need the vast majority to do the things that we would not want to do. Where would society be if everyone were…solicitors, say? Or financial advisors. The poor are the foundation of our society, so that great men can build up from there.”

“Ah, but take caution, sir,” I interject. “I knew a man about your age. Worked many years in a great financial institution, made lots of money. He lost his position and now loads crates onto ships at a dock. You talk about the poor being an important foundation of the city, until you yourself are part of that foundation.”

“Oh no!” Titus teases. “We have another one here. This is why we can’t educate women, you know. They all end up being so progressive.” He says it with an air of comedy, but it’s clear he isn’t joking.

“Careful, Ti,” Jerrem cuts in. “This is quite the progressive club. I’m afraid in The Magic Four, your views are in the minority.”

“Is that so?” Aisling asks. “We know nothing of this place, only that our friend recommended it and told us how to get in. Or, gave us a hint, at least,” she winks as she takes a sip of wine.

Jerrem gives a coy smile. “You’ve seen the gentlemen’s and lady’s clubs in the High Points? Or the gambling halls and fetish bazaars? This is nothing like either of those places. They don’t collect dues, you just have to figure out how to get in. And even if you figure out how to get in, you then have to figure out how to get all the way in. They won’t turn away anyone, as long as they can make it past the doors.”

“And how did you hear about this place, Jerrem?” Emery asks, boredom creeping at the sides of his voice.

“You ask me that every time, friend, and yet I will never once answer.”

“A strumpet, most likely,” Titus says quietly to Emery.

“It’s not always a strumpet!” Jerrem replies.

“So what is all the way on the inside?” I ask, mimicking Ash’s hand-on-the-arm move with Jerrem.

“Something you could never imagine.”

Emery rolls his eyes. “Will you stop being deliberately obtuse?”

“Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers twisted. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Titus raises an eyebrow. “We will? Jerrem, I told you. I can’t engage in that type of thing with you anymore. My wife will absolutely not let me-”

“It’s not that, Ti, just wait and see.”

“Then what is it?” Titus asks, rather forcefully. I get the feeling that a few merry drinks with friends in a new bar is the extent to which he was trying to adventure that night.

“It’s…” Jerrem smiles, as if he’s a the Ringmaster at a circus and he’s about to introduce the Big Finale. “It’s a philosophy.”

Emery rolls his eyes again.

“May we join you?” I ask Jerrem.

“I was hoping you ladies would. As my rather cross friend said, a few intelligent women always make for good company. Especially through our next endeavor.” He winks at me. I shift my eyes to Aisling, who raises a cautious eyebrow at me. As I look away from her, I notice that Emery is watching us both very closely. I try to smile at him, but he simply continues to watch.

A waiter comes from one of the back hallways and stands at our table.

“Will you be wanting your drinks now, sir?”

“Excellent timing, yes please. And two more for our guests,” Jerrem answers.

The waiter nods and disappears back down the hallway. The table is quiet, sharing nervous anticipation, until he returns, bringing a tray of five drinks, all bright blue in appearance.

“You may follow me,” the waiter says.

Looking to each other in confusion, the four of us follow suit with Jerrem and bring our bright blue drinks with us as we walk with the waiter to one of the riveted doors. Completely in the dark about what is going to happen next, I am happy that I left Evaki at home.

As the waiter approaches one of the doors, it simply opens from the inside, swinging out towards us in such a way that we cannot see the interior. Aisling very subtly grabs my hand and squeezes. I squeeze back to let each other know that, no matter what’s about to happen, we will take care of one another.

Once we see the actual opening of the doorway, we still can’t see inside. We’re presented with a pitch black, narrow hallway of unknown length. The waiter ushers us all inside and then shuts the door behind us, and it is only then that I realize that our drinks are glowing. They provide the only light in the capsule, and it’s only sufficient enough to show the outline of the back of the person I am behind.

Silently, we follow Jerrem through the hallway, until a warm light splits the air, and I can see that he has parted a very heavy, black curtain. One by one, we step through the curtain, and it is as if we’re in a different place, an exotic land, or possibly a dream.

We enter one large room, with low, soft couches and cushions in groups and circles all around, some elevated and some sunken into the floor. The room is dark, with soft light like firelight rippling through the air. Some of the groupings of sofas encircle glass globes with different colored flames flickering inside them, some orange, some red, some even rich blues and greens. Beautiful trees spring up from garden beds full of sparkling rock, partitioning off the seating areas from one another and giving a sense of privacy. The trees are full of silk flowers, and lights twinkle in them like fairies. Dreamlike stringed music plays, and the many groups of people- easily three times as many as could be seen in the outer room- talk and laugh and drink with one another. Beneath the music and the laughter, the sound of water can be heard, and I notice that a little brooke winds its way through the club, with the occasional small bridge or stepping stones available to cross it.

Jerrem finds us a cozy grouping of seats, a circular couch sunken into the floor, surrounded by water, with a fire globe in the middle. As we follow him there, I notice that the others in the club have this glowing drink as well, and as they drink it, a visible glow can be seen like a waterfall, down their throats, into their chest, and then disappearing. It is…beautiful, and amazing, and, reader, I wonder if it is also hazardous.

“This…this is amazing. Jerrem, this time, you have truly outdone yourself,” Emery remarks, quite earnestly.

“This isn’t even the half of it,” Jerrem replies, unable to hold back a coy smile. “Drink your Sapphire Electrics and you’ll see what comes next.”

From my seat, I can just make out some of the other groups, and waiters milling around. The staff are dressed differently in here; Whereas in the outer bar, they were wearing fine suits, in here they seem a bit more relaxed. The men are all handsome, and wearing black pants and white dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open to an undershirt, as well as black suspenders. The women are beautiful, and are all essentially wearing lace and silk undergarments. Most are in chemises, corsets, and bloomers, though others have added an ornate bustle. The wait staff are definitely designed to tantalize, or perhaps just be pleasurable to look upon, by both the male and female patrons.

They are bringing drinks, small plates of food, and little silk pouches to various groups. I can only assume these pouches contain different types of mind-altering medicines. There is the occasional billowing smoke in the air, though it seems to be mostly cannabis, as I cannot detect the acrid smell of opium.

I am mostly dazed, looking around the room, drinking my Sapphire Electric- which is sweet with a pleasant warmth- when I’m brought back to the conversation by the grating voice of Titus.

“Well, Jerrem, you told us that herein lies a philosophy. Do you care to share that philosophy, or is it simply the philosophy of indulgence and pleasure that seems to be your creed?”

Jerrem looks around, seemingly for someone in particular, and when he has locked eyes on her, he gestures for her to come towards us. She is another part of the staff, but dressed differently than the waitresses. She is wearing a surgeon’s coat, completely buttoned up the side, and seemingly nothing underneath but a pair of striped stockings and low boots. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head, and a black silk flower is pinned into the side of it. She walks to our table, casually, as if she’s in no real hurry.

“The philosophy of the Inner Magic is that human life, biology, can be better than it is. We are born wonderful, but that science, or alchemy, or outright magic can make us even better. We just have to decide to let it.”

Titus looks confused, Emery looks slightly annoyed, and Aisling and I are simply attentive. This doesn’t explain a whole lot, and it certainly doesn’t bind me any closer to my case.

The woman descends the steps into our pit and takes an open seat.

“Jerrem, you brought newcomers. Delightful.” Her voice is low and smoothe, like warm honey mixed into whiskey. “I am Verity, and you all look like you have absolutely no idea what you’re doing here,” she raises a dark eyebrow, relaying dry amusement.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly explain it well enough to do it justice, my dear. I was hoping you would give them a bit of a demonstration.”

She smiles wryly at Jerrem and begins to unbutton her coat. “Gladly.”

Verity stands, leaving the coat behind her on the sofa, and we can now see that she is indeed wearing a black corset and short black bloomers. All of her skin, from her neck to her wrists, and down her chest under the corset, is covered in tattoos. There are flowers, animals, dragons, words, a fine China tea set…one couldn’t possibly uncover every detail in the artwork, even if one had hours. The tattoos are packed in so tightly, they betray not one inch of naked skin.

“This is the philosophy, Jerrem?” Titus looks annoyed. “This is the better human? Is this just a sort of… posh tattoo parlor?”

Jerrem doesn’t reply. He barely acknowledges Titus’ complaints. He simply continues to watch Verity, as do we all.

“You look at me,” Verity says to Titus, in a deliberate and calculated hushed tone that commands attention, “and you see only my outer shell. In fact, that’s all you see when you look at every woman, and every man. You see the shapes of our bodies, the colors of our skin.” She brushes her fingertips against the top of her chest, and a faint glow is emitted from the petals of the flowers tattooed there. The glow ripples and fades so quickly that I’m unsure if I actually saw it, or if it was an effect of my Sapphire Electric. I want to look to the others to see if they saw what I did, but I can’t take my eyes off the woman.

“But you don’t see,” Verity continues to her entirely captive audience, “you would never see, what my body is capable of.” She brings her hands together in front of her and taps her fingertips together, causing her fingers to emit a soft light from the nail up. “But what I want to know,” she wiggles her fingers in front of us to prove that they are, indeed, her real fingers, “is if I showed you what my body, what your body is capable of,” she skirts around the fire globe to advance on Titus, and pulls a fountain pen out of the inside of his jacket lapel, “would you believe it? Or would your small mind refuse to accept it?” She flattens a palm in front of us and drops the pen onto it, but it doesn’t fall; The fountain pen hovers above her palm. As she raises it, it rises too, and as she lowers it, the pen lowers too, until she grabs it again with the other hand and hands it back to Titus.

“M-magic,” he stutters, looking up at her in awe.

“Magnets,” Emery says, but he is no less awe-struck.

“Very good, Mr…”

“Emery.”

“Very good, Mr. Emery.” She returns to her seat and balls her hands into fists quickly, extinguishing the light in her fingertips. “Electro-magnets, tiny ones, knitted into my palm, as well as various other alterations placed just under my skin, all drawing energy from the natural electricity that my body puts off. That is the philosophy Jerrem was speaking of; The idea that we don’t have to be content with our natural biology, that we can choose to be better than what we were born as.”

I am so enamored with this idea- and with Verity herself- that all thoughts of my sister, the missing people, my case lay cloudy in the back of my mind.

“This is similar to what they do with injured firefighters and factory workers that have been in horrible accidents, isn’t it?” Emery inquires. This question makes sense coming from him; He has most likely gotten someone compensation for just such an injury.

“Similar, yes, but more elegant. When used medically, they’re often called hacks, as the procedure tends to be violent and crude. Bones can be reinforced, magnets can be used to stimulate healing, entire limbs can even be replaced, but I don’t know of anyone who would choose to have that done to themselves. The voluntary procedures, like my own, are generally much smaller and less impactful. We call them knits, more delicate verbiage for a far more delicate procedure.”

“What…” I know what I want to ask, but I’m at a loss for words. “What exactly is the extent of this? What can and cannot be done?”

“Well,” Verity lowers her gaze, sheepishly, “I wish I could say that imagination is your only limit, but unfortunately that’s not true. However, I’ve seen some very unique and outlandish knits, even some with practical use. I know several prostitutes that are able to deliver short, sharp shocks with their palms, so they will always have protection, whether or not they are clothed. Another woman I know got a tiny music box placed into her palm so she could switch on her favorite melody whenever she pleased. A friend of mine is an author, and simply got magnets knitted around the joints in his fingers to stimulate recovery, so his hands wouldn’t get tired out from constant typewriter use. But mostly, people just get glowing tattoos,” she smiles at me. That shock knit sounds like it could be very useful.

The lights in the room begin to dim, and Verity looks up.

“Ah,” Verity stands, “good timing.” She winks at us and leaves our comfortable pit. We watch as she ascends a few steps to a small stage type platform that can be seen by the entire club.

We had been sitting mostly with our backs to this stage, as we hadn’t seen it, so we shift around the circular sofa to get a better look. Emery positions himself next to me, though I’m unsure if it’s deliberate. Three others join Verity- another woman and two men- and they remove their doctor’s coats to reveal almost entirely tattooed bodies.

The men and women pair off, and they begin to contort themselves against one another like performers in a circus. The women put a leg up on the men’s shoulder, the men raise their muscular arms against their legs, and the women bend backwards so that their heads are almost touching the ground. It seems as if they are forming a shape, but besides being very sensual, there is nothing particularly spectacular about it.

And then, the women reach out their hands to one another and clasp them, and the men reach out their hands and press their palms together. As the circuit is complete, a river of light flows through their bodies like a Chinese firework show. The low sparkle that had come from Verity’s tattoos previously is now a brilliant shine, that ebbs and waves through her chest and limbs, seemingly surging into the limbs of the man and woman she is attached to.

With their hands still clasped, the four glide through multiple contortions, lights on their palms and fingertips flashing on and off, their tattoos sparkling and glowing as they move, and in each new position, the crowd gasps and oohs in awe, including myself. In their final position, the women are lifted into the air and leaning on each other for balance, as the men stand on one leg each and touch the bottoms of their bare feet to one another. The lights in the room turn off completely, and the four shine absolutely brilliantly, like the stars in the countryside.

The club erupts into applause and the lights turn back up. The four on stage, their own internal lights dimming, stand in a line and smile and bow, and then disperse to mingle with the patrons, still mid-applause.

“That was amazing, wasn’t it?” Emery leans into me to say quietly.

“It certainly was, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Parlor tricks, compared to what I’ve seen.”

Why is he telling me this? I mean, reader, why is he telling me this, instead of his friends or the whole group. I pivot slightly towards him so I can look him in the eye.

“What you’ve seen with your clients?”

Emery smirks. “And elsewhere. The body is amazing. It can withstand all sorts of things.”

There is…perhaps a hint of maliciousness in his voice? Or was it an attempt at flirtation? I raise an eyebrow at him until he smiles at me, and I respond in the best way I know how: taking a drink.

The night carries on, with our group recounting what they had seen, speculating on how it was done, and discussing whether or not they would like to receive a knit. Titus, of course, finds them curious to look at, but would never get one. Jerrem wants all of them, and Emery wants to better understand the health implications. Lyra and I agreed that a fluorescent tattoo would be most spectacular, and a hand shocking knit would be most useful.

Nearing late evening, Lyra and I decide that we need to depart, and the gentlemen- Jerrem excepting- decide that the time is as good as any for a natural conclusion to the evening. We are escorted out of the club in a different way than we were brought in, and we find ourselves in an entirely different part of the alleyway, on the other side of a metal door with no handle. The night is cold and dark, and the inner rooms of The Magic Four seem like they are fading out of reality.

“It was a pleasure spending the evening with you both,” Titus says, giving a short and gentlemanly bow to each of us. “I hope that we cross paths in the future. And should you decide you want to invest daddy’s money in real estate, please look us up at the Kitchingham Firm in Canmere, Jerrem or I would be happy to help you.”

“Lovely meeting you,” Lyra replies with a small curtsy and a warm smile. “We will certainly keep you in mind.”

“Emery, fancy a pint before the pubs close?” Jerrem asks, eager to continue the evening. He seems to be the type that absolutely cannot be left alone with his own thoughts.

“I envy your energy, friend, but we shall have to postpone that pint to another evening.”

“Well then let’s at least share a cab back to Canmere, on me.”

“Gladly, mate, give me just a moment though. I’ll meet you on the main street.”

Jerrem smiles cheekily at Emery and walks off down the alley.

Emery turns to me. “Will you walk with me a moment?”

Aisling raises her eyebrows at me as I look to her in confusion. Curiosity, or perhaps something else, inclines me to accept. We walk slowly down the alley, with Ash meandering about three meters behind us, and he is silent for a minute or two. I’m about to inquire as to the nature of the alone time he requested, when he finally speaks up.

“It was entirely by chance that we came across each other this evening, you must remember that.”

The sentence disarms me completely. His tone suggests that we are in the middle of a conversation we were both participants in, but I’m entirely unaware of its meaning.

“I don’t think you know exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into,” he continues. “In fact, I’m not sure I know completely either.” I want to ask questions, but I keep quiet, as I find silence tends to goad information out of people more than questions do. “One thing is for certain, Emilia. You must be careful.” I almost missed it, but upon realizing that I heard my name when I ought not to have, I snap my head towards him. “Don’t worry, you’re on the right path.” He smiles at me, and it seems genuine, which is the most alarming thing about this conversation. “Just be more careful.”

Emery grabs my wrist and kisses me on the cheek before turning away from me and towards the street.

“What exactly are you talking about?” I grab his arm as he turns.

“You’re an intelligent woman, Emilia. I’m sure you can figure it out.” He grins at me as he pulls his arm free, and I’m left baffled in the alleyway, watching him walk towards his friend.

“Well, congrats to you,” Aisling sidles up next to me and laces her arm around mine. “You managed to catch the attention of the only tolerable one there.”

“He knew my name, Ash.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Somehow he recognized me.”

“Is he an old client or something? He is a solicitor, maybe he’s sent a client your way in the past. You’ve worked with solicitors before, right?”

“Yeah but…” I trail off.

“But what?”

“I don’t know. It seemed like he knew why were there tonight.” I shake my head. “I don’t know, I’ll look through my files for that law firm or his name. Just another mystery to solve.” I sigh.

“Is this something we should worry about?”

“I don’t think so. He didn’t seem dangerous but… my mind is all topsy-turvy right now. We’ll just be careful, I guess.” His words ring through my ears. Just be more careful, Emilia, you must be careful. I play the conversation over in my head until we reach the copyist again, where Aisling’s drawing is waiting for us in a small tube, propped in the doorway of the dark studio. From there, we hire a taxi to take us home.

“So, what do you think about The Magic Four?” Aisling breaks a long silence in the back of the carriage.

I shrug. “It’s amazing. But I don’t think it has anything to do with my case. I can’t draw a connection between the swan company, Cyrus’ ship, and The Magic Four, besides it being a private meeting place.” Well, and the seemingly chance meeting with the solicitor, which still hangs heavy in my peripheral. “I feel like every time I learn something new, three other questions pop up, bigger than the last. I feel like I’m drowning in this thing, desperately clamoring for air, and my dead sister has a grip on my ankle and is just… pulling me down, further and further.”

Aisling puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into her. I lay my head on her shoulder and shut my eyes. “Something will happen, Em. You’ll find the piece of the puzzle that makes the picture clearer. You always do.”

Seemingly as soon as we pass from Aeramire to Chronofell, it begins to rain. The rich even get better weather, I think to myself, hearing the heavy drops against the top of the carriage.

Aisling’s ridiculous dress choices leave us with no protection against the weather, and so we run from the carriage, through the side alley, to the door to our home as quickly as possible.

“I’m sorry Emilia!”

For a moment, I think it is Aisling shouting that to me over the noise of the rain, until Neville Fleming emerges from under the overhang of our door. Ash and I both jump and let out small shrieks. I believe I can speak for both of us when I say we are sick of being scared by men today.

“I’m sorry,” he shouts again. “You were right. You were absolutely right.”

I look Neville over. He is in a suit, not his uniform, and he is wet. He opens up the side of his wool coat to reveal a thick leather notebook, string wrapped around it to hold it closed, but with many folded papers, pushed between the pages, attempting to burst their way out. Neville looks solemn, or afraid, but mostly very cold.

I sigh, knowing that once again I won’t be sleeping very much, and I push past him to get to my door.

“Come on in, Neville. I’ll make coffee.”