Several weeks passed and Unhallowed Harmony had continued performing at small venues and locales. Word of mouth and rumors regarding her band's performances and concerts had begun circulating throughout Gallows Row. The crowds steadily grew and expanded.

Aubrey had even spotted a familiar face or two at her shows—locals who had attended and enjoyed the first gig.

Furthermore, the Cogsworn Order and city guards hadn't interrupted their performances. Aubrey counted her lucky stars. She and her band had no close encounters. No raids. No interruptions. No brushes with the authorities. Lucky.

Some would argue that Gallows Row had less strict standards compared to Mordenstradt's core and central districts—and Aubrey wouldn't deny that. Her mini-concerts attracted all sorts—from ruffians to riffraff to common rabble. Still... those audiences had come to see Unhallowed Harmony play.

Along the while, she gained a steady flow of experience that the System awarded upon performing for audiences.

Today marked Unhallowed Harmony's fifth gig and the third consecutive week at the Dead Poet's Pub.

Their fanbase and following had increased in the interim. Aubrey spotted the same rugged-looking fellow from their initial debut gig and the cautious-smiling woman. They were regulars—along with a slew of newcomers.

Tonight... Aubrey had introduced a surprise track. A new song. Unhallowed Harmony's newest addition. She christened the track 'Rocking the Grave' and intended to debut the tune.

After her band had performed the initial tracks and material... Aubrey would unveil the latest composition. Hopefully... the audience will respond positively.

"Ready to kick it?" Aubrey signaled her bandmates.

"On cue. One. Two. One. Two. Three," Cedric counted off and initiated the set's intro.

Hellion's Cry's strings resonated. Aubrey shredded the opening riffs and phrases. Thaddeus and Liza followed her lead and seamlessly integrated the bass and violin's rhythm and texture. Cedric completed the track with a thunderous onslaught of kicks, hits, and crashes.

Aubrey's vocal fry and growl accentuated the track's cadence and groove. Subtle vocal harmonies bolstered the textual nuances. Her lyrics oozed rebellion and defiance, evoking images of the graveyard's spirits tearing down the walls and breaking free.

Throughout the song's duration, Aubrey commanded Hellion's Cry, unleashing a tirade of notes and phrases. She employed palm muting and hammer-ons, adding percussive textures and dynamics. Meanwhile, Thaddeus' bass added grit and thickness to the mix, complementing Cedric's rhythmic backbone. Liza's violin perfectly harmonized and enriched the overall sonic palette.

The trio backed Aubrey's guitar and vocals, supporting and enhancing the song's dynamic peaks and troughs.

As the song reached its climax, Aubrey upped the ante, delivering a blistering solo that sent the crowd into a frenzy. Notes and tones tore through the venue's atmosphere, piercing the ears and minds of the audience.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the solo ended, and Aubrey returned to the verse, rounding out the song with a powerful and memorable conclusion.

As the final notes faded into the ether, Aubrey faced the crowd. Instead of the usual scattered responses and feedback... a deafening roar of cheers and applause greeted her.

"Thank you! Appreciate it. Glad you liked our newest song."

Encores. Aubrey recognized the signs. Signaled by a chorus of requests and shouts.

"Fine. Ya convinced us. One more. Here's our latest and newest. 'Rocking the Grave.'"

Cedric counted off once more.

----------------------------------------

The concert wrapped up a little after midnight.

After her bandmates left the venue, Aubrey lingered behind. She had wanted to congratulate the owner. Offer her appreciation.

"Yo. Proprietor. Cheers, chap," Aubrey sauntered toward the occupant. "Nice audience tonight. Again. Appreciate your hospitality."

The owner offered a stiff nod. Aubrey's crimson gaze noticed an open bottle and shot glass. Perhaps the owner indulged.

"How're sales?" Aubrey gestured a thumb at the empty pints and tankards.

"Passable. Profits could improve," the owner stated.

"Word's spreading. More clientele will flock. My band's gonna draw. Guaranteed."

Another curt nod.

"Yo. Chap. Relax a tad," Aubrey rested her elbows against the counter. "Don't mind a drink. Care to share? Bottle and two shot glasses."

The proprietor arched a bushy brow. Aubrey could tell the owner was tempted.

"On me. Free booze. No obligations. Promise. Just want to toast and celebrate." Aubrey withdrew and offered a pouch of coins.

The owner retrieved two shot glasses and filled them with an amber liquid.

"Cheers," Aubrey accepted and slammed a tumbler. Whiskey burned her throat and warmed her stomach.

The owner mimicked and gulped a dose.

"Strong stuff." Aubrey relished the alcohol's aftertaste. "Appreciate."

One of the patrons who had attended the concert wandered towards her, a half-empty pint in hand. He looked to be about her age, dressed in shoddy clothes and a tattered cap. Aubrey judged him to be a factory worker. The smell and stains of soot and coal permeated his garments.

"Miss, um," the patron cleared his throat. "Forgive me if you'll take offense, but... is your name Aubrey, perchance?"

Aubrey narrowed her eyes.

She never mentioned her name publicly. During her performances... Aubrey only announced her stage name—Nightingale. Did this guy recognize her?

"Possibly," Aubrey played coy. "Why you ask?"

"Well, because you... resemble her a great deal—almost exactly, in fact. Except your hair is black instead of red, and your eyes are a different color. But, your face... and your build..." the young man trailed off.

Shit. He did recognize her.

Stolen novel; please report.

Wait... this could also be a good thing. He might know something about Aubrey's other self—and the people who murdered her.

She suppressed a grin. Opportunity had dropped an ace in her lap—time to interrogate the mark.

"Do I now? Hmm... that's funny," Aubrey played dumb and feigned a baffled expression.

"Indeed," the patron chuckled nervously. "You sing a bit differently too. Your voice, I mean. Though that's not a bad thing. Your music's quite refreshing, truth be told. Different, certainly. But also strangely compelling."

"Much obliged." Aubrey raised an index finger. "Hold on a sec."

She swigged the proprietor's whiskey and savored the shot's flavor and taste. Then Aubrey refilled the tumbler and gulped the contents.

"Thanks for the pour and the complimentary drinks," Aubrey addressed the owner. "Keep the change."

Aubrey flashed a knowing smirk and lobbed an additional pouch of shillings.

The owner grunted and pocketed the currency, then headed to the backroom. No other patrons lingered around.

"Sorry. Introductions. Who're you?" Aubrey focused her attention back on the mark.

"Right, how rude of me," the patron blushed. "Name's Thomas. I work in the factories just outside the row. Coal and ironwork."

"Thomas. Gotcha. Mine's Nightingale." Aubrey extended a palm.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance." Thomas accepted the greeting and reciprocated. "And forgive my boldness, Nightingale, but... might I inquire if you, perchance, are related to Lady Aubrey?"

"I'm her long-lost twin sister, separated at birth. Supposedly," Aubrey fibbed and concocted a convenient excuse.

Thomas-blinked.

"Or... possibly," Aubrey pretended to hesitate and falter.

Thomas' gaze gleaned with interest.

Got him.

Aubrey suppressed a snicker.

"Truth is... dunno." Aubrey fabricated a puzzled and confused disposition. "I came from a different city, and my adoptive parents didn't mention much about her. All I know... she lived and resided in Mordenstradt, within the affluent districts. Aristocrats. Nobility. Upper-class. High society. You get the gist."

Thomas's countenance flickered with curiosity.

"Dunno specifics. Dunno her address. Dunno her residence. Dunno her mansion's name. Dunno her family. I've only arrived here a few months ago. Know nothing 'bout my roots or her." Aubrey delivered the setup. "Perhaps... care to educate? Fill me in?"

"Gladly," Thomas brightened. "But, I'm afraid I don't know very much. Only tales and stories told to me by acquaintances and co-workers. I've actually only met her once, from a distance. 'Bout a year ago."

Aubrey manufactured a sheepish and timid guise. Thomas swallowed the bait. Hook, line, and sinker.

"Suppose... care to share the tales and stories? Any info would suffice. Thanks. Appreciate," Aubrey batted her long eyelashes.

Thomas flushed.

"So... the tales." Thomas cleared his throat. "Lady Aubrey's a famous and renowned songstress and diva. She's sung at prestigious theaters and venues throughout Mordenstradt. Well... except in the Gallows Row and Hollows district. Haven't caught her performances. Can't afford tickets."

Aubrey's facade didn't betray a hint of revelation. Better sell the naivety. "Really...? Seems like she's quite famous."

"Truly. Her red locks and azure gaze are unmistakable. Quite striking. Many admire her."

"Azure gaze...? Red locks...?" Aubrey pretended ignorance and feigned puzzlement. "Describe."

"Well, as I said, your hair is midnight black, whereas hers was the color of a blazing flame. But your facial features do bear an uncanny resemblance." Thomas tapped his chin and ruminated. "Now that I compare... truly identical. Almost spookily similar."

Thomas scrutinized Aubrey. She suppressed a mischievous chuckle.

"As for her eye color... her irises bore a shade akin to the sky on a cloudless day. Azure and cerulean."

"Interesting," Aubrey acted amazed. Time to dig. "Know her background? Family?"

"Alas. No. Sorry. Wish I could've gleaned tidbits and snippets. Unfortunately, not a lot of gossip surrounding her private life and background."

Damn. Aubrey concealed her disappointment.

"Though... I heard she often frequented a few of the factories owned by the Blackwell family."

Blackwell? Aubrey's ears perked. That surname sounded familiar. Where'd she heard that moniker?

"Which factories are owned by the Blackwells?" Aubrey feigned confusion and ignorance. "You think they'll let someone like me stroll inside? Factory folk and workers only, right?"

"Oh yes. Correct. Non-factory staff and personnel are denied entry. But if you can find someone who can introduce you... perhaps they could grant access. Maybe someone who is acquainted with Lady Aubrey."

Thomas flashed a hopeful grin, but then his expression darkened.

"What's the matter?" Aubrey sensed something amiss.

"There's... another rumor." Thomas glanced left and right.

"Yeah...? Spill."

Thomas leaned closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a state secret. "Well, the Blackwells—they're a big name here in Mordenstradt. They own a string of operations across The Ironworks. But the most talked-about ones are those that deal in advanced machinery and... well, some say, devices that aren't exactly for the common good."

Aubrey's interest was piqued, her posture subtly shifting to engage more directly with Thomas. "Devices? What kind of devices?"

Thomas glanced around before continuing, "Machinery that's supposed to make life easier but ends up watching over us instead. Surveillance automata, steam-powered sentinels that patrol the streets and workshops. They also make these devices that can project your voice across an entire square. Some say they've got contracts with the city guard, making gear for crowd control."

Aubrey listened intently, her ears hanging onto his every word. "Sound amplification, you say? Hmm... interesting. Anything else?"

"And then there's the propaganda production. Not your usual paper and ink stuff," Thomas continued, his gaze distant as if recalling a memory. "They use these advanced printing presses, combined with arcane enhancements, to create posters that... well, they say those posters can influence your feelings towards whatever they're promoting. Whether it's a product or a person or an idea."

Arcane propaganda? Emotive manipulation and persuasion? Sounds illegal. Time to dig deeper.

"Propaganda posters that alter your feelings and mood? Sounds controversial," Aubrey pressed the mark for details. "Anything illegal and sketchy?"

"There's a reason the Blackwells have a monopoly on so many industries and operations here in the Ironworks." Thomas gave her an appraising glance. "If you're looking to find out more about Lady Aubrey's connection to the Blackwells, I'd start there. Though... be careful. No one's seen or heard from her for months now, from what I've gathered."

Hmm. The timeline checked out.

"Interesting." Aubrey processed the tidbits and facts.

"Anyhow. Apologies for taking up your time, Miss Nightingale. You've performed wonderfully tonight, and I would hate to keep you any longer," Thomas straightened, offering her a polite bow.

Aubrey could sense the interview drawing to a close. Better wrap things up. She needed to capitalize and utilize the fruits of her charade.

"Thanks. Means a lot. Again. Appreciate," Aubrey bowed her head and reciprocated the respect and courtesy. "Anyhow. Yo. Hold on a sec. Real quick." Aubrey summoned an index finger and halted Thomas.

"Yes?" Thomas tilted his head.

"Can you keep my relation to Lady Aubrey confidential? Private. Under wraps. Discreet. I don't want rumors and gossip to swirl." Aubrey conjured a pleading expression.

"Absolutely. You have my word." Thomas crossed his heart and sealed the promise.

Aubrey feigned a relieved sigh.

"Thanks. Grateful. Again. Appreciate. Thomas. Cheers," Aubrey bid and waved a farewell.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Nightingale. May fortune grace your future endeavors," Thomas tipped his cap and strode away.

Aubrey monitored him depart the Dead Poet's Pub. After Thomas vanished into the night, she exhaled. Whew. Long-lost twin sister. Works.

There was still a chance that he would gossip. Couldn't eliminate that probability. But, the likelihood of people believing Thomas's claims—given their absurdity and unlikeliness—was low. Why would a twin sister not affiliated with "Lady Aubrey's" noble and aristocratic household lurk and perform in Gallows Row?

Best-case scenario: Thomas kept the confidence and the lid remained tight. Worst case: Thomas spilled and a few believe him. Still... no issue.

Aubrey would cross that bridge when necessary.

Now she had a lead. Blackwell—the name tugged and prodded her recollections. Aubrey's instincts—scratch that—her soul, her consciousness, her other self—whatever entity or essence comprised her current identity screamed familiarity.

Blackwell. Aubrey's other self must've interacted or associated with them.

Time to investigate. It could all lead to a dead end, but the chances pointed otherwise.