The pads of Amity’s fingers traced from one corner of her jaw to another, and all the way up to between her eyes. Coated in salve, they slid easily across every bump, every scar and tooth. She’d only just begun growing accustomed enough to the process to admit that it felt quite good- to herself, at least. The bit right under her nasal bone hurt the worst, when exposed too long to the air, though Victor assured her letting her teeth dry would lead to worse problems in the long run. She gave both careful attention, as best she could without using a mirror. On a good day, the blind massage didn’t feel like much of an obstacle, and she could get lost in the sensation as a meditative form of self-care. And today was a good day, lingering pains aside. She could feel the cold of her ring where it hung from the chain about her neck. It felt very official, somehow, even though it wasn’t in the official sense of ‘official.’

She felt seen. Recognized, rather, without any of the unpleasantry of being seen. Amity doubted the legality of her promotion (and her adoption, at that,) but they’d had the effect she supposed Victor wanted. She had a future, there, bloody as it would sometimes be. And even when it was ugly, the work helped people. Amity pulled the bandana from her pocket. It was a well-loved spare, woven with black and red stripes. Amity folded it roughly, pinned it against her leg to wipe the salve from her palm, and then pressed it against her teeth. She let out a hot, slow sigh through the fabric as it stuck, then held it with her jaw to ease tying a one-handed knot.

A few minutes later, Amity was headed into town. She’d been forbidden any live-work while her arm was on the mend, but Victor had agreed to let her at least check for requests. He’d have his hands full, Victor had said, and she still had the one to lend. Amity took her keys from the pegboard by the door, put them over her neck, and stepped outside. The sound they made against the dangling ring put a skip in her step, so as to elicit a jangle, until she began descending the cliff through the cut-in stairs.

There were three barber boxes in town. The first was mounted on their outside wall, facing their fork of the road in from the west. It was empty, Amity recalled. It was empty when Victor left to see Luca, at least, and if anyone had come by since then, they should have knocked. She felt that the logic was sound until she was a few steps down the cliff, was overcome by some latent worry, and dashed back up to confirm it was, indeed, still quite empty. As she ran uphill, she concluded that it was too hot out for a coat, and felt just a little better about hers having been ruined.

As Victor told it, he’d chosen his spot near Vena Cava because it was mostly downhill from the pastures, which made carcasses easy to move, and since it was far enough from town to not disturb anyone. Such a thing, he figured, was especially important for a barber who couldn’t afford the sort of stone dungeons they had in Ortia Capita. Those places trapped any unpleasantry within, buried far enough underground to muffle the screams of even the most desperate beast.

Here, however, the heavy aroma of old blood and chemical agents carried down the stairs cut into the hillside, and, she expected, clung to her clothes as well. It was hard for her to estimate how strongly- she’d grown quite used to the odor, the herbal salve loaded in her bandana stank of perfume, and she suspected her sense of smell was damaged, besides. The biggest clue as to the severity was how the smell of the ocean only hit her once she was halfway down towards. The fact that new construction had crept up the gentler slopes nearby, but not yet crowded in on the Barbery, provided another hint. It felt like their home formed some part of the Western border- a barrier between the township and everything in the wilds beyond. Sheep, mostly, from her experience.

It was a good piece of land, in any case, with a handsome view out over the township and off into the ocean. A similar cliff overlooking the northern end of the beach would soon hold Vena Cava’s second church, and two more down to the south were populated with homes shipped stone by stone from the heartland (or so she imagined). A larger ship she didn’t recognize had moored itself near that part of town, as did most trading vessels. It was the place to shop if you had the money, after all.

The land directly below the cliff was less good, mildly put. It was below sea level, and seemed perpetually slick with mud despite being as far inland as one could go before going ‘up’. The wood of the buildings suffered in the muck, but only a few of the larger business-fronts had stone foundations. Most of the structures just decayed, and were propped up with staked-in poles when they began to sink. The smell of old blood here didn’t have a chemical sting behind it, but it cut through her bandana anyway. This was the meat district, and it was undeniably a slum.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Victor took credit for the place. He blamed himself, to put it more accurately. The way he’d explained it, no matter how people related to meat felt about Barbers, they were drawn to them. People who trusted them felt safer nearby, and people who feared them didn’t want to give cause for suspicion. He’d alluded to other, more active pressures back in Ortia Capita, but the details eluded her. The important part was that most of the people at the bottom of the cliff worked in meat, and most of them were interested in Barbers, as a result. That meant people took special notice any time someone descended, and it was on her to put her best face forward.

Amity heard children shrieking as she neared the bottom of the stairs. A small group of dirty kids was playing on the bottom of the cliff. “Monster!” one of the girls cried. “Kill it!” shouted her friend. The two oldest children began casting stones, which landed nearer and nearer as she descended into their range.

“Watch out!” one of the rock-throwers warned. He was the eldest child there: tall, dark, and covered in a fortnight’s worth of grime. Amity knew him by his face- he was nearly her age, she imagined, and seemed to spend all day loitering: over the past few weeks, she’d identified him as the ringleader of the children with nothing better to do. It wasn’t clear to her whether he was screaming at the younger kids , as part of their play, or if he was alerting her to the rock inbound for her head.

Raising her empty hand in front of her face , Amity snatched the thing from midair. It stung her palm, drawing blood to the surface of her skin. A second stone flew past her leg as she flung the missile, hard, over the shoulder of its original sender. His eyes opened wide as it whistled past his ear. Amity raised her hand in a claw, growled as loudly as she was able, and began charging down the stairs. The children squealed and fled, scattering in different directions as she thundered down, save for the eldest boy, who stood open-mouthed at the base of the cliff. He half-raised his fists as she approached and, when she cut past him, stuck out his leg to trip her.

Amity leapt over the limb, which caught only her toe. Her step came down heavy, but not too hard for her to keep running. She waved at the scowling boy over her shoulder, chasing one of the younger children past the tannery and towards the heart of town.

She kept up a jog all the way to the chapel, after thundering down the cliff didn’t hurt her arm. The building was hard to miss- like any Oroban construction, it rose a story taller than the structures surrounding it. Many of them were townhomes and cafes: places for people to live and gather near something divine. The ground was cobble, here, and the people were less used to her presence. Passers-by nodded at her, firmly, or else prodded their fellows to do the same. A few waved, and Amity waved back. She’d chosen a good time, it seemed. She knew there was morning church, afternoon church, and evening church, but as she arrived, there was no church. That meant no crowds around the box, and no judgment for not going inside after checking it.

The box swung open to reveal one sealed envelope, two scraps of paper, and a wax-sealed scroll, all sitting in something wet. Amity swore under her breath, glanced up at the building above her, and muttered an apology to follow. The box had been pissed in, somehow, despite the eye-level drop slot. Again. Amity put her gloves on before carefully laying the papers in her mail-bag to dry.

The scrolls were always from a priest, and were always a problem. The rest could be anything, if they were even legible after being befouled. She’d find out later, once everything was dry.

The final box was wet inside, too, of course. It was mounted dockside, out at the harbor, and the slot was angled (by some providence, surely) to catch droplets rebuffed by the waves against the rock. The ocean spray made everything damp within, but she didn’t bother with her gloves. There was only one letter within, sealed in red and black. Amity slid the thing into her pocket, after a moment’s examination. Best to keep it separate, Amity figured: Victor would want to read that one himself, and would likely prefer it not stank of urine.

Nodding to herself, Amity reached up to close and lock the box, but paused. A piece of scrap paper, now fully translucent with seawater, lay where it had been previously covered by the letter.

Gingerly, she pulled the soggy scrap from the box. It warped around her pinched fingers, but held mostly together.

‘ sprained ankle traps need checked ‘

‘ Alvin ’

Amity crumpled the note. It wasn’t a black-banner, so it wouldn’t be live-work, and it was somewhat urgent, too: fox corpses couldn’t be left near the road. Glancing at the letter sticking out of her pocket, she tried to calculate how long Victor might be gone. He’d left for Luca’s early, but said not to expect him back for dinner, depending. Amity made her way south.