Lesley Shar, the austere "Funeral Lady," sat stiffly in the café. Her untouched jam sandwich and coffee grew cold as her thoughts churned.

That reckless boy—charging after Black Jack alone. Foolish.

A waiter interrupted her brooding. "Madam, a... grimy youth claims acquaintance. Shall I dismiss him?"

"Send him in."

The bedraggled figure who entered could’ve been plucked from a coal bin. Ivette’s face was smudged, her clothes streaked with chimney soot and alley filth. Shar raised an eyebrow.

"No time to clean up," the girl said breathlessly. "It’s done. Black Jack’s dead—no witnesses. His corpse will surface at a station eventually. Your people can collect it."

Shar studied her. "I misjudged you. Calling you calculating was unjust. But Ulysses..." She snorted. "How does that indolent fop command your loyalty?"

"Sir Ulysses has his merits..." Ivette trailed off, imagining her patron dozing in his club armchair.

"Your name. And codename. For the report."

"Libra. Ivette de Fische. But your compass led me to the body. I’d have failed without—"

"Clarity guides my pen." Shar’s tone forbade argument. "The Order will see truth. And... you’ve reminded me justice without mercy is a hollow blade."

Ivette squirmed. Do all occultists shower allies with earnest praise?

"Why the gamble?" Shar pressed. "Black Jack could’ve turned every passenger against you. A mob with pistols... one stray bullet..."

"I acted first."

"And was that impulse yours? Or your creed’s dictate?"

"Does it matter?"

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Creeds shield us." Shar leaned forward. "The deeper we delve into Primordial power, the louder the beast within rages. Without dogma to chain it..."

"My creed’s Eastern: know your true heart. Black Jack’s victims—a child fed poison to keep quiet, a mother working herself to death... I wanted him gone. No dogma required."

Shar’s frost melted. "A creed of self-mastery. Themis herself would approve, Libra."

My codename’s about physics, not goddesses! But Ivette bit her tongue. "The camera..."

"Maskin’s toy?" Shar’s lips twitched. "It stinks of dead horrors. Not my jurisdiction."

Victory.

Dawn streaked the sky as Ivette reclaimed the camera. Her stench—coal, sweat, and alleyway—made cabbies recoil. Hampstead Heath’s genteel residents wouldn’t suffer her in their carriages.

Guess I’m walking.

Yvette had little choice. A private carriage was within her means, but it would draw unwanted stares. In Albion, every class knew its place. A factory worker who struck gold wouldn’t dare book a first-class ticket—such "above-your-station" flamboyance earned scorn. To flash the coins in her purse, pocket money to a Fisher heiress, would shock commoners: here, a grubby street rat reeking of stolen wealth.

So she hitched rides on delivery wagons instead, darting aboard when drivers glanced away. If a cart veered off course, she’d leap to the next.

By 10 a.m., after a game of vehicular hopscotch, she reached Ulysses’ townhouse.

The breakfast spread was typical Winslow: hearty Albion fare. With the kingdom in mourning, the ton had forsaken late-night revelry. During the April-August social season, nobles crawled home at dawn and rose past noon. Today, Ulysses lounged in shirtsleeves and a billowing dressing gown, carving smoked sausage as the dining room wafted with roasted meat and fresh bread—until a reeking shadow darkened the doorway.

“Saints preserve us… A bath, immediately!” Winslow exclaimed.

“Pyle Street’s hygiene plummets daily. Does London dump its refuse there?” Ulysses mused drily.

The human embodiment of “Starving Orphan Returns.jpg” dropped her camera case. “Job’s done. Apologies for the stench. Bath first—then your breakfast won’t taste like ash.”

She turned to leave. A hand seized her collar, whirling her toward the table. Ulysses shoved her into a chair. “You’re famished. Winslow needs twenty minutes for hot water anyway.”

True. Since yesterday, she’d gagged down Pyle Street’s “cuisine”: bread laced with sawdust, jam dyed god-knew-how. Now, even Albion’s greasy breakfast spread tantalized.

“But I smell like a chimney…”

“My nose is… indisposed.” Ulysses wiped his soot-streaked hand on a handkerchief.

The chairs—dainty giltwood things with velvet cushions—were relics from a faerie’s parlor. Perching her filthy self there…

“My clothes’ll stain—”

“They’re tolerable. Offensive, but not ocular blasphemy.”

Charming.

His candor disarmed her. She scrubbed her hands in a basin and attacked the plate.