Alchemical symbol: Antimony [https://i.imgur.com/7omjkx8.png]

A wolf howled. Come brothers. Come sisters. We hunt.

Andra raised her head from her damp bedding. The wolf’s voice trailed off. Scattered dogs barked sharp replies. In the building below a man shouted wildly, an infant wailed. Further off, wheels rumbled over paved streets. Athanor was never silent. The city’s din never paused.

She dragged herself from her pile of rags and stood, one hand on the chimney stack. Mortar crumbled under the sharp points of her claws.

The sun had sunk behind the curved rim of the mountain. To the west, where the wolf cried, the steep crater wall already lay in darkness. Night had claimed the jagged confusion of blackened walls and broken roofs on the lower slopes. To the north, the city was a burning sea of stars, too many to count or understand. Low smog cloud reflected a dirty yellow glow.

A chill breeze brushed her face, a west wind born of spring storms over the ice-plains. The city had tamed it to a stink of rotten eggs and metal and burning and humans beyond counting, their bodies and their filth.

She ought not feel cold. Sheltered in the bowl of the mountain, warmed by the earth below, the city never knew true cold, not the fierce flesh-cutting cold of home. The rags she wore held no warmth though, only damp and vermin. She shivered and she itched. The urge to scratch was almost overwhelming, but she must not. Her claws tore through cloth and skin, left bleeding scratches. The scratches healed, but also itched.

A second wolf howled. The female, she thought. They were a pair, last survivors of those caged in the dungeons of the Chained Serpent. Like her, they had fought in the pit for the amusement of humans. Like her, they had escaped.

The wolves had made the city their hunting ground, not knowing the city was no place for wolves. Dire-wolves belonged to the ice-plains far to the west and north. Three moons had passed; each night they called for brothers and sisters who would never answer.

Now the two wolves howled together. Their song cut through the background noise of the city as the wind cut through the smog-shroud.

Andra carefully touched her claws to the clan-mark on her face. Good hunting, my brother, my sister.

She too should hunt. When had she last eaten? Two days ago? Three?

Hunger gnawed her stomach. She must eat if she meant to live, yet she felt no urge to hunt. Only a restless aching emptiness as if her skin had grown strange to her flesh.

Only one kind of prey filled the hollowness. The men from the Chained Serpent, the hated ones with the tattooed arms, those she would hunt — but many days had passed since the last she’d found.

She turned her back on the wolves and crossed the roof, bare feet silent on the mossy tiles. She descended to the edge and sat in the familiar place. From here she looked down on the building’s interior yard and on the far side, rows of windows stacked one above the other, squares of brightness surrounded by black stone.

So many windows, more than she had numbers for, some shuttered, some dark and silent, some bright with lamplight, loud with human noise. Some less than an arm-length apart, yet behind each window humans laughed and shouted and cried as if their neighbours did not exist.

This had confused her at first.

On the top floor, one window framed a fat old woman, crooning over an infant cradled in her arms. In another, a man and woman embraced, mouths locked together in mutual lust.

Each window held a different set of lives, a different story. She understood now, about walls and rooms, but still it was strange how humans could be so near and yet so separate.

Did humans have kin? They often gathered in groups. Crowds seethed through the streets by day and night. And humans had children, lovers, siblings — yet so many were alone. They didn’t seem to depend on each other as lasker did. How did they live with such aloneness?

Flame flickered in another window, ember bright in the gloom, highlighting the wrinkled face of an old man as he gazed into a steaming pot. Light reflected from his pale hairless head. White whiskers sprouted from his ears and chin.

The dark-haired girl passed behind the old man, rested her hand on his shoulder and spoke to him. They smiled at each other.

Andra watched, as she had so many nights.

Why? She didn’t know. There was no reason, only the emptiness eased a little when she watched the warm squares of lamplight, the human shadows. For a short time she forgot what she was. For a short time she forgot she was alone.

The girl came to the window. She lifted her head and stared as if she’d noticed Andra sitting on the roof.

Andra gazed back. A strangeness moved in her, like the echo of a dream. She loathed humans. She had nothing in common with this girl, nor did she want to — yet at this moment of one inside looking out, one outside looking in, their lives touched.

The girl stood unmoving. Perhaps despite the dark and distance she did see Andra. She did not seem afraid.

Alchemical symbol: Tin [https://i.imgur.com/e9DvjDg.png]

‘It’s there again,’ Thea said.

‘Mmf. What?’

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She could just make out the dark figure hunched on the edge of the roof, above the rows of lighted windows on the other side of the yard. ‘The watcher. Our upstairs neighbour. The one who climbs.’

‘Mm. It could be dangerous, you know.’

Thea considered that. A few times over the last two months, she’d glimpsed it, climbing like a cat — though even a cat couldn’t scale sheer walls. And often around dusk, it perched on the edge of the roof. Watching.

‘The city has many secrets, my dear,’ Benedict said. ‘Best not to pry. Some secrets don’t want to be found out.’

‘I don’t think it’s dangerous. It seems… curious.’ She twisted her bracelet so the beads caught the lamplight. As a child, she’d stare into the beads and imagine each held a tiny gleaming world. In reality, they were only blue glass. Worth a few pennies, at most.

Night had fallen outside. A chill breeze stroked the back of her neck. She touched her hair — Marta had cut it short earlier. Her head felt light and cold. She reached for the shutters, and stopped.

With the shutters closed, their small room shrank into a cramped box. And the fumes had no escape, so they’d breathe the thick odour of White-Eye’s medicine all night. The smell clung to clothes and bedding for days. ‘Are you nearly finished with White-Eye’s order?’

Benedict dug a spoonful of grey powder from a jar. ‘Yes, yes.’ He squinted, his hand trembling. The spoon tipped to one side of the black stone mortar. Fine grey powder spilled onto the table.

Thea sighed. ‘It’s not so cheap we should throw it away.’

Benedict laughed awkwardly. ‘How clumsy I am lately. I must be tired.’

‘Never mind.’ She patted his shoulder, rounded and bony under his robe. ‘It’s late. The light is bad. Finish it tomorrow.’

Lamplight deepened the lines in Benedict’s face. He shook his head. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

With an empty jar and a soft brush, Thea collected the spilled powder, painstakingly working particles out of the cracks in the wood. The powder wasn’t poisonous, as many of Benedict’s ingredients were, but he’d always taught her a wise alchemist was a tidy alchemist. Besides, it was too expensive to waste.

A loud knock shook the door.

‘We aren’t expecting anyone.’ Thea glanced at Benedict. ‘Are we?’ Perhaps it was a neighbour; Marta worried about the baby’s colic. Not the rent collector, at least — he’d accepted this month’s payment in laudanum, Light be thanked. She swept the last grains of grey powder into the jar and closed the lid.

The knock was repeated, louder.

She hesitated. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Business. Open up.’ A male voice, brash and unfamiliar.

Thea slipped the jar into the pocket of her dress. She unlatched the door.

It wasn’t a neighbour. The man filled the doorway. Brown hair curled past his ears, and he wore a white ruffled shirt, cheap fabric imitating the fashions of the wealthy. A red scarf tied back one sleeve to show off a lurid scarlet-and-black tattoo snaking round his forearm.

He was young, his face a little soft and beardless, but there was nothing innocent in his eyes. His gaze swept from her to Benedict, the work-table with its gas burner and mortar, the shelves of alchemical ingredients, their beds and belongings.

Benedict stood. ‘What do you want?’

The young man ignored Benedict, instead giving Thea a thorough inspection as if she were an item he might purchase, at the right price. ‘The Lady sent me to have a word.’

Thea straightened to meet his gaze. Her heart raced. ‘So what does she want?’

The thug scowled. He turned back to Benedict. ‘What do you think she wants?’

‘Times are hard for everyone. I’m doing all I can. I can’t pay anything now, but next month—’

With a sudden lurch toward Thea, the young man swung his open hand at the shelves, sweeping a dozen jars and bottles into the air.

Thea cried out, helplessly reaching for the falling jars as they thumped to the floor, bouncing and breaking. Wizened roots and dusty herbs, pale crystals and oily liquids spilled and mixed with shattered glass. The thug advanced on Benedict, who shrank behind the table as if it might protect him.

Thea stepped between them. ‘Leave him alone.’

The young man bunched his fists and thumped her in the stomach. All the air rushed from her lungs. She dropped to the floor.

‘Don’t,’ Benedict cried. ‘Don’t hurt her. I’ll get the money.’

On her hands and knees on the floorboards, Thea sagged. She couldn’t breathe, only snatch air in little gasps of agony.

‘Twenty forints.’

‘Not now.’ Benedict wrung his hands. ‘But we will. We can.’

‘The Lady’s been good to you. She’s been patient for a long while. She’s had enough of next week and next month. Nice place like this, expensive stuff. You’ve got money. What can you pay now?’

Thea struggled to her feet. Breathing still hurt, and she trembled with shock and rage. Their money was in a pouch hidden in her bedding. She found it and handed it over.

The young thug snatched the pouch from her and poured out the coins: two forints and four copper pennies, one bent. He threw the small coins on the floor. ‘Shit.’

‘It’s all we have,’ Thea said.

He lifted his hand, and she thought he would hit her again. Fear tightened her muscles. She badly wanted to be small, to shrink away.

No blow came. He grasped her chin. ‘Don’t look much like a girl, do you? Still, we could have an arrangement, you and me. You might even like it.’ He smiled and his fingers squeezed her jaw, not painfully, but with the suggestion pain was very much an option.

Like any bully, he wanted to scare her. And she was scared, but she didn’t have to cringe. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her afraid, not for a moment.

She pulled the jar from her pocket and held it to his face. ‘Dust of mandragora.’ She popped the lid open. ‘A single grain in your eyes, your mouth, and you’ll convulse. Every muscle in your body will spasm until your bones break. Can’t move, can’t breathe. You’ll be dead in five minutes, though I imagine it feels longer.’

‘You’re bluffing,’ he said, but the pressure on her jaw relented.

‘How much do you want to bet?’ She steadied herself. ‘You delivered your message. Good dog. Go back to your boss and tell her she’ll get her money, every damn penny.’

He looked from the jar, to Benedict, and released Thea with a little shove. ‘This was a friendly reminder. The Lady wants what she’s owed and she’ll have it. You have one week. Hard way or—’ He smirked at Thea. ‘—easy way. You choose.’

He slammed the door behind him. In the sudden quiet, Thea sank to the floor. The open jar shook in her grip.

Benedict remained frozen behind the table. ‘You know throwing mandragora dust in here would kill us all?’ His voice was surprisingly calm.

‘It was only the pennyroyal.’

‘Oh.’ Benedict sagged into the chair. He stared at the broken jars, the oils and tinctures soaking into the floorboards, the ingredients muddled and ruined. ‘Well, this is a fine mess, my dear. What are we to do now?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. Twenty forints was an impossible sum. ‘But we’d better think of something fast.’