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

The night settled slowly into peace. No sound came from the neighbouring rooms. No wolves howled outside. The low light of the gas lamp pushed darkness to the corners of the room, and Benedict snored, his face pale but relaxed in sleep.

Thea carefully released his hand and tucked it under the blankets. The sleeping draught had taken effect at last; he’d sleep for hours. She leaned back in the chair. Her eyes ached, and her thoughts drifted to her own bed, but moving a few feet and lying down seemed like too much effort.

The stairs creaked.

She tensed. Again came the creaking; someone was climbing the stairs. Their door was already latched, the heavy chest in place. She went to the shelves and snatched up the bottle of vitriol.

A loud knock on the door froze her. Unable to think or move, Thea clutched the bottle to her chest. Her heart pounded. In the neighbouring room, Marta’s baby wailed.

‘It’s Captain Nevin. Open up.’

She sagged. The Phylaxes officer—that was unexpected. What did he want? Was he dangerous? And if he did mean to harm her, could she do anything about it?

Nobles could be dangerous, she supposed, like any other men. If he were determined, the door wouldn’t stop him, nor were the neighbours likely to help. All she had was the bottle in her hand, full of clear liquid which could burn a man’s skin off and blind him for life.

She didn’t think Nevin was a threat though, or at least, not in any of the obvious ways. She returned the bottle to its place on the shelf, pushed the chest away, and opened the door.

The tall Phylaxes loomed dark in the doorway. No shining armour, no red cloak, and without them he looked different somehow, more human. The lamplight sparked red and gold in his chestnut hair. His eyes were brown, and tired.

‘Your visitor ran away,’ he said, and not waiting for an answer, pushed past her into the room.

Benedict snored, oblivious to the intrusion.

‘He’s not been well,’ Thea said. She closed the door. ‘I gave him a sleeping draught. What do you want?’

‘That’s hardly polite, is it? I just saved your necks—’ The captain rubbed his own neck. ‘— at some risk to my own, I might say.’

The scuffle and crash out on the landing had startled them from their sleep. By the time she’d risked peeking out, whoever was responsible had disappeared. ‘Why? What happened?’

‘Another Snake came to see you,’ he said. ‘I ran him off.’

‘Why?’

‘I could say it’s my duty to protect the lives and property of citizens.’

The sentiment was so unlikely, a snort of startled laughter escaped before she clapped her hand to her mouth.

He frowned. ‘Or maybe I have a weakness for damsels in distress.’

She didn’t believe that either. Nobles didn’t hang round the slums to rescue maidens in need — if they did, they’d never rest. Still, he had chased a Snake from their door. He wasn’t lying about that. Could she trust him?

He held his left arm awkwardly. The sleeve of his black jacket glistened wetly, and there was blood on his hand.

‘Are you hurt?’

Nevin glanced at his arm. ‘Your stairs came off worse. It’s not serious.’

She sighed. ‘I’d better clean it.’

‘That’s really not necessary.’

‘All the best damsels tend their hero’s war wounds.’ Thea forced a smile. ‘Besides, if you got it round here it’s likely to get infected. I assume you want to keep your arm?’

He shrugged and sat on the three-legged stool. The jacket was heavy wool, the black dense and rich, unfaded. Under the jacket was a white shirt: beautiful fine white linen, more expensive by far than any clothing she owned. The sleeve was ripped and soaked with blood. She winced.

‘I’ll live,’ Nevin said.

She peeled what was left of the shirt sleeve away from the wound. A shard of broken wood had been driven under the skin. Shallow but messy. Fresh blood trickled down his arm. She fetched a scrap of clean cloth and a jar of iodine solution.

‘This may hurt.’ She gripped the protruding splinter. ‘Ready?’

‘Uh-huh—Ow!’

‘There.’ The spike was four inches long. Must have hurt like anything. The hole in his arm bled with fresh enthusiasm. She wetted the cloth in the murky iodine. ‘This will sting a bit.’

He neither moved nor complained while she cleaned the wound. The blood-flow slowed to an ooze.

‘These splinters had better come out.’ She went to look for tweezers.

‘Isn’t it about time you told me the truth?’ Nevin said. ‘The dead Snake — you know who he was, don’t you?’

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Thea returned with the tweezers. ‘I don’t.’ She grasped his wrist. ‘Hold still now.’

‘I can help you.’

Brow furrowed in concentration, she poked the tweezers after a stray splinter. It wasn’t the first time she’d patched up an injury, nor the first time a man had sat on the stool in his shirtsleeves. Nevin’s flesh and blood were no different. He was as human as anyone, just better looking and better dressed.

Could she trust him? Perhaps he could help. She just didn’t believe he would.

‘I don’t know his name,’ she said. ‘We owe money. The money-lender sent him with a reminder.’

‘To threaten you, you mean.’

‘It’s not your business. There’s no damsel to be rescued here, just dirty little people with dirty little troubles.’ She straightened. ‘I don’t have anything clean to bandage this with.’

‘Cut the shirt.’

The linen was so soft and smooth under her fingers, whiter than clouds. ‘Sure?’

Nevin shrugged. ‘It’s ruined already.’ He tugged out the shirt tail.

Thea fetched scissors. She considered where to cut; there was no shortage of material. What would it be like, she wondered, to never worry about laundry? For the cost of a shirt like this to simply not matter? How many shirts did he have?

Each stroke of the scissors wrenched her heart. She carefully cut a long strip, and began bandaging his arm, wrapping the linen tight.

‘What about the woman with claws?’ Nevin asked.

His tone was casual, but his arm muscles tensed as he spoke. Thea bent her head, fumbling with the bandage. What did he want with the watcher on the roof? ‘I told you, I’ve not seen anyone like that.’

‘She killed that man,’ Nevin said. ‘The Snake. She ripped his throat out.’

Good, Thea thought. She tied off the bandage.

‘You think she meant to help you? She didn’t. She’s not even human. She doesn’t care about you or anyone. Help me find her, and I’ll help you. I can see you’re protected from this money-lender.’

Thea’s heart bumped. To be protected… but what did that mean? He didn’t know. And the watcher on the roof, whatever she was, whatever her motives, she had helped. That had to count for something.

‘I don’t know anything.’ She collected the scissors, the tweezers, the jar of iodine and began putting them away.

Nevin examined the bandage. He opened his coin pouch and took out two forints. ‘Here.’

Thea stared at the coins. Two shining silver coins, probably less than the cost of a new shirt. Heat rose to her face. She folded her arms. ‘Keep your silver. You owe me nothing.’

He frowned, surprise turning to confusion and annoyance. Clearly he thought a girl like her should be delighted to have two measly forints. Under other circumstances, she might have been. Two forints wasn’t much, but it was something.

Perhaps she should swallow her pride and take it. In fact, she knew she should. She should smile and apologise and flatter his generosity like he expected, and then, just maybe, he’d offer his help. Perhaps he even would help.

Such things happened in stories: the poor (but honest) girl tended the injured hero, and he swore to slay the dragon and free her from captivity. And so he did, and they married and lived happy ever after. But real life wasn’t like that. The best she could hope for from him was a better kind of slavery, and frankly, she knew she wasn’t that good-looking.

He had everything. She had nothing, and all her life she’d been helpless and small. She was damned if she’d make herself any smaller to please him.

‘The clawed woman,’ he said quietly. ‘Her name is Andra. She killed my sister. My half-sister, that is.’

It cost him something to say it. She saw the pain in his eyes, and sympathy stirred. Even nobles, she supposed, had their share of love and grief.

‘If you know anything—’

Love and grief. She’d had her fill of both. ‘I don’t.’

His face tightened. ‘I could arrest you,’ he said.

Thea flinched. Of course, it was true. A noble could arrest any common citizen, with or without a reason. She could be flogged on no more than his word.

‘A few days in a cell might loosen your tongue.’

She stepped back. She was shaking with rage, not fear. ‘Get out.’

Nevin stood. He tucked in what was left of his shirt, awkwardly put on his jacket.

She watched with her arms crossed tightly, her mouth clamped shut. She didn’t trust herself to speak. He could arrest her but he wouldn’t, because he was only enough of a bully to threaten, not enough to follow through.

‘The next time you have a visitor,’ he said coldly. ‘I won’t be here to protect you.’

The door closed behind him. Thea latched it and pushed the chest back into place. She tidied up, then she wiped the stool with a damp rag, rinsed the rag, and cleaned the floorboards too. Blood went a long way and it stained.

She washed her hands in the pink water left in the basin. Benedict still snored. Even raised voices hadn’t roused him. Thea blew out the gas lamp, sank onto her bed and curled into a ball. The darkness closed in on her like a prison.

Light. She wished dawn would come, so she could lose herself in work. She wished a great many things — but what use was that? She’d wished and wished with all the desperate fervour in her heart, and none of those wishes ever came true.

No angel had answered her prayers. No hero would rescue her. The watcher on the roof was a monster, not a secret friend. Benedict was old and getting frailer by the day. Terrible as it was to think of, one day he would die and she’d be truly alone.

It was time she stopped wishing and faced the truth. If anyone was going to save her, it would have to be herself.

Though she did not know how.

Alchemical symbol: Nickel [https://i.imgur.com/SX7htXR.png]

Out on the dark quiet landing, Nevin stopped. The two forints were still in his hand. Squeezed in his fist, the hard silver coins dug into his palm. His anger shifted uneasily.

Why had she refused the money? A slum girl had no right to be so damn proud. Who did she think she was, talking to him like that? The way she’d glared, like he’d insulted her honour.

Then, like some blathering fool, he’d gone and told her about Riga. He’d dragged out the family tragedy and spilled it in the muck, only to have her throw it back in his face. Idiot.

And the threat to arrest her — that was truly stupid. He could have, of course. A noble held the power of life and death over common citizens. But with that came responsibility, a duty to use that power wisely, to protect the lives and property of citizens — he’d said it ironically, but it was the truth. He’d sworn to defend the city, not to pursue his own interest, not to persecute those who got in his way. Some nobles, even members of his own House, threw their weight around, but he never had.

That had mattered, once. It should matter.

He felt dirty, soiled, as if the grime of the slums had seeped beneath his skin. He eyed the wall, tempted to punch it, but his bandaged arm throbbed and he restrained the impulse. The wall, at least, was innocent, and the building had taken enough punishment for one night.

Besides, he’d screwed everything else up today. If he punched the wall he’d probably break a finger.