#drakona writeups

they will eventually attempt to do that on themself, which will work. however. the process tends to bring Strong Feelings to the forefront of one's mind. and for the detective specifically, any strong emotion has a chance of triggering intrusive suicidal thoughts.

they will find out that whenever that happens, the batch of honey becomes tainted and acquires. properties.

it becomes Honey That Makes You Want To Kill Yourself Really Badly.

generally Drakona themself is able to resist its effects on account of they've spent 15 years doing this but for most others it's a lost battle. it's not impossible to weather the effects without acting on the urge but most won't. it would, unquestionably, be a very effective murder weapon.

they name it Gallows Honey. they also decide this thing should never see the light of day ever. they go full hazardous waste disposal on whatever they make by accident, making sure it's rendered thoroughly unusable.

there is an antidote. the antidote is produced via Drakona taking Gallows Honey and being Harvested From while they are actively fighting the urge to kill themself. it's a horrible grueling process. they make two doses of it and then stay in bed for a week.

it would suck so unbelievably bad for them to have anyone die to their Concentrated Depression so they are going to do everything in their power to make sure it's not known about, it's not available, and it somehow it does leave the townhouse, there are three people who know how to identify it and two of them (Felicity and Iffy) carry the antidote.

(Gallows Honey, for the record, is a weird desaturated yellow with a silvery sheen to it. has the smell, taste and consistency of normal honey, but a horrible bitter aftertaste once swallowed)

they do in fact think of him while they're away, which, during the zee journey, just seems to complicate things. they're out there trying to empty their mind of everything but Revenge, and instead they keep thinking of who they've left behind in London. they're not planning on dying in the Republic, but the little they know of it frightens them (THEY ARE CORRECT IN THAT. OH MY GOD ARE THEY CORRECT.), and also, well, it's The Final Act. it's revenge time. they don't know what they might have to do, what it might take. and they'll never back down, because they owe it to James, because they'll never be able to live in peace until they see it finished, before they see justice done. but can they be the person they need to be to do this if they keep thinking back to someone else?

visiting the three sisters in Hunter's Keep who seem to only ever to want to talk about the lovers they left back in London does not help.

overall though, zeefaring actually does them some good. they settle into the role of captain surprisingly well. they can conjure an air of authority when they need to, they're a quick thinker, and their newfound unhingedness is enough to strike fear and/or respect into the hearts of whoever they need to strike it into. that Bizarre/Dreaded combo really coming through as they prowl the deck shouting orders. by the middle of the journey they have enough of a hold on the crew that when Drownies start singing around the ship, they don't lose a single soul

cue the Iron Republic leitmotif.

so the second they set foot in the port the sky opens up and rains a new law down, and it's a Law That Kills You Unless You're Really Faithful To Someone and they get caught by it and don't die. REMEMBER THAT SURPRISE TOOL, FOLKS?

this is going to mess with their head for a while because they don't actually know which commitment saved them. is it their commitment to their revenge? is it the amber necklace tucked under their shirt? is it something else entirely?

but we don't have time to ponder that too much, because we have UNCEASING REALITY WARPING NIGHTMARE scheduled!

damn Warning wasn't lying that Iron Republic sure can Changed You

it's. bad. even for an experienced honey user, it's bad. every day is mental and physical torture and there's no reprieve from it and they just have to keep going. but it's too much, and I think the longer they stay, parts of their mind just start shutting down one by one. emotions go first. then smaller concerns that can be spared in the face of existential danger, like neat appearance, or wondering how their friends are doing back in London. actually, it's easier not to think about London at all, the way it's easier to not think about the Surface sometimes. if they pretend this is all they've ever known, it's easier. just a little. but, god, they'll take those crumbs when they can get them.

the deranged becomes normal. it feels like they've forgotten how to be shocked. nothing phases them anymore.

a reality-shift makes them tear the chain on the amber necklace and they don't have the presence of mind to fix it, so they're keeping it in their pocket now. sometimes they can't bear to remember it's there. sometimes holding it in their hand feels like the only thing that's keeping them sane

they work towards their goal.

they find the prison.

they find Scathewick.

and it's ALL STAGED it's FUCKING STAGED

they're right where someone wants them to be. someone wanted them HERE, EXACTLY as tortured as they are, and that someone wants them to kill that man.

and they're going to do it. because the part of them that would have thought twice is not home right now. because it's justice. because IT'S THE KNIFE IT'S THE SAME KNIFE IT'S THE

the details of WHY they're even doing this became blurry in the... how long has it even been? how many days? they don't remember. they just remember revenge. they have a mission, they NEED to finish it, they CAN'T LEAVE until they FINISH IT

it becomes clearer when they see the knife, though. when they remember finding his body.

it's justice.

it's not over. it's not even nearly over.

killing Scathewick doesn't even feel good.

they walk back on board of their ship, drenched in blood, still holding the knife, staring directly in front of themself, say nothing to no one, and lock themself in their quarters.

they clean up. they cry. they break the hell down because it's not over, all that and it's not over, and James died because of THEM. to lead THEM here. to make THEM into this.

Drakona has enemies. that makes sense. but who the FUCK cared enough about Catherine to do all of that.

and that someone is still watching them. all this time, they've been doing exactly what was expected of them.

somewhere in the middle of that breakdown they reach for the amber necklace and realize that it's gone. they've dropped it while they were murdering Scathewick.

it's somehow the least bad thing that happened to them today. the realization gets one miserable noise and that's it.

on the way back to London, they get a little too contemplative staring at the waves. if it's all about them. if James died FOR them. BECAUSE of them. how long until it's Jacob*? how long until it's their cousin, again? how long until it's Sunny, again? and this isn't Jack-Of-Smiles. this will be permanent. whoever is doing this isn't in the business of sending messages, they are removing people, by the hands of others.

others like Drakona.

they can keep investigating this. they have the notes. but isn't this exactly what the murderer wants them to do?

is the best ending achieved by removing themself from the equation entirely?

they don't go through with it. they do agree with the ship surgeon's (their cousin's) decision that they should probably stay in their quarters for the rest of the journey.

it's a lot of staring at walls. it's a lot of not looking or touching or interacting in any other way with the knife they brought back from the prison, because whenever they think about it they start getting the kind of ideas that got them confined to their quarters in the first place. they don't let anyone else touch or take it away, though, so it's just. sitting there. at the very bottom of a chest. and they can pretend it's not there, that they've left it behind on the floor of that cell instead of the amber necklace — and they're crying again.

they do come out towards the end of the voyage to manage a naval chase situation, which honestly probably does them some good, but also uses up the rest of their energy. which might also be good. they're to tired to do or think anything too self-destructive after that

back in London, it's a lot of bed rest to recover from the wounds they brought back from the Republic. they don't mind. it's a lot of empty time; even when they're technically well enough to walk around and go outside with some assistance, they choose not to. they can't really bear to face anyone or to undertake anything bigger than moving from one spot in their townhouse to another. they read a little, then the story reminds them of something, so they stop. mostly they sleep, and pretend to sleep.

they know that when they get up, they'll have to pick up the case again. it's going to start again. and they don't want to. so they don't get up.

they probably can't stay like this forever, but they can stay like this for now. and maybe forever.

word gets out that The Dreaming Detective was badly injured at zee and is recovering at home. people send gifts. letters. they are a person of interest. they have allies and admirers who wish them well.

the only thing they really touch is a weird puzzle-box from the Honey-Addled Detective, which they make a halfhearted attempt at solving every now and then. he's visited in person, said that when they can solve it, it means that they're well again. that doesn't sound true, but it's a way to pass the time

Jacob comes to see them, early on. they sit him down and explain the situation. someone is after them; it's serious; it's worse than Jack; it's someone powerful; it's who knows them from the Surface. they tell him everything about James. about their life as Catherine. they explain that they can't protect him; that if he chooses to stay, he should know that.

he does not leave. he joins the rest of their inner circle in keeping them company, in rotation, making sure they're not alone for long periods of time.

mostly they don't feel like talking to anyone, but telling him about their past leads to him sharing some of his, admitting to things he doesn't remember and wishes he did.

half-jokingly, they say that they've half a mind to throw themself into irrigo again, if not for the fear that it would leave the awful memories and take everything else

even in the midst of it all, it gives him pause. he's been looking into ways to cancel out the irrigo entirely, but what if he could give them what they want? what if one could let the irrigo in, and control what it takes?

it's something to think about.

he won't say anything to them. not yet. the last thing he wants is to get their hopes up, and then disappoint.

time passes.

it's hard to say what exactly happens. there's just a sudden moment of awareness, catching a glimpse of themself in the mirror — they've been avoiding mirrors — their body feels like an ill-fitting suit, after the Republic, and they know they'll find some fault in what they see — would their eyes be different? the eyes of a murderer? —

they catch a glimpse of themself in the mirror. Catherine stares back.

their hair has grown out to where it was before the Neath. in their nightgown, it's almost like they're back on the Surface. like they've never left. like they stayed, and let the grief wither them away.

they certainly look withered. they haven't been eating a whole lot. maybe that's why they feel so damn tired all the time.

taking the scissors in their hand feels like a gamble, for a moment, but the weight and balance is different from a knife. this could be an implement for violence — who if not them knows that most things could — but the part of their mind they'd been wary of stays silent. they're just holding a pair of scissors. nothing more, nothing less.

they cut most of it off, but not all of it. the person in the mirror is now entirely unfamiliar, neither from the Surface nor from the Neath, and it suits them just fine.

the next time someone walks into their room, they find a wall cleared, paintings and furniture removed, and the Detective propped up against a table they've dragged over, tacking pages torn out of Scathewick's journal to the wall. there are notes. possibly there is red string. they aren't working with their usual feverish determination; their movements are slower, mechanical, the first awkward steps of someone stepping back into their own body. it's muscle memory more than anything, sorting through evidence, noting down patterns and inconsistencies. but they've done more in two hours than they have in several weeks, combined.

a few days later, they put their morning coat on, and go outside.

a week or so later, Jacob has a gift for them. a necklace like the one they've lost, set with violet amber this time. he had some in his pocket in the cave, he explains; later he found it changed. he's been experimenting with it, and he's fairly sure it's safe. for forgetting the things that pain you, he says.

changed. like them. like him. it is fitting; they'll give him that.

they smile.

"I'm glad you're still here," they say.

he told them that once, right after the Nadir. they understand now.

the Dreaming Detective has changed, but London hasn't. London, that is twisted and dark and unforgiving in its own right; that will drink the love out of you and then bleed you for more; but there is a rhyme to it, and the walls usually don't bleed, and one is that less likely to find themself briefly turned inside out on their morning stroll.

all in all, it's still familiar. it's still their city. they've carved their name into it, and now the walls echo it back to them when they walk around.

they've changed.

they're home.

they have a case. they better get to solving it.

> they promise that if you end up becoming Smiles they'll put you down quickly

> crack into the case. it's been... educational, chasing Smiles down alleyways, destroying him repeatedly, but you've grown bored with the game. he's a mystery, and you want answers.

> your name is in the papers. The Dreaming Detective takes on the Smiles case. could you be the one? you're well known, well liked. your adventures sell well in novels. the public is excited.

> people who are close to you start to die.

> your old friends stabbed on the street, in honey dens, in their own homes. your boyfriend gutted by one of his own people. your best friend nailed to a wall in his own flat, throat slit, your name scrawled in blood on the wall next to his body. your cousin is strong; she beats Jack back once, twice, thrice. a doctor, she saves some of your loved ones a trip down the river.

> people no longer shout greetings when you walk by. when you enter a crime scene, they give you a wide berth, just in case Jack's watching. only a few Constables still make a point of shaking your hand.

> you can't sleep. every time you close your eyes, you see the body of your fiancé from the Surface, your first love, murdered. you were the one who found him. after his funeral, you looked at yourself in the mirror and felt the mourning dress suffocating you. none of the deaths have been permanent so far. the next one could easily be.

> the message is clear: back off. go back to playing with me like you used to. you can chase, but you're not allowed to catch me.

> but does it mean you do have something? does it mean Jack sees you as a threat?

> you start telling people to stay away from you. some of them want you to back off from the case. some of them want to help. you tell them all the same thing: go. go, and don't come anywhere near me until I tell you it's safe. no matter what you hear.

> you're tired. you're thinking in circles. reports and testimonies blur together in your mind. this is the time when you'd usually reach for the honey, but the thought of someone you love dying while you're off in a dream makes your stomach turn.

> you hold a small jar of honey in your trembling hand.

> you turn and, with all your might, hurl the wretched thing out of the window. you hear it shatter.

> you collapse in a heap against a wall. you have nothing. no matter how hard you try, someone else will die.

> you cry.

> after a while, you get up.

> you keep working.

> they find your cousin hanging off the gates of the Shuttered Palace. fourth time's the charm. her first death. you're there holding her hand when she comes back from the river

> you can't do this anymore.

> you give the most shameful interview of your career. you are stepping off from the Smiles case. perhaps, you say, there are some mysteries that aren't meant to be solved.

> you announce that, in your disgrace, you will be retiring to the tomb-colonies.

> that is a lie. you'll kiss a tiger on the mouth before you go back there, after Venderbight.

> the next morning, you are gone, and so is fraction of the Smiles case notes. not all of them — you could never carry it all — but the important parts. your summaries. some reports you've found interesting. all of the papers you found in the cold case section, separated, for some reason, from the rest.

> you're on your own. you can't use your contacts, can't reach out to your friends without painting a larger target on their back. if you're lucky, for a while the tomb-colony ruse might actually hold up.

> you go to your oldest, most forgotten friend. Smiles hadn't bothered with him; neither has most of London, since his honey habit overtook him.

> the Honey-Addled Detective doesn't mind you staying. the smell of honey in his rooms scratches away at your mind, makes you irritable. you learn to harness the discomfort.

> he's often gone in a dream. sometimes present, but not lucid enough to speak. he watches you like a fascinating disaster observed from a safe distance. perhaps he recognizes some of himself in you. you find some comfort in your conversations.

> away from society, you can safely spiral into obsession. your graceful mannerisms, your easy wit, are discarded, leaving behind only trembling hands and sleepless, hungry eyes. you retrace your steps. you hunt Jack between the pages like you've hunted beasts on the streets of London.

> in the papers you took from the Concord Square records room, you find something you haven't noticed before. an absence.

> there is one, just one, Jack case, where the death of his body is not documented. instead, a referral of a certain individual to Dr. Carrywell.

> the name is difficult to track down. you persevere. there's nothing and no one to stop you now.

> your friends and loved ones carry on in your absence. some brought together by the carnage unleashed upon them, some driven apart. some wonder about your fate. many don't.

> in the dim interior of your mentor's apartment on Moloch Street, you make a second breakthrough.

> you don't dare approach the urchins, or any of your usual contacts. a Rubbery wanders by, and, with a handful of amber and your best understanding of their language, you convey your request. no one pays much mind to what the Rubberies speak of amongst themselves.

> they nod and take the parcel from your hand. it's sufficiently slime-proof, you hope. papers rustle inside.

> a handful of your most trusted and beloved receive a knock on the door and a slime-stained note, that, nonetheless, is still recognizable as your handwriting.

> something to keep them safe. a warning.

> He's in the knives.

> you pray that no one else finds out.

the first one is with Sunny. they have to break the news to him that his brother's name was not in Scathewick's notes. unless there was another murderer — and they can't rule that out yet, but nothing points to there being one either — the Neath-rose petals found near Charlie were a terrible coincedence.

it. takes him a while to process that. he basically became Drakona's right hand man hoping that they will get justice for both of them; now it turns out that their hunt had nothing to do with him all along.

ultimately, he realizes that he doesn't regret it. he wishes they'd found answers for him too, yes, but he'd just. grown fond of them, and of some other people around them (like a certain doctor.). he won't regret helping them see justice done.

and there's still the Marvellous. which is maybe a strange bet to make, but if it could really grant any wish... he could ask for the truth. he could ask for his brother back.

he's going to follow that lead much more intently now.

then there's the conversation with Iffy. their doctor. their cousin.

she's had to see them through this blank period, nurse them back to health, while also grappling with the truth about James' death and being changed by the Republic. no one was sending her gifts and flowers. and before that, it was Jack-Of-Smiles, her first death their fault; and before that, it was Sunny depositing them honey-mazed on her doorstep at all kinds of unreasonable hours, which they have to imagine wasn't a pleasant experience either.

they don't ask for forgiveness because they don't really feel like they deserve any. they've been a lot of trouble for her. she's been a lot of help to them. they just hope she knows that, if she needs anything, anything from them, she needs to just ask, and they'll do it.

she grabs their hand. she meets their eyes.

she says: "When you find his murderer, KILL THEM."

they promise. they swear to her. why wouldn't they?

at some point, they remember the Honey-Addled Detective's puzzle box. it's just sitting there on their desk; they haven't really touched it since they started working with Scathewick's journal.

they fiddle with it a little. he'd said that when they can solve it, it means that they are well again, but with their head clearer, it just seems more impossible. there's a piece that needs to be moved in a direction it physically can't go. it's purposefully built that way.

their thumb brushes against a barely visible seam on that piece, well-hidden in the wood grain.

they prod at it a little. on a whim, they try to push down, and turn.

the piece unscrews. it detaches.

this changes everything. they hunt for more of those invisible seams. nearly everything here can be detached or rearranged.

in half an hour, they have arranged the insides of the puzzle box into the correct solution. the final piece moves into its slot. a soft click. a hidden compartment slides out.

a note, written in the Honey-Addled Detective's hand. an address. a place in Veilgarden called The Missing Candle.

(full disclosure, I'm like. fairly sure Stripes Of Wrath is supposed to be the Candlefinder Society origin story? but since I haven't played it, right now the Drakonaverse canon is the club already existing and them getting invited in as the new member. if playing the ES changes things, I'll find a way to work that in, but for now that's what we're going with)

they go. they meet the others. they speak a little of Jack, of the Rubbery cult, of their current case. the others respond in turn.

...they feel strangely at home in these four's company.

as they leave, the Honey-Addled Detective mentions a case he's working on; asks whether they'd like to stretch their legs, so to speak. they say yes.

it's nothing too complicated, really, a comb missing from the Shuttered Palace, but they still get tired easily. they have to enlist outside help for tailing the suspect. stealing the comb from the suspect's house is more of a gamble than they'd like to admit.

but they do it. they're getting back on their feet. they're The Dreaming Detective again.

they pursue the Gloriana case. Jasper and Frank are a problem. they hire some strongmen, strongwomen and strong people of all sorts of titles, and set them upon the Clay Men. they lean back against a table, cane in hand, and smile as their little army files into the Blind Helmsman. they put on a good show. no one realizes how badly their knees are shaking. when they stay sitting at a Helmsman table for about an hour afterwards, observers take that for a victory lap.

they find their mark at the theater. take a seat next to her. have a nice chat. she sweats bullets, not knowing that she could definitely take them in a fight if she needed to.

they leave without blood on their hands. they won't play that game anymore. their violence is reserved for the mastermind behind all this.

the Cumberbold case. Jasper and Frank get to their first informant before they do. vengeance for the humiliation at the Helmsman.

they show up at one of their supposedly safe spaces down in the Clay Quarter. no weapon or hired thugs in sight, just a thin smile and an exceptionally polite request to please cease. vague hints dropped that they can find the brothers wherever they need to, whenever they need to, and next time they'll bring worse than dockers armed with pickaxes.

the message gets across. there will be no further interruption.

they get their information from Cumberbold, and then they leave him alone.

the Correspondence sigil takes longer. it's less legwork and more writing. they'd built a good amount of their strength back hunting all over London for the correct kind of dirt — that's all they had to work from, after the brothers disassembled their witness — but the physical strain of the Correspondence nearly sets them back to where they started. nearly. this is a kind of wear they know well, and they've been getting better, and they persevere.

more writing. more parties. a chat with a scholar from Benthic. a donation to a clergyman of particular repute. a generous bribe to an archivist.

more reviewing of notes. late night conversations in The Missing Candle. a spoonful of honey to rest their mind. staring at their bedroom wall until the white of the pages tacked to it burns black under their eyelids when they blink.

The Honey-Addled Detective smiles wistfully as he listens to the summary of their findings.

"Keep hunting, My Lady. I'll be eager to hear the details when you're done."

eventually, the Correspondence is deciphered. the pieces put together.

the trail leads to the Bazaar.

they've narrowed it down to two Masters.

they tell Jacob. it's like they can see the fire start behind his eyes.

there are many opinions among the Revolutionaries. many of them will be opposed to the killing of a Master. but the Firebrand, and those of a like mind with him, would give much to see that happen.

"Anything you need," he says. "I will help. We will help."

when he says anything, he means anything. they know that. there are people that will kill and die to see a Master taken down. they will not get a say in how much collateral damage happens to get them where they need to be.

they are going to accept his help.

they need to see justice done. they owe it to James. they owe it to their cousin.

they want revenge for everything this Master has put them through.

he stands up. she leaves her cousin's side. they meet in the middle between the armchair and the table.

she hands the pipette off to him, murmurs a reminder of how much antidote is inside and how to discharge it, as if they hadn't meticulously planned all of this together. he takes it from her without comment; his mind too numb with fear to leave room for annoyance.

he takes his place behind Drakona, puts a hand on their shoulder; a light comforting squeeze. calming himself as much as them. they put their hand over his, squeeze back, brush a thumb over his knuckles even as their expression remains locked into a distant stare.

under the painted gaze of the three furies, Iffy gets to work.

she conjures the state of mind she uses for surgery. the kind of thinking that, upon finding one of her dearest friends nailed to a wall dead, allowed her to take him down and sew up his wounds for his inevitable return before she'd ever allowed herself as much as a tear. her hands do not shake. she is a surgeon. her hands do not shake.

she prepares the poison with medical precision. it looks effortless, from the outside.

Drakona accepts the cup from her. the cousins lock eyes for a moment. they manage a half smile. she simply nods, the same quiet focus still carrying her.

they both remember their agreement.

when you find out who it was, KILL THEM.

if doing that requires them to go to the Underworld, she will help, and then she will make sure that they return.

they hold the cup.

Jacob presses a kiss to the top of their head.

"when you are ready, my love."

they watch their reflection in the liquid. it doesn't seem much more than slightly dirty water.

they count off three seconds in their head.

"now."

they drink. they tilt their head back, open their mouth. they feel Jacob's hand on their cheek and on the side of their jaw, and then the almost-tasteless, slightly bitter antidote cutting through the heavy sweetness of the honey.

the three furies watch. Alecto, Megaera, Tisiphone.

and then the armchair is empty.

Drakona wakes up buried underground in a coffin.

they breathe. try to remind themself that this is a dream, this is temporary. their body reels anyway. a death in Parabola is still a death.

are they even in Parabola?

is this temporary?

good god, does any of this even matter? they are buried, they are in a fucking coffin, the air is already thin, they need to get out —

their mind mutinies. some kind of primal, wordless terror overtakes reason; overtakes everything else. they tear their hands apart pounding on the lid from the inside.

the wood is thin. eventually it breaks.

one moment of hysterical clarity — thank god it wasn't an expensive one, imagine having to punch through mahogany — and then grave-dirt and worms spill in, and there is no longer any air to breathe.

they force themself through the hole in the coffin-lid, up through the dirt. every corner of their mind screams. we're dying, it says. you're killing us. stop. there's no air where you're going. stop.

blindly, madly, they crawl. push their bleeding hands up through the mass of dirt. the pain maybe the second or third thing on their mind, at best.

suddenly, their hand hits nothing. it hits air. air.

they surface (if you can call it that) coughing and spitting, covered in filth. something is moving in their hair. they shake it off. they hope they've shaken it off. it's hard to properly think about anything other than breathing, thank god, they're still breathing. their heart pounding, their chest spasming, their throat tight. it's hard to keep still; their limbs keep wanting to shake, to flail, or perhaps to curl into a trembling ball and wait for it all to pass.

they allow themself one heaving sob and one muffled scream into their hands. then, they violently shake their head, and order themself to cease.

it half works, at best. but they've regained enough presence of mind to remember why they're here. a coffin and some dirt surely wouldn't stop a Master. if they were Cups, what would they do? not stay in this pocket of earth forever, that's for certain.

that means more digging. every part of them protests at the thought.

they force themself to crawl closer to the wall of this small dug-out space. press their hand to the tightly packed dirt. push their fingertips in. groan in dismay at the sensation.

"I don't want to," they murmur to no one in particular.

they didn't want to spend their days in sullen silence pretending to be a tomb-colonist in Venderbight, either. didn't want to work in Carrywell's sanatorium, transcribing and translating the rambling of suffering patients. didn't want to go to the Iron Republic. didn't want to lose a month of their life. didn't want to accompany the Scion to his estate.

they're good at doing things they don't want to, by now. they can manage one more.

they push their hand deeper into the earthen wall, and, before they can change their mind, they start digging.

they do not allow themself to stop. they do not allow themself to think. not when the soil caves in behind them, cutting them off from that blessed pocket of safety; not when the first clumps of dirt get into their mouth; not when the dirt gets into their nose. not when things crawl into their hair and up their sleeves. not when they start hearing voices in the dirt. not when they realize that they hadn't taken a breath in several minutes.

is this it? is this where the black honey will take Cups, where it took the Scion's family? are they still here, crawling through the dirt forever, forgetting anything but the motion of it, forever suffocating?

they stumble into another pocket of air. there is a person there. they are dead, but still dreaming. the dead person reels at them. there is the faintest comfort in still being recognized as a stranger; maybe this means they still live.

going back into the soil for the second time is easier. they hadn't had enough of a respite from it for their mind to remember what not being here feels like.

they find one more hollow space. they are chased out of it, too. and then, it seems like they are out of luck.

why hasn't the antidote worked yet? they're been here forever. will they stay here forever? Iffy — Jacob —

no. stop. stop thinking. keep going.

something grabs their hand in the dark. they struggle. more hands emerge — and those are hands — and overpower them, pull them through the soil. their stomach turns. this feels final.

they are pulled into a larger hollow, illuminated by faint candlelight. six others are in this space with them. six voices murmuring in this small enclosed space, echoing familiar names. Carrywell. Scathewick. Cups.

six dead. six knives.

they've found their people. the other six.

they are the only one of the seven still alive.

the dead let go of them; reluctantly, they think. the red-haired woman lingers, clutching their lapels, as if she can't decide whether she wants to let them stand or to — throw them back? fall upon them and try to take their warmth for herself? whatever it is, she does not do it. she steps back.

"so you've come," she says. "welcome. our last sibling."

when they make to respond, they find their voice as gravelly as hers, choked with dirt. they cough. it hardly helps.

"you've all hunted Cups," they say.

"we have," says the man with his eyes missing. "some of us got closer than others."

they think for a moment.

"who did you lose?"

six voices answer in an instant.

the red-haired woman grips her knife harder. "my mother."

the woman with her lips sewn shut parts them just enough to lisp, "daughter."

the blind man hugs himself, as if trying to shield some last spark of nonexistent warmth in his chest. "the love of my life."

"my twin brother," sighs a voice like wind whistling between the ribs of the skeleton in the corner.

the man with the scarred face and a cruel smile closes his eyes for a brief moment. "my wife."

"my dearest friend," rasps a voice from within the wooden coffin with a knife stabbed through the lid.

all eyes turn to them, then.

they swallow. feel a clump of dirt slide down their throat and into their stomach.

"my fiancé," they say. "his name — his name was James. we'd been engaged since we were thirteen."

the scarred one growls; a sound more marsh-wolf than man. "Cups."

"fucker," the red-haired woman says.

the blind man digs his hails into his own arms. "Scathewick. the bastard."

"oh, Scathewick's dead," Drakona says.

the change in the blind man's posture is stark and immediate; his arms drop to their sides, his head snaps towards them. the knife on his belt glints in the candlelight. "what did you say?"

"he's dead," Drakona repeats. "I killed him."

he covers his mouth for a moment. makes a guttural, bubbling sort of noise. bites down on his own palm. then, he starts laughing; raggedly, hysterically. he curls into himself, shaking with the force of it.

the woman with her mouth sewn shut makes a few gestures. the scarred man translates: "how'd you do it?"

"he gave me the knife," they say.

"'course he did," says the scarred man.

"he gave it to me too," creaks the skeleton.

"me too," says the voice from the coffin.

"and you cowards didn't even use it on him," says the redheaded woman. the three snarl back at her; she accepts it without as much as batting an eye.

"you're one to speak," says the scarred man. "you never made it past the Sanatorium."

"all's the same in the end." she turns to Drakona. "and Carrywell? that bitch still lives?"

they nod. she scoffs.

"well, at least you got Scathewick."

the others close in on them, begging for the bloody details of the man's death. they oblige. sliding back into the role of storyteller is a strange reprieve; for a moment, even here, they feel something close to comfort.

they want to know every detail. how his eyes looked. how long his beard was. what his snuff smelled like. just how warm was his blood.

they ask things in turn. about the lives of the six. who they were. where they're from. the names of their loved ones. details they can still remember. how they died.

even as they speak, they feel the cold seep deeper and deeper into their bones. the candlelight feels dimmer by the second. are they dying? becoming one of the seven proper?

no. not yet. not yet.

they muster the strength for one more sentence; a request. a promise.

"help me," they say. "help me and I'll bring you Cups. you can have it forever."

that, they think, seems a worthy punishment.

judging by the smiles they are met with, the dead six agree.

they are surrounded once again, seized by dead hands. pushed upwards into the soil. hands of bloodless flesh and bare bone clear a way for them, moving through dirt as if it was water.

they breach. they surface. they feel moss, and sunlight, and crisp winter air.

sunlight —

their vision blurs.

Iffy and Jacob startle as the Detective reappears back in the armchair, coughing and heaving. their clothes are ruined, stained with dirt; their hair a dreadful mess. saying nothing, they stand up, all but rip their tie off, and, unbuttoning the collar of their shirt, walk over to the table and drink the rest of the boiled water (thankfully cooled by now) out of the beaker, barely pausing for breath, not caring in the slightest when it spills over their chin. then, they open a window, lean on the windowsill, hang their upper body out of it, and take deep, erratic breaths, their shoulders shaking.

Jacob looks over at Iffy. she shakes her head: they are in shock. let them recover before you approach.

he nods. she sets out to clean up the remains of the experiment. he assists, watching Drakona out of the corner of his eye all the while.

eventually, they are calm enough to discuss what had happened. they relay their experience. they affirm that the honey will be punishment enough for Cups.

they retire to clean up, leaving the other two to discuss everything they had learned.

they are gone for a while. when they return, they have washed up and changed their clothes. their hair is cut back to chin length. they've snuck down to the cellar and poured themself a glass of wine from an expensive Surface bottle they'd been saving to trade away.

"you've cut your hair," Iffy remarks.

they grin. "felt like a dead weight."

the rest of the evening, they are the most cheerful they've been in a while. they banter and joke over supper; they help to set the table and clean it up; they persuade Jacob to stay for the night (in all fairness, he hardly needs to be persuaded), and, when the three of them move over to the armchairs by the fire, situate themself in his lap and stay there for the entire conversation, to Iffy's great amusement. by all appearances, they are back to their charming, frivolous pre-Republic self.

they explain the plan. the anarchists will be broken up into small cells. the bats will be sourced from several flocks, told only what they need to know, promised a reward. the cells will release their bats in an agreed-upon rotation and change their location immediately after.

a few plausible legends are suggested in case either the bat or the cell responsible for it is captured.

someone brings out a bottle of gin. glasses clink on the table. drinks are poured. a few toasts are made, the last of them silent.

Jacob stands off to the side, watching his Detective. they are not playing to the crowd as much as they usually would. their shoulders are tense, their words and movements sharp. they forgo their usual flourishes, focusing on the matter at hand. dim lamplight lights their face from below, makes their newly short hair into a halo. their grey suit fades into the surrounding darkness.

they come over to him with their drink, clink their glass against his. smile wearily.

his chest aches with how beautiful they are.

in this moment, surrounded by dim light and the murmur of their co-conspirators' voices, ruthless, determined, weary, they truly seem as though they can do anything. even kill a Master. even go further than that.

the plan is set into motion.

the first week or so, things proceed as intended. coded messages arrive at Jacob's lodgings; he takes them to the townhouse. the location of the sanctum is pinpointed. possible entry points noted, though more observation is needed to determine whether any of them can actually be used.

then, two of the revolutionaries are arrested.

Jacob brings the grim news early in the morning. the one member of their cell that managed to get away relayed the story: Constable ambush, just as they released their bat. his comrades were seized; the bat shot down; he threw himself into the Stolen River, and the others must have assumed him dead.

Drakona listens to the account. once it's over, for a long moment, they say nothing.

finally, they ask, "are we compromised?"

Jacob shakes his head.

"they have a legend," he says. "and if all else fails..."

his voice trails off.

"well?"

"I'd saved some irrigo ink. from the red book. in small doses, it's safe to drink. each of them has a vial."

they are both silent, for a moment.

then, Drakona nods.

"then we keep working."

there are more arrests. it feels as though for every valuable piece of information that comes in, they lose someone. no way to know where they go, either: New Newgate at best. and at worst?

sleepless nights. routes and schedules rearranged — to no avail. the Constables find them again. how do they keep finding them?

does Cups know?

Drakona and Jacob stare at each other over a kitchen table full of notes. hoping to see some kind of realization in the other's eyes, finding only a mirror of their own blunt annoyance, of the kind that settles over a mind that's been awake far too long trying to solve an impossible problem.

"how do they keep finding us?" they ask, exasperated.

"I don't know," he says. "perhaps you should ask your Constable friends."

"how exactly? shall I volunteer to hunt myself?" they pause, run a hand over their face, tangle their fingers in their curls. "...I suppose it's not the worst idea we've had so far."

he shakes his head. "risky."

"well if we keep hesitating, we'll run out of people."

"and if you are caught, the operation is over."

that's how Iffy finds them when she comes downstairs in the morning. she puts a pot of coffee on.

over breakfast, the conversation finally takes a productive turn.

the Constables had gotten wise to the Revolutionaries' tactics. perhaps it's time to ask help of someone other than the Revolutionaries.

names are listed. letters penned. careful, polite. calling favors owed from weeks, months ago. at times calling on nothing but a feeling of friendship, acknowledging the strangeness of the request, stressing the importance of keeping it secret.

messages mailed, sent with rat couriers, left in dead drops. requests for distractions. trouble stirred up at a specific place and time, to draw the Constables' attention away. no blood, if possible.

it works.

The Dreaming Detective has gained many enemies, but so have they gained friends. artists, criminals, zailors, academics, monster hunters. people willing to take them at their word, to follow directions blindly. to accept a promise for a payment.

a brawl at the docks. an especially disastrous robbery attempt. a carriage crash. an impromptu street performance. decoy bats sent into the air, charting confusing paths in the air. a squad of cackling rattus faber with bat-shaped gliders sowing even further confusion.

their bats are no longer being shot down.

up in the Flit, the Detective and Firebrand climb to the top of a rickety wooden tower to observe the fruits of their work.

here, a troupe of drunken performers pours into the street, throwing hats and ribbons and live mice into the air. one of them tosses a bat up. no one notices.

there, a Rubbery and a gentleman in a docker's attire approach a Constable, urging her to solve some incomprehensible dispute between the two. by the time she extricates herself, she'd lost track of the man she was following.

off at the University, someone's unfortunate experiment explodes in flashes of multicolored light. multiple Constable carriages rush to the scene. bats soar from the streets emptied of their scrutiny.

down below, the city of London dances like clockwork, pushed from one note of the song to the next by the many disjointed efforts of people who will never know each other. who will never know what it's all for.

"incredible," the Firebrand says quietly, near breathless.

"there is a beauty to this, I'll admit," the Detective agrees, leaning off the edge as they brace themself with a rope. "something intoxicating, almost. I do enjoy playing mastermind for a change."

he smiles. "it suits you."

they step back from the edge of the platform, release the rope. turn to him, step closer, smirk as they pretend to fix his jacket in a long-familiar motion.

"you've been a bad influence on me, I suppose," they say teasingly. "my very own Revolutionary."

he looks at them with a degree of wonder. "you still wouldn't say that you are one?"

they bite down on their lip, considering his question.

"February certainly doesn't think so," they say finally.

"February's way is one of several," he says. "to her, anyone who disagrees is in the wrong. she is not unique in that."

"I'm not fighting the same battle you are."

"but you've agreed to fight for us still."

"I have." they are silent, for a moment. "Jacob?"

"yes, my love?"

"tell me about the Liberation of Night."

they haven't read the book, after all. back when he'd given it to them, the Nadir ordeal proved to be rather distracting, and then... and then they just wanted to enjoy his company. and then was Jack. and then there were all those other dreadful things. they'd decided, at some point, that if they ever do decide to pry into his work, they'd rather hear it from him.

and so they do.

sitting together on that wooden platform, he tells them of the Great Work. of Judgements, and Laws, and the everpresent unseen tyranny. of the true reason sunlight is fatal to those who have died in the Neath. of the ambition to change it all. the freedom that will follow.

they listen.

"all light?" they ask at one point. "all of it?"

"it is the Liberation of Night," he says.

"sounds... inconvenient."

"it will be different, after."

"different how?"

he sounds spellbound. "existence will be different. there will be no confines. no limits. we will be free to experience anything and everything as we please."

they stare out at the lights of London.

"I don't know. freedom sounds lovely, but I do rather value my ability to see. to — to know what day and time it is. it wasn't pleasant, the few times I'd lost it. in the Republic, and such."

"the Republic is different," he says. "it will not be like that. once liberated — the very meaning of sight might change."

"that... doesn't sound reassuring."

"think about it," he says. "you'd told me of your life on the Surface. how you could never put words to your suffering. you couldn't conceive of existing as anything other as a woman, even if it pained you — but there was another way, all along, and it was kept from you. in the same way, true freedom is kept from us; we think it frightening, because we were never allowed to even ponder it. but would you ever go back? would you ever be Catherine again, now that you have been Drakona?"

a thin smile crosses their face.

"well argued. you should try yourself in debating, sometime."

"have I convinced you?"

"you've given me pause." they hesitate. "say... do you think we might find ourselves opposed, in time? over whether we should keep the lights on?"

"no," he says, without even a moment's pause.

they look at him, surprised.

"you're awfully certain."

"I believe in my cause," he says. "I believe in us, too. I believe in you. you hadn't led me astray so far."

"that is to say?..."

"there is much work to be done before we turn our attention to the stars. on that work, we align. that is the way of revolution: we work together, even if the only belief that unites us is that things should change. but I believe you and I agree on much more than that, and when time comes to choose a side — " he hesitates for but a moment — "I know we will not be enemies. for now, that is enough."

there is a brief silence.

"is it enough for you?" he asks.

they smile.

"I love you," they say quietly. "and I owe you my life, in more ways than one. I won't say nothing would part me from you, because some truly terrible forces might take it as a challenge, but I can promise you this, love: it would have to be a bloody ordeal."

the light of the false-stars and the single lamp they'd brought with them color their pale blue eyes a knife-edge grey.

he kisses them, then.

somewhere, another spy-bat soars into the air.

in time, the map is completed. with fifteen revolutionaries still standing and their network of favors nearly exhausted, the work is, at last, finished.

Sunny brings in their infiltrator agent. his connections in the rat world are better than any of theirs; the bandit-chief on his shoulder, white-furred and red-eyed just like the man he swore a blood oath to, receives his instructions with steely focus ans a dash of roguish bravado, and then he's gone, skittering away with the mirror-shard strapped to his back.

they wait. they pass the time discussing their next steps.

Drakona will go through the mirror. Sunny and Bedbug will be their guides in Parabola.

Jacob asks to go with them.

"to Parabola?" they ask.

"to the end," he says. "let me be there. let me see your triumph — and keep you safe until it comes."

"you — "

"I know the danger."

they meet his eyes. he's certain.

they can hardly say it's not his fight too, can they?

they agree.

Iffy simply asks where they want her.

at home, they say. at home with the red book and the last two vials of black honey.

if the worst happens, there must be someone left to carry on. to finish the work or to forget it. as she sees fit.

Iffy does not argue.

they wait.

eventually, the rat bandit-chief returns: scarred and changed by what he'd seen, but successful. it is done.

the final preparations begin. the acquisition of resources, some forward scouting into Parabola. the getting of affairs in order.

none of them wish to think of the worst that might happen.

Drakona can't seem to stop thinking about it.

it's all they dream of, these nights. each time they close their eyes, it's a maze of mirrors, Jacob and sometimes Sunny and sometimes inexplicably Iffy at their side. and each time something goes wrong.

they get to Cups, but it is waiting for them. Iffy is dragged in by neddy-men. executed right before their eyes.

they manage to sneak in and are caught before they can poison Cups' food. strange shadowy figures seize them. they watch Jacob slide a vial of black honey out of his sleeve, tip it into his own mouth — no antidote — and disappear forever.

on their way through Parabola, Sunny is snatched away by something. they never find him. they never find Cups.

they find Cups and it speaks to them in James' voice. why did you kill me, Catherine? it doesn't make any sense. it doesn't —

Jacob dies.

Jacob dies again.

Jacob dies in their dreams so many times that they lose count. that seeing his corpse becomes the expected result of falling asleep.

they wake up in the dead of night. slide out of his embrace. then they sit on the edge of the bed or on the floor next to it, so that their face is level with his, and watch him until their eyes burn and their stomach turns with nausea.

they do not want to lose him.

they might.

they do not have it in them to ask him to stay behind.

they are afraid, too. not just for him — for themself. it seems silly, after Jack, after the Republic, after Lilac, after the dreams of the dead. but they are afraid of Mr. Cups. of what it will do if it catches them before they catch it.

during the day, they struggle to eat. to focus on any work. they spend their time reading. sometimes they take honey and spend the entire dream lying face-down in the soft grass, their only wish to stop thinking, at least for a while.

three days before it's time, Jacob comes in with a present for them.

he watches them unwrap the package. within is clothing; a suit made by their measurements. fabric so dark that you can hardly see its folds. jacket, trousers, vest. a matching black shirt, black tie, black gloves.

they'd seen Liberationist anarchists wear this before. they'd seen him wear this before.

they look up at him.

"are you certain?"

"we voted," he says. "at least until this is over, you are one of us."

they manage a smile. "I'm charmed."

"try it on?"

it is such a strange sight, to see themself in the mirror, wearing an Anarchist's Sable.

they do look rather dashing, they must admit.

if they unfocus their eyes, it's so very easy to take their clothing for a mourning dress.

but it isn't.

they fasten a small red pin to their lapel. a final touch.

"I'd say I must be the most handsome revolutionary to have ever lived, but they'd had you for quite a while."

he approaches, stands next to them in the mirror. the black of his morning suit a dull grey in comparison to theirs. gently, he lifts their arm, shows them the hidden pockets inside of their sleeves and on the inner side of their jacket. perfect for storing the vials of poison. just like in their nightmare.

the last night before it's time, neither of them can quite fall asleep. they know that they must, for tomorrow's sake, and yet it's difficult — to quiet one's mind and to reach for the laudanum, in equal measure.

they curl up, bury their face in his shoulder. let him run his hand through their hair again and again, play with a lock of it restlessly as his own thoughts race.

eventually, he softly calls their name, and they peek out of the comforting darkness.

"there is something I must ask you," he says.

"hm?"

"if — when it is finished," he says, "would you consider — would you marry me?"

they blink.

"is this a proposal?"

"no, I — I don't have a ring. and I would not pressure you to decide now. I simply... wanted to know."

I'd rather not die without knowing, is the part he won't say out loud.

the question would fill them with dread, under normal circumstances. it still does — there is an attempt from their body to experience fear — but they'd been ceaselessly afraid for the last eight hours or so, and it hardly makes a difference. if anything, strangely, there is relief. they are acknowledging this might be the end, and that they do not want it to be.

"when it's done, maybe," they say quietly. "I don't know if — if I have it in me, to marry. but if I did, I'd like it to be you, I think."

he makes a noise. a sigh or a laugh, they can't quite tell.

"I'm glad," he says.

"Jacob, I'm scared."

"so am I."

"I know."

"it will be worth it, in the end."

"I hope so." they shiver. "I hope it will be the end."

"it will be," he says quietly. "we've worked a long time for this. you will have your justice. we will send our message."

they allow themself to believe him.

the next day, they help him into his night-dyed jacket. he ties their tie for them. they divide ten vials of black honey evenly between them, slide them into the hidden pockets in their suits. a vial of antidote for each of them, too. better safe than sorry.

they do make a rather striking pair in the mirror. seeing themself and him, side by side, they almost feel... powerful. like it could work. like they are carried by a force far bigger than they are. like the fire that burns behind their lover's eyes can be theirs too, if only for a day.

James, could you ever imagine this? they ask silently. could you imagine me like this?

did you ever know how far I would go for your sake?

James is dead. he does not answer them.

it is time.

night comes and goes. eventually, Jacob has no choice but to go; there are things he must attend to.

Iffy assures him it's fine. whatever happened yesterday, it seems like all three of them were willing participants. surely, then, this is all part of the plan.

(she has to believe that, for her own sanity.)

once Jacob leaves, on a hunch, she goes into her cousin's room. takes stock of what's there. their travel bag is missing; so are some of their clothes. they have too many pens and notebooks to keep track of, but their desk is suspiciously barren, and the little black book where they'd been keeping track of the Cups case is nowhere to be seen.

an inquiry at the docks lends even more obvious results: their zee-clipper had left London the same night Lilac appeared.

they might be gone for a while, then.

the house is so awfully quiet.

days pass. she spends her nights out, hunting, same as she did when Drakona was sick and it was someone else's turn to look after them. when she must return home, she takes to inviting guests to keep the silence at bay. Sunny is easily the most frequent visitor at her lodgings, and she at his. both know and understand the safety that comes with having someone else — someone trusted — in the space where you sleep.

Jacob does his best to carry on with his work. the regular type of work, his work for the cause, his work for the other cause — the two are one and the same to him, but the likes of February would disagree — and then his research. he's a busy man, really. he shouldn't have a single minute free to think about things he can't, won't ever know.

it's all he thinks about. like picking at a wound; reaching again and again into that absence as if somehow he'd manage to claw more information out of it. he knows, by now, that it won't work; it certainly didn't work with the memories of his past.

it's worse this time, somehow. he didn't think anything could possibly compare to the first time — rifling through his own mind like a house that had been broken into, discovering more and more treasured possessions stolen — but it is. this time, the helplessness is made worse by the knowledge that they are somewhere, and perhaps no one in London knows where. they could be in any manner of peril — they could be back tomorrow or never — they could be —

it spirals. he finds himself constantly distracted. his associates take notice; he claims simple overexertion.

it has been a while since he's last felt the missing parts of himself so keenly. in truth, he'd dared to hope that the empty spaces had closed up; filled up with more recent affairs, with his ambitions and his studies and his love. mended. reforged. he told them he'd be anything they wanted him to; they asked only that he be theirs. and he was. he is.

there are empty spaces in his days and nights and there are empty spaces in his mind. in his worst moments, he feels like a fascimile of a person; a facade stretched thin over a yawning void. doing his best to pretend that he is whole.

if only he'd been faster with his research. they could have warded themselves against the irrigo — they could have known where Drakona has gone. he could have known. it wouldn't have ached in this way, if he had known.

one evening, with fear and guilt still gnawing on his mind, he brings his research to the townhouse. his full research.

he'd enlisted Iffy's help before; back when her and Drakona were both recovering from the Republic's influence, and the good doctor seemed like she might use a distraction from her worry for her cousin and her own memories.

he needed a second opinion on the influence of certain chemicals on memory retention. she'd smiled at him bleakly, asked whether it was a pity offer.

he admitted that it was. she did look terrible at the time. his need for help was genuine, however.

she snatched the papers from his hand before he could say more. he had them back, fully annotated, in a matter of days, with a list of her own suggestions and some recommended reading.

he never told her what it was for, and she didn't ask. there were other worries, at the time.

he sets his journals and books down on the kitchen table and explains that he's searching for an alternative — a more precise, reliable one — to the Ray-Drenched cinder. he mentions how Drakona once told him they'd like to forget certain things, and how it gave him the idea that perhaps the irrigo can't be tamed, but can be bargained with.

he offers her to collaborate. not a pity offer, this time; a genuine request for help. he had encountered a complication a while ago that he hadn't been able to solve, and the anxiety that has been plaguing him hardly helps.

she accepts.

it isn't the smoothest start. he's grown protective of his work and precious with his conclusions, and, unlike her cousin, Iffy has little patience for the grand ideas of the Liberation and the more esoteric descriptions of the Neath; her questions are pointed, always drawing back to the science of the matter at hand, searching for a tangible problem to sink her teeth into.

they bicker. they read back through months' worth of notes. they root out mistakes and oversights. they make progress.

at times their conversation moves from research to other things. they haven't had much reason to spend time together outside of their shared fondness for the Detective; with them missing, they confide in each other instead. it becomes something much like a friendship; late-night conversations over a cup of tea or a glass of something stronger, and a guest room waiting for him in the townhouse whenever he needs it.

weeks pass. it's hard not to wonder, by now.

Iffy maintains that everything will be fine. that Drakona is more than capable of taking care of themself. she tries not to dwell on the fact that they'd died away from home before; they came back, didn't they? and they will come back again.

Jacob allows himself to believe her.

they maintain the legend that Drakona is pursuing a case, working undercover. his people keep collecting information on Cups and the ways of the Bazaar for an assassin who may never return.

well over a month after the disappearance, they are taking morning tea together after another one of Jacob's late-night visits when someone knocks on the door.

Drakona makes a funny noise when their cousin nearly knocks them off their feet, drawing them into a hug. they hug her back. the two stand together for a long moment.

Jacob is there before they can answer any of her questions. the relief is immense and immediate.

they gently place a hand over his mouth when he leans in to kiss them. they shake their head.

it suddenly occurs to the other two that they had not said a single word so far.

they wriggle free of the embrace a bit, reach into their coat, pull out the little black notebook. flip to a page, point to a line they had pre-written.

It may not be safe for me to speak.

they open their mouth, stick their tongue out. point at the strange symbol inked on it. point at more lines in the notebook.

I do not know what this is. I do not remember getting it.

I woke up on the ship about two weeks ago. I do not remember the month before that.

there are questions. for some of them, they have pre-written answers. for others, they pull out a pencil and scribble in the margins of their notebook.

still, the atmosphere is one of relief. they are back. they are alive. that is enough for now. a consensus emerges that the mark looks like Correspondence; that, since Drakona doesn't recognize it, it might be best to try their luck at the University.

Jacob still hasn't quite let go of them. they do not seem to mind, resting their head on his shoulder as they listen to him and Iffy speak.

they feel strangely at peace.

they are home. again. who knows for how long — but for now. their memories and the mark on their tongue can be seen to, one way or another.

every person present is here because they have lost someone to the Bazaar, or have a loved one who did. today, they will demand payback. they may have to stake their lives on this, but they all knew, when they swore loyalty to the cause, that this day may come.

every person present is here because they trust the Firebrand.

they all listen as he speaks. quiet. dead serious. some of them are grimly determined. some are excited.

none of them will be the ones to land the killing blow. the person who will is not in the room. but that hardly matters.

in their bedroom in a handsome townhouse, Lady Detective Drakona picks up the knife that killed their fiancé. it's heavy in their hand. they are far more used to firearms or bare fists.

they watch the light play on the edge of the blade. what kind of weapon can kill a Master? what kind of person can kill a Master?

they'd gotten back on their feet. they'd set the cane aside, for the most part. but the task before them demands so much more than that.

I believe they are mortal, Jacob had said to them, the first time they'd met. And I hear they bleed.

they set the knife back down into their desk drawer, close it and lock it.

in the Flit, revolutionaries file out of the dimly lit room, leaving in small groups, at staggered intervals, to avoid attention. their orders, for now: gather as much information as they can on Mr. Cups and Mr. Mirrors, and everything one might need to infiltrate the Bazaar.

each to their own work. time passes. information trickles to the Firebrand, and from him to the Detective. new pages tacked to their bedroom wall. hushed half-asleep discussions whispered into a lover's hair or shoulder as they both lay awake in the small hours of the night.

there is a route one can take to reach the Masters' book of appointments. they will not let anyone else go in their stead. they need to do this, need to see for themself — and besides, the copper door they will enter through requires a tale of blood and peril, and a skilled storyteller.

there is hardly anyone better suited for the task.

their breath mists the copper as they whisper into the seam between the door and the wall: "It started with a murder."

they've recalled finding the body before, but never in such detail. they'd left for hardly more than an hour to discuss some of the wedding arrangements. they were supposed to spend the rest of the day with him. he'd said he had a new book for them.

he was waiting for them in their late uncle's study. his son never spent much time there, but James took to the place. he'd done some of his work there. read some of the books.

he was flat on his back, pale. his blood had seeped into the carpet. there was a red bloom of blood on his shirt.

they hadn't even noticed the flower petals scattered around him, at first.

they knew he was dead, in some dumb primal way, as soon as they saw him. even as they grabbed him and called for him. even as they screamed. their body was going through the motions as if knowing that's what they were supposed to do, and their mind meanwhile had sunk to some deep unreachable place from which it would not emerge for a while.

they gloss over the funeral. skip to burying their engagement ring in the garden, packing the rest of their jewelry into his suitcase. cutting their hair off, putting his clothes on, and walking out of the house. it's a marvel, really, that no one had stopped them. perhaps they'd been mistaken for one of the notaries, journalists or sympathetic relatives that were still swarming the place. perhaps they'd gotten ridiculously lucky, and no one saw them at all.

first weeks of their new life. a man's name. a notebook crammed full of everything they knew about the case. asking uncomfortable questions. a punch thrown at their face at a bar of ill repute; force, numbness, the taste of blood in their mouth.

it always puzzled them that they didn't cry; didn't feel much at all, really. they'd never been at the receiving end of such violence before; even their tutors were always instructed to opt for gentler punishments, fearing, perhaps, of what a harsh blow might do to their constitution.

there was nothing but a strange, perverse relief; relief at being recognized as a man and thus a fair opponent; relief at feeling a fraction of the ache that had plagued their soul reverberate through their skin and bones.

it would have been strange and cowardly for a man to run upon being struck just once, but they were no fighter. still, they reasoned it does not require extreme martial prowess to smash one's glass over a man's head.

that assumption turned out to be correct.

in the morning, the bartender had a bill and a bit of interesting gossip for them. they'd wrung a lead out of that one.

there were more fights, but other than that, nothing that the copper door would enjoy. they skip ahead. New Newgate. Mackay. red honey. the Cage-Gardens. Venderbight. death. Venderbight again. Carrywell. Jack-of-Smiles. the Iron Republic.

scratching nails, gnashing teeth, hushed breathing behind the door. is there a gatekeeper, or is the Bazaar itself listening?

Scathewick.

they are describing the weight of the knife in their hand for the first time when the door clicks open.

poor bastard. even the Bazaar doesn't want to know what happened to him.

they slip inside.

their friends — Jacob's friends — have helped immensely. what they couldn't find, a few careful inquiries to their own Candlefinder and scholar friends could easily compensate for. they know how to wear a cloak to blend in with the other shadows roaming the corridors. they know to protect their eyes from the boiling light. they know the name of the poison from Polythreme the Master's schedules are written in, and the name of the poison's child.

they read. one Master; two names. strange, but not that strange. they've worn many names and faces, themself, by now.

one killing, then, not two. a little easier, they suppose.

they leave with a name.

Lilac. a lady of irrigo. they want to laugh, when the Honey-Addled Detective relays the tale, the myth of her. they know exactly who he's talking about.

they saw her in the Nadir, or, rather, they saw what she left there. she was a Clathermont; was, when she walked into the irrigo. no telling who came out of it, but she is real, and she is entangled with Cups or Mirrors or whatever else it calls itself, and that is enough.

Jacob has a resigned sort of look in his eyes when they tell him. the irrigo, they think, may be his own nemesis.

he asks that they be careful. they promise, then make a futile attempt to set his mind at ease with a joke, pointing out their own irrigo-tinted glasses and amber pendant. surely, the woman will recognize a fellow "lady in lilac" as a kindred spirit.

he does not find it funny. well, they had to try.

like everything else that comes from the Bazaar, Lilac has a hunger for love stories. fortunately, they have gotten very good at writing them.

they do not use their own. they do not pull love stories from cases. they track down older, forgotten tales; something precious to history, but not to them. they can't bear the idea of feeding their own love to her. they fear that she might take it and leave.

it's a beautiful work. they would say it's not one of their finest — anthologizing stories penned and lived by others with a new coat of paint isn't nearly as rewarding as inventing something from scratch — but reviews beg to differ. what the work lacks in originality, it makes up for in its bleeding, bitter-yet-hopeful prose. one reviewer compares it to the edge of a blade, not knowing how close she came to the truth.

it pays nicely, too.

all that is left is to wait.

finally, one day, a waft of lilac at their door. she is outside. they can see her through the window, a blurry figure in the lamplight.

Jacob is there. he grabs their hand for a moment, in what could be encouragement or a last minute attempt to stop them.

they go to open the door.

they are bundled up in a warm coat, a scarf and a wool hat. freezing wind bites at their face. there is a burning itch on their tongue, as though they'd tried to swallow glass.

they are not in London. they are on board of a ship. the date in the ship's log is one month later than it should be. the itch on their tongue is a strange symbol that does not immediately read as Correspondence to them, but they can't quite rule anything out yet. they would rather prefer that their mouth does not catch on fire, though.

a month had been stolen from them. they are in the North. and they'd been marked with... something. until they know what it is, they decide to refrain from speaking for a while.

they should be terrified. they aren't. the part of them that was afraid might have died at zee on the way back from the Republic, or withered away in the weeks they spent motionless in their lodgings.

the way they see it, their path is extremely clear.

get back home. find answers.