Corey Short's death weighed heavily on Yvette's conscience, yet what's done couldn't be undone. When the name resurfaced days later, fate twisted its knife anew.

  "Apologies for this meager hospitality," muttered Keegan, the druid they called Oak Sage, gesturing at their dismal surroundings - a derelict factory turned relief station.

  Yvette chewed stoically on the dense loaf, its course texture a far cry from aristocratic fare. Potato-pea bread, scorned as pauper's gruel now, would ironically become artisanal chic in future centuries. Here, jaw-aching gnawing replaced delicate slicing. A flicker of Otherworldly warmth softened the ordeal.

  Keegan shifted uncomfortably. The Irish ascetic's oath permitted him root vegetables, but serving this to a noble-born girl? The slums offered no redemption.

  "Quite tasty, really - earthy sweetness." With practiced poise, Yvette brushed crumbs from her corduroy coat, beret concealing telltale lustrous locks.

  Around them loomed the Mutual Aid Society's reserves - crates of rough bread and salvaged goods. In an age when governments turned blind eyes, the poor sustained themselves through communal grit. Each copper coin pooled became medicine for the sick, shrouds for the dead, hope for the jobless.

  Dawn had found Yvette adopting laborers' hours. By noon, her dual talents - clerk's precision and Otherworldly vigor - halved the day's work. Dockhands gaped as the "delicate lad" hefted flour sacks like feather pillows.

  "Here, pretty lad - your due!" A grizzled organizer tossed Yvette a scuffed football, treasure beyond slum children's wildest hopes.

  "Jaiden, she's not..." Keegan's protest died as Yvette dimpled.

  "Gracious thanks, Uncle!"

  Post-inventory, Keegan surveyed the crowd: "Distribute now? Evening brings chaos in dark streets."

  "Why so much food?" Yvette frowned. "Shouldn't fuel and clothes dominate?"

  "Carpenters..." Keegan hesitated. "Their employer... defaulted. Took his life."

  "Short? Corey Short?" The name struck like thunderclap.

  The druid veered into forest lore, sparking her request: "That Flame Cloak Potion - could your circle provide more?"

  "A fire-ring brewer? Masked at the Sabbat. I know a stationary flame-wall mixer..."

  "Mobility's essential."

  Chaos erupted during distribution. Yvette waded through shouting men as Keegan demanded answers.

  "That whoreson destroyed us!" A snarling worker shook his quarry. "His lies drove Short to ruin!"

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  "Union slander?"

  The accused fled, only to meet Yvette's iron grip: "Oh no you don't. Talk."

  In a grimy alley behind the warehouses, the man squirmed under Yvette and Keegan’s interrogation. "Short docked my pay ’cause I slacked off," he muttered. "Wanted to make ’im pay."

  "You foul worm!" Keegan’s face flushed crimson. "Expelled from the Brotherhood! Leave London—if I see you again, I’ll throttle you myself!"

  In this age of threadbare survival, even shopkeepers lived week-to-week. Laborers without kin or fellowships crumbled at the first crisis—a fever became a death sentence. For an Irishman like him, exile was a death warrant: London’s workers blamed his kind for stolen jobs and surging crime. Yet the man just nodded, hollow-eyed.

  "Deserve it, Mr. Keegan. I’ll go."

  Yvette’s instincts prickled. Too calm. A man cast out into this Irish-hating city should rage or beg. But loyal Keegan noticed nothing, so she held her tongue, memorizing the man’s retreating path. She excused herself later, trailing him through twilight streets.

  The man meandered without urgency, swigging ale from a bottle. By nightfall, he staggered drunk into London’s underbelly—a squalid district even constables avoided. Medieval sanctuaries for outlaws had decayed into gang nests locals called "the Devil’s Acre."

  Yvette navigated the maze of crumbling tenements. Gaunt youths in stolen finery eyed her, but her boyish disguise held. She slipped past a snoozing lookout, scaling worm-eaten bricks to a rooftop. Voices echoed from a second-story hovel:

  "...Did like you said, boss. Drove Short to off ’imself. Brotherhood booted me out. Nowhere else to go..." The man’s earlier resignation had curdled into groveling.

  "Beetle—two quid. See him out," drawled a voice like rusted iron.

  "Right you are, chief!" piped a teenage boy.

  "But boss! You promised—!" The man’s plea drowned under a pistol’s metallic click.

  The boy laughed. "Take the coins, or I’ll take ’em back through your skull!"

  Yvette peered through rotten shingles as the man bolted. The cold voice spoke again: "Tail him. Feed him to the Thames. Loose lips sink ships—and our ‘noble patrons’ won’t shield us if this leaks."

  Patrons. The laborer was a pawn. Yvette needed to trace the strings upward—but first, warn Keegan.

  As she retreated, a freckled teen blocked her path—Beetle, all cocky swagger. "What crew you from, eh?"

  Yvette feigned desperation. "Got nowhere. Heard this place takes strays..."

  Beetle jabbed her chest. "What’s your trade? Dip? Fence? Cat burglar?"

  Yvette gambled. "Locks. I crack ’em silent."

  "Chief’ll bite. Come on."

  The chief’s den reeked of vice. Hawk-nosed and reptilian-eyed, he presided over his court: a honey-trap girl counted coins; preteens traded pilfered linen for pennies. Beetle strutted in, puffing his chest.

  "You sorted the snitch?" the chief growled.

  "Snitch is fish food, chief! Found this locksmith here—fresh meat!"

  "A fiver for you, Beetle." The chief never blinked, leering at Yvette. A preteen thief whined about unfair pay, but the chief’s gaze stayed fixed.

  The honey-trap girl purred, "Maybe better work for you, pretty thing..."

  The chief dismissed the crew. Alone, he circled Yvette. "Name. Age."

  "Charle. Orphan. Sixteen."

  "Sixteen… Get nabbed, they’ll hang you like Christmas pudding."

  "Won’t get nabbed."

  "Arrogant pup." The chief’s breath reeked of gin. "But I’ve sweeter work. Quieter. Fatter purses."

  Yvette recoiled as he grabbed her chin. "I’m no Molly boy."

  He chuckled. "Men pay plenty for porcelain skin like yours. No locksmith earns this much."

  Revulsion surged, but Yvette played along. She flicked a hairpin, popping a padlock silently—a "parlor trick" powered by her hidden gifts. The chief huffed but yielded, calling her a prissy coward.

  As his vulgarities flowed, Yvette plotted. Once she unraveled this gang’s patrons—be they mortal lords or darker forces—Mr. Alto would raze this rat’s nest. Let the chief dance at rope’s end.

  But first… who pulled the strings?