It was early in the blooming and Zahra had a firm grip on Vincent’s arm as she helped him stagger through the Velvet Sheath’s front door.

Kit limped after, holding her hastily bandaged arm. All three were as ragged and soaked as wharf cats, and the glowfeather-lit interior of the brothel was blessed sanctuary to Kit’s eyes.

“By the gods, Zahra, what hast thou ushered into our hall?” a deep voice bellowed. Kit blinked tiredly over to its source and her eyes widened. Sitting by the hearth was possibly the largest individual she’d ever encountered. The bald man dwarfed the armchair he perched on, a mountain of muscle straining the limits of the ill-fitting gentleman’s clothing he wore. He had a massive blond beard, plaited and woven with silver charms, and what of his pale skin that was exposed was covered in elaborate blue markings.

Laughing jovially, he closed the thick book he’d been reading and placed it on his enormous lap, blue eyes twinkling. “This wretched youth, besmirched with crimson gore, doth seem a spectre of slaughter!”

“This is Kit, our new cozener and foist,” Zahra grunted. “Kit, meet Thrain Steinhugr, our giant, from the Darkward lands of Thule.”

“Myrkvegr, in sooth!” Thrain exclaimed. “Well met, good Master Kit. Hath thy quest borne sweet fruit, or dost thou return with naught but shadows and blood?”

“We got what we were after,” Zahra said, leading Vincent over to a couch. He sank onto the threadbare velveteen cushions, shivering violently; teeth chattering, he fumbled for his pipe. The man looked dreadful, his eyes even more sunken and bruised than before, cheekbones jutting like blades. “But it was messier than I prefer.”

“Oh, Kit! Are you hurt badly?” Rose’s alarmed voice rang through the foyer as she bolted down the stairs and raced over.

“‘Tis not mine,” Kit muttered as Rose fussed, pulling back the stiff strands of rain-damp hair matted with clotted blood caked to Kit’s forehead. The young whore exhaled in relief and laid a hand on Kit’s chest.

Kit gingerly redirected Rose’s hand away before the girl discovered something she shouldn’t. “I’m fine, really,” she assured Rose, whose big hazel eyes were round as saucers. “‘Tis not my blood. Well, that is, on my arm, but ‘twas just the graze of a pistol ball.”

“Byskin, you’ve been shot!” Rose squeaked. She spun and shouted to Scarlett, who was flopped out on a couch with Sebastian’s head in her lap. “He’s been shot!”

“And yet the brave lad still stands,” Sebastian slurred. “Why, I knew a man who once marched four and twenty leagues with a musket ball in his gut whilst making jests the whole way. Even paused to swive a dairy maid.”

“That was from a play you wrote,” Scarlett corrected.

“Aye, that it was.” Sebastian laughed. “Rather good one too. Better than Millhurst’s rot. Everything he pens is cribbed from someone else.”

“You are a brave lad,” Rose told Kit earnestly, turning back to her. “Come, I’ll get you cleaned up and bandaged properly so it doesn’t fester. And then I’ll pour you a bath and scrub all this horrid blood off you.”

“Can scrub myself, thanks,” Kit muttered as Rose dragged her into the kitchen, calling for someone named Goodwife Carter to heat water.

“Now you just sit yourself here,” Rose instructed, firmly setting Kit down on a bench at the table where a young girl sat gnawing on a crust of bread. “I’ll be right back, just need to fetch some things.”

“Martyrs,” a broad woman with voluminous skirts cried from over by the hearth. “You’re covered head to toe in blood!”

“Not mine,” Kit assured her.

“Well, thank the Shroud for that,” the woman said, marching over and pouring Kit a cup of small beer from a pitcher. “I don’t believe I’ve met you before. New to the captain’s crew?”

“Aye, name’s Kit.” She held up the cup. “Thank you.”

“Annabelle Carter,” the woman replied. “I’ll get water heating. You need a bath something dreadful, boy.”

Rose tramped back in, skirts swishing, carrying a bucket near as big as her sloshing over with water. She poured the water into a pot over the fire and then left again. Kit looked over to the girl at the table, who was staring at her.

“That’s an awful lot of blood,” the girl said. “I’m Lily.”

“You Goodwife Carter’s girl?” Kit asked.

Lily scrunched up her face. “Nay, I work here.”

Kit nearly choked on her beer. The mousy little waif sitting across from her couldn’t be taller than Cannon or older than eleven—maybe twelve at the outside, and Kit said as much.

“I’m new,” Lily said in a blank monotone. “Madame bought me from my mama in a dream-tar den a couple moons ago. Scarlett’s been teaching me the trade. I hate it here, but don’t tell Old Rue. She whips me enough as it is ‘cause I still cry sometimes when I’m getting swived.” She gave a shrug. “Could be worse. Least the other girls are nice to me.”

She said it all with such a dead expression, Kit almost broke out in tears.

“Right then,” Rose said after hauling in another huge bucket for Annabelle to heat. She sat beside Kit and laid out a bundle of clean linen strips, rags, a small jar of foul-smelling ointment, tiny bird bones, a blue crystal bead, and a little pouch with a long, looped cord.

“You going to lay a charm on me then?” Kit asked Rose.

“Aye, and a good one, too.” She unwrapped the bandage and Kit jerked as dried blood ripped off the wound. Rose ripped Kit’s sleeve open to get a good look at the injury. “A graze, he said,” she commented to Lily, who was watching with interest. “‘Tis a mortal wound!”

“‘Tis barely a scratch,” Kit protested, looking at the deep, bloody gash on her bicep. The ball had grazed her good, and she was lucky. A few more finger-breadths and it would’ve shattered bone. It hurt like a twice-swived and thrice-buggered devil all the same. And the scar was going to be hideous, assuming it didn’t fester and kill her.

Annabelle brought over a steaming bowl of water and Rose thanked her before wetting a rag and cleaning the wound. Then she dabbed the nasty ointment on it liberally. Next, Rose tucked the bird bones and bead into the pouch, and then stood over Kit, narrowing her eyes. “What moon were you born under, lad?”

“Don’t ken,” Kit said. “Don’t even know which harvest ‘twas. Elspeth was already queen, I know that.”

“Then what was your Pa’s name?”

“Don’t ken that neither.”

Rose sighed. “Your Ma then?”

“Cecily.”

“That’s a pretty name.” Rose smiled and squared her tiny shoulders as she cleared her throat. “Right then. Three fairy kings from Sunward and Sinister, To bind this wound by Kahdishor Shald’s grace.” She traced a line from Kit’s brow to navel with the pouch. “Three devils crept from Darkward and Dexter, Their taint undone by His Flayed Skin’s embrace.” She traced the line again. “In Cecily’s name, we weave this spell’s trace.” Then she hung the pouch around Kit’s neck reverently, like it was chain of office. “Now, you need to wear this a whole ten-tide, hear? Don’t take it off.”

Kit nodded. Her uncle’s spells were always far more elaborate. “That it?”

“That’s it,” Rose replied, sitting back down beside her and bandaging the wound. She paused for several seconds to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“You okay?” Kit asked.

“Working strong magic gives her headaches,” Lily explained.

“How do we know if it worked?” Kit asked. “I don’t feel any different.”

“Takes time,” Rose said, forcing a smile. “But you’ll see. Next time we change your bandage it’ll be already set to healing, and in a ten-tide there won’t even be a scar.”

Kit laughed, because no folk charm worked that well. Ever.

“Serious,” Lily said somberly. “I’ve seen it. Rose here’s a true wise woman, like in the stories.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Rose said with an embarrassed laugh. “But don’t tell no one. Word gets ‘round to the Simplefellows I’m a whore and a hedge witch they’ll come knocking with their torches and cat-o’-nine-tails.”

Kit didn’t need to be told. Those joyless, pious whoresons infested the Provences like lice, loudly proclaiming their heretical version of the faith and zealously persecuting sinners. And as far as they were concerned, anyone not them was a sinner. The Church of Karnland was too busy dealing with faithful Panveric recusants plotting to overthrow the Virgin Queen and return the country to the fold, so the Simplefellows were tolerated so long as they heeled to the bishops’ leashes. But to people like Kit’s kin they were a growing menace.

She was about to say what she thought of the joyless whoresons when a dark young woman she hadn’t seen before came storming into the kitchen, wrists and ankles jangling with cheap copper bells, and stood over the table. She ripped a dyed strip of cloth off her head and then poured herself a cup of small beer, drained it in one swallow, then poured another.

“Never thought that cankered cully would leave,” she complained to Rose, then drained her cup again and refilled it. She wore a loose, faded russet bodice, cut low at the neck and high in the waist, layered with flimsy cotton and woolen scarves in red and blue draped around her shoulders, and her faded red skirt was slung low, so a good amount of her nut-brown belly was exposed. Draining the third cup, she collapsed on the bench and scowled at Kit, then eyed Rose.

“No guests in the kitchen,” she snapped. “Especially ones caked in filth and blood. What in the endless void, Rose?”

She had a uniquely attractive face, Kit considered, but horribly marred by a livid scar running from lip to ear.

“Kit’s not a customer,” Rose replied. “He’s the newest Blade. And he got shot last bloomclose, so be nice, Jasmine.”

The other woman snorted and collected her loose hair up into a messy bun. Her expressive brown eyes were framed by thick lashes and gaudy charcoal eyeliner, and, oddly, a glass bead was pasted between her eyes. She caught Kit staring at it and peeled it off, tossing it into the hearth.

“Whatever are you wearing, anyhow?” Rose asked.

“Oh, do you like? ‘Tis what Old Rue thinks a saree looks like. She’s hawking me as a concubine straight from the maharaja’s own harem, now that the whole city has suddenly developed a terminal case of Zindarian madness. I’m to dance and beguile all bloomclose and ply guests with my wanton Sunward charms. She’s charging a whole sixpence for a private dance—with a happy ending, naturally.”

Kit almost asked if Jasmine had seen a real elephant like Zahra had, but figured now probably wasn’t the best time.

“Jasmine’s a princess,” Rose explained to Kit. “A real one.”

“Not precisely,” Jasmine corrected. “My father is Raj of Rathapura, true enough, but my mother was a concubine.”

“She was abducted by slavers as a child while bathing in a river,” Rose added.

“You almost make it sound romantic, Rose.” Jasmine laughed and drained another cup. “But ‘tis true, partly. I wasn’t bathing in a river. I was playing in it with my cousins. The whoresons shipped me ‘cross the sea and sold me like an exotic pet to a jolly Karnish nobleman who charged his jolly chums a crown each to swive me raw. Then one of them did this”—she indicated her scar—“and Old Rue bought me at the skin-men’s auction for pennies on the pound. Flay me. How can people live in this dreary dark land? Look at me, Rose, I’m nearly as pale as you are.”

“Least you aren’t spotted like me,” Kit said.

“Thank the Weaver for that,” Jasmine agreed, tossing back another cup.

“Hey now,” Rose protested. “I think Kit’s freckles are grand. They’re most artfully dusted on his alabaster skin… like fairies’ kisses. And doesn’t he have the most noble nose?”

“Noble nose?” Jasmine nearly spit her beer out laughing and pointed at Kit. “Watch yourself, lad. I think Rose fancies you. This wee pixie here will fuck your yard clean off.”

“Jasmine,” Rose scolded. “You make me sound like some kind of wanton hussy.” She looked at Kit. “I’m really not. Swear to the Martyrs, even if I am a trull.” Then she grinned. “But you I’d swive like a minx.”

Kit could feel her cheeks heating. She might be able to blush on command, but she couldn’t stop it if it started.

“What’s for breakfast, Goodwife?” Jasmine called to Annabelle, still laughing. “I could eat a cow.”

“You don’t eat beef, dear,” Annabelle replied. “I’m making pottage with leeks, beans, and chicken stock.”

Jasmine sniffed and looked back at Kit. “So, what’s your story, lad?“

“I’m a traveling player,” Kit replied.

“And I’m a one-groat whore. That’s an occupation. What’s your story?”

“You’re a sixpence whore now,” Rose pointed out.

Jasmine slapped the table. “You’re right, byskin. Hear that, Goodwife Carter? I’m a flayed sixpence whore now!”

“That’s nice, dear,” Annabelle called back.

Kit had thought up several stories in the last few ten-tides, each more colorful than the last, but Jasmine looked like she had a nose that could cut straight through the shite.

“Skeen!” Rose exclaimed. “I clear forgot about your bath.” She grabbed Kit’s uninjured arm and hauled her up, steering her out of the kitchen as Jasmine chortled about ensuring the lad got a good and proper scrubbing.

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