Chapters 19 and 20

(In which Elizabeth gets caught up in the revolution against Silas, has an altercation with the Black Guard, and brings misery to the Inn)

Nineteenth

Elizabeth paced her bedroom, her mind too busy for sleep. Every time she closed her eyes the inn’s floorboards would creak as they settled, or a cat would move through the dark night, and her eyelids would fly open in anticipation of Lang’s arrival.

She tried reading, but her eyes swam without comprehension over the pages of spiral-writing she had procured from the inn's lounge. She tried making lists of things, a strategy that always worked for her on those nights when she lay awake worrying about her mother, but her ability to catalogue had taken a vacation. Finally, she settled back onto her bed, content to stare at her metal hand.

In the first weeks she spent in Edge, she could hardly stand to look at it. Of course she knew the hand was there and what it was capable of, even made use of its points and blades when she could, when the situation called for it. But intense examination felt too much like probing a fresh wound, seeing the subcutaneous fat and sinew and bone, being forced to acknowledge the existence of parts meant to be hidden from one's own eyes.

But now, after spending so much time relying on the blades for her survival and sustenance, she reached a state of acceptance. She flexed each finger in turn as though she was a prestidigitator walking a coin across the knuckles, making the blades go alternatingly dull then sharp. She bent the wrist back and forth and slowly twisted the forearm as though her arm was on a jewelry-store display table. The design of it, if that was the correct word, was nothing short of amazing. It was as if her bones had been cast in metal, then had been wrapped in a super-hard foil and then folded to taper to a blade's edge on the palm side of each finger, culminating in a pointed tip. Both the knife-edges and the points were unbelievably sharp: she had yet to find anything they wouldn't cut or penetrate.

Other than routine cleaning when it got dirty, Elizabeth had not performed any sort of maintenance on the hand, either. A regular knife would require sharpening to maintain its edge, but this hand seemed not to need the attention. She had come to think of the outer surface as less than alive because of the decrease in sensation, but maybe that wasn't altogether accurate. Maybe the design allowed the energy that would have gone into sending signals to her brain to work in other ways that kept the weapon in as effective a state as possible.

What about healing? If she did come across something hard enough to break or scratch it, would she be left with that damage forever? Or was there some sort of innate repair mechanism she had yet to trigger?

She sighed. Hundreds upon hundreds of stories about Eliza, yet so few contained facts that were actually useful to her. Elizabeth would have killed for a simple handbook for the care of the hand melded with metal.

Her thoughts wandered to the glasses hidden within her face. She had suffered no problems with eye motion or sensitivity, and her vision remained as sharp as when she wore her contacts or glasses in Central. She did feel the a hint of stiffness in the lower portion of her forehead and upper parts of her cheeks where the frame would rest, but this was noticeable only when she scrunched her face.

Did other migrants from Central have similar souvenirs tucked within their skin? She supposed so, especially if they had come through without realizing it. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings, watches—she guessed all of these things could go through the same odd merging. But how many of these occurrences resulted in the formation of a weapon? And how many occurred twice?

Her musing was interrupted by a high-pitched humming, quickly joined by the sound of a light rapping against the door...not from the hallway-side of the door, but rather from the side facing her quarters. She squinted in the dim light to see a small insect making crazy spirals around her room, bumping against the flat of the door every three or four revolutions.

She squinted through the dimness to the clock; it was just after midnight. Maisey had long since gone to bed. Elizabeth got up to open the door, pulling on a glove in case there was someone besides Lang in the hallway. Of course, if anyone else was around to witness this, they would almost certainly get the wrong idea. Though, she considered, the right idea was probably just as damaging.

She opened the door and yanked Lang inside, inadvertently banging his head against the lintel. He yelped his surprise, and the bee dive-bombed Elizabeth’s face. She reached up to slap it away, a reflexive movement that would have been the first step of a fiasco, had Lang not caught her wrist midflight. "I wouldn't. She's awfully touchy, and it took a lot to get her to come to this meeting with just me. She doesn't like being away from her guards."

"’She’?"

"The Queen. You are in the presence of royalty, my dear."

"Should I kneel?"

He considered. "It wouldn't hurt, I suppose, but it isn’t necessary. The Queen doesn't stand much on ceremony, at least not where humans are concerned. There is a little dance the workers do to greet her. If you could replicate that, I suppose she would be impressed, but, lacking wings and feelers and such, I think you would be excused form such social niceties."

The Queen flew to the breast pocket of his shirt and landed next to a button. She moved her forelegs in a back-and-forth motion about her head, some form of preening. Lang continued, "For future reference, it's best not to strike her. The rest of the hive would be here before you could blink, and hundreds of injections of poison, small as the individual doses are, tend to add up quickly."

"It was just a reflex."

"As would be their response. But you would be just as dead. If I were you, I would try to keep those reflexes under control." She wondered if Lang had any vocal tones that didn't contain condescension.

She waved her hand in the air. "Do you still need to see it?"

"If you would not mind, yes."

She held her fingers up in front of his face, conscious of any motion the Queen might interpret as a threat, rotating the wrist so he could see the palm and back in equal turns. The smooth surfaces of the metal reflected the soft candlelight, twisting it into muted beams.

"Yes," he said, his voice raspy with some emotion, "yes, this will do." He paused to clear his throat. “Meet us outside the front door just after dawn."

"Dawn?"

"Yes. In four hours or so. You'll know it by the light that paints the sky. Usually happens every day. No promises." She was beginning to hate this man. He let himself out, ducking beneath the doorway to avoid whacking his head again, and closed the door quietly behind him.

Elizabeth feared her chances for sleep were dismal, especially knowing she would have to be up in just a few hours. But she fell into unconsciousness almost as soon as she hit her mattress, swimming through dreams restless and fleeting. Upon waking, the only scene she could hold onto was one in which the ground had started to disintegrate into a blinding white void. She sprinted to outpace its advancing horizon and, as she ran, she saw trees, houses, and other people falling away as the emptiness swallowed the ground on which they stood. When she could run no more and the destruction overtook her, she looked up to see the cause of the ground's demise: thousands of moles ripping blindly through the soil, their strong front paws made of indestructible metal. One turned as she fell, and she saw a distorted version of her own features where its face should have been.

Upon waking, an overwhelming dread outweighed her fatigue, but, upon sifting through her emotions, she was surprised to find a sliver of excitement about the upcoming meeting. Not that she wanted to be blackmailed, but meeting with people trying to overthrow Silas could at the very least provide her with information. And, she supposed, if they were successful she could perhaps claim partial credit with Priest, gaining passage back home simply for sitting back and letting Edge’s already-existing political game play itself out.

Guilt swelled with this last thought. Whatever he had become, Silas was still her brother. Shouldn't she be trying to meet with him, to explain what had happened to her? Even if she didn't remember him, he should remember her. Maybe she could talk some sense into him, influence him to become a better ruler to this strange world. He might even know of some way for her to return home safely.

Elizabeth dressed as quietly as possible in the casual pants and shirt she wore on her days off, and her least conspicuous pair of gloves. She opened the door, gazing down the hall toward Clara and Winnie’s room. She wouldn't have to sneak past them, as they would already be downstairs, prepping for the day’s work. Today was hers to do with what she wished, but it occurred to her that she should have some sort of explanation ready in case they asked.

Two bees perched on the wall directly opposite her door, neither of them the Queen. Set as sentries, she guessed. To make sure she didn't try to run out on her agreement.

As she started for the stairs, hinges creaked behind her: Maisey's door. The girl's face was a pale moon in the darkness, floating out of her bedroom. She was still dressed in her clothes from the night before, and her hair was tousled, stray wisps popping out of the loose bun she had tied it into.

"What do you think you're doing?" Maisey whispered. "I heard that man in your room last night."

Elizabeth cursed under her breath. She had known the walls were thin; she could hear practically every move Maisey made when the girl came in at night. But, in her excitement and worry, she had been careless. Had they said anything incriminating? She tried to re-create the conversation with Lang, but it was mixed up with what they had said in the courtyard earlier in the week.

"And I saw you talking with him the other day. From one of the guest room windows. You looked upset."

She thought on her feet. "He--he had news of my old master, from when I was a child. A cook who recently worked for him just now moved to Aldergate. We have plans to meet him at the market this morning. I would very much like to hear about friends from my youth."

Maisey gnawed on her lower lip. "Elsie, I don't know how to say this, but...we know you're from Central. We don't think less of you because of it, but that line you feed the guests, about being from beyond the Obscure Sea...well, you might fool them, but not us." Maisey stepped into the hallway and knitted her eyebrows with concern. "I don't like that man. His eyes and his words don't ever say the same thing. It’s like everything is one big game to him. If you're in some sort of trouble, I know Clara and Winnie would do whatever they could to help you."

Could they do anything, though? If she came clean with them, could they somehow get out in front of this story spreading, protect themselves and the inn? She had the impression that they had made many powerful connections in their years helming The Griff, but she didn't see how they could come through such a scandal unscathed. Not if the Black Guard were as vengeful as they seemed. At best they could be blackballed; at worst, imprisoned.

A slight buzzing drew her attention; she had momentarily forgotten about the two bee-scouts on the wall. She had no way of knowing how much human speech they could understand or report back, but it would be prudent to assume they were fluent.

"I can handle it," she told Maisey, hoping to imbue the words with more confidence than she felt. Elizabeth turned to walk away.

"If you don't tell them what is going on, I will."

Elizabeth was surprised at the girl's resolve; Maisey hadn't displayed anything resembling a backbone for as long as she had known her. "There's nothing to tell. I'm going out on my day off. That's all."

Maisey stood firm, hands on her hips in an almost parental stance. "You had a midnight meeting in your quarters with a guest. I think that's something they would be interested in."

"Maisey, I know you don't trust Lang. You'll just have to trust me instead. I have the inn's best interests in mind. I can't tell you why, or what...or anything, really. But I have to go."

"Then I'm going with you."

"You can't."

"I worked all last night. I'm not needed until midday."

"Look, this is something that I have to do alone. I can't tell you any more than that."

Maisey crossed her arms. "Take me with you, or I'm going to Clara and Winnie right now."

Elizabeth looked to the window, down at the end of the hallway. The sky grew lighter. "Look, Maise, just give me a day, okay? One day to sort this out. If I can't give information to your satisfaction by tomorrow morning, then we'll both go to Clara and Winnie, okay?" The girl looked hesitant. "C’mon, one day. How much damage can I do in one day?"

Maisey nodded, reluctantly, the bouncing of her disheveled hair discordant against the grave seriousness of her face. Elizabeth left her in the hallway, praying the girl would keep her side of the agreement, with no idea how she would satisfy her own.

She slipped past the door to the kitchen without being noticed; Clara and Winnie were walled behind currents of conversation and the clattering sounds of cooking. Elizabeth let herself out the back door, walking around to the front through an alley between the buildings.

Lang waited there, leaning against the door, pipe in mouth and blowing smoke rings into the dimness of the dawn. He wore a long black jacket whose silver buttons blazed pink-orange in the morning light, and a top hat that looked as though it had seen better days. A handful of bees coated the hatband. With an air of finality, he knocked the pipe against the corner of the building, dropping the ashes onto the cobblestones. "Alright, then. Ready to move?"

Wordlessly, they strode through the early-morning streets. The air still carried the bite of winter, but its teeth had grown dull and harmless, and the walk quickly warmed her beyond its reach. The smell of fresh bread wafted through the streets, bakers preparing their goods for the day's markets, islands of good smells in an ocean of the city-stink of garbage left out the night before.

Elizabeth tried her best to keep track of the twists and turns they took, but Lang’s path led into an unfamiliar section of the city, and she quickly became disoriented. Finally he stopped, in front of a public house whose hanging sign identified it as The Banging Drum. Closed shutters obscured its windows, but a light burned within, its glow visible through the slats. Lang opened the unlocked door and ushered her inside.

Elizabeth had only been in one other pub since she came to Edge, the Bitter Seed, back in Foursmith; the Banging Drum's decor put that tavern’s to shame. The wooden floor and tables gleamed with polish, and the lighted chandelier appeared to be made of hundreds of multicolored jewels, ranging in color from deep crimson to burnt orange to hues of molten gold. Oil portraits adorned the walls, and heavy velvet curtains brocaded with gold filigree festooned the windows.

At a table in the center of the room sat the pub’s only occupants: a man and a woman, both edging towards the twilight of middle age. The man sported a shock of grey hair with the hint of black threaded through it, slicked back from his forehead; his heavy-lidded eyes and broad nose conferred a leonine air of confidence and power. His body was the thickened bulk of an aged athlete.

His companion had the sort of beauty that is magnified by the grace of age; hair silver rather than grey, the few spare wrinkles accenting an exotic flair to her facial features. The woman was slim, graceful: the rapier to her hammer of a companion.

They stood as she and Lang approached the table, their eyes flicking in unison to the bee balanced on his collar. Lang took first the gentleman's extended hand in a firm shake, then the lady's, which he held up to his mouth. None of the three smiled.

"Walton, Adri...this is Elsie."

Elizabeth felt an urge to curtsy but instead held out her right hand. "It’s nice to meet you both."

"Please, sit down." The woman's voice was flat and humorless. "We understand you have something of interest to us. Something about your...person."

"My hand. Because it looks like Eliza's."

Walton narrowed his eyes. "No beating around the bush, I see. Yes, your hand. We may have work for someone fitting that particular description. If the hand looks close enough to that of legend."

Lang interjected. "It does. I have examined it myself. A perfect match." His tone was softer than Elizabeth had heard it; less haughty, more deferential.

Walton and Adri looked down at The Queen, who had taken off from Lang's coat and was executing a complicated series of loops. Several bees from Lang's top hat also took flight, though these simply circled the hat as though in patrol.

"Your hand does appear to meet our needs. And you, yourself..." Adri paused, looking Elizabeth up and down in a way that made her feel like a farm animal on the auction block, "...will do, as long as no one gets too close. A bit young, and a bit plain, perhaps." Elizabeth thought that last bit was unnecessary, "But we could use you."

"Use me how exactly?"

Walton shot a disappointed look at Lang. "We'd thought you'd been briefed already." Lang cringed, almost imperceptibly. Walton turned back to Elizabeth. "We're going to try to do what no one else has been able to. Free ourselves and our city from the yoke of Silas's oppression."

Elizabeth inhaled. "I gathered you were some sort of revolutionaries. Lang told me that much. But I'm not a soldier, and I'm not even particularly good at using my hand as a weapon." Accidental murder of a bartending Minotaur aside, she thought.

"Every revolution needs warriors, Elsie, and we have our share of those. But to be successful, it needs something more. It needs a rallying cry. We had hoped that the disappearance of some of our city's young would make Aldergate angry enough to organize, but, despite our best efforts, we continue to fall short."

Elizabeth must have looked confused, for Walton stopped and conferred silently with Adri, their eyes speaking an exchange of paragraphs before he continued. "Four years ago, there was a demonstration in the main square of Aldergate. Maybe one hundred people--mostly young, many from prominent families--protested the taxes and lack of representation of private citizens in Silas's government. The Black Guard attempted to disperse the crowd. The protesters...well, nothing more than speeches had been planned, but some of them were armed, and took offense at the Guard's presence. The situation...escalated. Rocks and bricks from the crowd, clubs and truncheons from the Guard. Fires broke out, though it's unclear which side started them. There were deaths. From both sides."

Adri placed her hand on Walton’s forearm, picking up the story. "The leaders of the protest, those that escaped, were hunted down. Despite the fact that it was planned as a nonviolent protest, and that only a few had taken it upon themselves to even bring weapons, all of the organizers were branded as revolutionaries, set to overthrow the government."

"Were they killed?"

"Not publicly. Silas is too smart for that. Executing protesters tends to ignite revolutions, give them strength. No, they were taken." Adri’s hand rose to her face, her thumb and forefinger massaging her temples, her palm hiding her eyes. "Four years ago, they were taken by the Black Guard, and not a word from any of them since."

The exhausted look on Walton's face...the heavy emotion in Adri's voice. It was beginning to become clear to Elizabeth. "Your child?" Adri dropped her hand, and her face hardened, fierce electricity sparking behind her pupils; she nodded, the slightest movement of her chin.

The woman tried to continue, but shook her head, motioning for Walton to pick up the narrative. "Our only son, Esteban. He may be in a prison cell, or he may be dead. We don't know. None of us know. And we can't get any answers."

Adri found her voice and started again, more hesitantly than before. "I do not think my son is still alive. I am not naive enough to hold onto that hope for this long. And if I cannot free him, then what can I do? I can work to free my other child: this city. This city in which we grew up, where our families have lived for generations. Under the Eagle, we ruled ourselves and we prospered. Under Silas's watch, our land fractured and we slid to a new region of Edge--"

"Was that his fault?" Elizabeth blurted out. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized she had made a mistake; she should not be saying anything that sounded like a defense of Silas. Not to these people. Not now.

Adri's eyes flashed; if her husband was a lion, Elizabeth thought, then this woman was a dragon. "It happened on his watch. And he did damned little to help in the chaos that followed. Protest a tax, or pay it late? Guards pop out of the cracks in the pavement to collect. Need to rebuild the roads or find a way to get through those cursed never-ending woods? Silas's men disappear like they were gods-damned ghosts."

Lang, forgotten in this conversation, cleared his throat. "The Queen requests that you return to the point. The girl asked what her role was to be in your plans."

"Of course." Walton's words sprouted frost. "The problem with disappearances, Elsie, is that they are poor rallying points. Death is definitive; uniting around a body is easy. It's concrete. A disappearance leaves room for interpretation. For doubt."

"You want me to kill people and make it look like the Black Guard did it?"

Walton grimaced. "No! No, doing that would never remain secret. And when the truth came out, we would be vilified. Even if those who were killed were willing sacrifices, our cause would never withstand the bad blood such acts would generate."

The Queen vibrated angrily about the center of the table. Adri and Walton considered her motions. "As you can see," Adri told Elizabeth, "We do not always agree. Her Highness has a different perspective on the sacrifice of soldiers, but of course her armies are bred willing to die for her. Nothing would please them more. There are some cultural gulfs that are more difficult to bridge than others."

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth interrupted, "is this bee an active part of your leadership?"

The corners of Walton’s mouth twitched. "Her Majesty aids in our intelligence gathering. She has proved herself an invaluable ally. Even though Silas himself has birds and the golden insects at his command, his Guard do not seriously suspect anyone else could do the same. Poor blighters never look up during their meetings. Her network has saved all of us more than once. We owe her our lives."

"And Lang? What is your role?"

Adri couldn't stop the grin from spreading across her face. "Mr. Lang has the honor of being Her Majesty's personal valet. And he acquits himself of that duty very well."

So, the condescension that Elizabeth had experienced wasn't imaginary...despite his haughtiness, or perhaps because of it, Lang was no more than The Queen’s butler. So much for that nonsense about being an 'uncle' to the hive. He was their servant.

Lang's face flushed scarlet with his outing, and he dropped his gaze, suddenly finding something fascinating about his fingernails.

"So you," Elizabeth asked, "want me to become a symbol? Of the uprising?"

Adri corrected her. "Not you, Elsie. Eliza. You would be helping us take advantage of the people’s superstitions. Surely you've heard people say that Eliza would return, that her hand was the only thing that could defeat Silas? We'd like to create a little....what's the term? Oh, yes...a self-fulfilling prophecy. You're here in the right place and the right time, and the people, unhappy as they are with their current government, will believe fate is on their side."

"And will join your fight," Elizabeth finished.

"That is what we hope. It may take more than just trotting out an Eliza look-alike, but we hope this lights a fire in the spirit of the people of Aldergate." Adri wrung her hands together, gold rings and bracelets glinting in the light from the chandelier. "Our people are notoriously strong-willed and independent, and love nothing more than to back a winner. And, after the fracturing, the city is even easier to defend. Our backside is bordered by those impassable woods, our flank by those mountains, so we only have to worry about an attack from sea. And we have enough farmland and food in our storehouses to withstand a years-long siege, should it come to that. The people of the Gate are waiting for someone to free them from Silas's shackles, to show them how to free themselves."

Elizabeth suspected Adri was minimizing the danger she herself would be facing. "But wouldn't I be making myself a target? I mean, I know what happened to my hand makes me a criminal. It's why I've spent all this effort hiding it. But this? What you're suggesting? The Guard would know my face."

"Your efforts at hiding would have failed eventually. At least this way, we can protect you. When you're not making speeches, you'll be guarded. Between our men and The Queen's spies, you'll be much safer than on your own."

"What about Clara and Winnie?" Walton and Adri looked confused. "The owners of the Griff Inn?"

"We don't--"

Lang stepped in, fingering at his collar. "I had to...make sure Elsie knew what we were willing to do if she refused to take this meeting."

Adri waited a beat, allowing her silence to speak volumes. "And what, dear valet, were 'we' willing to do? What acts did you threaten in order to get this girl here? This girl whose loyalty may very well become instrumental in winning the war we propose to wage? How exactly--" Walton placed a hand on her shoulder. Adri lowered her voice. "How exactly, did you convince Elsie to meet us here this morning?"

Lang set his jaw. "The Queen, with my advice, decided that if this girl refused to hear our offer, then making the details of her hand public knowledge would be the best course of action. If this city is to come to war, Adri, then everyone will have to pick a side. There will be no room for neutrality. There will, however, be plenty of room for martyrs."

"That was not for you to decide." Walton shook with rage.

"It was the--"

     "I was talking to her!" He thundered at The Queen crawling across the table.

Elizabeth felt like she should leave; this power struggle, while about her, did not really require her input, or her witness. None of the four were watching her; Lang was translating for The Queen, and Walton and Adri were talking over him. She turned towards the door.

And saw a pair of eyes at the window.

"Lang!" she shouted before she could stop herself. Adri and Walton spun around and followed her pointing finger to the window. The hive exploded off of Lang’s clothes; the man himself had moved with rapidity she would not have believed he possessed, and had flung open the door. He sprang outside, the tails of his coat flying behind him like black flags, and shouted "There!" at a departing figure. The swarm flew off at his command as though they had been conjured and shot out of his finger, a stream of brightly colored bullets from his cocked finger-gun.

Elizabeth rushed outside just in time to see the figure turn the corner, the squadron of bees gaining on it. She didn't have to see the figure turn to know who it was. She recognized the dress. She had seen it just that morning.

It was Maisey.

Twentieth

Elizabeth sprinted down an alley, past two- and three-story buildings crowded close together. She rounded the street corner just as the bees dove at Maisey, burrowing into her clothes and hair. Maisey was still running when the first scream exploded out of her mouth, her body jolted to the side. With a second howl, she spun to the right, slamming off a building. She began swatting at her hair again and again, and her screams started coming so fast that they became one singular, continuous wail.

The windows of the upper floors began to open, gawkers looking to see what commotion had shattered the morning stillness. An alarmed cacophony started, rumblings of concerned chatter raining down to the alley below. No doors opened, however; none of the onlookers were concerned enough to insert themselves into whatever caused the screaming.

Maisey collapsed onto the ground. Elizabeth could see bees, damaged and unmoving, threaded in the girl’s hair and clinging to her clothes. A few lone survivors circled her prostrate body. Elizabeth grabbed for Maisey’s wrist; her pulse was a drumroll, the heart rate of a hummingbird.

Elizabeth rolled Maisey onto her back. With the movement, Maisey’s hair fell from her face, revealing her features as misshapen, made monstrous by the swelling of the multiple stings. Her eyes had become slits, her lips two sausages ready to overspill their casings. The breaths that escaped between them were irregular, wheezing gasps.

She felt a hand at her shoulder, and Elizabeth looked up to see Lang’s gangly figure, his face slick with sweat, and the lenses of his half-glasses fogged. "We should go," he panted. "The authorities will be here soon."

"I know her."

"I know you do. She is the other maid from your inn."

"Then why did you send the bees after her?" Her accusation came out shriller and more loudly than intended. The faces in the upstairs window stared in horror at the bees that continued to crawl across the fallen girl.

"She was spying." He looked around, impatiently. Maisey had landed at the end of the alley, where it opened up into a genteel residential avenue. "Really, Elsie, we must be going. The Guards will be asking questions we will not wish to answer."

"You killed her." She spat the words out.

He knelt beside her and gripped her face with both his hands. They smelled like pipe tobacco, an oddly comforting smell that reminded her of her own father's occasional forays into smoking. "A stranger was eavesdropping on a political meeting, and likely heard enough treasonous remarks to get the lot of us killed. I didn't know who she was at first, and when I did recognize her, it was too late." He swallowed. "I am sorry. You must know that. I do not relish the killing of innocents, especially innocent girls with whom I have passed pleasant conversation."

"She didn't trust you."

"Nor should she have. But when she decided to spy on our meeting, she entered herself into a dangerous political game. She--"

"She was following me."

He paused. "Then there's blame to go around."

Hot tears welled up and spilled onto her cheeks. "Is there anything we can do to help her?”

"That many stings, in such a short time...her throat will be closing shortly, and she will suffocate." He looked over the dying girl, cringing at each wheeze of her breath. "She will die no matter what we do. We need to leave."

Elizabeth knew he was right. She could still hear murmuring voices coming from the neighboring houses, and if authorities examined her, she would be arrested as soon as they saw her hand. But she couldn't just leave Maisey to die on the street alone. "You go. I'll stay with her."

Lang's grip was tight on her upper arm. "I cannot allow that, Elsie. We need you to--"

The authoritative pounding of boots on pavement sounded through the street. Two bulky figures dressed in black, skin-tight uniforms beneath equally dark overcoats appeared around the corner of the alley and marched toward them. The officials' faces and hair were exposed, but a sort of sleeve encased the rest of their heads, extending from the top of their shirts like a turtleneck with grand ambitions.

Lang stood, ready to bolt. "Hold it there!" a tall, broad-shouldered female guard called. "You there! Scarecrow! Don't move!" She drew a black baton from a holster, and her companion mirrored the motion. The weapons left their scabbards with a sound like crackling electricity.

Lang started to back away, but the lead guard moved with decisive speed, catching the collar of his coat and slamming him against the alley wall. "I said, hold it there." She banged the back of Lang's head against the bricks for emphasis, then drew her club across his throat, her eyes trained on her captive's face. "Is she dead?"

The other guard had crouched down beside Maisey. "Still breathing. But doesn't look good." He addressed Elizabeth, his voice filled with concern. "What happened here? What did that man do?"

A voice called down from a window. "She was with 'im! They was both chasing her! Heard 'em say they set bees on her! Stung a whole bunch, she was!"

The officer's hand shot out and gripped Elizabeth’s wrist. "Alright. Let's get you away from this girl until we get this all "No! She's my friend!" Elizabeth protested, but the guard tightened his grip and pulled her away from Maisey.

Lang tried to explain. "Officers, this is just a tragic misunderstanding. This poor girl disturbed a beehive I keep for honey, and the bees attacked of their own volition; no one set them on her...that isn't even possible! My friend and I were trying to help her. We'd like to--"

The guard pressed the baton into Lang’s neck, ending his lies with a guttural swallow. "We'll speak with people who saw it happen. Don't worry, you'll get a chance to tell your side."

Elizabeth continued to tug against the Guard, trying to get back down to Maisey. The officer pulled back, hard, jolting her to her feet, and grabbed at her other hand, dropping his weapon to the stones.

Confusion lit on his face as his grip found the sharp surfaces of her fingers, and she saw his amazement as the points and blades bit into his flesh. He cried out and yanked back. Blood dripped from his palm.

The baton was back in his hand in a flash, and he brought it against Elizabeth’s throat, mirroring the submission hold the other officer had on Lang. Blood streamed onto the shaft where his palm met the metal. "Cullen, keep your stick tight against that one. This girl's got a weapon."

"A knife? Better drop it, girl."

"I don't think it's going to be droppable." He kept the baton against her neck and reached down with his uninjured hand for her left one. "Make a move, girl, and I will not hesitate to burn your throat." As if responding to his words, the stick thrummed against her skin, buzzing like an electric razor. With his free hand, he probed the surfaces of her glove and peeled back the fabric.

Amazement thrummed in his voice. "Cullen...send a Jay. We're taking these two in. We'll need backup." In response, Cullen used her free hand to open her coat, exposing small tools strapped to its inside. Among the miscellany rested a small grey bird, one that resembled a blue jay, with a sharp crest and a black beak. The officer lifted the bird and whispered into the side of its head.

Taking advantage of the split in the officer's attentions, Lang twisted and struck her temple with his closed fist, crying out as the baton glowed into life and singed the flesh of his throat. He swung out a spindly leg that sent the guard sprawling to the ground. The jay, wings still bound to prevent premature flight, plummeted and bounced off of the stones. Lang punted it unceremoniously down the alley.

"Cullen!" The officer called his partner's name but did not move to help her. Elizabeth felt a hot pain as the baton began to burn her skin; the sudden searing making her breath catch in her chest. The guard clutched her left wrist, but his grip was far enough down her forearm that she was able, with extreme flexion, to puncture the restraining hand with the points of her fingers. As he recoiled, Elizabeth slipped her left hand free and struck at the arm holding the baton. Her blades bit through the officer's coat into the skin and tendons beneath, knocking the baton to the ground. She could breathe again.

Cullen had managed to tangle herself in Lang's legs, and he dropped to the stones with a muffled thud. The two rolled and struck at one another, a flurry of black coats and limbs scratching and gouging.

Elizabeth had just enough time to register their flailing before what felt like a train hit her gut, crumpling her to the ground. The officer fell on top of her, his right hand pinning her left arm, his other hand at her throat, pushing down but not squeezing. He looked from Elizabeth to his partner, then back to her, trying to decide whether she or Lang posed the bigger threat.

Lang had rolled on top of Cullen and bloodied her nose with a blow from his elbow. Cullen lay sprawled on the ground, apparently knocked unconscious. Lang extricated himself from her arms and stretched his length down the alley, retrieving her baton from where it had landed. He stood and brandished the weapon, his one swollen and already-blackening eye giving him the ferocious look of a cornered animal, and advanced on the officer who held her down.

The guard pushed off of Elizabeth as he rose, grabbing his own weapon as he staggered to his feet. She rolled over and watched as he parried Lang's clumsy attack, continuing the swing of his arm in a wide arc that ended against Lang's jaw. She heard a crack and a cry of pain.

Lang stumbled backward and fell, tripping over Cullen's still body. The other guard followed, kicking at Lang’s head when it hit the ground. As Lang scrambled to escape, the guard kept kicking, delivering blows to the legs, torso, and head, then stomping on Lang's abdomen. Sickening thumps and moist cracks rent the air with each impact.

His back to her, Elizabeth finally found her feet and launched herself at the guard before her conscious mind could intervene. Her left hand led the charge; she aimed it low, catching the guard’s in the calf. His leg folded, his body rotating as he collapsed so that his baton caught her right shoulder. The impact radiated down her arm, setting loose a vibrating pain that settled into shocked numbness. The arm responded only sluggishly, as though the signals from her brain were garbled.

The guard raised himself on his good foot, dragging the hobbled one behind him, and advanced on her. To Elizabeth’s dismay, the other officer, Cullen, had awakened and had begun crawling toward the fallen messenger bird. Lang remained still, his face a bloody pulped mess. Stray teeth were scattered on the stones beside him, broken off in jagged chunks.

Elizabeth began to back away. "You were going to kill him if you didn't stop."

The guard continued his slow advance, pushing some unseen button on the baton to make it glow white-hot. "And just what do you think I'm going to do to you?"

Clutching the retrieved jaybird, Cullen joined her partner. She put a hand on his shoulder. "Larson." He didn’t respond. "Larson!" She smacked the side of his head. "We'll need her alive."

Larson's baton faded to a dull yellow but still crackled with angry energy. He held it in his left hand; the right appeared to be useless. Her own right arm was slowly coming back to life, the numbness gradually replaced by a throbbing toothache of pain.

She backed away, matching him step for step. "This is all a misunderstanding, just like the man said. We can all just walk away. It's not too late."

Cullen released the Jay into the air; it arced upwards and fell on a parabola, then gave two pumps of its wings and shot off down the alley. "It most certainly is too late, girl. Attacking members of Silas’s Guard? Making the forbidden changes to your hand? Killing that poor girl? You don't get to walk away from such things. We'll need to take you in. Now," Cullen had started to circle around Elizabeth, cutting off the back end of the alley, "We can do this with less pain,” she grinned, blood showing on her teeth, ”or with less pain. But we will take you with us."

Larson leapt at her, his baton aimed at her left wrist. Rather than dodging, Elizabeth raised her left hand to meet it, fingers instinctively closing around the shaft to stop it mid-swing. The sudden change in inertia threw Larson off balance, and he crashed into her and knocking both of them to the ground, screaming through clenched teeth when his injured leg hit the pavement.

Elizabeth rolled away from him, her fingers still tight on the now-dull baton that Larson had released. Cullen stood between Elizabeth and the end of the alley that opened to the avenue, her weapon at ready. Larson blocked the way behind her, trying and failing to get up onto his injured leg, skittering like a horse made lame.

Cullen’s nose was swollen and her face bloodied, but she appeared steady on her feet. "More officers will be on their way, girl. Your friend will be of no help to you. Best to come quietly." She brandished her baton to accentuate her words.

Of the five people in the alley, Elizabeth was the least injured...Maisey was not yet dead, but close, and Lang would be long in recovering from Larson's boot. There was no way she could carry either of them with her if she left the alley. She had only one option.

Elizabeth spun away from Cullen and sprinted down the alley the way she and Lang had come. Voices yelled from the second stories, incomprehensible, angry words. She deftly avoided Larson's outstretched arm but felt a rush of air as a projectile flew past her. She glanced back and saw Cullen's hand repeatedly diving into her coat and emerging with sharp metal projectiles intertwined between her fingers. Elizabeth increased her speed, skidding over the stones as she took a turn too fast.

Cullen abandoned her throwing knives in favor of pursuit, but Elizabeth quickly outpaced her, losing her in the twists and turns of the narrow streets. When she had gone minutes without hearing anyone following, Elizabeth stopped, ducking back into a darkened doorway to catch her breath.

Elizabeth plunged her hand into her pocket and slowed to a walk, trying to look like someone who was out for a routine errand. That meant walking purposefully, looking like she knew where she was going, not checking every street sign and cross street for landmarks. And hoping that her current state of disarray was not so extreme as to be notable to the people she passed.

A delivery boy on a bicycle flew onto the walkway in front of her, running a package into a building, leaving his ride unguarded. Elizabeth considered for a fraction of a second, then pulled it off the ground and took off, her legs pumping furiously. She was half a block away before his angry cries reached her.

Tucking her left hand under her shirt, she rode one-handed through the early morning traffic, weaving between pedestrians and steam-powered carriages. Initially she had little idea where exactly in the city her haphazard path had led her, but she soon found familiar buildings and re-oriented, pedaling for the inn as fast as she could.

Elizabeth left the bicycle in an alley on the other side of the block, then skulked through the courtyard and into the unlocked back door. Winnie and Clara bustled about the table; this was typical for Clara but uncharacteristic for Winnie, who usually entered the kitchen only to drop off or pick up food or to chat or argue with Clara. Winnie wore an apron and looked decidedly uncomfortable in it, though she stirred and tasted from various pots on the stove with confidence. The two looked up as Elizabeth entered.

"Oh, thank gods!" Winnie exclaimed, and started to untie her apron. "Elsie, can you please take over, dear? I've got a hundred things to do before dinner, and Maisey is nowhere to be found...I know it's your day off, but we can--"

"What happened to you, Elsie?" Clara came over to inspect her, wiping off her floured hands on a work towel. "You’re a wreck!"

Elizabeth looked from one woman to the other. Their earnest concern was too much for her. Tears rolled from her eyes, and the entire story of her morning, backtracking only to explain Lang's blackmail, fell from her lips. She tore the tattered glove from her hand, revealing its blood-caked blades as she told of her conversation with Lang, the meeting with the revolutionaries, the swarm attacking Maisey, her altercation with the Guard, and finally her trek through the city to return here.

"I'm so sorry," Elizabeth finished, wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist. "I know this is probably putting you in danger, but I had nowhere else to go." Her voice descended into sobs again as of the terror of the morning caught up with her.

A weighty look passed between Clara and Winnie. "Elsie, we need to talk. Can you please go up to your room and pack your things?" Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. "Oh, no, Elsie, we aren't abandoning you, dear. We have to find someplace safer for you. The Guard will be here before long.

"Go pack all your clothes into a bag--there's a small one in the closet in our room. But you best be quick about it. Don’t bother to change."

Elizabeth sprinted up the stairs, located the suitcase among the chaos of Clara and Winnie's room and quickly loaded it with her clothes, not bothering to organize or fold, just trying to approximate three or four days' worth of outfits. She found the bag she had brought with her, from her time in the woods, and packed it full of everything else she thought she might need on the run.

Before she returned downstairs, Elizabeth entered Maisey's room; she knew they were short on time, but she felt compelled to at least peek inside. The room was as orderly as could be--even the bed had been made with military precision, though the girl had surely hurried out that morning. Two pairs of shoes were lined up beneath it, reminding Elizabeth of loyal dogs awaiting their master's return.

Like her own quarters, the room contained only the bed, a bureau, and a dresser. But unlike her room, which had grown cluttered with keepsakes collected during her time in Aldergate, Maisey's had no decorations or knickknacks except for a framed picture dropped face-down on the dresser top. Elizabeth righted it, revealing a daguerreotype of a serious-looking young man dressed in a high-collared shirt and a bowler hat. Maisey's brother? Her father, years ago? A beau, and the reason Elizabeth heard her crying at night?

Maisey was dead, because of her. Lang had said that there was blame to go around, but if she had just done a better job explaining herself, if she had come clean or been able to invent a better story than just 'I'll tell you later, trust me,' then Maisey might not have been compelled to follow her, and could have stayed out of this whole mess. Elizabeth tipped the picture back into its face-down position and stepped out of the room.

Clara had removed her apron and was pulling on a jacket over her clothes. Elizabeth started to ask, but Clara cut her off. "You'll understand when we get there," Clara muttered, cryptically. "If you've got a jacket in your bag, you might be wantin' to put it on now." Elizabeth did as she was told.

Clara walked to the far wall of the kitchen, opening up the door to the pantry. She motioned Elizabeth to step inside. "I don't know if this is a great idea, Clara," she began. "If the Guard come, they'll search everywhere, especially the basement. It's the first place someone would hide."

Winnie ran into the kitchen, out of breath. “They’re coming. I saw them from the attic window. Gods, at least a regiment of them. They really want you, girl.”

Clara hurried Elizabeth into the basement, the girl’s protest forgotten. The stairs leading down were ancient, narrow and rickety and built of sullen yellow wood, each plank sagging in a way that threatened to send her spilling forward. Winnie closed the door to the kitchen, and they were alone in the eerie light.

The basement pantry was lit by the soft glow, the product of a phosphorescent fungus that had been trained onto the walls in patches. The light varied from green to blue, reminding her of an aquarium viewing room. It was almost enough to counteract the claustrophobia of the low ceilings and tight space. The brick walls lined arched doorways and long hallways. Winnie had told her once that the basement predated the Inn by at least several centuries, and Elizabeth had always felt that even the air down here felt dusty and antique.

The inn’s basement was cool but not cold, and Elizabeth had started to sweat beneath the extra layer of her coat. Clara herded her deeper into the subterranean space, into a little-used storage room, one filled with seasonal things that would not be needed for months.

Clara started moving barrels away from a wall they had been stacked in front of. "Secret passage?" Elizabeth inquired, but as soon as the words left her mouth, she realized that such a thing would be made impossible by the floorplan of the basement. This wall bordered a hallway they had just walked down, and it was not nearly thick enough to hide any sore of walkway.

There was a crash from above, the sound of a door being forced off of its hinges, and then the earthquake rumblings of heavy footfalls. Indistinct shouts of authority, then a woman’s scream, cut off with a harsh crack.

“Elsie, there is no time for explanations.” Clara grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her towards the wall. Elizabeth flinched as her face approached the brick, and was startled when no impact came.

She was immersed in darkness, with no glowing fungus to illuminate the space. Her cheeks felt...cold. Really cold. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the dimness, and she saw that she was in a cavern of some sort. But how...

A pocket, she thought. The inn has a hidden pocket in its basement.

Elizabeth turned, intending to poke her face through to whisper thanks to Clara, when a rumbling made her jump back, sprawled onto the sandy floor of the cave.

In front of her, spilling out of the doorway, was a pile of broken brick and rubble. She grabbed one of the bricks from where it had settled and held it in her hand; it was covered in ash. She reached to the top of the pile, where the fragments sat half in the cave, transected by the door, and started pulling them off and throwing them behind her. More appeared, rolling into the cave, as the pieces supporting them were removed.

The inn had collapsed.

She was trapped.