Arabella stood before a mirror as tall as she was, admiring the woman staring back at her.

Behind the mirror stood a window, its white curtains billowing gently as the morning breeze wandered into the room. The fabric rose and fell with the sort of effortless grace that expensive curtains possessed when they had absolutely no bills to pay.

The sunlight spilled across the bedroom, illuminating the cream-white dress Arabella wore. Its delicate fabric settled elegantly against her figure, making her look as though she had been dressed for an occasion considerably more important than breakfast.

Lady Garter stood beside her, studying the dress with an expression of genuine approval.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asked.

Arabella smiled at her reflection.

"It's wonderful."

She turned slightly, admiring the way the material moved with her. Then she returned to inspecting herself in the mirror, apparently satisfied that the woman before her had not committed any unforgivable fashion crimes overnight.

"Which necklace would you like to wear today, Madam?" Lady Garter asked.

"The Lavadores."

Lady Garter crossed to the dressing table and opened a drawer. Inside lay several pieces of jewellery, each with the sort of price tag that could make an ordinary person reconsider their entire existence. She selected a golden necklace and returned to Arabella, holding it carefully between her fingers.

The sunlight caught the gold, sending a warm glimmer across its surface.

Arabella watched it for a moment.

"I feel it's too much."

"It's not, Madam. And if it is, you can always remove it."

"Oh, yes. That's true."

A reasonable solution to a problem that had never truly existed.

Lady Garter fastened the necklace around Arabella's neck. The golden ornament settled against her skin, resting just above her chest.

Arabella lifted a hand and touched it.

Her smile remained.

It had been there for some time now, and it showed no immediate intention of leaving. Most people smiled when something pleased them. Arabella, however, had the expression of someone who had recently discovered that the universe occasionally offered excellent customer service.

Lady Garter watched her through the mirror.

"You seem very happy today, Madam."

Arabella's eyes brightened.

"I've found a diamond, and it brightens the room."

Lady Garter paused.

Then her face softened into a knowing smile.

"Ah, love."

It was a small word, but it seemed sufficient to explain everything. Love had a remarkable reputation for making otherwise sensible people behave like lunatics, and Arabella appeared to be enjoying its services rather thoroughly.

Before Lady Garter could inquire further, a knock sounded at the door.

She turned away from the dressing table and went to answer it.

A housekeeper stood outside, looking as composed as a woman delivering an ordinary message could reasonably be expected to look. She glanced briefly into the room before addressing them.

"Good morning, Miss Cavendish. Lady Garter. Your father is expecting you to join him in ten minutes. He wishes to speak with you."

"Very well," Lady Garter replied.

The housekeeper inclined her head and departed.

Lady Garter closed the door and turned back toward Arabella.

She found her still standing before the mirror, one hand resting against the necklace, her expression carrying the same suspiciously cheerful glow.

"Lady Garter?"

"Yes, Madam?"

Arabella turned around.

"Do you think any men would want to sleep with me?"

Lady Garter stared at her.

There are questions one prepares for in the course of domestic service. Questions concerning misplaced jewellery, late breakfasts, visiting relatives, and the occasional guest who has mistaken a bedroom for a public thoroughfare.

This was not one of them.

Arabella looked at her with an angelic, sunshine-bright smile. It was the sort of smile one might expect from a woman asking whether the roses in the garden had bloomed, rather than whether the opposite sex would willingly take her to bed.

Quite a shocking smile, I must say.

Every woman possesses certain anatomical features that make the prospect of intimacy possible. Not every woman, however, possesses a personality that makes the prospect particularly inviting. Beauty may attract a man's attention, but personality has a habit of determining how long he wishes to remain.

Lady Garter, being a woman who valued both her employment and her continued existence, understood that this was not an appropriate moment for brutal honesty.

"Any man would fall for you, Madam," she said. "You are such a beautiful and caring woman. You're seductive, too."

Arabella considered this answer.

Then she moved closer to Lady Garter.

"Thanks."

She said it with such warmth that, for a moment, one might almost have believed Lady Garter had offered her a valuable piece of wisdom rather than a carefully wrapped lie.

Arabella's smile widened.

"Tidy up. I'll be going to Father. And tell Stephen not to touch Tom today."

Lady Garter's expression shifted ever so slightly.

"Very well, Madam."

Arabella turned toward the door.

Her cream-white dress swayed as she walked, the Lavadores necklace catching the sunlight with every movement. She looked radiant, elegant, and entirely pleased with herself.

She was dressed like a woman going on the most wonderful date of her life, with a special someone who had apparently managed to turn an ordinary morning into a personal celebration.

Her father was waiting.

And whatever he wished to discuss with her, Arabella was going to meet him wearing the smile of a woman who had already found something far more interesting to think about.

"Ah, quite a lady."

Lady Garter watched Arabella disappear through the doorway before turning back to the bedroom.

The room had suffered considerably during its owner's preparations. A drawer remained half-open, a hairbrush lay where it had no business being, and several items had migrated from their original positions without offering any explanation for their journey.

Lady Garter sighed.

"Clumsy and allergic to cleanliness."

She began returning things to their proper places, muttering beneath her breath as she worked. Arabella possessed many admirable qualities. Keeping a room tidy, unfortunately, had never been one of them. There were women who left a room looking as though nobody had entered it, and then there was Arabella, who could make a dressing table look as though it had recently survived a minor natural disaster.

Lady Garter picked up a discarded ribbon.

"Quite a lady indeed."

Meanwhile, Arabella made her way toward the sitting room.

Hugo Cavendish stood on the balcony, gazing out over the backyard and the mountains beyond it. The morning light had begun creeping along the distant ridges, illuminating the slopes in pale gold while the valleys remained wrapped in shadow.

He stood at the balcony rail in the pale hush of early morning, gazing out at the mountains as the first light crept along their ridges.

On his head sat a wide-brimmed black hat with a flat crown, tilted just low enough to shade his eyes. A long black coat hung from his shoulders, cut in a formal, almost clerical style, its heavy fabric slightly rumpled from the night. Draped around his neck was a white silk scarf, its two ends falling down his chest, finished with grey fringe that stirred in the cold mountain breeze. Beneath the coat, the collar of a pale shirt showed open at the throat, worn loose and without a tie.

Both hands rested on the top of a black cane planted before him, his fingers laced together. Several heavy rings adorned them, gold and silver catching the early light whenever he shifted his grip. His thick, reddish-brown beard remained untrimmed at the edges, and his gaze stayed fixed on the peaks, distant and unreadable, as though the view were something he was weighing rather than admiring.

Behind him, the sitting room lay dim and quiet, with the faint smell of last night's fire still hanging in the air.

"Morning, Father."

Hugo turned.

Arabella stood at the entrance, looking considerably brighter than the morning itself had any right to be.

"I see you're busy adoring your favourite painting," she added, glancing toward the mountains.

Hugo's expression softened. He turned away from the balcony and opened his arms.

"My angel."

Arabella walked into them, and he embraced her, pressing a kiss against her head.

"Did you sleep well?"

"I did."

"That's great. Very wonderful."

He released her, though his hands remained briefly on her shoulders.

"But that's going to change from now on, my love. You might end up having to go to your mother."

Arabella's smile faltered.

"Why is that?"

She already disliked where this conversation was going. There were few things more irritating than a perfectly pleasant morning being interrupted by information one had not requested.

"Because war is coming," Hugo said, "and the Doyleys will start it."

Arabella studied his face.

"Father, I'd prefer to stay with you. I'm safer here."

Hugo looked at her for a moment before lifting a hand to her chin. He tilted her face gently toward his.

"You're a good girl, but I can't guarantee your safety."

"Don't worry. I'm always safe."

She said it with such confidence that one might have mistaken safety for a personal servant who followed her everywhere, carrying an umbrella and removing dangerous objects from her path.

Hugo, however, did not look convinced.

"Stay away from Brenda."

Arabella blinked.

"Why? She's my friend."

"There's this new lotion—or potion, or whatever chemical they're calling it." Hugo's mouth tightened slightly. "Brenda is bred now. It changes your gender in a jiffy."

He spoke about the product with the expression of a man who had already decided that the world had become considerably more ridiculous than necessary.

Arabella considered the information.

"Oh, I've heard of it."

"Then you understand why I don't want you anywhere near it."

"I assure you, most of them will die."

Hugo turned his head toward her.

"What makes you so sure?"

Arabella folded her arms loosely.

"My client works for the company responsible for the product. A few people have already died. My client wants protection from the consequences and wants to blame the company."

She paused, considering how best to explain a situation that had apparently grown complicated enough to require its own legal department.

"It's a complicated case. But I'm aware that I'm on the losing side if I accept the client."

Hugo regarded her with renewed interest.

"So you won't take it?"

"No."

The answer came without hesitation.

Hugo gave a low chuckle.

"Lawyers like you are what we need as businessmen."

Arabella smiled.

"I do try."

"I was going to make you join the warfare," Hugo continued, "but then you'd become their toy."

The word toy hung in the air for a moment.

Outside, the breeze moved through the trees below the balcony. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called from the mountainside, entirely unaware that the people inside the house were discussing war, dangerous chemicals, and the possibility of turning a lawyer into somebody else's plaything.

Arabella glanced toward the view.

"I'm quite happy with what I have, Father."

Hugo watched her carefully.

"And if you wish to send a guard to follow me, you shouldn't."

"I haven't said anything about sending a guard."

"You were thinking about it."

Hugo raised an eyebrow.

Arabella smiled innocently.

It was an extraordinarily convincing expression, provided one had never met Arabella Cavendish before.

She stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek.

"Enjoy your day."

"I will, my love."

"And you should stay away from your cave office."

Hugo laughed.

It was a genuine laugh, deep enough to disturb the solemn atmosphere he had spent the morning cultivating. He looked at his daughter, shaking his head slightly.

"My cave office?"

"That's what it is."

"There's nothing wrong with my office."

"Of course not, Father."

Arabella began walking toward the door.

"Just don't start growing mushrooms in there."

Hugo laughed again as she disappeared into the house.

For a moment, he remained where he was, his hands returning to the top of his cane. His smile lingered, though the mountains had once again captured his attention.

The morning was beautiful.

His daughter was happy.

And somewhere beyond those mountains, the Doyleys were preparing to hunt for gold that had already brought enough trouble to his doorstep.

Hugo looked out over the valley.

Perhaps Arabella was right about the office.

It did need more fresh air.

In Kazersdale's House

Raymond was already awake.

Not because he had slept particularly well.

Not because the morning birds had decided to conduct a concert outside his window.

And certainly not because he was one of those irritatingly disciplined people who greeted the sunrise with a glass of water and an enthusiasm for life.

Raymond hadn't slept at all.

He had spent the night investigating the woman who had occupied far too much of his attention the previous afternoon.

Lucille.

The woman who had nearly been run over, broken her phone, drunk orange juice with him, discussed murder as though it were a perfectly respectable dinner topic, and kissed him before disappearing into the rain.

A woman who, after all that, seemed to have left behind almost nothing.

Raymond sat on his bed, surrounded by books, papers, and enough scattered documents to suggest that a small legal department had recently exploded in his bedroom.

Under the bed lay a discarded grape.

It had probably rolled there the previous afternoon, escaping the bag the bartender had so generously slammed onto the counter. Raymond had noticed it sometime during the night and had since found himself irrationally bothered by its presence.

The grape, unlike Lucille, was easy to locate.

He knew where it was. He knew what it looked like. And, with a reasonable amount of effort, he could probably retrieve it.

Lucille was another matter entirely.

He had searched for her name, examined whatever information he could find, and followed one lead after another, only to discover that she seemed to be a ghost unknown to the world.

Not an ordinary ghost, naturally. Ordinary ghosts had the courtesy to belong to stories, local legends, or badly maintained historical records.

Lucille appeared to belong to none of them.

Raymond had found himself in a hole darker than a black hole, and unlike most people who found themselves in such circumstances, he had no particular desire to climb out.

He wanted to know more.

Who was she? Who employed her? And how had a woman who seemed to have no visible existence managed to walk into his afternoon, announce that somebody wanted Hugo Cavendish dead, and leave him thinking about her long after she had gone?

It was an impressive achievement.

Most people struggled to remain interesting for an entire conversation. Lucille had managed it without even staying for the grapes.

A knock sounded at the door.

Raymond barely looked up from the papers scattered across his bed.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Max entered carrying a fresh stack of documents. He crossed the room and placed them on the bed, carefully avoiding a book that had been left open across a particularly important-looking sheet of paper.

Max glanced at the collection of books and documents surrounding his employer.

Then he looked at Raymond.

"Sir, what are you looking for?"

"Just researching."

Max looked at the papers.

Then at the books.

Then at the other papers, which appeared to be conducting some sort of territorial dispute with the books.

"Right."

He had worked with Raymond long enough to understand that asking a second question rarely made the first answer more informative.

"By the way, sir, Alex has ordered the Kingsbat Riders to go to Dizzydean's territory and find the van."

Raymond's attention shifted from the documents.

"That's what I wanted. It's better if it's them than her personally."

"I agree."

Raymond picked up a sheet of paper, examined it briefly, and placed it back down.

"Tell her we'll be going to our mother's old delivery store."

Max nodded.

"I will, sir. But Alex will want to know why."

"Because it seems our father was in debt, and the old delivery store is where we'll find out more about what he left on our shoulders."

Raymond paused.

"Besides, it might affect Sosadium."

Max's expression changed slightly as the significance of the explanation settled in.

"After hearing that, I'm sure she'll be ready to come. Especially if it helps resolve the Sosadium matter."

"Good."

Raymond returned his attention to the papers.

Max remained standing beside the bed for another moment, watching him sift through the growing collection of documents.

There was something almost impressive about the way Raymond worked. He could make a room look as though a hurricane had developed an interest in administration, yet somehow expect to find a specific sheet of paper somewhere inside the resulting disaster.

The difficulty, of course, was that the hurricane had apparently been him.

"What are you looking for, sir?" Max asked.

"A paper."

Max stared at him.

Raymond continued searching.

It was a remarkably precise answer to a question that had revealed absolutely nothing.

Max considered offering to help, but one glance at the bed convinced him that the paper might be easier to locate if the entire house were evacuated first.

"I should be leaving. It seems you have quite a lot to do today."

He turned toward the door.

"Yes, yes," Raymond muttered, moving another stack of documents aside.

Max left the room.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Raymond didn't notice.

He had just uncovered a notebook, two old receipts, a folded letter, and a document that appeared to have been hiding beneath a book for the better part of its natural life.

Then, suddenly—

"Ahhh!"

He snatched up a sheet of paper.

"I got it, Max!"

Raymond looked toward the door, expecting to find his assistant standing there, ready to share in the triumph of recovering a document from the wilderness of his own bedroom.

Nobody was there.

He blinked.

"When did he leave?"

The question was directed at the empty room.

The empty room, being an entity of considerable discretion, declined to answer.

Raymond glanced at the paper in his hand, then at the closed door.

He shrugged and returned to his books.

Whatever Max had been doing, it could wait.

He had found the paper.

And somewhere in the city, Lucille remained a mystery.

The most astonishing piece of information Raymond had uncovered during his investigation was also the kind of information people died for discovering.

It was rather like finding a cure for cancer, except that instead of being celebrated by the world, one had a fairly good chance of being buried by it. There was little point in discovering something extraordinary if you never lived long enough to tell anyone about it. Unfortunately, the dead had always been terrible at giving interviews.

Raymond had discovered the existence of the Worldfare.

It wasn't a criminal organisation, not in the way he had grown accustomed to understanding criminal organisations on Eleventh Avenue and Carcass Street, East of Kingsmere. There, every street belonged to somebody. Each organisation had its territory, its rules, its enemies, and its own special interpretation of the word business. One could practically draw a map of the city using nothing but threats, bloodstains, and the occasional unfortunate shopkeeper.

The Worldfare was something else entirely.

It was a world for the rich, a world in which its members could do whatever they pleased, provided they possessed the right connections and enough gold to make their problems disappear. They had their own currency: gold coins.

Gold coins.

Raymond leaned back against the pillows, staring at the information before him.

Ordinary people worked for money, saved what they could, and occasionally spent an irresponsible amount on something they didn't need. The wealthy had apparently decided that ordinary money was too ordinary for them. They had created their own system, complete with its own currency and, presumably, its own definition of consequences.

The truly rich did have a talent for making simple things unnecessarily complicated. Give them a perfectly good chair, and they would invent a throne.

But the discovery had left Raymond with a far more troubling question.

Hugo Cavendish.

There was now a considerable possibility that Hugo had been involved in the creation—or at least the production—of the gold coins used by the Worldfare. Raymond couldn't yet prove it, but the possibility had lodged itself in his mind like a splinter beneath a fingernail.

If Hugo was involved with the Worldfare, then the debt their father had left behind might be considerably more dangerous than a few unpaid bills.

And if Hugo was connected to something that powerful, why did Lucille want him dead?

More importantly, who exactly was her employer?

Did the employer want the gold? If so, why approach Raymond? Why not hire somebody who could shoot first and ask questions never, which was generally the preferred qualification for such work?

Unless Raymond himself was part of the plan.

He didn't particularly enjoy that possibility.

Raymond had spent enough of his life dealing with people who smiled while hiding knives behind their backs. He preferred to know where the knives were. It made conversations considerably less stressful.

Now, however, he had stumbled into a world whose existence alone could get a person killed, and he wasn't even certain whether Lucille had invited him into it or merely pushed him through the door.

There was only one place he could think of that might provide answers.

Carcass Street.

More specifically, the Im-Ex store, their mother's old delivery service shop.

Whatever their father had left behind, whatever business had tied him to Hugo Cavendish, and whatever the gold coins had to do with it, the old store might hold the first pieces of the puzzle.

Raymond would have preferred a quieter morning. Perhaps one involving breakfast, a reasonable amount of sleep, and absolutely no secret societies.

Life, unfortunately, had never been particularly interested in his preferences.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," Raymond called.

He was still trying to digest the knowledge he'd swallowed, and it was proving rather difficult to get down. Some discoveries were like that. They entered the mind quite easily and then sat in the throat, refusing to move until one had reconsidered every decision that had led to finding them.

The door opened.

Alex stepped inside.

She stopped almost immediately.

Books covered the bed. Papers were scattered between them, some stacked in neat piles and others lying about with the confidence of objects that had no intention of being put away. A few documents had found their way onto the floor, where they appeared to be considering a permanent residence.

Alex surveyed the scene.

"Reading, are we?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you called me here so we could study sex positions together, brother."

She reached down and picked up a book lying beside him.

It contained the names of their mother's deliverymen and the details of their families.

Apparently, Alex's idea of educational material was a little different from Raymond's. Or perhaps she simply understood that a man surrounded by that many books had either discovered something important or lost a bet.

"I didn't know we had this book," she remarked, flipping through a few pages.

"I prefer keeping information in books rather than computers," Raymond replied.

Alex glanced at him.

"Yeah, because computers can be destroyed and books can be burnt."

She closed the book with a small thud.

It was an excellent point, though not necessarily the sort Raymond had hoped to hear from his sister. Books could indeed burn. They could also be stolen, soaked, eaten by insects, or misplaced beneath six other books by somebody who insisted he was organising his research.

Still, Raymond wasn't about to abandon a habit that had served him well simply because Alex had discovered fire.

"So," she continued, walking towards the bed, "why are we going to Mom's store?"

Raymond sat among his papers, watching her approach. Alex reached over and took the book he had been reading, forcing him to look up at her.

"Tell me already."

"Max told you," Raymond said.

Alex stared at him.

"Max told me we were going to Mom's old store. He did not tell me why."

Raymond looked towards the windows.

Outside, the daylight carried on as though the world hadn't just become considerably more complicated. The curtains shifted faintly in the breeze, and somewhere beyond the glass, people were probably going about their mornings, blissfully unaware that a secret world of wealthy people and gold coins existed above—or beneath—their ordinary lives.

Some people had the luxury of ignorance.

Raymond was beginning to suspect he had misplaced his.

Raymond turned his head towards the window, where the left side of his back faced the glass and gave him a clear view of the gate below.

He had been hoping Alex wouldn't notice the little detail he had conveniently left out of their conversation.

Unfortunately, Alex had never been particularly gifted at minding her own business. It was one of her many talents, along with making threats sound like casual suggestions.

"So you're lying, huh?" she said, resting a hand on her waist as she pushed her hair back. "And I'm sure you're hoping to tell me we're on our way there, then."

"Yeah. That's the plan."

Raymond rose from the bed, stepping around a pile of papers that had apparently survived the night without being promoted to a more organised position.

Alex watched him for a moment, then glanced around the room.

"Should I get someone to tidy this place up?"

Raymond stopped.

He looked at her with the sort of suspicion normally reserved for unexpected knocks at midnight.

"It's interesting to see you being kind. Are you plotting something?"

He stepped closer as he spoke, until they were standing so near that their noses almost touched.

Now, in the olden days, people apparently kissed using their noses. Or perhaps that was what animals did, and history had simply become confused somewhere along the way. The distinction was important, of course, particularly to historians and people who had never successfully kissed anyone.

Either way, Raymond and Alex were close enough to make the moment look like an extremely questionable family portrait.

Alex leaned back a little.

"I can just burn everything in this room," she said.

And there it was. The kindness had lasted almost five seconds, a personal record that deserved some form of recognition.

She turned, opened the door, and stepped into the corridor.

"I love it when my room looks like this," Raymond called after her. "Ideas come to me."

Alex paused outside.

Raymond followed her to the doorway, pulled a key from his pocket, and began locking the door.

The small metallic click caught Alex's attention.

She turned to watch him finish.

"Are you hiding something in that room of yours?" she asked. "Because this is the first time I've seen you lock your door."

Raymond withdrew the key and slipped it away.

Then, with great solemnity, he placed his left hand over his heart.

Alex stared at him.

"Eh, yeah. I'd prefer you to speak instead of using your weird hand language."

"Protecting my knowledge," Raymond replied. "I'll explain later."

He walked past her.

For a moment, Alex remained where she was, watching her brother move down the corridor as though he hadn't just announced that he was protecting knowledge inside a room full of books, papers, and enough disorder to make an archaeologist consider a career change.

Then she hurried after him.

"You better tell me, asshole."

Raymond continued walking.

Alex followed close behind, which was how most of their conversations ended: one of them walking away with information, and the other threatening to obtain it by less civilised means.

In the Kazersdale family, privacy was a privilege.

And apparently, so was having a sister who respected it.

Seventeen Avenue, Sevenleven Street

Seventeen Avenue, Sevenleven Street, was one of the most dangerous streets in Kingsmere.

It belonged to Dizzy Dean.

Dizzy was one of those men who had grown up fantasising about the end of the world. Not in the way ordinary people occasionally did when their bills piled up, their employers became unbearable, or their neighbours decided that midnight was an appropriate time to practise the drums. Dizzy dreamed of a proper apocalypse. The kind that swallowed cities, shattered governments, and left the survivors wondering why they had bothered getting out of bed that morning.

Unfortunately, life had other plans for him.

Life wanted him to work, earn money, and pay for the privilege of remaining alive. Dizzy found the arrangement rather insulting. If the world insisted on being cruel, he saw no reason he shouldn't be cruel back.

So he built himself a gang.

Then he began stealing from people, including his own neighbours, until Sevenleven Street became less of a neighbourhood and more of a financial trap with houses attached. Even the police struggled to get their hands on him. Sometimes, watching Dizzy escape punishment yet again, one might have suspected that the whole of Havenfall was conspiring to protect him.

Of course, plenty of people prayed for the opposite.

They prayed for the Hole to swallow him whole and deliver him directly to the Abyss, preferably without stopping anywhere for refreshments.

Dizzy Dean, however, remained very much alive. And he was a man who understood money.

Day and night, money was his business, his pleasure, and apparently his preferred substitute for a personality.

He ruled Sevenleven Street through gambling. His games were popular, his debts were enormous, and his customers had a remarkable talent for discovering that they owned considerably less than they had believed. People who lived on his street might owe him their houses, their children, and, in particularly unfortunate cases, children who had yet to be conceived.

Dizzy's games offered a generous variety of things to wager.

Money, naturally. Property, certainly. Personal possessions, if one had anything left worth taking.

And if those weren't enough?

One could always bet with the nonexistent.

Dizzy was not a man who allowed reality to interfere with a profitable game.

That evening, a car pulled up in front of the gym.

A man stepped out, carrying a black plastic bag.

He was dressed like somebody who had attended a funeral and found the proceedings insufficiently interesting to stay until the end. A long, weathered charcoal coat hung from his shoulders, its leather creased at the elbows and faded along the seams. The collar rose against his jaw, giving his face a shadowed, severe appearance. Beneath it, a dark grey shirt was buttoned most of the way up, plain and practical, the sort of garment that concealed wrinkles, sweat, and the occasional unfortunate stain without asking too many questions.

His black suit trousers were sharply creased, almost offensively formal against the cracked pavement and chipped paint surrounding the gym. Heavy black lace-up boots completed the outfit. They were scuffed at the toes, and one lace hung loose, apparently the victim of a man who considered tying his shoes an unnecessary concession to civilisation.

Black leather gloves covered his hands.

The plastic bag hung from one of them, its contents hidden. It sagged slightly beneath its own weight, although whether that weight came from something valuable, something unpleasant, or something that would have benefited from being left at home was impossible to tell.

His other hand remained tucked inside his coat pocket.

His dark, curly hair was untidy, and his thick beard had been trimmed just enough to suggest that the disorder was deliberate. His brow sat low over his eyes. He stared at the gym's entrance with a flat, unimpressed scowl, wearing the expression of a man who had already decided how the next few minutes would go and was merely waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

He didn't fidget.

He didn't check his surroundings.

He simply stood there, patient and still.

There was something peculiar about a man who could stand outside a building without appearing to be waiting for anything. Most people gave themselves away through little movements: a glance at a watch, a shift of weight, fingers tapping against a thigh. The stranger did none of those things.

He looked less like a visitor and more like a problem that had arrived ahead of its explanation.

After closing the car door, he leaned back inside through the passenger-side window and handed the driver his fare.

"Thank you, sir," the driver said.

The stranger offered no reply.

The driver, perhaps deciding that gratitude had already been sufficiently expressed, pulled away and disappeared into the traffic.

Sevenleven Street was not quiet.

It had none of that theatrical stillness one found in old Western towns before a cowboy duel, when the wind rolled a tumbleweed down the road and every shopkeeper hurried indoors to avoid becoming part of somebody else's legend.

No. Sevenleven was lively.

People stood outside shops, chatting beneath signs that had seen better years. Groups gathered along the pavements, drinking, laughing, and conducting conversations that occasionally required everybody nearby to pretend they hadn't heard anything. Others wandered between the shops and the street, going about their business beneath the glow of streetlights and shop windows.

There was an almost festive atmosphere to the place, as though the whole neighbourhood were preparing for a party.

Perhaps it was.

On Sevenleven Street, a party and a public disaster could look remarkably similar from the outside.

The stranger glanced once along the street before turning towards the gym.

This was one of Dizzy Dean's favourite places. Some people claimed that if you wanted to find Dizzy at home, you should come here. If you wanted to find him at his office, you should also come here.

It was a remarkably convenient arrangement. The man had managed to turn a gym into both a place of business and an extension of his personality.

The stranger approached the entrance and went inside.

The first thing that greeted him was the smell.

Sweat, blood, damp clothing, old leather, and the sharp, metallic scent that lingered wherever people regularly struck one another hard enough to make the human body reconsider its design. The air was thick and warm, carrying the steady rhythm of fists meeting flesh and boots scraping against the floor.

At the centre of the room stood several fighting rings.

Men occupied them in pairs, trading punches beneath harsh overhead lights. Some moved with the controlled precision of experienced fighters, slipping past blows and returning them with frightening efficiency. Others fought with the enthusiasm of men who had mistaken aggression for skill.

Whether they were training or trying to knock one another unconscious was difficult to determine.

The distinction became particularly academic when a man took a punch to the nose and stumbled backwards, blood running over his upper lip.

His opponent followed him.

The crowd shouted.

Somebody laughed.

The man with the bleeding nose wiped his face with the back of his hand and stepped forward again.

Training, perhaps.

Or a disagreement with an unusually generous supply of witnesses.

The gym was full of testosterone, blood, and sweat. Tears, on the other hand, were conspicuously absent. The men here seemed to believe their balls were made of steel, their bones were optional, and pain was a rumour invented by people who couldn't afford boxing gloves.

Naturally, this did not prevent them from bleeding.

The human body has always been an irritatingly persistent critic of masculine philosophy.

The stranger moved farther inside, the black plastic bag hanging beside his leg.

Nobody stopped him at the entrance.

Nobody asked his name.

And for the moment, nobody seemed particularly interested in the man in the weathered coat.

That was the curious thing about places like Dizzy Dean's gym. Surrounded by men determined to prove how dangerous they were, an unfamiliar face could sometimes pass unnoticed.

Especially when it belonged to someone who looked as though he had come prepared for a conversation that would not require many words.

The stranger continued into the gym.

Whatever he had brought in that black bag, he had gone to the trouble of carrying it here himself.

And on Sevenleven Street, that was rarely a promising sign.

"Hey! What are you doing here?"

The voice came from somewhere beside the nearest fighting ring.

One of the men who had been lifting dumbbells had finally noticed the stranger standing among them. He lowered the weights, allowing them to hit the floor with a heavy thud, and turned towards the man in the charcoal coat.

The stranger, however, had barely heard him.

His attention had been captured by the fight taking place in the ring. Two men were moving with such extraordinary speed that watching them felt like witnessing Japanese ninjas practising sorcery in broad daylight. One ducked beneath a punch, twisted, and drove his elbow towards his opponent's ribs. The other somehow managed to turn the movement into a counterattack, sending his opponent staggering backwards.

The crowd roared.

For a moment, even the stranger seemed impressed.

It was difficult not to be. Whatever they were teaching in this gym, it appeared to involve persuading the laws of physics to mind their own business.

"Didn't you hear me?" the man with the dumbbells shouted. "I said, what are you doing here?"

The fight stopped.

Not gradually, either. One moment, the ring was alive with fists, movement, and shouting; the next, the fighters had separated, and the entire gym seemed to have developed a sudden interest in the stranger.

Men turned away from their weights. Conversations died in their throats. A few of the fighters leaned against the ropes, studying the newcomer with the curiosity of people who had just been handed an unexpected opportunity to exercise their violence.

The stranger looked at them.

Then he spoke.

"I'm Adultery Hazelnut."

Silence followed.

Somewhere at the back of the gym, a man snorted.

Then another laughed.

Soon, several men were exchanging amused looks, and the fellow with the dumbbells was grinning as though the stranger had personally volunteered to entertain them.

"Oh, I was told Adultery was coming," he said. "Didn't think it was actually a human being. Thought the boss meant some sexy ladies in short, seductive skirts."

Laughter travelled through the room.

It was a perfectly understandable mistake, in fairness. The word adultery generally brought to mind marital betrayal, arguments, and at least one person discovering that their partner had been conducting a second relationship with considerably more enthusiasm than their own marriage. It wasn't the sort of name one expected to hear introduced without a punchline following shortly afterwards.

Adultery Hazelnut did not laugh.

He looked at the young man with the calm disappointment of an elderly schoolteacher who had just discovered that an entire generation had failed to learn the meaning of silence.

"Young man," he said, "tell me, where is your elder?"

The laughter dwindled.

There were several reasons people wondered why he was called Adultery Hazelnut. Most assumed it had something to do with his sexual habits. It was an understandable conclusion, considering the name, although people were often too eager to believe the worst about others when the opportunity came wrapped in an amusing package.

But the truth was considerably stranger.

Adultery had received his name because his mother had committed adultery. His father, upon discovering the betrayal, had killed her. And somewhere in the dreadful confusion of that marriage, she had given birth to Adultery, leaving the father to name the child after the very act that had helped destroy his family.

It was the sort of family history that made one appreciate being born into a household where the worst argument concerned who had finished the milk.

Adultery himself had never committed adultery.

Not once.

Yet he had killed plenty of people who had.

One might argue that this was an unusually specific hobby, and one would not be wrong. The world had no shortage of people who believed they were entitled to punish others for their sins while maintaining a private collection of sins of their own. Adultery, at least, had the decency to specialise.

Whether that made him a moral man was another matter entirely.

The young man stopped smiling.

"The boss is upstairs," he said, gesturing towards the staircase.

Adultery gave a slight nod and started walking.

The men watched him pass. Some returned to their exercises, while others continued to follow him with their eyes. The stranger's black plastic bag swung gently beside his leg, its contents still concealed.

He climbed the stairs and approached the door at the top.

Then he knocked.

He didn't wait a minute.

The door opened almost immediately.

Dizzy Dean stood on the other side.

He opened it with one hand, slowly and without hurry, like a man who already knew who was waiting outside and had decided that the world could afford to wait for him.

He wore a three-piece suit made from finely woven charcoal-grey wool, cut close to his frame. The jacket's wide notched lapels framed a matching waistcoat, buttoned high across his chest. A crimson silk handkerchief rested neatly in his breast pocket, providing the only bright splash of colour against the otherwise restrained outfit.

A thin gold chain stretched across the waistcoat towards a pocket watch, with a small tassel hanging from it. The watch caught the warm lamplight whenever he moved, flashing briefly like a tiny reminder that time was something he could afford to waste.

His pale shirt had a stiff white collar, and a dark grey patterned silk tie sat tightly knotted at his throat, secured by a small pin.

His dark hair was slicked back from his forehead, silver appearing at the temples. A thin moustache traced his upper lip, carefully trimmed and maintained.

Dizzy's face revealed very little.

His brows drew together slightly, his lips pressed into a flat line, and his eyes settled on Adultery with cool, measured suspicion.

Behind him, the hallway was dim, illuminated by warm lamplight that caught the gold of his watch chain and the crimson of his handkerchief.

"Adultery," Dizzy said. "You're here."

"Obviously," Adultery replied.

A lesser man might have found the answer irritating. Dizzy merely studied him for another moment.

Adultery shifted the black bag in his gloved hand and began to step forward.

Dizzy raised one hand.

"Let's not go inside. It's best we sort this out now."

He stepped into the hallway, closed the door behind him, and headed for the stairs.

Adultery followed.

Neither man seemed particularly interested in explaining himself in the corridor, and neither appeared concerned about the possibility of being overheard. This was Dizzy Dean's gym, after all. Privacy was a luxury, and the only people who enjoyed it were generally the ones who could afford to make everyone else pretend not to listen.

They descended into the gym.

The fighters had resumed their exercises, though several pairs of eyes followed the two men as they crossed the room. A boxer struck the punching bag hard enough to make its chains rattle. Another man grunted beneath a barbell, while someone nearby shouted instructions that sounded suspiciously like insults.

Dizzy didn't acknowledge any of them.

He led Adultery past the rings and towards a set of rooms at the back of the building.

The atmosphere changed as they left the main gym behind. The roaring voices and rhythmic thuds of fists grew quieter, replaced by the hum of machinery and the metallic clinking of tools.

Behind the gym, Dizzy had a group of automobile engineers at work.

They were gathered around vehicles in various stages of repair, examining engines, handling tools, and moving between workbenches cluttered with parts. The smell of oil and hot metal mingled with the sweat that seemed to have settled permanently into the building's walls.

It was an unexpected sight for anyone who thought Dizzy Dean's business began and ended with gambling.

Then again, a man who owned a street full of debts and desperate people had plenty of reasons to develop an interest in automobiles. Cars could transport people, carry goods, disappear into the night, and occasionally become the most inconvenient pieces of evidence in a criminal investigation.

Dizzy stopped near the back rooms.

Adultery stopped beside him, the black bag still hanging from his hand.

For a moment, neither spoke.

The machinery continued to hum around them, and somewhere behind a half-open workshop door, a mechanic cursed at a stubborn bolt.

Dizzy finally turned towards his visitor.

"Now," he said, his eyes dropping briefly to the bag, "tell me what you've brought me."

"I've been doing this mechanic business for a while," Dizzy began, gesturing towards the workshops. "My girlfriend is into cars, so she wanted to have this place. You know women. They're not that complicated. Give them what they want, and everybody's happy."

Adultery looked at him.

"Yes, women. How lovely they are." He paused, adjusting his grip on the black plastic bag. "But don't get lured into their fountain, Dean."

Dizzy burst out laughing.

"The irony," he said, shaking his head. "I love it."

There were many things one could say about Dizzy Dean, but a lack of self-awareness wasn't necessarily one of them. The man had built an empire by making other people's lives miserable, yet apparently considered himself perfectly qualified to offer relationship advice. One had to admire the confidence, if nothing else.

He walked towards a white van parked beside the workshop.

Unlike the expensive vehicles scattered around the garage, the van looked rather ordinary. It was the sort of vehicle people barely noticed on the road, which was precisely what made it useful. Ordinary vehicles could transport extraordinary amounts of trouble without attracting much attention.

Dizzy stopped behind it and opened the rear doors.

Inside were three bags.

He stepped aside to let Adultery see them.

"Do you know this van?"

Adultery approached, studying the vehicle. He examined its sides, running his eyes over the bodywork before walking around to inspect the front. The paintwork was clean enough, and certain sections looked newer than others. Somebody had recently worked on it, repairing whatever damage it had suffered.

He crouched slightly to examine the front before straightening.

"Looks like it's just been repaired," he said. "But, yeah, I know it. It's familiar."

He returned to Dizzy.

"It's one of the Kazersdales' delivery vans. One of many."

Dizzy nodded slowly.

"I've heard of them. Alex is one of them, isn't she?"

"Ah, yes," Dizzy replied, inhaling as though the name itself had offended his lungs. "That punk brat."

Alex Kazersdale appeared to have acquired quite a reputation. It was a remarkable achievement for someone who wasn't even present to defend herself, although people like Dizzy had never required the cooperation of their targets to develop an opinion about them.

He exhaled and turned his attention back to the van.

"Anyway, I want you to get rid of it."

Adultery watched him.

"No trace," Dizzy continued. "Don't leave anything that connects it to me. Or yourself."

The instructions were delivered with the casual tone of a man ordering somebody to take out the rubbish. It was a particularly impressive way of discussing the disappearance of a vehicle belonging to a family that already had enough reasons to be suspicious of him.

Adultery, however, seemed more interested in the bags.

He approached the open rear doors and peered inside. One of the bags had shifted, leaving a gap through which its contents were visible.

Gold coins.

His expression changed.

"Gold coins," he said quietly. "Worldfare."

Dizzy glanced towards the bags.

"Yes."

Adultery looked at him, then back at the coins.

For a moment, the surrounding machinery seemed to grow louder, filling the silence between them. The gold caught the overhead light, gleaming against the dark interiors of the bags. There was enough of it to make a reasonable man curious and an unreasonable man start planning how to acquire more.

Adultery had survived long enough to know that curiosity was often expensive.

"Where were they going?"

"Couldn't tell you." Dizzy shrugged. "I don't know where they were headed. I just have the van."

It was a convenient answer, though not necessarily a convincing one. Dizzy Dean had built his reputation on knowing things other people didn't, so hearing him admit ignorance was rather like watching a fish confess that it had never learned to swim.

Still, the gold was there, and the van needed to disappear.

Adultery looked at the bags again.

"Am I supposed to get rid of these too?"

"Oh, no." Dizzy's answer came quickly enough to suggest that the question had offended him. "I'm keeping those."

He reached into his pocket, drew out the keys, and held them between two fingers.

"And I'll pay you with twenty of the coins. Is that a deal?"

Adultery considered the offer. Twenty gold coins were twenty gold coins. Whatever the Worldfare's rules might be, Adultery was not in the habit of refusing payment merely because it came from a world populated by people who had apparently decided ordinary money lacked sufficient glamour.

"Fine by me."

Dizzy tossed him the keys.

Adultery caught them and examined the keyring briefly before closing his gloved fingers around it.

"Just be careful," Dizzy warned. "And don't get seen by those fuckers. They're everywhere. Every last one of them. Like mosquitoes. It's fucking annoying."

He said this with genuine irritation, as though the greatest threat to his criminal enterprise wasn't the possibility of being exposed but the inconvenience of having too many people asking questions.

Adultery climbed into the driver's seat.

The door opened with a creak, and he settled behind the steering wheel, placing the black plastic bag beside him. He inserted the key and turned it. The engine coughed once before starting, its low rumble blending into the noise of the workshop.

Dizzy stepped away from the vehicle.

"Remember," he called, "no trace!"

Adultery raised one gloved hand in acknowledgement.

Whether he was promising to obey or merely indicating that he had heard the words was difficult to tell. Men like Adultery were not especially generous with reassurances, perhaps because they understood that a promise became considerably less useful when somebody had to explain why it had been broken.

He began to pull the van forward.

Then Dizzy noticed something happening at the next workbench.

"HEY! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?"

The shout thundered across the workshop.

A mechanic, who had been busy fitting rims onto a set of tyres, froze with one hand still resting against the wheel.

"You're supposed to put the Lamborghini rims on!" Dizzy barked, marching towards him. "Not this weird Ferrari shit!"

The mechanic looked down at the rims.

Then he looked at Dizzy.

Then, with the expression of a man who had suddenly discovered that his employer's automotive knowledge was going to be a long and painful obstacle to earning a living, he opened his mouth.

"Boss, I—"

"Are you on drugs?" Dizzy demanded. "Oh, for fuck's sake!"

He threw his hands up and stormed away before the mechanic could finish explaining himself.

Adultery watched the spectacle through the windscreen.

For a moment, he sat motionless behind the steering wheel.

Then he looked at the van's dashboard.

Somewhere in the back, three bags of gold waited to be claimed by a world that apparently had its own currency, its own rules, and its own assortment of people willing to kill over both.

And Dizzy Dean was busy arguing about rims.

It was difficult to decide which of the two situations was more dangerous.

Adultery put the van into gear.

The vehicle rolled away from the workbench and towards the exit, carrying its cargo into the evening.

Behind him, Dizzy's voice rose again.

"THOSE AREN'T EVEN THE RIGHT SIZE!"

Adultery drove on.

He had gold to earn, a van to get rid of, and no particular desire to learn anything more about Dizzy Dean's girlfriend's taste in cars.

The House Next to the Burnt Stephenhood Residence, Milesmars Street

HAVENFALL NEWS — BREAKING REPORT

"More details have emerged following yesterday's mass shooting at Decon College, in eastern Kingsmere, where nine students were killed in a deadly attack allegedly carried out by a twenty-one-year-old gunman, Jerome Jerricore.

As the investigation continues, residents who knew Jerome have begun speaking about the warning signs they believe were overlooked.

For some, the tragedy came as a shock. For others, it was a disaster they had never expected to happen, despite years of troubling behaviour.

Mary Stolenone, a resident who knew the accused, spoke to Havenfall News earlier today."


"We knew there was something wrong with him, but we didn't do anything about it because we never expected him to actually hurt people. It hurts to think that his evilness would lead him to kill at such a young age."

Another neighbour, Jay Devlin, described Jerome as someone who had openly joked about killing.

"He wasn't quiet about saying he would kill someone one day. He used to play with other teenagers, pretending to be a killer while they ran away from him. To me, it was all just playing around."

Other residents of Second Decon Street described Jerome as a troubled young man whose behaviour had raised concerns over the years. Some also criticised his parents, accusing them of turning a blind eye to the warning signs as their son's behaviour became increasingly disturbing.

Authorities have yet to establish the full circumstances surrounding the attack. Meanwhile, the community continues to mourn the nine victims, with questions mounting over whether the tragedy could have been prevented.

For now, Kingsmere is left to confront a question no amount of hindsight can answer easily: how many warnings must a community ignore before it realises that what it calls playing around may not be a game?

"I can't believe this is actually happening in Kingsmere. This is supposed to happen in Helen's Fields or Edenus."

The man sat on his couch, staring at the television. The news presenter continued speaking, her grave expression suggesting that even she had grown tired of delivering one terrible story after another.

He shook his head.

There had always been violence in Havenfall. There were streets where people disappeared without anyone asking questions, families who locked their doors before sunset, and neighbourhoods where the sound of gunfire was more likely to interrupt dinner than a telephone call.

But a mass shooting at a college?

That was supposed to happen somewhere else.

People had a peculiar habit of assigning tragedy to places they considered sufficiently distant from themselves. It was a comforting arrangement, really. As long as evil lived somewhere else, one could enjoy one's evening and pretend that the walls of one's home were built from something stronger than bricks.

A woman walked behind the couch, slowing as she caught sight of the television. She watched the report for a moment, her expression tightening.

Then she opened the front door.

"Are you seeing this, love?" the man asked.

"I am, honey." She paused, looking back towards him. "Let's hope our boy doesn't become like him."

She stepped outside.

The evening air settled around the houses along Milesmars Street. Across the road, the Stephenhood residence stood blackened and ruined, its burned walls a grim reminder that Kingsmere had no shortage of tragedies competing for public attention.

Two men dressed in black stood in front of the property.

They weren't talking to anyone, and they didn't appear to be doing anything in particular. They simply stood there, watching the house.

The woman noticed them immediately.

She slowed.

There was something about two strangers standing silently outside a burnt house that invited questions, especially in a city where perfectly ordinary questions occasionally got people into perfectly extraordinary trouble.

She glanced back towards her own house, where the television was still broadcasting the news of nine dead students.

Then she looked at the two men again.

Whatever they were doing there, she decided she would rather ask than spend the evening inventing answers.

She walked towards them.

"Morning. Are you the HVI agents?"

The woman had stopped a few feet away from the two men, looking between them with the cautious curiosity of someone who had discovered an unexpected addition to her morning.

"Yes, we are, Miss Woods," Carl replied.

He offered her a pleasant smile. Carl had the sort of smile that made strangers feel comfortable answering questions they hadn't intended to answer. It was a useful talent, particularly for a man whose profession involved asking questions in places where people preferred to keep their mouths shut.

Cobb, meanwhile, regarded the woman with considerably less enthusiasm.

"Ma'am, have you seen anyone besides us who's been here?"

Miss Woods glanced towards the burnt residence.

"Yes. I remember seeing a woman wearing black. Is that a problem?"

"Not at all, Miss Woods," Carl assured her. "We're just investigating. Touching this and touching that, you know how it is."

He gestured vaguely towards the house, as though criminal investigations were mostly a matter of wandering around and developing an intimate relationship with other people's furniture.

"You should run along now," he added cheerfully.

Miss Woods hesitated for a moment, apparently deciding whether that was an actual instruction or simply the strangest way a man had ever dismissed her from a conversation.

Then she left.

Carl maintained his smile until she was out of earshot.

The smile disappeared.

It was rather impressive how quickly a pleasant face could become an entirely different piece of architecture.

"If it were me robbing this house," he said, looking along the street, "I'd choose that road. The one leading towards the Kingsbat Saloon. It's more inclined."

Cobb followed his gaze.

The road stretched away from Milesmars Street, sloping towards the direction of the saloon. Its gradient offered a possible advantage to anyone trying to move something heavy away from the burnt residence, though whether the thief had used it was another question entirely.

"That's what I was thinking too," Cobb replied.

Carl turned to look at him.

"I feel like you're lying."

Cobb began walking down the street.

"Then you should stop asking questions you already know the answers to."

Carl stared after him for a moment before following.

It was a familiar arrangement between the brothers. Cobb had a remarkable talent for walking away just when a conversation became interesting, while Carl had an equally remarkable talent for following him and complaining about it. They had somehow managed to turn this into a functioning professional relationship.

The street was quiet enough for their footsteps to be heard against the pavement.

The morning light fell across the houses, revealing patches of faded paint and gardens that looked as though their owners had long ago surrendered the battle against weeds.

Carl looked around as they walked.

"You know, this street reminds me of my retirement house in Helen's Fields."

Cobb glanced at him.

"Your retirement house?"

"Yes."

"You don't have a retirement house."

"Not yet."

"Then how does this street remind you of it?"

Carl considered the question.

The houses stood peacefully beside the road, their windows catching the sunlight. Somewhere behind a fence, a dog barked at something that had probably offended it by existing. The air was calm, and the street carried the quiet, respectable atmosphere of a neighbourhood where people watered their gardens and complained about property prices.

It was almost charming.

Almost.

"We'll see," Carl said at last.

Cobb shook his head and continued walking.

There were many mysteries surrounding the burnt Stephenhood residence, and apparently one of them was where Carl intended to spend his retirement.

In fairness, it was probably the least dangerous mystery they would encounter that morning.

Flashback

Eleventh Avenue, Carcass Street — Kingsmere

Young Raymond arrived at Eleventh Avenue, Carcass Street, where he lived.

The street was unusually lively.

A group of children had taken possession of the road, playing football in the middle of it and shouting at one another as they chased the ball from one end to the other. Cars rarely passed through here. The street was a no-driving zone unless one had the proper authorisation, which meant the children could enjoy their game without having to worry about a driver ruining it—or ruining somebody's afternoon by running over the ball.

It was one of the few advantages of living in a place where criminals controlled the streets. Occasionally, their rules benefited the children.

Young Raymond continued towards home, weaving past the kids as they ran after the ball.

Then he spotted the truck.

It was parked directly in front of the Im-Ex shop, its rear doors open while several men carried boxes from inside the building and loaded them into the back. The shop was busy, with workers moving in and out, each carrying something that seemed to require more effort than the last.

One of the men noticed him.

"Boy! Come here and take these boxes in. Mom wants it done quickly."

Young Raymond stopped and turned towards the man.

"Charlie," he said as he approached, "it never hurts to say you're the one who wants me to do it. Leave Mom out of it."

Charlie laughed.

"Can't get enough of talking back to your uncle, can you?"

He handed young Raymond three boxes, stacking them one on top of the other until the boy could barely see over the pile.

Young Raymond adjusted his grip.

"What's in these things? They're damn heavy."

"Move, kid."

Before young Raymond could protest, Charlie placed a fourth box on top.

He grinned down at his nephew.

"Get at it, boy. Use your back."

There were many ways to encourage a young person to develop responsibility. Charlie had apparently chosen the method favoured by people who believed childhood was an elaborate training programme for unpaid labour.

Young Raymond rolled his eyes and carried the boxes towards the shop.

Inside, the Im-Ex store was alive with activity. Workers crossed between the shelves and the back rooms, voices overlapping as they called to one another. The air carried the smell of cardboard, dust, and the assorted scents of a delivery business that rarely had the luxury of standing still.

Young Raymond made his way through the workspace and headed towards the back room.

Several people were talking inside when he arrived.

His mother stood among the boxes, counting them and checking their contents. She looked up as he entered.

"Ray, put those down. We don't want them getting messed up, do we?"

Young Raymond carefully lowered the boxes to the floor.

"No, Mom."

She glanced at him.

"How was college?"

"Fine."

He paused, then added, "Vinnie's chasing after Michelle."

His mother gave him a look.

"Don't want you chasing after danger."

Young Raymond shrugged.

"I wasn't."

"Good."

She pointed towards another stack of boxes.

"Go bring me more."

"All right, Mom."

Young Raymond turned to leave.

"Use your creaking back," his mother called after him.

He stopped and looked back.

"Sure thing, Mom."

He headed outside again.

A few workers passed him on their way into the shop, carrying more boxes. Young Raymond stepped aside to let them through, then continued towards the truck.

When he reached it, he stopped.

The boxes were already gone.

He looked around, momentarily confused by the sudden absence of work. It was a rare enough occurrence to deserve investigation.

"Good job."

Charlie climbed down from the back of the truck and walked over to him.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out some money, holding it out to his nephew.

"Five Crowns."

Young Raymond looked at the money.

"Five Crowns, Charlie?"

Charlie raised an eyebrow.

"Five Crowns or five slaps in the face, boy."

Young Raymond smirked.

"I'll slap you back."

Charlie laughed.

"I'll tell Mom."

Young Raymond shook his head.

"You're a snitch."

Charlie turned and walked back into the shop, apparently satisfied with the transaction. He had successfully recruited his nephew for a morning of manual labour, paid him a modest sum, and threatened to report him to his mother if he complained.

It was a remarkably efficient business model.

Young Raymond watched his uncle disappear through the door.

Then he looked down at the money in his hand.

Five Crowns.

One day, he might learn the value of negotiation. For now, he had discovered that working for family came with benefits, provided one considered being threatened with slaps a reasonable addition to the employment contract.

He slipped the money away and began walking down the street.

His phone was in his hand, and he scrolled through it casually as he went, his attention divided between the screen and the familiar surroundings.

Behind him, the children's football game continued. Their shouts echoed between the buildings whenever somebody made a pass, missed a kick, or accused another player of cheating.

Despite all the noise, the street itself remained unusually quiet.

No cars drove past. No horns interrupted the children's arguments. No engines roared somewhere in the distance.

There was only the occasional shout from the game, the faint murmur of activity coming from the Im-Ex shop, and the steady sound of young Raymond's footsteps carrying him farther along Eleventh Avenue.

It was an ordinary day on Carcass Street.

And ordinary days, as Raymond would eventually discover, were often the ones people remembered most clearly after they were gone.

Back to the Present

Im-Ex Store, Eleventh Avenue, Carcass Street

"Raymond!"

Alex's voice dragged him out of his thoughts.

She touched his shoulder, giving him a brief shake as he stood staring down the street.

"Are you spacing out for no reason just because I asked you why we're here?"

Young memories had a way of doing that. One moment, a person was standing in the present, and the next, they were back in a place that no longer existed in quite the same way, remembering people who had grown older, places that had changed, and money that had once seemed worth arguing over.

Raymond blinked and looked at his sister.

"Oh, my. Bad..." He paused. "Nostalgia."

"Right."

Alex gave him a suspicious look. She had clearly expected an explanation, not a word that sounded like a medical condition.

Raymond turned towards the Im-Ex store and pushed the door open.

The hinges creaked as they entered.

The shop had changed little in some ways and considerably in others. Time had passed, the business had changed hands—or at least changed its habits—and the familiar smells of cardboard and dust seemed to have settled more deeply into the walls. The place felt quieter now, stripped of the busy movement he remembered from his childhood.

It was strange how a building could remain standing while everything that had once made it feel alive slowly disappeared.

"So," Raymond began, stepping inside, "yesterday I was approached by a woman. She told me she wanted me to kill Hugo."

Alex followed him through the doorway.

"Gold Hugo?"

"Yes, him."

Raymond glanced around the shop, taking in the shelves and the old furniture.

"She also told me our father owed her employer."

Alex's expression changed.

"We have enough money to pay them, though."

"We do," Raymond replied. "But apparently, they want their payment in blood."

He said it with the same casual tone someone might use to explain that the electricity bill had gone up. It was one of Raymond's more irritating habits: delivering the sort of information that could ruin a person's entire week without bothering to change his expression.

Alex, to her credit, didn't panic.

She simply stared at him for a moment.

"Wonderful."

Then she looked around the shop.

"And she told you to come here?"

"She said that if I wanted to know more about the debt, this was where I should start."

Alex nodded slowly, processing the information.

"Ah. Nice, nice." She spread her hands. "So you should come here, and now I'm here with you. Why exactly?"

Raymond looked at her.

"To find out what Dad owed, who he owed it to, and why Lucille wants Hugo dead."

"Right. So we're looking for anything that might contain information."

"Exactly."

Alex surveyed the room.

Shelves. Boxes. Old furniture. A few cabinets that had clearly survived several generations of neglect.

The shop was not exactly screaming secret criminal history, but then secrets rarely had the courtesy to label themselves. If they did, investigators would have a much easier time of it, and the criminal industry would probably suffer a considerable decline in employment.

"Fine," Alex said. "Let's split up."

"Good idea."

"Blah, blah, blah." She reached into her clothing, produced a gun, and handed it to him. "Here."

Raymond accepted it, looking down at the weapon before glancing back at his sister.

"I won't ask where you got it."

"You wouldn't like to know."

Alex turned and walked towards the back of the store.

Raymond watched her go.

It was a comforting thing, really, having a sister who could produce a gun without explanation. Some families passed down jewellery, others handed over recipes and treasured photographs. The Kazersdales appeared to have developed their own traditions.

Raymond checked the weapon, secured it, and began searching.

The two curious Georges wandered through the old shop, looking for something they didn't know existed, in a place that had given them no reason to believe it was there.

It was, in essence, a treasure hunt.

The only problem was that nobody knew what the treasure looked like, where it had been hidden, or whether finding it would improve their lives.

Those were minor details, naturally. People had launched entire wars over less.

They began with the obvious places.

Raymond searched the cabinets, inspecting drawers and lifting stacks of old paperwork. Alex opened boxes, examined their contents, and occasionally muttered something unflattering when she discovered nothing more interesting than delivery records or expired invoices.

They checked beneath tables, behind shelves, and under chairs. They moved furniture away from the walls, opened cupboards, and looked beneath the cushions of an old couch.

At one point, Raymond even examined the floor tiles.

He wasn't entirely sure what he expected to find beneath them, but given the circumstances, he had decided that a little paranoia was cheaper than missing an important clue.

The search became increasingly thorough.

Boxes were opened. Papers were spread across tables. Furniture was shifted from its original positions. The two siblings scrutinised the place with such enthusiasm that, had they continued much longer, one might reasonably have expected them to request microscopes and laboratory equipment.

They were looking for something their father had left behind.

And neither of them had the slightest idea what that something might be.

Then Alex stopped.

She had been examining the old couch, lifting its cushions and checking the gaps between them when she noticed something unusual. The seat seemed slightly uneven, as though something had been wedged beneath the upholstery.

She pressed down on one side.

Something solid shifted inside.

Alex frowned.

"Raymond."

He looked up from a stack of papers.

"What?"

"Come here."

There was something in her voice that made him abandon the documents immediately.

He crossed the room as Alex pulled the cushions aside and examined the couch more closely. After feeling along the inside seam, she discovered a concealed opening in the upholstery.

And inside it—

A briefcase.

Literally inside the couch.

Raymond stared at it.

Alex stared at it.

For a moment, neither sibling said anything.

Their father had apparently decided that a perfectly ordinary piece of furniture was an appropriate place to hide something important. It was a peculiar choice, although perhaps he had reasoned that nobody would look inside a couch unless they were either searching for something or had lost a remote control.

Considering how many people sat on furniture without ever inspecting it, the hiding place wasn't entirely foolish.

It was just the sort of thing that made one question the man's other decisions.

Alex pulled the briefcase free and placed it on the table.

The surface was worn, and the edges showed signs of age. Whatever it contained had been hidden long enough for the couch to become part of the secret.

Raymond approached, his curiosity sharpening.

"Open it," he said.

Alex gave him a look.

"That's the plan, genius."

She undid the fastenings.

Inside were photographs, documents, and several sheets of handwritten information. The papers had been arranged in small bundles, some held together with old clips. A few photographs had faded at the edges, but the images remained clear enough to make out faces, vehicles, and familiar streets.

Raymond picked up the first photograph.

He recognised his father immediately.

The man in the picture looked younger, his face less worn by the years. Beside him stood their mother. They were on Carcass Street, standing near a vehicle with a delivery package visible in the back.

There was nothing particularly unusual about the photograph at first glance.

Until Raymond noticed the other people standing around them.

Men he recognised from the neighbourhood. Faces associated with names that had once circulated through Carcass Street in whispers. People who had disappeared, been arrested, or become part of the city's criminal landscape.

His father hadn't merely been running a delivery business.

He had been moving among criminals, working alongside his wife to transport packages for other people whose businesses were considerably less legitimate than the Im-Ex sign suggested.

Raymond placed the photograph on the table.

Alex picked up one of the documents and began reading.

"This is old," she murmured.

"How old?"

"Back when Dad and Mom were still working together on the streets."

She turned the page.

The documents contained names, dates, locations, and records of deliveries. Some entries were accompanied by short notes, while others referred to people and addresses that meant little to them now. Several names appeared more than once, connected to different deliveries across Carcass Street.

It was a record of their parents' former lives, preserved in a briefcase hidden inside a couch.

The more they examined it, the clearer the picture became.

Their parents hadn't simply been delivering packages for ordinary customers. They had been transporting goods for criminals, moving through the same streets where rival organisations carved up territory and conducted business beneath the eyes of the law.

And whatever those packages contained, somebody had considered the records important enough to keep.

Important enough to hide.

Perhaps important enough to kill for.

Raymond pulled out another sheet, his eyes moving across the writing.

The room had grown quiet.

For all the searching, the opening of boxes, and the ridiculous amount of time they had spent examining furniture, neither sibling had expected to find a record of their parents' criminal dealings tucked away in the upholstery.

Yet there it was.

Their father's past, waiting for them in a briefcase.

Alex sat beside Raymond, and together they began reading through the documents, comparing the photographs with the names and dates written on the pages.

The information wasn't particularly entertaining.

It lacked the excitement of a football match, where one could at least shout at the players and pretend that doing so might influence the result. Here, there were only old records, cryptic notes, and the increasingly uncomfortable realisation that their parents had been involved in something far more complicated than either sibling had understood.

Still, they continued.

They had come looking for answers about a debt, a mysterious woman named Lucille, and a request to kill Hugo Cavendish.

Instead, they had found evidence of their parents' old life on Carcass Street.

And somewhere inside that briefcase, there might finally be a clue explaining why the past had decided to come looking for them.

The documents told a story neither sibling had expected to find.

Their father had been responsible for hiring the Hatters to kill the guards sent by the Vandenhill family. Those men had been dispatched to find Raymond and kill him, and their father, for reasons that were now becoming painfully clear, had decided that allowing the situation to unfold naturally was a terrible idea.

The Hatters had intervened.

They killed the guards and, in the process, faked Raymond's death, leaving the Vandenhill family with the impression that their target was gone. It was an effective solution, if one overlooked the small matter of the people who had been killed to achieve it.

The Kazersdales were now indebted to the Hatters for their help.

Raymond leaned back in his chair, staring at the papers.

"So you're not my brother," Alex said.

"Seems so, sister."

Alex looked at him.

"Raymond Vandenhill. Sounds rich."

"Raymond Kazersdale sounds better."

"I agree."

There was a brief silence as the implications settled between them.

They had spent years thinking they understood their family, only to discover that their father had hired killers, arranged a fake death, and apparently left behind a debt that had survived long enough to become their problem.

Some fathers left their children houses. Others left them businesses. The more imaginative ones left a criminal inheritance with a side order of existential confusion.

Their father, it seemed, had been ambitious.

"We need to burn all of this and kill Hugo," Alex said. "Otherwise, we'll find ourselves being haunted."

Raymond looked at her.

"First time hearing you make sense."

"How kind of you, brother."

"You're welcome."

Alex gathered a few of the documents and placed them back on the table.

"Well, it seems we have a lot to handle now."

"That we do."

She glanced towards the doorway.

"Let's not involve Mom."

With that, she left the room.

Raymond remained seated, looking at the information spread before him. His expression was remarkably nonchalant for a man who had just discovered that the name he had carried all his life might not be his original one.

Raymond Vandenhill.

He tried the name in his head.

It sounded expensive.

It also sounded like the sort of name that came with a family estate, several lawyers, and a collection of people who smiled at dinner while planning one another's financial ruin.

He still preferred Kazersdale.

At least he knew what sort of trouble came with that name.

Raymond picked up another document, examined it briefly, and placed it back on the table. His face revealed little, but his mind was already moving through the possibilities. The Hatters had saved his life, or at least helped him survive the attempt on it. His father had arranged the whole thing. Hugo Cavendish was somehow connected to the debt, and Lucille's mysterious employer wanted Hugo dead.

There were too many connections to ignore and too few answers to make any of them comfortable.

A moment later, Alex returned carrying a container of gasoline.

Raymond looked at it.

Then at her.

"Are you looking forward to being burnt with this, or what?"

"I'm not."

He stood up and moved away from the table.

"Let's be quick," Alex said.

Raymond glanced around the room.

"But we don't have to burn the entire shop. Only these papers."

"Oh, yeah. How very thoughtful of you, Raymond Vandenhill."

Alex smiled as she began pouring gasoline over the documents.

The smell spread through the room, sharp and unpleasant. She worked quickly, soaking the papers and the briefcase, making sure the records that connected their family to the Hatters and the Vandenhills would not survive the morning.

Raymond watched her for a moment.

"Careful where you're pouring that."

"Thank you for the advice. I'll be sure to remember it while I'm standing here holding a container of highly flammable liquid."

"Just trying to help."

"Try helping by moving."

Raymond stepped towards the door.

Alex continued pouring the gasoline, splashing some across the floor near the table. The briefcase darkened as the liquid soaked into its worn surface. The photographs curled slightly at the edges, and the papers clung together in damp, disordered bundles.

There was something unsettling about destroying the evidence of one's own family history. One could spend years searching for answers, only to discover that the answers were so dangerous that the best course of action was to make sure nobody else could find them.

It was a particularly unpleasant kind of inheritance.

When she finished, Alex put the container aside and headed for the exit.

Raymond was already outside, waiting for her.

The street carried on as though nothing important had happened. Cars passed along the road, and people went about their day, chatting and walking between the shops. Somewhere nearby, somebody laughed at a joke that probably wasn't very funny.

The ordinary world had a remarkable talent for continuing while other people's lives fell apart.

Alex came out carrying the lighter.

"We can rebuild it," she said.

Raymond glanced at her.

Then he looked around the street, taking in the passing cars, the people going about their business, and the familiar buildings that had stood here long before he understood what his family had been involved in.

This place had once been home.

Now it was about to become a crime scene of their own making.

Alex flicked the lighter.

The small flame appeared, bright against the daylight.

She threw it inside.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the fire caught.

Flames spread across the gasoline-soaked papers, climbing over the briefcase and racing along the floor. Smoke began to curl towards the ceiling, and the orange glow grew brighter behind the shop's windows.

Alex got into the car.

Raymond remained where he was, watching the flames take hold.

The fire crackled inside the building, and smoke drifted out through the doorway. The records that had revealed their father's secret life were disappearing, page by page, into the flames.

"Are you going to wait until it fully burns down, or what?" Alex called from the driver's seat.

Raymond kept looking at the shop.

"Do you have to ask questions like that?"

"Don't be an ass. I have a lot of work at home."

He finally turned away from the fire and walked towards the car.

Before getting in, he looked back once more.

The flames had grown higher, reflecting in the windows and painting the old shop in an unsteady orange light. For a moment, he could almost see the place as it had been when he was younger: the workers carrying boxes, his mother counting deliveries, Charlie handing him five Crowns and threatening to slap him if he complained.

Those memories belonged to a simpler time.

Or perhaps they only seemed simpler because he hadn't known what his father was hiding.

Raymond got into the car and shut the door.

Alex pulled away from the kerb, leaving the burning Im-Ex store behind them.

Neither sibling spoke for a while.

They had come looking for information about a debt.

They had found a dead man's secret, a family name that might not belong to Raymond, and another reason to kill Hugo Cavendish.

And now the evidence was burning behind them.

Somewhere in Kingsmere, Hugo was still alive.

For the moment, that would have to be enough.

Adultery Hazelnut had stopped the van at a traffic light.

The lights were red, and according to the unofficial calculations of people with too much time on their hands, they took approximately fifteen seconds to turn green. Adultery had never bothered to verify this claim. He was, however, counting the seconds as he waited, which suggested that even a man who made a living killing adulterers occasionally needed a hobby.

He had reached twelve when something caught his attention.

Across the junction, a car was approaching from the right-hand road. Its traffic light was red too, and the vehicles in that lane were supposed to remain exactly where they were until given permission to proceed.

This particular driver appeared to have developed a personal disagreement with the concept.

The car swerved out of its lane, crossed into the road ahead, and came straight towards Adultery's van.

He had barely enough time to register the driver's complete disregard for traffic regulations before he opened his door and got out.

The car slammed into the van.

Metal shrieked against metal. The impact jolted the van forward, and the crash echoed down the street, startling pedestrians and sending several birds flapping from a nearby rooftop. For a moment, the junction seemed to pause, as though the entire city had collectively decided to see whether anyone was going to die.

Adultery stood beside his van, watching the wreckage with the same expression he might have given a badly prepared meal.

The other car's door swung open.

A woman emerged, coughing into the crook of her arm.

Arabella Cavendish.

Her cream-white dress was now streaked with blood, the pale fabric stained across her side and skirt. She looked hurt, though apparently not hurt enough to remain inside a vehicle she had just driven into another one. She stepped onto the road, straightened herself, and cracked her neck with an ease that suggested she had either survived worse accidents or had a very unusual relationship with pain.

In one hand, she carried a gun.

That was the sort of accessory that tended to discourage helpful strangers from asking whether someone needed an ambulance.

Arabella took a few steps away from the wrecked car before noticing the man standing beside the van. Her eyes travelled over his weathered coat, his dark beard, and his unimpressed face.

Recognition settled in.

"Adultery?"

"Yes. Me."

Arabella stared at him for a moment.

"Oh, come on. Not you. Why do you have this van?"

Adultery glanced at the vehicle, as though he had momentarily forgotten what he was driving.

"I'm not allowed to say."

"How unfortunate for you."

She shifted the gun in her hand and looked towards the damaged van. People were beginning to gather along the pavements, watching the scene with the intense fascination usually reserved for public arguments and other people's misfortunes. A few drivers had stopped behind the wreckage, and the line of vehicles at the junction was growing longer by the second.

Nobody seemed particularly eager to intervene.

Arabella, meanwhile, appeared to have decided that the accident was merely an inconvenience interrupting a perfectly ordinary day.

"I'll pay you twice whatever they gave you," she said.

Adultery looked at her.

"They paid me a hundred golden coins, my lady."

"Then I'll pay you three hundred."

There was a brief silence.

It was always interesting to watch morality negotiate with money. In some people, the two were bitter enemies. In others, they were perfectly capable of sharing an office.

Arabella gestured impatiently towards the street.

"You should be going now."

Adultery studied her for another moment. Her bloodied dress, the gun in her hand, the wrecked car, and the promise of three hundred golden coins all seemed to have been entered into some private calculation behind his eyes.

Then he turned away.

"Very well."

He walked off without another word, leaving Arabella beside the wreckage as though she had simply asked him to step aside in a crowded shop.

The crowd watched him go.

One man stared at the damaged van, then at the car that had struck it, apparently trying to work out which insurance company would be unlucky enough to receive the report. Another had already begun explaining the accident to a companion who had arrived too late to witness it, improving the details with every sentence.

Behind the van, the growing queue of vehicles began to resemble a small exhibition of human impatience.

And in the middle of it all stood Arabella Cavendish, bleeding into her cream-white dress, holding a gun, and negotiating the purchase of a criminal's silence.

Kingsmere was a city full of strange sights.

But even by its standards, this was a rather eventful way to beat a red light.

----------------

Raymond and Alex were driving through Kingsmere when they encountered a traffic jam.

It was not a particularly impressive traffic jam by the standards of larger cities, where people could spend half their lives sitting behind the wheel and still arrive late enough to blame the weather. Nevertheless, the line of vehicles ahead was long enough to make Alex tap her fingers against the steering wheel.

"Seems there's traffic today," she said.

"It's my first time seeing one here," Raymond replied.

"Maybe it's because you don't get out much."

"Or perhaps the city has finally decided to inconvenience everyone equally."

Alex gave him a look.

"Keep telling yourself that."

They crept forward with the other vehicles until they reached the junction. The traffic lights ahead were still red, and a small crowd had gathered near a collision that appeared to have brought the entire road to a standstill.

Then Alex saw the van.

She slowed down, staring at the familiar white vehicle that had collided with a Mercedes-Benz. The front of the van had suffered considerable damage, while the Mercedes had come off little better. A few people stood nearby, several of them watching the wreckage while one person spoke urgently on the phone, presumably calling an ambulance.

"Isn't that ours?" Alex asked.

Raymond leaned forward to get a better look.

"It looks like it."

"Looks like it? Raymond, how many white delivery vans do we own?"

"That depends. Are we counting the ones we know about?"

Alex pulled the car over as close to the wreckage as she could manage. Both siblings got out.

There were already enough spectators to form a small committee, though none seemed to have been elected to do anything useful. Such was the nature of a public accident: everyone wanted to know what had happened, and almost nobody wanted to be responsible for finding out.

Alex hurried towards the Mercedes-Benz and leaned through the open window to check on the woman inside.

"How did our van get here?" she muttered.

She carefully checked the woman's pulse.

"Well, she's alive."

Raymond walked towards the Mercedes while Alex turned her attention to their damaged van.

"I'll call the Kingsbat Riders," she said. "They'll come and pick it up."

"All right."

Raymond barely registered the rest of her words.

The woman in the Mercedes had opened her eyes.

And she was looking directly at him.

Arabella Cavendish.

For a moment, Raymond said nothing. He had been having a perfectly ordinary day, by the standards of a man whose family secrets had recently forced him to burn down an old shop. Apparently, the universe had decided that this was not enough excitement and had sent him Hugo Cavendish's daughter in a wrecked Mercedes.

Arabella's lips curved into a smile.

"Hello again, Mike."

Raymond stared at her.

He had several questions. The first concerned the car accident. The second concerned the gun he suspected she might have been carrying. The third concerned why she kept calling him Mike, a name he had never offered her.

Unfortunately, Arabella seemed determined to make answering any of them difficult.

"Aren't you going to help me out?" she asked. "My legs might be broken."

"Let's hope not."

"How reassuring."

Raymond opened the passenger door and carefully leaned inside, trying to assess how best to get her out without making any injuries worse.

"Easy, easy," Arabella said as he began to move her.

"Aren't you being a little too excited, princess?"

She looked up at him, her smile growing despite the blood staining her cream-white dress.

"Well, Mike, aren't you too playful for a gentleman like you?"

"You're confusing playful with charitable. I haven't decided which one I am yet."

"Then do hurry. I'm terribly uncomfortable."

"How tragic."

For all his teasing, Raymond handled her carefully. He supported her as he lifted her from the Mercedes, mindful of her legs, and carried her towards his car. Arabella let out a small breath as he moved her, though whether from pain or amusement was difficult to determine. With her, the distinction was often an unnecessary luxury.

He opened the rear door and settled her across the back seat.

"There," he said, stepping back. "Still alive. You're welcome."

"Such a gentleman."

"I've been told."

"By whom?"

"People who wanted something."

Arabella laughed softly.

Raymond shut the door before she could continue the interrogation.

"Alex!" he called.

His sister looked up from inspecting the van.

"I'll take her home. You wait here for your men and sort this out."

Alex turned towards him.

"All right—"

Raymond was already heading for the driver's seat.

She watched him for a second, then hurried around the car towards the passenger side.

"Why me? You can just wait for them yourself!"

Raymond opened his door.

"Alex, I trust you can handle this."

"That's not an answer."

"Get the van, and we'll meet at home."

"Raymond—"

He got into the car.

Alex reached the passenger side just as he started the engine, but by then her brother had apparently decided that the conversation had reached its natural conclusion. Which was to say, he had stopped participating in it.

He reversed away from the kerb, leaving Alex beside the wreckage with a damaged delivery van, a gathering crowd, and the responsibility for explaining to the Kingsbat Riders why their vehicle had somehow become involved in a collision with a Mercedes-Benz.

Raymond drove off.

Alex stared after him.

"Unbelievable," she muttered.

It was a word she used frequently when discussing her brother, although it had yet to produce any noticeable improvement in his behaviour.

In the back seat, Arabella shifted slightly and watched Raymond through the gap between the front seats.

"So," she said, "where are you taking me, Mike?"

"Home."

"Your home or mine?"

Raymond glanced at her in the rear-view mirror.

"Would you prefer the hospital?"

Arabella considered this.

"No."

"Then I'd recommend enjoying the scenery."

She smiled and settled back against the seat.

Outside, Kingsmere continued its afternoon business. Drivers complained about the traffic, pedestrians crowded around the accident, and Alex was almost certainly imagining several creative ways to murder her brother.

Raymond, meanwhile, had acquired an injured Arabella Cavendish in the back of his car.

He had not planned to rescue her.

He had not planned to meet her again.

And he certainly had not planned to take her home.

But plans, much like traffic lights, were often ignored by people who thought they knew better.