Mia fished around her purse, and flipped one coin apiece to the doormen. The iron disappeared into their pockets quicker than a smokehound into the pipe on payday.
Mia stared at the pair, eyebrows rising. “Well?”
“Can’t come in ’ere this eve,” said Orphanboy.
“Not serving your kind,” Wideboy agreed.
The pair stood aside for a second group of revelers (carrying a street sign and a somewhat troubled-looking sheep), bidding them good eve as they stepped inside. Every one of them was a man. Peering into the room beyond, Mia saw every single one of the clientele was also male. And somewhere in her head, Realization tipped its hat.
“Ohhhh,” she said. “Riiiiight.”
“Right,” said Wideboy.
Orphanboy stroked his chin and nodded sagely.
“Well,” she said.
“… Well what?”
“Well, can I have my money back?” the girl asked.
“You’re terrible at this,” said Wideboy.
“Just awful,” agreed Orphanboy.
Mia pouted. “Mister Kindly said I’m getting better.”
“Whoever he is, Mister Kindly’s a bloody liar.”
The doormen folded their arms like a pair of synchronized dancers.
Mia sighed. “Merry nevernight, my lovely gentles.”
And giving another bow, she marched back into the rain.
*
“Don’t you say a fucking word,” she warned Mister Kindly.
She was crouched on a rooftop opposite the Dinner, staring out at a fourth-floor balcony. The not-cat sat beside her, tail swishing side to side.
“… considering your childhood, it’s little wonder you lack people skills…”
“Not. A. Fucking. Word.”
“… meow…”
“… STRICTLY SPEAKING, THAT IS STILL A WORD…,” Eclipse growled.
“Aye.” Mia held up a warning finger. “One more, and I officially enter your name in the Book of Grudges.”
Mister Kindly lifted a translucent paw, placed it over the spot his mouth might’ve been. The rain was still spattering, warm and wet on her skin. Jessamine finished securing a length of silk line to an iron grapple, handed it dutifully to her Blade.
“Don’t forget the map,” the redhead warned. “And wait ’til I’m down on the street before you make your crossing. Nobody will look up if they’re looking at me.”
“I know. This was my idea, Jess.”
“Were those britches your idea too?” Jessamine looked Mia up and down. “Because they’re not doing that arse of yours any favors.”
“O, stop, I fear my sides shall split.”
“That’s j—”
“Just what the britches said?” Mia rolled her eyes. “Aye, aye. Bravo, Mi Dona.”
“I’ll be waiting back here on the roof when you come out. And try not to get killed, neh?” Jess warned. “I’d be ever so disappointed I didn’t do it myself.”
Mia raised the knuckles. The redhead smirked, slipped down the stairwell without further insult. The crowd had thinned from the rain, but gentles were still spilling out of the Dinner, others staggering home after a merry nevernight. Mia watched Jessamine march across the street, straight for a young man just leaving the pleasure house.
“Youuuu bastard!” she cried, an accusing finger aimed at his face.
“Eh?” the young man blinked.
“You told me you were headed to your cousin’s!” Jessamine shouted. “And here I find you, drinking and whoring behind my back!”
The gentle in question frowned in confusion. “Mi Dona, I ha—”
“Don’t you ‘Mi Dona’ me!” Jessamine stepped closer, building up a head of steam. “Is this the example you wish to set for our son? O, Four blessed Daughters, why didn’t I listen to Mother? She warned me about you!”
The revelers and braavi doormen watched as Jess launched into a scathing tirade, the fellow she was howling at barely able to get a word in edgewise. And with all eyes on the wronged paramour and her drunken beau, Mia took her chance.
Hurling her grapple across the fifteen-foot gap, she snagged it in the wrought-iron railing and tied it off tight. It was a four-story plunge to a sticky end on the cobbles below, and the railing was slick with rain. Yet, quick as silver, she stepped out into the void between buildings and began stealing across.
Fearless.
Reaching the rooftop of the bordello beside the Dinner, she peered over a chimney stack, not entirely surprised to find two miserable-looking braavi under a single umbrella, guarding the rooftop door. Mia was certain she could take the pair with the white wyrdglass in her pouch—hurling the arkemical globes at the men’s feet would produce a cloud of Swoon big enough to knock both unconscious. But wyrdglass made a noteworthy bang when it popped, and the noise might raise an alarm.
“… mpphgglmm…,” said Mister Kindly.
“What?”
“… HE SAID MPPHGGLMM…”
“Daughters, all right, all right, you can speak.”
The not-cat cleared its throat.
“… which room is the dona’s…?”
Eclipse nodded to the corner windows on the top floor. The curtains were drawn, no sign of what might be going on inside.
“… SHE HAD FIVE MEN IN THERE WITH HER, WHEN LAST I LOOKED…”
“I don’t like the idea of bursting in blind,” Mia muttered. “And the map might not be here yet.”
“… start in the ink den, work your way up, hide until it arrives…?”
“That sounds suspiciously like a plan.”
Mia dropped onto a narrow ledge on the bordello’s third floor, and leapt across the rain-soaked gap to the balcony on the Dinner. Waiting a moment to listen for any commotion, she peered through the keyhole to the bedchamber beyond. Four figures in various stages of undress were passed out in a tangle of limbs on a four-poster bed, empty ink needles on the furs beside them. Dead to the world.
Quiet as shadows, Mia retrieved her lockpicks from her boot heel, sweet-talked the balcony door and slipped inside. The quartet didn’t stir from their inkdreams. She shook off the rain and was sneaking past the bed when a soft knock sounded. Mia was across the room in a flash, hiding behind the door as it opened gently.
“Service?” a young voice said. “Mi Dons? I have your sugarwater.”
A girl stepped inside, a golden courtesan’s masque on her face. She looked barely a teenager, but dressed as a woman—crushed black taffeta and cheap chiffon. She carried a silvered tray, four fine goblets and a decanter of sea-blue liquid. Lowering her voice as she saw the slumbering inkfiends on the bed, she turned to push the door closed and silence the celebrations downstairs.
Lightning flashed across the skies outside. A hand reached from behind her, holding her tray. Another about her mouth.
“Hush now,” Mia whispered.
The lass stood still as a statue in Tyrant’s Row.
“I mean no harm, love,” Mia said. “You’ve my word. I’ll take my hand away if you promise not to cry out?”
The girl nodded, chest heaving. Mia edged her hand from the girl’s lips, stepped back, hand on her gravebone sword. The girl turned slowly, looked her up and down—the blades, the black, the stare—her breath coming even quicker as she realized what Mia was about. Glancing toward the bed, looking for marks of murder.
“I’m not here for them,” Mia promised.