Champagne & Stars - ChloeIsNobody, laurlovescookies (2024)

Chapter 1: Making the Cut

Chapter Text

Hey you! Yes, you! Reading this chapter with creator styles off! Chloe did some weird html trickery with some parts of this fic, so they may look strange if you don't turn on creator styles. Just head to the top of the page, and hit the button that says "Show Creator's Style". It should be right in between "Comments" and "Share". Alright, that's it. Have a nice day!

~o*oOo*o~

“They yearn for what they fear for.”

― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

~o*oOo*o~

December 9th, 1919

In the end, and perhaps the beginning, la Virgen María had merely borne witness upon her wreath-covered altar, one of her plaster bare feet treading upon a chipped serpent with theatrical vigor. The reflective faces of a hundred surrounding votives attempt to hold her, candles twinkling from inside. A sweet, citrusy and slightly piney-aroma of frankincense unravels from the golden jaws of a thurible, chased by the smoky bitterness of myrrh, drowsydark in its warm scent.

Hood over her eyes, the solitary petitioner’s breastbone aches in quiet sympathy for the unfortunate snake in its death throes. The backstitch of timid sunlight peeks in from the crumbling rafters of the tired sanctuary, glinting with sun-caught spider thread concentrated in the corners.

Head stooped, fifteen-year-old Luz Isidora Noceda furtively lowers back her faded hood that looks nothing so much as a vague memory of the color purple. Her long, dark, wavy braids fall free. Appearing to perhaps be more bone than the sepia-skin tossed upon it, Luz meets the lamps of her large hazel eyes in the mirror that backs the Virgin Mary statue. One of the infamous chapel artists of antiquity might’ve perhaps taken a whetstone to the animal soft of Luz’s features, chiseling away until her expression bit both with wariness and hunger. The countless lit tapers illuminate Luz, bathing her with a feverish halo.

The Church’s statue is cracked and splintery, clad in fading painted powder-blue robes in the otherwise-deserted shrine dedicated for Our Lady of Guadulpe. Quite possibly brought to this cathedral from some distant shore, not unlike the crush of human freight who also found themselves here, in the perpetually-in-motion bowels of this ceaselessly-muttering Nueva York

Long skirt hem skimming filthy boots that shriek her feet, plastered with countless holes, stuffed with the gray blot of newsprint to line the countless tiny fractures, Luz raptly strains an ear against the chamber door. No footsteps venture from the main cathedral; little wonder, mass has only just begun. Last chance. The air clots around her breath. Last chance. Luz prays in a language she doesn’t even know.

Helplessly, Luz looks to María for some sort of sign, but María simply holds her peace in her sanctuary. Perhaps she would even understand. Didn’t Joseph die young, perhaps cradled in his last collapse by his wife and child? And some people had to look elsewhere than heaven for a milagro, a miracle, to feed the people they loved.

Whatever Luz had told herself what she believed–or not believed, those first, dark shovelfuls of soil upon that pitiful bundle of sheets made smaller in death–the fear of imminent hellfire for what is about to transpire automatically swells inside, and within her pupils.

The priest’s voice begins to boom in Latin from the chapel. Hurry. If anyone finds her, and here of all places, she’ll surely be strung upon a telegraph pole, or the chapel’s steeple before dusk. But this most dangerous place is also conversely the safest. If she makes haste, before the congregants depart their pews after communion to offer their weekly tithes before the Madonna’s statue.

Plunging into chill, despite the brief respite against the elements that this chamber provides, the world hollowing out, tossing itself at her feet, Luz leans against the door. There is no lock. She dives for her ancient valise, at last opening it with trembling fingers.

The folded fabric is waiting. Not even secondhand, or thirdhand. Perhaps fourthhand, considering how the sheer number of patches holding the garment together have all but overtaken the original fabric in its entirety. Nonetheless, she soon holds a pair of breeches in her hands that would perhaps be knee-length upon her.

She has to swipe her gleaming hands upon her blouse before clumsily staggering into the breeches, tugging them up over her bloomers. She peels off her patched-up skirt, her threadbare petticoat, switching out her brassiere for a cupless bandeau, stuffing on a baggy boy’s shirt much too long for her. The trailing shirt tails are hastily tucked in.

Busybody Tías and Abuelas back in Harlem were once fond of comparing Luz most unfavorably to her mama, clicking their tongues whenever they beheld mother and daughter in public. La Reina, the Queen, women had approvingly-called Mami, who was curvy where it counted, soft in her shape like the subject of a Pre-Raphaelite portrait. Mama then looked like a mama. A wife. That had been before el ladrón, the thief, came knocking once more, the Sickness sprouting itself like a wintercreeper chokehold upon a once-healthy tree.

When Luz hit puberty, it felt like puberty had hit her, specifically in a staged hit-and-run. Hope someone got the license plate number on that vehicle. She was mostly hard lines and sharp angles like a geometry problem. Her feminine features consist of her petite stature, naturally wavy-hair with a curved hairline, the large width of her hazelwarm eyes, as well as their long lashes. But aunties and grandmamas merely shook their heads at the sight of Luz and muttered: Insecto palo. Stick bug. Briefly, the caricature that is a stranger to her own life furtively meets Luz’s gaze in the mirror.

Any second, she wildly half-expects for the chapel rafters to collapse upon her in the apocalyptic freefall of God’s cataclysmic wrath. To do such a thing; and in His house besides! But God remains silent, just as really was His wont, anyway.

Perhaps, Luz reasons as she scrambles for the suspenders that had once been Papa’s, God is simply more afraid of what Luz might do to Him were he to voice His objections. After all, God certainly hadn't done anything about poor Papa sickening and dying. God hardened His heart against all Luz’s frantic prayers, the sheer anguish of language, all but locking Himself behind the gilded gates of Heaven. María sees; she Knows. But she’s simply too busy tending to her plaster little one in her arms to scold Luz. Luz swallows a curious pang of wistfulness that both tastes and feels like a piece of hardtack trapped in her throat.

Her hands are sweatslick as they hesitantly stuff the feminine clothing in her bag. At last, they fall over the cool shears of the neighbor’s borrowed scissors, trembling. Now, for the coup de grâce. Her heartbeat is furiously pumping its bellows like a live furnace in a thin frame. There is surely no lyricism for the insurrection of the body, both your heart and your lungs conspiring against you as you struggle in vain for a breath that reaches its own bottom. Slowly, Luz screws her eyes shut as the blades draw together–

Snip.

The world holds its breath as one long, wavy strand of brown hair comes sailing free to the floor. Eyes flying open, marveling now at her own audacity, Luz seizes another strand. Snip. Snip. Snip. Exhilarating, this back-of-the-throat thrill. Soon, the strands litter Luz’s feet. Snip. Snip. Snip.

And suddenly, it is over. Suddenly, it is done. His breath catches in an audible stop, heart all but bating itself against its door. It sparks a smolder, even in the thickening dust of everything.

Standing there, dazed and flushed, swaying, as if in the euphoric shed of flesh and bone, is a stranger. A young man with Luz’s own eyes. Her trembling hand reaches to touch him, and the boy reaches back. A swirling maelstrom of pure feeling dooms all rational thought to drown. Surroundings fade to black as someone’s heart staggers a crooked track. Something lingers in the base of a throat; the cusp of choking on your own longing. Can you possibly language something into being, when there exists no language yet for what you are? The sheer unknowable touches a buckling spine.

Shaking himself from her stupor, a hand marvels once again over glass, as if in search for runaway color on his fingers. No hint of stubble upon the jaw, but there’s no helping that. Short hair, the likes of which this crown has surely not sported for over a decade. Dazedly, clasping the wall for purchase, he wordlessly muses how light a head feels, without plaited braids.

His mind nearly short-circuits at the realization that, even just for now, the figure in the looking glass is a boy. Maybe even a handsome boy at that, if not reedy, trembling, clearly on the nut in pauper’s clothing, careworn shadows filming his eyes. Retrieving from his bag an old plum cloche cap that had also once been Papi’s, he briefly cradles the hat against his cheek. It still faintly smells like their Papi’s vanilla tobacco. He slips the hat on. “Hello.” The unfinished profile in the mirror shyly attempts with a wave. “How…how are ya? Put…put ‘er there, pal!”

Oof. The boy in the mirror flinches hard, grasing the suspenders for purchase. Okay, so, his voice isn’t necessarily a high-pitched soprano, but nor does it seem particularly-masculine, either. The scrappy tenement boys back home speak with much less-excitable intonation, almost a bored monotone. At least, save for when whispered word came of the approaching shadows of los profanos, whose knives they so lovingly-carried might perhaps cut their smiles even-deeper, specters that exploded your sleep. Then, everyone’s voices were swiftly silenced, as if directed by some greater gravity–

Shiver-shuddering, he returns to the task at hand. Would it perhaps sound closer, spoken in Spanish? “Hola. ¿Cómo estás?” Um. “Hiya. How are ya?” Let’s try again. Time to experiment. He tries opening his throat to speak from the bellows of his being, speaking again with a longer, thicker vocal tract this time. He places a hand on the diaphragm to feel it rumble beneath his fingertips. “Hiya. How’s tricks?”

Shoving hands into pockets, he attempts to project an aura of careless detachment worn by so many men like a badge of honor, arranging and rearranging his posture into careless slouches. This could work. It could. It would have to. His boots are so hopelessly-tattered there’s no real deciphering them as women’s shoes, at least. Hesitantly, he probes his scrawny neck. No Adam's Apple. Brightening with an idea, he draws up his collar, plucking out his handkerchief and wrapping it around his slender throat in a knot for good measure. There we go.

Lightheaded, his head silently bows, as in silent acquiescence of his fate. Briefly, he is a shadow without a boy attached.

Perhaps he is going to be punished with Purgatory. Even so. Certainty burns inside of him with terrifying clarity, like a new religion in a hallowed-hollow Papi's absence left behind. For all his fear, he truly can’t remember when last he felt so alive as he hastily cleans up the scattered hair upon the floor.

~o*oOo*o~

From within the main chapel, the little choir of St. Dympna sings chords of their closing hymn: What Child Is This. The echoing refrain bells inside the youth’s bones.

With the greatest stroke of effort yet made in his life, stomach taut as the ridges of a washboard, he blows a kiss to the holy Madonna and Child statue as he at last takes a bunk, past stained glass windows cut into a warm facade, casting colored shadows in his wake.

Outside the little chapel, the pale sky drags the crude line of noon, nipping wintry air still bright like a beginning over the shivering city. A silvery glow of clinging ice lingers. Despite the shoveled-snowbanks gritted with exhaust, dappled with chimney sweep dust, he gaily breaks new snow on the sidewalk with wild feet, bounding a confession written in a dazzling expanse of brightness.

Cheeks rosy, scarcely-minding his dry, cracked lips, soul singing full-lunged, his arms tauten like wings on the verge of swoopsoaring. A sweet tumbling of fresh snowflakes laying down their twinkling softness at his feet. His heart struts the selfsame avenue of a song.

Some wrinkled, ruddy-faced paupers, bloodied and bandaged hands stretched-open for alms, positioned-strategically outside a row of churches, briefly glance over at the dancing youth. They disinterestedly size-up the stranger’s ragged clothing. Then, their gaze flicks away again.

Thunderstruck, the youth halts, marveling as a glossy new Model-T automobile rumbles by. His body prickles up instinctively like a hedgehog as it braces for a blast upon the horn, followed by the telltale, filthy shrill of a catcall. But the man behind the motorcar merely spares him the slightest of perfunctory nods as he simply continues on his way, leaving nothing but a plume of exhaust in his wake. The youth’s heart makes a melody of what to any other male in this city must be wholly-unextraordinary.

Coughing, attempting to wave aside the smoke, he’s nonetheless spellbound as his eyes take flight. No ambling passerby attempts to doggedly follow him down the walk, ask him why a pretty little thing like him is walking by himself, why, doesn’t he know this is a bad neighborhood, come here, doll, I just want to talk, can’t I carry your bag, like he was stupid, like he was a hapless tourist, like he was an ailing damsel in her tower, like he was born yesterday.

One of the nearby vagabonds grunts from the curb. “Hey, you.” He plucks a cigarette from his pocket. “Got a light, little fellah?” The man squints as the spike of hyperventilation skims the strange boy’s breathing. “Ya can calm down already, kid. I ain’t ‘bout to fill ya with daylight, here.”

Nearly slipping on the ice then and there, realizing his mouth is ajar, he swiftly closes it, blushing furiously. Matches are precious commodities, especially in this bitterbiting season. Nonetheless, he plucks a tiny box from his bag, sliding it open. “Yes, sir–just a sec.”

The beggar expectantly holds his cigarette aloft. A boy in want of a name has the dazzling spike of shiver as he presses the flaring, dry hiss of a lit match against the cigarette. Fellah. The boy does feel himself flooded by daylight, though surely not how this unwitting man meant it.

The cigarette ember surges to the pulsing-swell of a brilliantly-orange star. Acrid stench of smoke steepening, paper shriveling, flecks of ashes flickerfall as the man takes an appreciative draft. Coughing once again, briefly making a face at the smell, the boy can do little more than look on in sheer amazement. No respectable young woman would ever, ever be caught, dead or alive, ever lighting a cigarette in public, especially not a strange man’s. Not if she ever wanted to hold her head aloft in her neighborhood ever again.

But between fellows? He hurriedly wipes smoke-smarting eyes on his sleeve. Between fellows, it’s just good manners, is all. He lifts his hand, but doubt stays his fingers, checking his impulse. The boy lowers it again, sheepish-shy.

“Looks like ya got the shakes, kid.” The weathered homeless man sympathetically claps the quiet lad’s bony shoulder. He doesn’t pry the lad for a name, and for this, the boy is grateful. The boy wonders if perhaps male bonding is conveying enough to unfasten the air, while in fact, speaking aloud as little as possible. The vagrant offers up a bottle wrapped in brown paper. “Want a sip of hooch? Good fer what ails ya.”

Face a red relentless rush, the young lad hurriedly shakes his head. “No sir, t-thank you, sir.”

The beggars all roar with laughter; briefly the youth’s throat claws raw. “Quite the werp, aintcha, kid? If you was any greener a horn, you’d be out at pasture. Suit yourself, pal.” Shrugging, the man with shaggy unkempt hair merely passes off his cigarette for the other panhandlers to share. “Might as well get yer fill now if ya ask me.” He gestures emphatically to the layers of newsprint sprawled over his lap like a flutter-feeble blanket. “Big cheeses up in Congress talkin’ serious business ‘bout a national ban on giggle juice soon.”

“Eh, bigwig hot air meant to sell papahs, and that’s that.” Dismisses his long-fingernailed, stubbled-jowled counterpart in the thick drawl of a Jersey accent before taking a warming draft of whatever’s in the flask. “Booze is more American than apple pie. Prohibition will pass the day pigs fly, and dames get the vote. Ain’t nobody gonna ban no liquor. How else will Congress bigshots sleep at night, knowing we’re out here freezing our asses to death?”

“Our tears are their mother’s milk, which they’ll use to water down the hootch in their wine cellars. f*cking hypocrites’ll f*cking manage,” The beggar who’d wanted a cigarette light impatiently scoffs, puffing smoke all over his friend’s face for good measure. “Maine’s already banned oat soda. The rest of the country ain’t gonna be far behind, mark my words. And when that happens…”

He trails off, rheumy eyes furtively skirting the scene. “...the “War to end all wars” in Europe is gonna look like a charmin’ sideshow at the World’s f*cking Fair in comparison. And to think the–” He holds up all ten fingers in lieu of saying the number aloud. “–were insufferable before.”

Puzzled, the youth co*cks his head. “Why’s that, sir?”

Taking another prolonged puff on his cigarette, the beggar quietly-appraises the boy with an impossibly-young frame, expression impossibly-old. Ain’t nothing new; kid bears the wary countenance of not one but thousands of hardened little strays in this city, who roam in swarming packs like piranha, and are just as eager to pick your bones clean.

What is an admitted-novelty, wha t briefly gives even the wizened panhandler pause, is the residual warmth in the street urchin’s eyes. His Momma must be proud, if the kid still got the luxury of having one. “....ain’t mean nothing by it. Now, the sabbath armistice ain’t gonna last forever.” Shuddering, the boy doesn’t ask what the beggar means by armistice. “A nice young fellah like yerself oughta find a safe place to lay low. Off you git, now.”

Unsure of what to say, heart spiraling on jettisons at being called fellah again, the boy takes off his cap, settling on a salute and a wan smile. “Yes sir. Stay safe too, sir.”

The youth scampers off again, bag bumping rhythmically against his side, mind whirring. What had the beggar possibly meant by a bloody spectacle approaching to rival the likes of the largest-scale conflict in human history, whose conclusion was triumphantly celebrated in flooding streets only last month? Luz and Gus had rushed outside their tenement as New York City transformed into a joyful cacophony of church bells and sirens, confetti sailing out from open windows to hail the end of the Great War. People rejoiced at the end of rationing, beat drums and fried doughnuts and sang their hearts out, as if to the end of War in its entirety.

Perhaps the old man thought people would simply riot if Prohibition was ratified; New York was a powderkeg for rioting. But how could the likes of the Unholy of all things possibly be even worse, when this city already all but belongs to them in all but name?

Perhaps, the youth reasons, skidding on a glimmering flash of ice, the man really was only a crazy drunk. Nonetheless, something in the youth’s belly pinches that has nothing to do with hunger.

Thoroughly-deep in thought, the youth narrowly avoids bounding straight into an august woman emerging from the Whites-Only, Episcopalian Church. She’s primly-dressed in her Sunday best, button-down coat sleek with minkskin, brown hair tied in a glossy bun beneath her handsomely-ribboned hat. Appalled, she whips around with a dissecting gaze.

“Watch where you’re going, lad! ” the furious woman cries, her fellow congregants stopping in their tracks to gawp. Her gloved fist flies out waving in the air like a parade marshal’s baton. “Little creeping street vermin have no manners! You filthy hordes of maggoty, flea-infes ted, rascal boys, are ruining this country!”

Jumping about a foot in the air, he recovers enough to hurriedly take the cap off his head and avert his eyes, as all the men back home hurriedly do when in the presence of a white woman. Papi once quietly-explained that even city treetops could bear the burden of strange fruit, that there exists a dark fraternity of slain innocents thanks to bleached-white bodies in bleached-white smocks.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, a thousand apologies–but–what did you call me just now?” He stammers into corpsecold shaking fingers, hoping to conceal the crack in his voice with a cough. “M-Ma’am?”

Haughtily, the stranger draws herself up to her full height as her husband silently idles over, bearing the vacant eyes of the wholly-dispossessed as he preoccupies himself with a folded piece of yesterday’s crossword puzzle. The bill of the woman’s upturned nose, tiny capillaries visible, is so sharp it’s a marvel she doesn’t cut herself upon it. “I called you a maggoty boy, you ill-mannered brat. Vermin. A sewer ra–”

An artery parts like curtain theaters; a calvary of blood sings in his ears. There it is again. A lift in his chest that lacks any other name but swellsong. Exhilarated, he’s overcome with sheer joy as his hollow cheeks briefly dust pink. Boy. He could almost hug this sheer Blight of a woman, but knows full well that’s a death sentence right there. He might weep himself into ecstasy.

Impatiently, the woman snaps her fingers in front of him. A coil of radiant diamonds that once might’ve rested upon one of the tasseled velvet pillows in a Tiffany's window display is draped around her throat. Gus surely wasn’t kidding when he said there were two breeds of people in this lifetime: People who staggered through life with the world on their backs, and those who leapt to ride atop the weight of the world. “Are you deaf?”

He stammers something noncommittal before dashing off to the rhythm of a stutter-step spring and a full heart, marveling at just how much easier it is to run in trousers–

He blanches as a small stone comes zipping over his head, stopping him in his tracks. He ducks behind a nearby chestnut mare tethered to a streetcar, just in time to see a scrappy gang of ragtag boys emerging from the open mouth of a trash-littered alley, snickering at him. “Hey, flamin’ youth! Ya run like a giiiirl!” Mocks their ringleader. His compatriots howl, as if he’d spoken the wit of ages instead of seizing the low-hanging fruit.

Vertebrae practically unbuckling, tensing immediately, the youth’s eyes hurriedly scrape over the emerging skulks’s tattered coats, flapping like graygone pigeon plumage in the upturn of winds. Seconds later, he exhales into his relief. No sigils. Hardly affiliated with the Ten. He crosses himself out of sheer reflex, hand falling protectively over the loop of Papa’s old rosary beads riding upon the protrude of his clavicle. One of the precious scraps to accompany the Nocedas the boat trip with them from the República Dominicana.

Surely these runts would look a whole lot more polished, sleek like well-fed cats, a whole lot more smug, a whole lot more dangerous, if they were truly with the cartels. He privately wonders why these smirking runts seem so pleased with themselves when they are all but nameless urchin riding the teeming of the streets. But, he supposes, perhaps the less you have in life, the more you simply have to boast.

“H-Hiya, there, fellas.” He greets, inwardly flinching at how hopeful he sounds, scuffing his already-scuffed shoe upon the ground. How do fellows greet each other? “How are–” Oh, but he can’t stop stuttering again, face heating up with a blush. “How–how–”

The rascals’ ringleader mocks him: “ How–how–how– how ‘bout we take that pretty little bag of yours off your hands, huh? I’m sure your husband will understand.”

Rolling his eyes as the heckler’s young peers roar with laughter, face falling, the youth plucks out his makeshift slingshot from his bag, thin brows quickly quirking with playful mischief.

Have it your way, then.

Fishing out a rag from his threadbare bag, Luz makes a face as he uses the rag to pluck up some horse manure upon the scaly cobblestones, aiming carefully. Seconds later, he launches, one eye falling shut, as precise as if he instead plays a game of billiards.

The makeshift projectile sails true through the air, plastering a bulls-eye between the ringleader’s eyes. Howling, cursing, the ringleader doubles back, sputtering, arms thrashing as if he’s actively-drowning, his streaked face burning purple in humiliation as the roars goes echoing on all sides. The echoing of their cries sends several dark rats behind the alley scuttling behind an asphalt shingle factory for cover.

Cursing, his fellows look around for stones, fragments of whisky and broken Coca-Cola bottles to chuck. But he gives them no time to recover.

Scooping up a handful of pebbles, leaping upon a glittering-with-frost lamppost whose metal sings chill beneath its hands, he nonetheless clamors up, hurriedly winding his legs around the apparatus to hold him steady. The elastic of his slingshot rubber band straining, he hails down rock after rock at the misfits, launching carefully to avoid striking the horse.

Cowering, squawking and staggering as the strange youth immediately opens fire once more, the ruffians are sent diving for cover beneath overturned trash cans spilling this way and that. “Go climb up your thumb!” the youth mocks, almost, almost, wanting to mock that they were being effectively thrashed by a girl.

“Jesus–quit the Chicago thunder already, will ya, ya damned maniac? !” Screeches one of them, falling backward on all fours.

“New to town, boys!” the strange boy sings back, waving his cap mockingly, winking for good measure. Briefly, blissedly he leaves himself behind, and there’s all the sly and spirit of Robin in the treetops from the Merry Adventures of Robin Hood. “Thanks for makin’ a guy feel welcome. See ya fellows tomorrow!”

He drops to the ground, affectionately stroking the mane of the horse, who knickers, tossing her mane, stamping her hoof. “Good girl. Adios!”

The new boy leaps over a rusty old fire hydrant with a broken valve, sprinting down an alley shadowed by a meat-packing company, flanked by an abandoned steel factory, whose ruined iron fencing has been picked over by micelike teeth of the poor, strip-mining them of all their parts. Everything is crowned with a turbid veil of dust; coal clings to everything it touches, like a rust snowfall. Still, he keeps running, breath painting the gloomy December air.

Overhead are the countless loops of clothesline between the buildings, where laundry flutters in the rising wintry gales like drifting specters. He vaults himself up a brick wall. This new language, he can certainly grasp. After all, he is already all but fluent.

~o*oOo*o~

Slowly, Luz soon re-emerges in women’s clothing from a public privy several streets down the borough of Little Italy, praying no one spares a second glance over at the filthy privy where a young man entered, and a young girl emerges. Luckily for her, most of the storefronts are closed, and many of the churches have not yet let out for the day. She can hear the distant, euphoric beat of tambourines echoing from weathered old chapels bordering her home, pastors roaring to their congregations, Baptist aunties joyfully bellowing back.

Grimacing at the sheer, utterly foul onslaught smell of privy sewage in her wake, Luz gags, eyes watering, resisting the urge to retch from an empty-stomach. She’d like to scour away the gnawcrawl of her poor skin. But bath day for everyone in her tenement is on Fridays. The men, sweating and filthy from offering up the small of their lives, often to machinery altars or brickyards, got to use the heated bath water in the great metal tubs of the ground floor first. By the time it was Camila or Luz’s turn to wash, the graying water was utterly filthy, skeined and lukewarm from being passed down and down again, less and less of itself each time. Nowadays, Luz simply improvises by heating up snow upon the stove for her and Camila to wash. It’s surely better than nothing.

The hearty heart of euphoria fades; now-illicit memories swell shrapnelsharp through what feel like punctured lungs. She halts underneath a broken streetlamp, a pantomime of whimper and knees as she flings her arms around herself. There’s a slow-stitched wound in her eyes.

Well, now. The hysteria lens the world red. Shuddering fists rise to her lips as she staggers along.

She’s broken the singular commandment never, ever once engraved into twin tablets, because no one who resided outside the perimeter of a lunatic asylum needed reminding of what it was. Pausing outside a Methodist church, Luz listens faintly to the dire chords of a dire song–

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust–

The devil’s after both of us–”

The magic in the moment is made illegible by shame taking ink to it. She could walk in, where reverends swore on promises of flame, delivered from wobbling pulpits, where screeched the backsides of hymns. Perhaps she could yet be saved. Vividly, she imagines every single good, saved congregation-member piercing her with the fierce thorn of their eyes. Rage all but setting their faces on fire when she testified.

The ground is undulating rubber on a throb of vertigo. She could, hypothetically-speaking, repent. She could toss her bag off the nearest bridge, along with the facsimile of a boy inside, like disposing of a body.

And yet. Luz rocks back and forth on her heels, swallowing down the warning sting of salt. And yet. How can two mere words be unable to bear their own weight?

Voice flinging itself down a staircase of words, Luz finds herself, to her own great surprise, walking briskly right past the church, briefly swollen in gospel again. Shivering, she wraps her cloak more tightly around herself. But it only seems to reinforce her own shapelessness.

Luz’s boots pulse a frantic map towards the newspaper office on Boiling Isle Boulevard before she sheepishly remembers they’re closed on Sundays. Perhaps it’s for the best. After all, she needs to figure out a proper alias, as well as practice speaking more like a boy to nail an interview. She fumbles in her pockets, hands falling over a modest jingle of coins. At least selling her cut hair to some kindly Muslim wigmakers whose shop remained open on Sundays means she can go to market tomorrow.

Hand rising to make sure the headscarf is still safely tied around her head to conceal her new short haircut, Luz sets off. Somewhere, a phonograph plays Livery Stable Blues from an open window, countless pigeons looking onward where they sit in countless, shivering lines upon telegraph cable, keeping each other warm.

Coming down from being hauled into a bottomless sky, Luz’s stomach scrapes its bared teeth, gnashing sharp stones along the edges of itself as she passes a nearby restaurant doubtlessly preparing for the Sunday rush, judging by the wafting warmth of garlic, olive oil, bubbling yeast, grilled polenta wavering the air from the mottled, low-pitched roof of the pretty Italianate storefront. Ignoring the protests from the squeeze of her stomach, Luz furtively peeks into her bag, where Papi’s old cap is, for comfort. A curious inversion, of Cinderella’s enchanted slipper.

A waiter in a long apron wolf-whistles at the solitary girl from across the sidewalk as he takes out the trash. “Beautiful! What's a pretty thing like you doing out on your own?Bellissima! Cos'è una cosa carina come te che fai da sola?” He teases, making kissing noises for good measure.

It’s Italian he speaks, not Spanish, but she understands enough. Hands shaking again as the air fills with the man’s boisterous guffaws, she forces herself not to snatch out her slingshot in retaliation to avoid drawing attention to herself, to the contents of her bag. Wearing men’s clothing, she’d felt gloriously-unassailable, granted immunity of a disease.

How surely odd it is, that an outfit you slip on once feels less of a traje, a costume, than your own patchwork skirt and tattered petticoat, which seem to be wearing her now.

Wistfully, Luz turns her eyes to the sky, lowering them again, face paler, and wrung out with longing as she aches for fictions. The telltale ding of a passing streetcar carries her reflection away with it.

Despite the great cold, the shivershudder of countless eyes that follow you everywhere when you are a girl, particularly a Girl on Her Own, Luz would sooner keep walking. But someone must look after Mami. Gus is probably waiting for her right now. And no one, not even the meanest vagrant born in a cardboard box, remains immune to the reality of the hands of the Diez Profanos, Ten Profaners, The Ten Families, The Coven of Ten, in this city, and the gunfire hymns that are swiftly becoming the splintered anthem of the shadow of the City that Never Sleeps.

Luz’s boots come to an abrupt halt, a throbbing knot of fear in her throat, a painful throb beneath her eyes. Her pupils shrink in on themselves. The silence of rot cakes in her bones. Her tongue is so dry it swiftly turns to coiled powder in her mouth.

One of the storefronts across the street, a place that had once been a thriving Italian bakery whose windowfronts of blackberry-darkened whipped cream and marzipan flowers Luz could ravenously gaze at for hours on end, has been burnt to its ruined bare bones, slinking back to the yawns of the Earth. A door has been cindered off its hinges, replacing aromas of baking bread with melted metal, fragmented debris.

Then, there It is, as insidious and awful as the Sickness that comes to call, without apology and without explanation, but always inevitably–in the shape of bright, dead things. Her lungs contract with the effort of not crying out.

A beautiful golden sigil of what appears to be a bubbling elixir bottle, with a five-point sun spilling out of it, has been painted in front of the walk where the bakery once stood.

The cindered gap amidst the buildings looks like a missing tooth–an abyss where an adult version would never, never take root in its place. Passersby are quick to avert their eyes, more than a few clutching cornicello charms, horn-shaped tokens, to ward off what is already here. No one is stupid enough to loiter. A passing Mama hurriedly yanks her children away from the ruins, crossing herself.

Trembling, stunned mute, fingers spasming in half-drowned light, sky lacquered gray, soft with the heels of an approaching storm, Luz staggers backwards upon a cracked cake stand in the ashes.

Reeling at the surge's edge, feverish and bristling with outrage, Luz nonetheless squeezes her eyes shut and closes her eyes. It’s best to go home. What else can she possibly do?

And so Luz bows her head and continues trudging along, cloak full of wind. Better to be safe, in your own obscurity, if it means protecting the last of the earth–specifically, your Earth. She folds in on herself in five, six, seven folds, becoming smaller and smaller with each and every inward succession.

~o*oOo*o~

Harlem rises, spilling out into the towering colors of the horizon upon the spiderwebbed cement.

She passes one of synagogues of Jewish Harlem, a neo-Roman building marking Temple Israel with Stars of David in the stained glass. She walks by the recently-founded NAACP, the lights of Hurtig & Seamon's New Theatre, brownstones, brickyards, carpentry shops, mechanics, pawn shops, countless huddled-together apartments where both the too-young and too-old to work gaze out vigilantly, keeping watch on playing children from the upper windows. Just about everyone knows each other’s business here. You don’t need to afford a telegram for word of a scandal to quickly break out, not when elderly Miss Rhonda could recite the comings and goings

Countless families are already at work preparing Sunday supper, but Luz avoids lingering around the domestic clatter at all costs. A musician has a fedora overturned in the street as he plays the bright brass of his saxophone. Luz drops a penny in his hat, and he tips his head to her in turn, a warm thrum of melody rising.

The barber shops, where red swivel chairs can be seen through the windows, boast large poles outside, striped like blue and red candycane. The in-progress construction of another theater, to be named The Cotton Club. Some folks like to play chess or cards outside during summer evenings, cheerfully bantering. Pawn shops, countless chapels, the pharmacy covered with cigarette ads, lurid red and white Coca-Cola advertisem*nts. Camila had sworn Luz and Gus off from ever, ever drinking the stuff, Camila having the admittedly-newfangled motion that it is wrong to give cocaine to children.

Briefly, Luz’s head tilts in the direction of a district known as Sugar Hill, where Harlem’s well-to-do live, in houses with working plumbing and airy ceilings, in beautiful townhouses that seemed more window than brick, with black spiral curlique banisters that signed themselves with a flourish. But Luz lives as far away from Sugar Hill without leaving Harlem. She keeps shuffling on, past snow that litters the gutters like crumpled paper.

You could tell that the churches are letting out; the men walking past are dressed in their suit jackets, the mamas, grandmamas, and aunties in their smart hats when they can be afforded or homemade. The market vendors aren’t here today, filling the air with shouts and the smell of boiled peanuts. No paper boys are shouting today’s news. Tomorrow, if Luz has anything to say about it, she’ll be one of them–but certainly not here, where she’ll be too-easily recognized.

Luz jolts upon spotting two of her old classmates emerging from the local Abyssinian Baptist Church. She lifts up her hand hopefully to greet them. “Hello! How are–”

But the girls go marching right on by, giggling, arm-in-arm with one another. They might not have seen her at all. Luz lowers her arm again. Winter settles itself into her, in-between her ribs, as she continues on, the wind threatening to take the skin of her knees with it.

~o*oOo*o~

Luz’s tenement is one of many huddled too-close together, a collective teeming of humanity who all know each other intimately, even when they don’t technically reside in the same room. There are no surely no secrets here, not when the grimy walls are paper-thin afterthoughts, fit to bursting with families, often immigrants. Pipelines often scamper with rodents and other scuttling pests, and the murmuring plumbing clanks on the rare occasion it decides to work at all.

Amidst all this is the never-ceasing prattle of children who carry their hearts in their mouths, wailing of babies who more often than not do not survive their first year. Mama sometimes holds Luz close upon their filthy pallet together as the night cacophony settles in earnest: tears, shouts, love, hate, prayers, curses. Or at least she had done so, before Mama had taken ill. A great deal of things had happened. Before, in any case.

Still, Luz brightens visibly at the sight of thirteen-year-old Gus Porter, who has yet to spot her approaching where he shivers warily outside the tenements.

Tiny Gus, a whole head shorter than Luz, is bistre-skinmed, clad in a man’s coat that threatens to swallow whole his skinnyslight frame, rolled back several times at the fraying cuffs. He’s aimlessly shuffling a positively-ancient pack of yellowing cards bought secondhand from a pawn shop for his birthday three years ago, resting upon a graffiti-scabbed afterthought of a bench, practicing already-honed parlor tricks. Gus is a huge fan of magic, of famed illusionists Richard Potter, Harry Houdini, and Madame Debora Sapphirra, filling his tiny corner of bedroom with news-clippings articles of them he salvaged at every opportunity. Stifling a giggle, Luz slowly tiptoes over, fully-intending to shout: “Boo!” from behind.

Gus’s slate-colored eyes are shrewd, thoughtful, and warm. Particularly as they dart up, to the telltale rustle of Luz attempting, once again, to sneak up on him. Setting aside his cards, he soon offers up the raft of his hands, eyes warming with amusem*nt even as he doesn’t look up. “Girl, nice try. Ain’t nothing Luz Noceda pulls will ever surprise me no more.”

That was entirely a matter of opinion, Luz thinks ruefully, halting in her tracks, clutching her bag just a little tighter. It’s hard to mind terribly much being thwarted once again when Gus meets her gaze.

Squealing with delight, all pretenses of sneakiness gone, Luz races over, never mind it certainly isn’t ladylike, nearly tripping upon the icy walk. The idea of someone waiting for her is cheering, briefly filling a sky in her chest. “Gus! Gus! Ya shouldn’t be out here. You gonna catch your death,” she half-playfully scolds, grabbing Gus’s icy palms in her own, breathing upon them for good measure.

Exhaling with relief, grinning ear-to-ear, Gus steadies a hand at her back to briefly give her shapelessness shape as she scoops him off his feet, swinging him around. “Eh, not much warmer in there anyway, lemme tell you that. Girl, ‘bout time ya came back! Where ya even been all day? I was getting mighty worried.” He scrutinizes Luz’s bag. “What’s that for?”

Biting the inside of her lip, Luz silently side-steps the question by hugging him tighter, affectionately setting him down once more. Best friends, next-door neighbors, she and Gus all but drank out of the same bottle shortly after the Nocedas had first immigrated, shortly-before the United States’s occupation of the Dominican Republic. A tiny Luz, her Mami and Papi, had fled upon selling virtually all they had for one-way steerage to New York City.

Gus is third-generation South African, his father Perry Porter a school teacher in the Bronx. His mother Patricia died during a flu epidemic when Gus was just six. Gus could not have been closer to Luz, more ferociously-dearer to her heart, had they been actual kin.

All the same, Luz’s hand tangles over her shoulder bag, attempting the most committal of hand-wags. “This? This old thing? Why, I was just out!” Her mind drowses slack as a creek as she fumbles for an excuse. “I needed….some fresh air. So I went and…ran…some errands?”

Gus purses his lips in a telltale Bitch, Please expression, one brow hanging at half-mast. He’s far too quick on the uptake for anyone’s good–specifically, Luz’s. “On Sunday? In this weather?”

Despite the chill, Luz flushes, brow soon twinkling with sweat as she settles in beside him on the bench that wavers with a warning. “Eh, it’s not important. Now, how was your day?”

Gus carefully surveys her beneath the rim of his too-large cap, the curvature of concern lining his young face. Hesitantly, he offers her the kinship of hold and hand. “Quiet.”

Luz incredulously gestures at the tenement as inside, a pair of Haitian twins can be heard resuming a bickering match as several cars sail past, honking their horns. “Boy, in case you’ve forgotten, this is Harlem. Ain’t nothing quiet here.”

“Oh, but I just bet nickel and dime my day was quiet, comparatively-speaking, to yours, anyway.” A telltale smirk appears on his face. “At least, without me around to sweet talk you out of trouble all day.”

Luz sticks her tongue out as Gus playfully ribs her. “First of all, don’t even kid me: You don’t even have no nickel and no dime to bet.” She pulls Gus’s empty pockets out.Gus squawks and flails as Luz gleefully scrambles to tickle him for good measure. “Well, neither do you!”

Despite everything, laughter folds them up like card tables. “And secondly? Me? Get into trouble?” Luz wipes her eye. Unimpressed, Gus wordlessly jerks a thumb toward the slingshot protruding from her cloak pocket. Luz blushes furiously as Gus puts his hands on his hips. “There’s a ‘is that a slingshot in your pocket or are you just happy to see me’ joke right here, but I ain’t going nowhere there on the Sabbath. I’m classy that way.” He playfully preens.

“In my defense, ya should see the other guys!”

Gus buries his face within his hands, resisting the urge to quietly whimper inside them. “Luz. Ya gotta be more careful. One day, you might come home with more than just scratches.” His hand tentatively falls to a cut on Luz’s cheek; she must’ve gotten it scaling the fence earlier. Briefly, there’s a glimpse of something matted and scared in Gus’s features. like when his poor Mama had been laid to rest with nothing but a song to put her in the ground, and Luz clutching Gus beneath her chin, their faces stuttered in the width of a wound. “Or you might not come home at all.”

Frantic to cheer him, Luz immediately shakes her head, jostling him. “C’mon–ya worry too much! You worry too much! You’re the one who said you’d bet on me if ever I were of a mind to fistfight God. If you had that nickel-and-dime to bet, anyway.”

Gus exhales. “Thank goodness you made it back before…” Gus slowly trails off. There’s the cavernous gong of the bells strumming the hour. Both of them fall still at its summons. Soon, it’ll be dusk. Soon, every chained lock, every single bolt in this city, will be hastily strung shut.

“Hey, wait a sec.” Gus leans in suspiciously, squinting at the outline of a scarf over Luz’s hair underneath her hood. “What’s…what’s with the scarf? I’ve never seen you wear one before.”

Flailing, grasping the edges of her hood too late– darn, darn, darn you Gus, except she could never mean it–Luz can’t reply as Gus suspiciously leans in. Training her voice down to a whisper, Luz leans in. “...I sold it. To a wigmaker.”

“Oh, Luz.” Gus’s hands fall over his mouth. “Have things really gotten that bad?”

Flaring on the defensive, Luz’s hands fly up. “Lotsa people sell their hair!” Usually when they’re on the cusp of starvation, or being evicted. Oftentimes, both. “Besides: Maybe I’m just a trendsetter! You’ll see. Soon everyone will think girls having short hair is fashionable. The cat’s meow, and pajamas, too!”

“Can I see?” Gus peers forward curiously.

To his great surprise, and admittable-hurt–do they not tell each other everything?–Luz timidly shrinks away. “I’m just....keepin’ my headscarf on right now. Because, well, it’s so cold.”

“Because ya realize your mama will actually faint when she sees you?” Gus asks shrewdly, crossing his arms, all pout and grumble.

Uh-oh. Luz hurriedly preoccupies herself with restuffing the damp newsprint at the crack of her shoes. Gus is incredulous. “Luz, how can you possibly cheese it with your mother when you live with her? Even you aren’t that big a fast-talker!”

Luz’s smile erases itself, line by line. Gus sighs as he claps her shoulder. “...I won’t call the coppers. But you might wanna swing by our room for some coffee before you face the music.” Never mind that the Porter’s coffee is so weak that you could hypothetically mutter the word ‘coffee’ over a cup of tepid water for the same effect. Still, Luz smiles sadly at what she recognizes as a heartfelt offering.

“Hey, look over there!” One of their young neighbors mocks as he peers down out the window. Both Gus and Luz stiffen, quickly releasing hands. “Gus is getting dizzy with his dame! First comes love, then comes marriage!”

“Get a room, you two! When’s the wedding? ” Shrieks another gleefully. “Luz, ya gonna be the one to carry Gus over the threshold?!”

“Why not? She’s more man than he is!”

The laughter is instantaneous. Wincing at the reappearance of more of Luz’s old classmates, the lashing memory of countless cruel tongues licking her insides, Luz dully reckons that if she were a boy, he could be best friends with Gus Porter without a scandal in sight. No other girl their age would be caught dead admitting their best friend was a member of the opposite sex.

Flare-fuming, Luz hops to her feet, swiftly plucking out her slingshot as Gus buries his face in his hands again. “Want me to drag ‘em out over the threshold and do a little target practice?”

Gus shakes his head, lowering his hands and smiling weakly. “Well, they used to just tease me for being the teacher’s pet, and for trying magic tricks at school. Now they mainly tease me for having an older girlfriend. At least they’re trying to switch up the material?”

Luz wilts. She and Gus have been inseparable for so long, everyone and their second-cousin assume the two have all the rapturous passion of an adolescent Romeo and Juliet for each other. The idea is so absurd she almost chuckles.

There is something about Gus that Luz sees in the soft vulnerability of his features, something that she recognizes, in a way she doesn’t quite know how to articulate–and is frightened to. Part of the reason Luz became so adept with a slingshot and in fistfights was to dissuade the other kids from tormenting Gus quite much.

Gus was smart, so ridiculously smart he’d already skipped two grades. Everyone assumed it was because Mr. Porter, a man of quiet deliberation made quieter still after the death of his wife, was a schoolteacher and bribed the board to do it. But Gus is brilliant. It surely can’t be right, someone so exceptionally bright and thoughtful will likely never get to attend college. For them, it’ll be surprising enough, to reach adulthood.

Their sharp-eyed Portuguese neighbor Rosa pops her head out. “Your mama is calling for you, Luz! Go inside! Put down that slingshot, before I tell your Mami. And Augustus Porter, for shame, stop flirting with your beau, or I’ll tell your Daddy!”

Shaking her head, Luz nonetheless hugs him. At a loss, Gus fumbles beside him. “Well, take this at least. I borrowed it from one of Dad’s coworkers.” Gus pulls out a copy of Dante’s Inferno. He attempted to find a book whenever he could on Luz’s behalf, especially after she was forced to drop out of school. “And hey. It’s…” Gus wants to say, everything will be fine, and he can’t, he just can’t. So he settles for: “I’m here for you.” He grips her shoulder.

Accepting it, Luz laughs, not out of scorn or spite, but because of love, because the warmth can’t be released any other way. She closes her eyes tightly against the telltale swarm of tears, warding them off as she rushes up the growl and grimace of splintery tenement stairs, automatically leaping over the third one rotting in place.

~o*oOo*o~

The door dangles from the crook of a corrosion-colored spine, opening with a foreboding creak that’s muffled by the habitual prayers that echo in Luz's skull. The rotting scent of home fills her nostrils as she gingerly steps into the room, her way lit only by the fleeting remains of daylight through windowpane the color of grime. It smells like the sickroom it is–old cough syrup, the sour sting of stale vomit, the salt of fevered sheets.

She squints her eyes, making out through the darkness the shape of a now-dangerously thin woman resting atop a makeshift bedspread, face turned towards the opposite wall. Luz creeps towards the far corner, intent on laying her weary body across the pallet that serves as her bed, and drifting away into unconsciousness.

If she had anything to say about it, the consequences of her actions would be a problem for tomorrow Luz.

The sound of shifting fabric swiftly dashes these hopes, however. Dooming Luz to an interaction she is not prepared to have. "DaughterMija?" Camila dazedly calls into the obscuring shadows, blinking blearily. Mami is nearsighted, and the Nocedas certainly can’t afford glasses, but she surely knows Luz’s soft footfalls.

"Good evening, Mom!¡Buenas noches Mami!" With one practiced motion, Luz quickly exchanges her face for a familiar mask of optimism, even as she tugs nervously at the ends of her headscarf. "Feel any better?¿Te sientes mejor? Did you eat?" She scoops up a nearby cracked bowl of gluish-gruel that appears merely-picked at, stirring it with a spoon and attempting not to make a face. “I’ll feed you.”

Wearily, Camila shakes her head. "No, no, Miss Rosa fed me earlier. You eat. And me? Better every day, my beautiful girlmi niña hermosa." The woman replies warmly, attempting in vain to put some weight on her smile. Luz lowers her bowl.

Almost immediately, Camila’s reassurance is contested by a fit of violent coughing that soon has Camila doubled over, with all the ferocity of someone vomiting on all fours. Her back arches like a bridge upon a fallen handstand. Attempting to wring the dread away from her face, Luz scurries up to the nearby ancient pitcher to get Mami a mug of water. Through the dim light, Luz thinks she might have seen a fresh spot of crimson stain the floor. And Luz admits to fear, even in the raw ward of her heart.

Numbing the great work of her chest, Luz holds Camila’s head up, pressing the cup against her mother’s cracked lips as Mami sputters in vain for air, wheezing. Silently, Luz kneels, holding Camila up until the fit at last passes, and Luz lowers her down again, looking away, carefully-drawing away. The display went unacknowledged. What could they do but pretend? Lying is all but their love language, now, the chorus of some hateful song.

"Come here, daughterVen aqui, hija." Camila continues faintly, weariness underlining her tone. "Let me see my daughter's pretty face!"

The words were meant to be affectionate, Luz knows, but that doesn’t stop them from pricking her heart full of invisible needles. Some days were better than others, but tonight it is all Luz could do to stop herself from flinching each time she heard “hija” or “mija” escape her mother’s lips.

Brushing these strange feelings aside, Luz steps closer to her mother, floorboards creaking under the soles of her too-small shoes. She’s careful to avoid the window's faint beam of sunset, stopping a ways from her mother and showing off her sun-shiniest "perfect daughter" smile.

Camila's attempt to return the expression doesn’t reach her eyes.

"How was today, dearcariño?" She tries. “You were away all day. These streets, they’re no place for a girl all alone. I worried.”

"Well, I–" Luz hesitated, carefully considering her words, as the wrong ones are liable to explode. “I think I found a way to provide for us!” Unbidden, genuine pride crept into her tone, making itself heard behind the wall of tension in Luz’s throat. She clutches every syllable.

"Luz..." Camila begins, worry flashing in her eyes.

The teen knows what her mother is going to say even before the words leave her mouth.

"We can't live off Papi's savings forever, Mami," she argues with rising frustration. "You have to let me earn a living for us until you get better!”

The older woman opens her mouth again to argue. "You're just a girl, daughtermija! You're not mature enough!” the soundless argument rings in Luz's ears even before it is spoken. But before this familiar vision can come to fruition, Camila stops cold, eyes narrowing.

"DaughterMija, what are you wearing?"

Luz's heart freezes, trampled at the bottom of a breathless world.

"I-It's nothing, Mami!" She stutters, tugging her headscarf tighter. "This style is the cat's pajamas with girls my age!"

"Will Augustus tell me the same when I ask him?"

The teen remains silent.

"Luz," Camila prods gently. "Please take off the scarf."

Unable to meet her mother's eyes, Luz removes the covering, exposing her freshly-cut locks to the musty air.

Camila gasps. Luz screws her eyes shut at the biting sense of ache and unraveling, "Baby... Your hair... Your long, beautiful hair...Bebé... Tu cabello... Tu largo, hermoso cabello..."

"...sold it to the wigmaker." Luz mutters, squirming slightly as her mother reaches upwards.

The girl kneels beside the bed-ridden woman so that the elder might reach her boyish haircut.

" Girl...Chica..." Camila croaks, looking up at her child with pleading eyes. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to sell your body just to keep us afloat."

The words graze her mind like an accusation. Oh, Mami could never, ever find out about the boy in the mirror. No one can. "It's not like that, mama!" Luz protests at once. "I can help us, really I can! You just need to trust me!"

"I do trust you, dearcariño!"

"Then why can't you let me do anything? Do you really think I still can't take care of myself?"

"Daughter,listenHija,escúchame. It's too dangerous to go out on your own! Your Papi and I came to this country because we wanted you to be safe ! I know if he was here now, he wouldn't want you to put yourself in danger like this!"

"He wouldn't want us to starve to death either!" Luz counters fiercely, eyes watering in frustration. "I miss him too, but someone has to be the man of the house, and you seem more preoccupied with meeting him in the heavensen los cielos lickety-split!" Perhaps it would not be so bad, Luz bitterly supposes, to die like Manny than live like Camila.

With those final words, Luz turns away from her mother, storming instead to the pallet in the far corner of the room.

Wretchedly, she curls up and closes her eyes, attempting in vain to ignore the muffled sniffling coming from the other end of the room. How tired they both are of carrying their colors, or perhaps the colors tired out first. Who knew?

It may have been moments, minutes, even an hour before mother or daughter speak again.

Whatever the case, the silence was at last broken by a feeble whisper of– "Good night daughter. I love you.Buenas noches hija. Te amo."

"......I love you too, Mom.......yo también te amo, Mami."

~o*oOo*o~

After Mami falls asleep, propped up on ancient, fading pillows, Luz remains awake curled upon her pallet, gazing out the filthy window. Anyone not Gus, Mr. Porter, or Mami finds Luz a very quiet person. In fact, Luz often carries on an almost endless inner monologue, but the words don't often reach her lips. Most everything she wants to say, she swallows. The aftertaste is becoming bitterer by the day.

Outside, there's someone playing an accordion nearby, heaving and pulling two halves into a whole, into the stuff of a folding melody. Whoever is playing, can the musician love the world, even in its hard places? Especially there?

Beside the solitary oozing of candles, where moths circulate like pale outliers in the gloom,

Luz finds herself stooping, squinting the strain of her eyes to read the onionskin-thin pages of Dante’s Inferno: “Do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift. ” Strangely, it seems more consolation just now than the death sentence it’s probably meant to be.

Unable to stand herself any longer, Luz wrenches open their solitary window, whose edges are lined with fluttering newsprint. Teeth chattering like castanets, she violently shivers as gusts of icy wind come battering in. Wrapping her shawl around her, she quickly clamors out, hurriedly shutting the window behind her to avoid further-exposing Mama. Luz scales up the rust-brittle, ominously-rattling fire escape.

Some people possessed paralyzing fears of heights, but certainly not Luz. After all, Papi, a man who laughed with all the inside of his mouth even with the moan in his back, all but built this city himself, brick by brick, setting cables along with so many other hands of countless shades. Called roughnecks. Up the construction workers went, without safety harnesses, hard hats, or even privy breaks, spending eight hours or more vaulted into the cobalt meridian of the sky, suspended thousands of feet, adrift upon quivering steel, above the face of the enormous world. Papi was sometimes coaxed to speak of it when he came home: Workers flinging red hot rivets by hand through open air, acrobats at the mercy of gravity, the rising skeleton of a building loaded with human freight.

Their employers were determined to outshine the climb of any building in the world. The poor workers were determined to feed their families, or die trying. And countless people did fall to their deaths, but not Papi. He’d been lost to a sickness that steals you slowly, but stole you just the same. With not a single lost-and-found in sight.

When Papi came home, exhausted, he nonetheless enjoyed taking Luz, sometimes Gus, to the tenement rooftops, much to Luz’s delight, and Mami’s dismay. My foreman put it very simply: You either fall in this city, or you climb. I’ll teach her to climb, Camila, Manny promised with a wink. Higher and higher and higher, than anyone thinks you can survive. Looking back, even then and there had been the echoes of departure that would derail her own destiny.

Sometimes, Manny had even shown her the stars, spoken of the ones back in the Dominican Republic, the stars he claimed shouted their names if you only got close enough to hear them. Manny once held Luz aloft on his shoulders upon the tenement rooftop to watch fireworks during Harlem Juneteenth celebrations, the colorful violence committed to the skies in streaming seas of downpouring bursts, air askew with booms.

Now, however, Luz is quite alone, cradling a book to the open wound of her heart, where Papi once held her–before the last wind in his body took off, upwards and away, and this time, for good.

A scintillating landscape throws itself into focus like a panoramic view, with all its innumerable monuments of brick and mortar, obelisks of glass and steel in the distance. Winds tear and rent, making and unmaking themselves as a train roars in the electric fury. Brass bells resound the echoing cry of the hour as bare feet tentatively fall upon the icy rooftop, knowing one misplaced move is all the difference between her and a twelve story freefall to the pavement.

Through the upstream of coal smoke and tiny filaments of asbestos adrift in an envenomed veil, he turns his eyes, bright like nameless stars, to the cloudburst in the heavens. The sky is empty, but it might also be open. Onto something. And somewhere. Between the ephemeral and everlasting, amidst innumerable souls nonetheless made desperately lonely, in a night the size of forever. Enough to make imagination reckon on your name. If only you had one.

Briefly, he lowers his head, as if in silent homage. “Every thing I once dreamed of, has drowned itself in the gutters.” He hurriedly wraps his shawl more tightly around himself.

“Try as I might, to close my ears, I still hear the mutters….”

Where sunlight and shadow will eventually give chase after one another at dawn, amidst peaks of countless buildings, crowns of telegraph wires, he falls back against the cold steel of a ventilation pipeline, stoking the coals of memory. “I’ve gone cold, Papi. I can’t suppress these shudders….” He sinks down and hugs his knees. “Oh, I can’t remember when–”

“I last was Seen, I last was Known….” His sepia-colored hand reaches for the broken jawbone of moon in the sky. “On whom can I depend ?”

Briefly his fingers close over empty air, hand held up like an unsent love letter to the lost horizon. Slowly, he lowers it again, spindly frame wind-battered. “ Luckily for them, I’m not a child burning down a village…” Exhaling, he rises once more. “Just to feel some warmth again….”

“Maybe Luz is afraid.” His hands fall to his book. The fire inwardly gutters, but remains bright. “But Dante’s strong….”

Not entirely true, as Dante the Pilgrim frequently fainted throughout his strange journey throughout Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven. More than once, he turned to his divine guides Virgil, Beatrice, and Saint Bernard for comfort. This admission of human weakness leaves his throat pinching.

“ Even if there’s nowhere –” Dante’s voice cuts out with the admission. “I–Belong.”

Dante’s arms wrap around himself in a hug. “I can’ t ask for forgiveness. I can’t ask them to understand–” He gazes on at the towering black sooty smoke rising from countless chimneys, furnace monsters doubtlessly beckoning in the little chimney sweeps–another sacrifice, to an insatiable altar, slowly loving their bodies down.

“Even if I’m all alone out here–” His still-soft voice threatens to split seconds later, a genesis of a lit flame. Strings of frost-twinkling silvery clothesline that look like crisscrossed spiderweb glint forlornly in the moonlight. “I will take myself, in hand–”

Arm grasping a pole, he balances upon the edge of the tin rooftop, looking out at the enormity of all the universe, pressing frostbitten fingers against his chattering teeth. Where he is, and is, and is. “….I have to believe–how hard can it be?–that somewhere, deep in this city….”

Briefly, Dante allows the scarf to fall free, revealing his cropped short hair, which flutters. No telling if he risks everything for a stolen moment of exaltation, but Papi had balanced. So could he.

“...there must be…something…more than this…” His eyes in vain seek out through the smog again for stars, oracle stars that could perhaps burn even the death out of you. The cities are so blighted with light and structure that the stars appear to have turned in on themselves, blistering cosmos of white light.

There must be more than the dead and the waiting-to-die, lingering over cigarettes in the spaces between beats. There must be a sun that relishes your bellowed freehold of body

“...for my broken family.”

That deafening pause in-between sentences. Pressure building behind his eyes, refusing to give into tears–he is fifteen, and el patron of his familia now. He will provide for Camila, and keep her wholly in the dark as to what he is (isn’t?) because if she too isn’t stolen away by disease, a broken heart will surely do the job.

He gazes down at the cloudy aquarelle of the city. Brain on fire with his kindling self, body freezing, he dazedly imagines himself losing his balance. Here at the edge of falling is also the beginning of horror. What had those poor lost roughnecks felt at their fatal misstep upon the ultimate tightrope, when they plummeted down to certain death? Had they despaired? Did they in fact feel a sort of relief, all the way down?

Despite himself, Dante finds himself kissing his rosary. His heart collapses in on itself, taking all his anger with it. His eyes root out his own duplicity. And in truth, he is so desperately alone he can scarcely breathe.

“Papi, please watch over me. Though I know it all sounds contrived….” He holds his hands over his eyes. Not one tear will escape him. And he knows, he already knows there’s no Icarian dance tonight. He has to protect Mami. He has to protect Gus. But this plea and prayer will escape him just the same, if only because his very life depends on it.

His hands fall over his mouth to keep a cry welled up inside of them. God, my God! Make a mercy out of me.

“Papi, please, watch over me –

So I can stay alive.”

Cold winds scraping him somewhat clean, or at least too numb to know the difference, he returns to the ladder, but not before hurriedly wrapping his headscarf back on. It’s Luz Noceda who reaches again for the window.

“I will stay alive.”

Luz crawls back in, curling up again on her pallet.

“I will stay alive.”

~o*oOo*o~

“And why,” Scoffs Mr. Piniet, the newspaper editor on Boiling Isles Boulevard the following afternoon, leaning flat in his office swivel-chair. His long face is pale, bulging blue eyes strangely-far apart from each other. He seems curiously reptilian. Small round spectacles perch on the end of his long nose, and he wears a smart, long red jacket with elegant gold trimming. Dante marvels at the fact that the man gives the remarkable impression of someone wearing a monocle despite not actually wearing one.

“Pray tell, why should I hire you ?” He appraises the scrawny boy who stands before his desk, cap in hands. “By the sound of things, you haven’t even hit puberty yet, lad. I won’t mince words– my paperboys are on their feet, at the crack of dawn, selling the morning edition. Then, they’re on your feet, all night, peddling the evening edition. Outside, may I remind you. This is a business. Why should I let some runt who looks like he still clings to his mother’s skirts work for me?”

Dante resists the urge to stomp his foot, roll his eyes, and pout. No one in the tenements had ever believed Luz was really a girl. Now, no one quite believes Dante is a boy. La gente es estúpida. The man has a clot he calls a soul.

“For starters, because I read and speak English and Spanish.” Dante adopts a deeper, slower, unbothered cadence. “I can sell in lotsa different districts, and cover more ground! I can work faster and harder than any man! And,” Dante’s hands both twist into fists. “I’m persistent, as anyone, sir.” Mr. Piniet ought to know that better than anyone; after all, Dante had thrown his foot in the door when Mr. Piniet had attempted to shut it in his face. “Don’t underestimate me just because…because I’m young.”

Unblinkingly, silently, Piniet appraises the youth. One of two things happened, when you were destitute in the city. You either became pliable as water, or you in fact, grew teeth. “....what’s your name, lad?”

“.....Dante.” Dante’s reply is soft. “My name is Dante Fortunato, sir.” Dante, like the hero of the Inferno, Fortunato, like the rich and powerful figure in Edgar Allen Poe’s The Cask of Amontillado. A shimmer in his chest. It’s a pleasant thing, to have a name.

“Dante Fortunato,” Piniet sighs, crossing his fingertips. He retrieves a cigar, lighting it with a match before taking some heavy puffs. “An Italian.”

Wrinkling his nose at the acrid smell, Dante opens his mouth to correct him, closes it again. The less anyone pried into Dante’s backstory, the better.

“Tell you what.” Mr. Piniet retrieves an enormous brown shoulderbag of rolled papers from beneath his desk. Dante’s eyes are huge. “If you can sell all of these,” Already bored, Piniet returns to the to-the-editor letters in his inbox. “By noon today, then hired you are for the evening edition.” A dismissive wave. “Now, run along with you.”

“Yes, sir!” Saluting, Dante seizes both the bag and Piniet’s hand, shaking it profusely. The man looks properly horrified. “Thank you sir! You won’t be sorry, sir! I promise!”

Whooping, ducking the paperweight Piniet attempts to lob at him, Dante throws the bag over his shoulder, turns and bolts outside.

Chapter 2: Neither

Chapter Text

~o*oOo*o~

“Because your question searches for deep meaning, I shall explain in simple words.” ― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

~o*oOo*o~

January 16, 1920

A bell tower strikes the seventh hour from New York’s Riverdale district. The mournful peals echo, stomping feral in their own sky. The tower might idly be playing pretend in its own saffron-colored shadow, beneath a dusk waned to sepia.

Countless workers are immobilized in the elements like plaster saints, huddled beside taverns, breweries, distilleries, haggard faces now agape at the quivering headlines they now clutch in work-calloused hands. Dry dusts of snow scatter powder like desert winds in January gusts. Barrel-makers trudge from their shifts at the assembly lines, expressions already playing at the edges of knowing, for the morning and mourning to come.

But uptown New York, just South of the stirring white treetops of Central Park, the mood is decisively more celebratory, as if Christmas has returned. Underneath carnation-yellow flickering of new electric streetlamps on the city’s better-paved streets, perfumed-socialites emerge from their buggies, cars and carriages, girdled, in stiflings of buttoning and lace, scrapes of ribbons at their throats. Daintily-gloved women’s hands are submerged in speckled muffs of fur. Most are arm-in-arm with their husbands, their fathers, their brothers as chaperones.

Wagging tongues dazedly hold this day in prayer, greeting fellow members of the Anti-Saloon League as nearby churches ring a fanfare symphony in a brass overture. A nearby reverend sweeps off his hat to wave at the passing celebrants as he and his son merrily dump the contents of an entire barrel of rum from a looted storefront, straight into the dark, open jaws of the sewers.

With rhythmic thuds of walking sticks, the fortunate partygoers clasp their crisp, smartly-printed invitations with as much fervent reverence as if they hold a pass to Paradise, autographed by Saint Peter himself.

However, there’s just one marked difference between Heaven and Blight Manor: God Himself could simply not hope to compete in throwing grand old affairs, sheer artistrokes of greatness the likes of which Blight Manor and its infamous p̶r̶o̶p̶r̶i̶e̶t̶r̶e̶s̶s̶ proprietor achieve. Presumably, He simply could not afford the Blight’s caterer, whom, did you know, was a gastronomic genius, sent for, all the way from Paris, brought to the states on a steamship?

For that matter, did you see the cunning mint linen, the darling crystal tureens of blood-orange mousse, flashing silver monogrammed with the trademark Blight crest, glistengloss platters of caviar, all present at the Blight’s Announcement celebration mere months ago? The unlucky press not invited desperately dogged the dark gates of Blight Manor that night, pacing and prowling like hungry strays outside a slaughterhouse.

Countless honored guests arrive in droves, to the pomp and posh and polish of neighborhood bras droit, or Right Arm. Tonight, even the most austere and devout among the Women’s Christian Temperance Unionare flushed with triumph. It surely isn’t every day, a near-century's worth of ambition is at last to be realized. Their mothers, and their mothers’ mothers, had prayed fervently outside saloons, havens of wickedness, the scourge of society and families alike, for decades. Now their dream is made real, thanks in no small part to the Blights’ sponsorship. The night will surely belong to everyone.

Breathlessly, the invitations are handed to a butler at the wrought-iron gates outside the paradisiacal facade of Blight Manor. The butler,whom quite ostensibly might possess a yardstick in lieu of a functioning spine, stiffly holds the invitations underneath artisan glass gas lights, with all the precision of a banker inspecting notes for counterfeit. Then–at last, at last, the slightest of nods, the deepest of bows. Breathlessly, the guests spill inside the enormous anteroom, and then to the main manor, beneath a great ceiling of frosted glass in a vast, spotless, marbled foyer. While it is scarcely warmer here than out-of-doors, the guests, besotted both with sermon and themselves, positively gloat on being among the fortunate few.

Surrounded by white-washed stone like clenched molars, the guests gaily talk of everything that surely matters, as well as everything that surely doesn't. Impeccably-starched butlers wave through the partygoers with platters of aperitifs, and soon the guests’ mouths are sugared and shining with petit fours, retouching the gloss on their lips.

But the guests are far more transfixed by the emergence of the Lady of the Hour, doubtlessly in her finest hour, as she and her husband slowly descend a staircase to greet everyone amidst silver tapestry panels, glossy-dark wainscotting polished to a tremulous sheen beneath the stark glare of the enormous crystal chandelier.

Odalia Blight, powderpale face still young at thirty-five years of age, curvy form clad in a knee-length, violet-colored sheath gown, smartly-augmented with a glossy white waistcoat and flashing broach, coils herself upon her husband’s arm like an ornament of some sinuous grace. She smiles, debutante-demure on the slight pout of her lipsticked-mouth, as countless guests approach to greet the Blights at the stairwell in hushed wonder. Countless gentlemen in tight-belted, high-waisted coats stoop to take the proffered, awaiting dangle of Odalia’s gloved hand, their lips skimming the hostess’s hand as reverently as if she is a royal dignitary holding court.

Alador Blight, for his part, seems decisively ill-at-ease in this crowd, in his own tuxedo, judging by his absently-tugging at the cufflinks. His wary yellow eyes covertly address his shoes. Save for the polished pocket watch at his breast, he might have perhaps wandered into the affair entirely by accident, if anything could ever truly occur by accident in the immaculately-whirring cogs of Blight Mansion. Alador’s chestnut hair, usually-unruly when he is at work repairing one of the countless machines in one of the family’s innumerable city factories, appears to have been oiled into submission for the occasion, marcelled into fashionable waves.

It isn’t long before a guest taps his silver spoon against his glass of alcohol-free mint julep. “Speech, speech, speech! Speech, Mr. Blight, speech!”

Soon, the eager cry comes rising up on all sides into a rallying chant, the sound scattering like the harsh tongues of Babel. Alador for his part couldn’t look paler at the prospect. The word alone neatly unravels the threads tying his mind together. “Oh, I ah–uh–uh–”

Smiling gaily, Odalia swiftly produces an envelope from her person. “Why, of course you wrote a few words for just such an occasion!” Her smile widens, with all its teeth. She pinches Alador’s cheek for good measure as the room breaks into applause once more. “ And gave it to me for safe-keeping. To think you’d forget, my pet, really.” Her knuckles rise to magenta lips in plaintive amusem*nt, trading off fond, knowing-looks with several tutting women.

Lurching on the precipice of discomfort, where Alastor surely has a talk with drowning, with fumbling fingers and all the relish of a forced baptismal, he takes and unfolds the paper. Surely more than a few words . He produces his spectacles from his breast pocket, squinting. Oh, but his wife’s sharp scrawl could be illegible even at the best of times.

Assuming a mask of careful dispassion, a sharp sliver of silence descends as every head swivels in their direction. Waiting. How very much he’d like a glass of bourbon in his hand to warm and steady him. “‘Um, thank you all, honored quests. Um, guests. Your support for Probation–” He holds the paper closer to his eyes, squinting as Odalia cheerfully trods on his shoe with her glittering, Coco Chanel heel.

“‘Prohibition , means so very much to this family-centric company, whose greatest privilege is serving this fine pity. City.’ ” Soon, he finds himself fighting valiantly against a yawn. “Thanks to you, noble souls, for sharing your morbid–ah, moral , I said moral –outrage to our congressional leaders, better souls have at last quailed.” He needs a new pair of glasses. “Ah, prevailed . We’re all going to die.”

Alador forces a smile-shaped grimace as his wife gives him a reprimanding poke, still all smiles. “Ah, it says fly. Fly, um, into a grand, and glorious new decade. We look then, to the futile. Um, to the future . At last, we have saved this country from…” He shuffles his polished shoes. “....uh….do I really have to say–”

“Say it, snooku*ms!” Odalia trills, winking for good measure as she bats her eyelashes, settling her cheek on Alador’s shoulder. “Why, you wrote it, after all.”

Alador wishes then that he was a better writer. “‘....the uh…. pervasive, devilish taint of alcohol.’ ” Odalia might drape herself upon Alador’s arm, but it’s Alador who finds himself the part of the ventriloquist dummy just now as the room fills with cries of Praise God! Perhaps the floor will be amenable to swallowing Alador whole.

Odalia sweeps forward, clearly finding his lackluster performance monotonechrome once again, judging by the telltale pinch in her blue eyes. “Yes! We are looking at a new era of peace this glorious decade, the dawn of a new society in its entirety. Prohibition, this noblest of human experiments, will empower all Americans to live life unencumbered by strong drink.” Alador quietly marvels, not for the first time, that there’s enough breath in his wife to wind a fire. “The sheer societal good my good husband has done in sponsoring this bill–is simply immeasurable. I count myself among the most fortunate of women, to be wed to him.”

A reporter hurriedly flicks through his notes, scribbling furiously as he hesitantly approaches. “Mr. Blight. What do you have to say regarding rising allegations of several young children being horrifically-mangled while on the clock at Blight Industries’ factories?”

And a rupture silently takes hold of the chamber that smolders quick with the timbered timbre of gentlemen’s cigar smoke, extinguishing all merriment in collapsing choreography. A glossgrand clock shudders with every tick in an air now cloyingly thick with rigor mortis. Alador gapes wordlessly from the shell he shrouds in, his mind treading itself into a muddy brown incoherence.

Sixteen-year-old Emira Blight, long, cedar-brown hair elegantly-braided for the occasion, seemingly-innocuous smile brushed with slyness as to be slightly-elfish, pops her head out from the nearby cloakroom. Up until now, she’d been preoccupied with switching all the tophats where they hung neatly on numbered hooks, so the gentlemen would all take home each other’s hats by mistake.

Now, she meets her twin brother’s eyes across the room, his own golden eyes flecked with playful mischief. Edric, practically her mirroid double, who had been entertaining himself by sprinkling hot pepper upon candied violets upon a waiter’s tray, quips a brow in wordless reply before winking.

Scarcely-content to accept the graveyard the room has made of itself, Odalia quickly seeks to undo the blunder in the air, even as her face wrangles with wrath. “My dear sir, rest assured, as God is our witness, no one cares more about children, nay, their welfare, quite so much as Blight Industries!”

“ My mouth! It’s on fire !” Wails an elderly guest as she staggers past as if on bloodied feet, flinging her head into a nearby punchbowl. Gasping, she emerges, drenched and red-faced, sputtering, now coughing up foam as if frothing rabid at the mouth. Edric and Emira had seen fit to season the great crystal tureen with laundry soap mere moments ago. Mrs. Blight merely keeps her eyes level with the reporter’s, as if no such occurrence is taking place. All the while, the twins quietly excuse themselves into coughing fits into handkerchiefs. It sounds suspiciously like sputters of laughter.

“It is entirely unacceptable to say the Blights pay no mind to child welfare when Blight Industries is one of this grand old city’s top employers of children!” She wags her gloved finger for good measure. “Give or take a few missing…digits here and there, we must be mindful of the great leap forward, into our country’s own greatness. Think of the sheer gratitude those children’s families feel, when they have another source of income coming in! A little collateral damage is only to be expected, and is far out-weighed by the institution of the Greater Good.”

“But–” The reporter’s voice mutilates a meandering key.

Odalia gives him no time to recover as she pounces: “And you speak, of the children’s wellbeing? Think only of tonight, let it speak for itself, kind sir. See what my husband has achieved in rallying the moral consciousness of this country, against the septic scourge of drunken debauchery!” She imploringly sweeps a hand toward her guests, before dabbling at dry, hailstone eyes with her lacy handkerchief.

“The destitute will no longer be drunkenly gambling away their families’ money, squandering food money on drink. Prohibition represents a hundred years of moral progress in the blink of an eye. Why worry about the flesh, when nay, the soul has been saved?”

“But–” the reporter frantically bumbles, desperate to regain his footing. “Mr. Blight. What do you have to say to economists’ predictions that Prohibition will only drive countless unfortunate souls out of business? What do you say, to theories that a nationwide alcohol ban will be impossible to enforce?” What do you say, to claims that this ban ultimately only deliver more power in the hands of The Ten–”

“Now,” interrupts Odalia cheerfully, clinking her own mocktail glass for good measure as the chamber fills with derisive boos and jeers. The reporter shrinks back, withering. Alador does not blame him in the very least.

“My husband will be taking no more questions at this time. It ill-behooves us to neglect our guests.” She turns to the rapt partygoers, calling gravity to herself. “I would like to propose a toast, here and now.”

Everyone automatically raises their glass goblets, pinkies extended. Odalia coos, as Alador automatically copies, finding himself without tongue or temper once again.

“For the sake of Prohibition,” she murmurs, languid and cloyingly-sweet, as if the words treacle her tongue. The glimmer in her cold eyes is unmistakable. “And, all the great profit yet to be reaped for us all. And to our dear, youngest daughter.” Furtively, she casts the twins annoyed looks before once again donning her finesse. “Whom I rest assured, is present tonight with us in spirit. Let us drink tonight,” she raises her glass, and all obediently rise in glassy communion. “To our prosperous future. And, to destiny.”

The soft mutter-melts itself upon the tongue all around like spun sugar: “To destiny.”

Countless crystal glasses sing their procession as they clink solemnly together. Alador is only too happy for an excuse not to speak, his mint julep tasting nothing so much as an overturn of dark wine, all the way down.

~o*oOo*o~

When at last the guests have all departed, and the maids are busily at work scouring and sweeping up the remnants of the party, Alador at last loosens the tether of his necktie, profile slumping into an exhale. The twins have long-since been dismissed to their chambers after a rubber co*ckroach of all things was mysteriously found floating in the mayor’s coffee cup.

Groaning in the many rebellions of an exhausted body, Alador gingerly approaches his wife as she silently turns and sweeps up the staircase with her languid sway of pace. Doubtlessly, the servants will have already run a bath and laundered her sheets for her evening retirement.

“Odalia.” His mind quickly transfigures into the slow prayers of running water as Odalia halts, but does not turn around. A magnificent grandfather, imported from London, sternly ticks as if tutting in reprimand. Alador briefly meets his own eyes in its glassy pillar. The clock hands watches them back. “I must confess, I never knew you possessed such a vendetta against drinking.”

A maid bustles past with a tray full of dirtied glasses, clearly keen to be out of sight as soon as possible. Odalia’s hand rests upon the stairwell, fingertips drumming.

“It’s just,” he stammers, wringing his hands in the veil of a shadow not yet his again. “You’ve always enjoyed a White Lady co*cktail brought to you at the tennis courts. A bucket of ice and Chardonnay served on the yacht, a mimosa with brunch...” Above all things, Alador scarcely believed his wife capable of being moved by anything wholly unrelated to the family business. It warms him just a little, to his own surprise. So his wife is not so unfeeling, to be devoid of a cause. The Prohibitionists pleaded that alcohol ruined families; perhaps even Odalia had been moved to act. He could support her. He could.

Odalia slowly turns around and considers him, where she is aloft the spiral stairwell. They now stand alone in a cavernous chamber. “And so we’ll continue to.” She sounds positively bored, her eyes hooded with disdain in a grim upward glance. “Not,” she adds, wagging her finger once more. “That you will breathe a word of that, to anyone.”

Dread feasts on Alador’s ebullience like dusk with day in its jaws. “But,” he bleats, gesturing feebly around the fading bones of the party. Had it ever even happened at all, Odalia publicly dancing upon the grave of American alcohol manufacture? “I don’t understand.”

Oh, Odalia damns him with a mere stoic glance. It folds his whole self double. The ground refuses to rest easy beneath his feet.

“As it so happens, you certainly don’t need to.” She clicks her tongue as Alador’s eyes dart away again. “I’ll do the understanding for us, darling.” A sly note in her rich voice, slippery with a secret. “We,” she positively purrs, eyes glistening hard and cold like her Tiffany glassware. “Are about to be very, very, rich.”

Oh, his headache is a sharp puncture beneath Alador’s ears as he swallows the stillness.“Aren’t we,” he meekly says at last, voice verging on prayer. “Already , very, very rich? Dear?”

The answering silence curdles his veins; its hell in his throat. Briefly, his beautiful wife, the talk of the town, the darling of the press, the hero of Prohibition, might yet be a shadowed figure starring in a Penny Dreadful, flushed with dark euphoria in the center of her own altar. Alador might be thrashing through an entire bottle of moonwash for salvation.

Then, the shape of her waves and beams at him like a schoolgirl. “Oh, would you just look at the time! We’ve got another very long day ahead of us tomorrow–they’re having a magazine photoshoot of our house. Ah, ah, ah–you know we can’t afford to miss it, sweetums. Public Relations really is everything, you realize. You’ve got an interview, and I took it upon myself to write you some smashing cue cards for you to read off of. You’re welcome,my darling. Ta-ta for now!”

And with that, Odalia Blight swiftly takes her leave. Ah-she scarcely found a man so wholly destitute in imagination as her husband, but–he would certainly make do.

~o*oOo*o~

Outside, in the gloomy hinterlands of droning machinery, in the opaque wearying blue of drifting ash,where snow swirls like a long breath of stars in the touch of the wind, large brown eyes gaze out at the night from his streetcorner. Luz-as-Dante squints beneath a fraying lightpost to re-read his last paper of the day. The day's newsprint is popping off upon his fingers. Attempting a wan smile on chapped lips, he supposes he catches himself not red-handed, but gray in the hypodermic bite as he cups hands that tremble with cold as he hurriedly blows into them.

Startling out of reverie at the sound of approaching footsteps, Dante turns at once to fellow paperboy Mattholomule, perhaps known more succinctly to the other paperboys who work for Mr. Piniet as Call-Me-Matt-Or-Die. Matt’s trudging past from the opposite street corner, frayed scarf wound tightly over his mouth and ears. He's doubtlessly making a beeline for the Boiling Isle Newspaper office. “Hiya, Matt!” Dante’s voice now scrapes hoarse from shouting extra, extra, all day long. “Would ya just look at that headline? Whaddaya think it all means?”

“‘Means?’” Scoffs Matt, actually halting in his tracks, ruefully swiping at a runny nose with his sleeve. He looks more than a little reedy even for a fellow pauper, hailhard features slivered with derision beneath his too-small cap as his almond brown eyes narrow suspiciously. “Yer a riot, new kid with the weird name.”

Privately, Dante wonders if anyone unfortunate enough to have the Christian name Mattholomule ought to personally be hurling rocks from the roofs of glass houses, but politely refrains from commenting on the matter.

Warily shivering, Matt sizes up the newest boy on the route, a puny, bony kid with an accent Matt can’t place, despite having lived in New York all his life. Dante so readily and hopefully meets Matthomule’s gaze. Matt sullenly looks away. New kid don’t know nothing from nothing. Matt feels the warning shuddering of a scorched throat.

“Look, pal. Just ‘cause Mistah Piniet assigned ya on the opposite end of my streetcorner don’t mean we have to get all chatty, so pipe down already. Yer actin’ like our boss man don’t give bonuses each week to the best salesman–which isme, by the way. As far as I’m concerned, you and me arerivals.” He stifles a cough as blankets of soot drape the air; the air the feverish and fretful hue of flint.

Dante holds up his hands imploringly, his expression choking back ache. “But I just asked ya why ya thought, is all. Didn’t mean any harm in it.” .

A strong gust of wind sends the remaining papers in Matt’s arms sailing in a fluttering updraft of black and white; cursing, Matthomule scurries after the pieces. Dante hurriedly stoops to help collect the fallen newspapers. In lieu of a thanks, Matt snatches them back from the new kid in a huff. His mortified face pulses like an ember, or more aptly, like a fresh bruise.

“Here’s what I think, not that it matters a wooden nickel to nobody: More big news means we sell more papers more quickly, and that’s all there is to it.” Matt impatiently flicks the day's bold print headline with an itch of impatience. “See? There are people who make history. And then there’s us, who will be history if we don’t get out of this damn wind.”

Shoulders drooping, Dante exhales. “...are ya sure ya don’t want me to walk with ya to the office? It’s awful dark out here, and this area-" His voice plummets, as if a trapdoor has opened up beneath it, as if he fears being overheard. "...I heard from my neighbor it was just claimed by Number Fiv–”

“Dry up! Knock it off! I can take care of myself!” squawks Matthomule indignantly as he whips around, frantically-clutching his newspapers to his sternum. Shaking his head, Dante softly takes off, darting down an alley. Harrumphing, Matt's nose rises in the air. Good riddance. Swallowing a lump in his throat that tastes a little too much like Sorry for his own liking, Matt resumes shuffling to the office. New kid wouldn't be so keen to play buddy-buddy if he only knew what the other paperboys were sayi-

Seconds later, the distant sound of a hailstorm of machine gunfire resounds its hymn.

Matt stops cold in his tracks where no avenue to earthly daylight can yet be found, his eyes dilating, dropping all his unsold newspapers once more. As they take off sailing on the night winds like countless carrion, Matt does not give chase, but surely something else does. Where it waits, so perfectly-patiently it almost approaches indulgence, in the mists now now murmuring in tongues with gunpowder, and a telltale iron stench tanging the wind with texture. With a taste.

Clapping his hands over his nose, face rapidly-siphoning of blood, attempting in vain to collect enough saliva to coat his tongue when the sheer air is calamity, liable to set itself on fire, Matt whirs around where Dante vanished mere seconds ago. Briefly, every wild thing gives itself up to stillness.

“On second thought– new kid, wait up!”

The wick of his body burning with fear, Matt hurtles after Dante, both paperboys soon shadowboxed by looming darkness. Upon a nearby construction warehouse, the sigil of a great fist pierced by a lightning bolt quietly glistens where it has been freshly-painted scarlet. It steams softly, with fading residual warmth in the whimpering gusts.

~o*oOo*o~

After dropping off his day’s earnings at the office and tallying his numbers, Dante emerges from the newspaper office with his week’s pay in hand. So very little. Dismayed, he gazes at the mere scatter of coins playing upon his palms, like a fortuneteller willing his palm lines into different constellations with all his might.

It’s a fraction, a pittance, of what is truly needed for Mami’s medicine, for next month’s rent, and food . Dante sucks in his breath through grit teeth, a wet, whistling sound. Looks like the paperboy grumblings of there being a coalhard knot in Mr. Pinet’s chest substituting a live-in heart are hardly unfounded.

His head bows, eyes straining for the rafters of the horizon. This, here in his hands, is scarcely more than a poor chimneysweep might make. Maybe a factory job wouldn’t be so bad, if not for countless grim oracles of neighbors back home, unfortunate enough to work for manufacturers that valued machinery more than the assembly line of human beings sacrificed to operate them. Even so, Dante might risk it, if only for Camila’s sake. But the looming threat of discovery on the job quickly forces him to dismiss the idea. He closes his eyes, back bumping against the wall. If yearning had a shape, it would surely wear Dante Fortunato's clothes. His Papi's cap.

Stooping to forlornly stroke a passing stray cat's ears as she nudges against his leg, Dante closes his eyes. He could almost curl on the ground with exhaustion, here and now, if that weren't a veritable death sentence. He'd simply have to work harder, and sell more papers. Much harder. That was all there was to it; that was all that could possibly yet be done.

Gazing at the strained honey of artificial light from uptown–now there is nothing to read but the sky–Dante trudges to a nearby abandoned mill to change back into Luz’s clothing. He wills this rattling-with-a-warning motor of body on a bit further, little bit further, bit further along now,stifling his coughing in his elbow in his wake, empty stomach dragging a squeal of scrapes across itself.

~o*oOo*o~

“Wow,” Gus dreamily sighs to himself the following day, snowy specks taking flight on the back of afternoon. He’s briskly walking underneath the faint blush of a peach-colored horizon. Perry had a faculty meeting after school and had told his son to run along home, to get started on preparing the Porter’s meager dinner of rice and soup. Perry had scarcely needed to tell Gus not to dawdle, and to avoid shortcutting through South End, better known asTerritory Four, at all costs. They both knew.

Gus passes by a peeling cinema on the streetcorner, still roped-off by the authorities. The once-fine windows where starry velvet curtains fell like a waterfall of fabric are now broken and blackened, still gaping upon their shattered hinges where the owner and his employees were defenestrated just last week. The curtains appear to have been torn and trampled underfoot; a residual acrid smell of smoke wrinkles Gus’s nose. The chalk outline of a telltale, handheld mirror is still scrawled at the site, pale in the ruin like scar tissue. Sickened, Gus hears the capture and unlatch of his breath as he hastily speed-walks past, keeping his eyes glued on his book at all costs. Nothing to see here. Moving on.

Not for the first time, nor the last, Gus is reading a woebegone copy of Sherlock Holmes, borrowed from the tiny local library. He’s also carrying a lunch tin that was more or less empty even well-before lunchtime that day. Gus is grateful for the distraction of a good story; he misses having Luz walk home with him, to say nothing of the girl herself.

Gus bites the inside of his mouth hard until he tastes rust, bowing his head to the explicit angle of sorry. Last year, Luz had withdrawn from school to take care of her ailing Mami. It was hardly unheard of in their community. Young girls were especially liable to being pulled out of school to support their families. And yet, the sheer unfairness of it all is enough to make you want to curl down in the street until the next streetcar comes along. Gus’s eyes sting. What would poor Mr. Noceda think, God rest his soul, who had been so proud of his child?

Luz was smart, she was, even if she could not sit still with the sheer amount of Luz she simply was. And she was good, she was, better than good, even with the unfortunate incident with the snakes last year. The meanspirited whispers both at school and the tenement have Gus silently simmering inside, rattling with a warning from the wound of entry.

Flicking through yellowing pages, Gus attempts to re-engage himself with the story. It’s considerably more-difficult than usual. Will Luz be away once again once Gus returns home? At her job as a seamstress, an excuse which brims more with horse droppings than the New York streets? Luz hates sewing more than anyone Gus has ever known. She could scarcely bear to sit still with it when Camila had attempted to teach her. Luz was also dead clumsy with a needle, her hands all but hapless pincushions. Who would be desperate enough to hire her for seamstress workwhen there were millions destitute and eager to take up work? Gus wonders dully what stings more; the fact that Luz appears to think Gus that gullible to swallow such an excuse, or the fact that Gus is evidently so lacking as a friend that Luz has lost all confidence in him as a steward of a secret. One clearly Mrs. Noceda was not privy to, either.

Recoiling as shame clots in his blood, headsick, heartsick, Gus turns the page in his book. Time to think of something else, anything else. “Watson loved Mary so much…. I wonder if people will one day obsess over the relationships of fictional characters. I’ll call it relationshipping , or shipping for short!” Suddenly, he makes a face, halting in his tracks . “Aw, who am I even kidding? It’ll never catch on. What poor, unfortunate soul even has time for that?”

Several feet giddily pound a warning mantra against the pavement, making a beeline straight for him. Wild-eyed, Gus whips around, head swiveling this way and that as if he's ambled into a looming mist. He’s soon fresh out of his brand of breath as he hurriedly places his hand over his chest, as if to make sure his heart knows its right place beneath his shirt. Seconds later, Angmar eagerly snatches the book right out of his hands. Gus is affronted. “Hey, give that back already! It’s a library book!”

The fact that Bria, Gavin and Angmar, three of his neighbors and classmates, are not sporting Sigils of the Ten is of little comfort as they start howling like monkeys at him, drunk on that little glee. Gus’s hands jerk into frenzying fists, blood all thrash and roar inside his ears. The day's sudden plummet nearly turns him inside out as Angmar mockingly holds the book aloft. Diving in vain for his book, Gus wants to shake Angmar so his teeth will rattle loose, so he'd lose his bite. Gus sniffs. “You know, ya losers ought to be nicer to me. Because one day, my tax dollars are gonna be paying for all your prison cells!”

“That’s pretty rich, considering you’re about to be payin’ for a new book,” scoffs Gavin, bodily shoving a flinching-Gus backwards into a stagger upon the frozen ground. Soon Gus’s knees are throbbing with scrape.

Angmar grips the base of the ancient book by the spine, clearly pantomiming preparedness to rip it into pieces as Bria breaks into giggles, already thrilling at the done of the deed. Gus’s hands fly up in alarm, pupils shrinking with panic. “No! Please! We can’t afford it! Just stop it!"

"'Just stop it!'" Angmar mocks back in a trill, falsifying-falsetto. Seconds later, a rock the size of a golfball sails directly into Angmar’s eye. With an animalistic bellow, smile breaking underneath its own weight, Angmar drops the book, and to his knees shortly thereafter, felled to the ground like a great tree. Gus simply closes his eyes, already Knowing as he dazedly attempts to reacquaint himself with the prospect of body. He Knows, even with his eyes tightly-shut, a scarcely-muted light, in the shape of her.

Bria wails a splintering wail, hands soon doubled over a now bleeding-liberally nose, dripping dark and fast into the snow as another stone clatters to the ground. Gavin’s eyes quickly dilate with apprehension, expletives detonating like explosives: “Oh, shit, oh f*ck, oh hell– it’s her–”

“¡Déjalo en paz! Leave him alone!”

Sure enough, Luz Noceda leaps down from a towering nearby wall from a brickyard, beneath a wildfire sky erupting with color, with all the fall the sky can possibly language. All thrash and snapdragon, a fire catching its breath, still clad in a headscarf, willing her voice to stomp, she holds her slingshot aloft like a warning. "You've got two seconds to get lost. Starting now."

Gavin crosses his arms. To his credit, he doesn’t immediately flee on the spot, even as his spine turns to string on the spot. “Noceda. Broad, I get that ya dropped out of school, but even you have to see that three versus two ain’t exactly–”

Grimacing beneath writhing clothesline overhead, the rushed two-step melody of Luz’s own two fists come singing full-lunged through the air. Staggered, Gavin stumbles away a sliver of a second before Luz can lead-uppercut him and fracture his right cheekbone. Flailing, Gavin’s leg flies out in ambush, but Luz simply sidesteps, not before catching the attempted kick in her bare arms, fiercely yanking Gavin’s leg with all her might.

Not yet opening his eyes-he certainly doesn't need to-Gus merely sighs, counting down on his fingers. "Four, three, two, one-"

Appearing to suffer a mental seizure, Gavin doesn’t even have a chance to sputter for mercy as Luz sends Gavin pile-driving against the rustred brick wall behind him. He crumples to the ground on near-impact. Snorting with disdain, she dusts off inkstained hands as if she’d just hauled off a sack of trash to the city dump. "I smell something burning. Any chance you lowlives are actually trying to think?" She cracks her knuckles. "Cause if ya are, my advice would be to think twice about messing with us."

“Yeesh. I get it, I get it! Duly noted.” Winded, whimpering, scrambling backwards, Gavin holds his hands aloft as his cohorts stumble gracelessly off. Gavin pauses where Gus still lies winded in the slush, world spinning on a dizzied axis.“Ya know, yer lucky yer scary wife is a bruja, a witch.” From Gavin, it sounds almost the part of being impressed, of landing a compliment. “Hell, she’s more man than you’ll ever be, Porter.”

Gus’s hands fly over his ears. Spitting at Gus’s feet, Gavin wastes no time hurtling off to rejoin his compatriots, snickers echoing in his wake. Luz breathlessly races over to Gus. “Are ya alright?” She scoops up the fallen copy of Sherlock Holmes, hurriedly swiping off the snow. “Not those goons again….did they hurt you?” Slowly, her hand rises up, gently beckoning. A Saint in all accidents. “Let’s get ya up, let's get ya up…”

At a loss, Gus gazes morosely at Luz’s proffered hand. Unlike the thousands of times he’s gratefully accepted it before, Gus waves it off as he sheepishly rises, wobbling. He dusts himself off, accepting the book back, hurriedly snatching back his glance. “.....thanks. Nothing hurt.” Save for his feelings, save for his pride.

Her own face falling, Luz hesitantly lowers her hand. Slowly, she turns for home, and Gus's halting steps click into rhythm with her own on the sidewalk. Luz visibly fumbles now. “....how...how was school, today? I...I had some time..." Before Dante need return for the evening edition of papers. "...so I figured I'd go check in on ya. Glad I did."

Gus gratefully grasps the change of subject like the lifeline it’s meant to be. "We actually had a speaker come to speak on the importance of supporting Prohibition. Our teachers say drinking holds our society back from making any meaningful progress. Luz, call me crazy, but I'm starting to think beer isn't much of a health drink." He gestures emphatically at a nearby torn pharmacy poster touting beer, trodden and soaked upon the ground. "Our teachers say the reason why it's taken Congress to decide on important issues like women's suffrage and segregation is because our country is full of drunks."

Luz scoffs. "That, and Congress is full of stupid rich white intolerantes.” Her fist silently collides with Gus’s in a grim-faced bump of solidarity.

A reluctant chuckle is at last prized out of Gus. “But this could be the start of some real meaningful change in the world! I really think things will get better from here on out! Maybe crime will even fizzle out too.” He thinks of the ruined theater. “And life will be better for everyone.”

Luz purses her lips, opens her mouth, shuts it again as her mouth parses itself cautiously, not wishing to disappoint Gus. "....it’s a nice thought, but…I've been thinking about it. See, the bigots in this country aren't going to be any nicer just because you take away their gin. There's a saying: When you tax alcohol, the drunks don't drink less. Their children just eat less . Americans drink so much it basically has its own slot in the food pyramid. If the stores and bars can’t legally sell alcohol anymore, I wouldn't be surprised if folks still want–”

Gus appears wholly mystified. “A food pyramid? What's that? Has that been invented yet?"

Luz thinks it over. “Maybe a food octagon sounds about right. Mainly because the word ' octagon ’ is the bee’s knees!" She giddily starts counting off on her fingers. “Like paradigm, or paladin, or aqueduct, or gazebo ….”

Gus snorts, all fondness. "Explains your popularity when you still attendedschool..."

Luz is affronted as she playfully ribs him. “Hark who’s talking, Mr. I-Ship-Characters-From-A-Fictional-Series!”

Gus draws himself to his furthest height, which admittedly isn’t much. “And you don’t, Miss-I-Wrote-A-Meet-Cute-For-Robin Hood-and-Maid Marian in fifth-form English? Or that other time in ya wrote that story about Juliet and Rosaline getting sick of Romeo’s shenanigans, before running away from Verona to Manhattan to open a coffee parlor where customers are encouraged to pet and feed cats as they eat?”

Briefly, his voice does something queer, queer in every sense of the word, as if it simply does not know what to do with itself. Then, Gus hurriedly teases: “Cat cafes will never become a thing, Luz. New York can barely handle all the strays it has. No one would pay to sit and eat with them.”

“ It is a million dollar idea, and you know it, ” Luz interjects, blushing furiously beneath her headscarf. “Going back to the subject of prohibition …” Her voice is so raw it opens up like a wound. “Ya do realize countless people at the tenements are gonna lose their jobs thanks to this.” Did Congress really not think, of the countless people who worked in the beverage industry? How are they gonna feed their families now ? Perhaps it was less a distinct dearth of thinking and more of a lack of caring. Luz’s eyes are soon thin-threaded with something nameless. “....they’ll be out on the streets before the end of the week. Droves and droves of people…on the verge of eviction." Her thin frame is struck with feverish exhaustion. "With ain't nowhere left to go–”

“That won’t be you! It’ll never be you and Camilla!” Gus hurriedly flings his arms around her, all composure lost in his mounting desperation. “Papa and I will look after you both!” He buries his face in her shoulder, like a bright shadow reattaching itself. “We’ll manage. We’ll manage. ” It sounds like the croak of a plea it is, and soon, the ache of salt falls thick and fast on his palms. “We always do.” Somehow.

Lungs on the verge of collapse, with a backhand slap of sorrow, Luz silently huddles beside Gus amidst the sulfur iron of the neighboring paper mills. Their cold hands knot together on a lonely streetcorner as she grips him back for dear life. She’s blinking rapidly, as if frantic to prevent her eyes from imploding, swallowing down the shape of a caterwauling keen.

It’s a long moment, before she can strain her chords to speak. “....thanks, old pal.” Shudder-shivering, she gently draws back, forcing a smile. “Let’s get ya safely home.” Before dark. “I’ll see ya off there, on the way to the market. Mami’s..." Her trachea threatens to glue itself shut. "Mami's not had much of an appetite lately. I’m hoping some sopa de platano will lift her spirits….”

“Let me go with you to the market.” Gus begs, tucking his book away in his bag, balling his hands into fists. “I mean, someone’s gotta protect ya, right?”

Luz at last manages a genuine smile as Gus furiously boxes the air most unconvincingly. Had anyone else said such at hing, she would’ve been affronted– I can take care of myself –but Gus is really all sincerity in his warm dark eyes, the ferocity of hope in his voice. Thankfully, Gus is always enough home to come home to, in all ways but one. “Of course.” Her hand slips into the loop of Gus’s arm. “I feel safer already.”

~o*oOo*o~

“Question: Why do ya come all the way out here for food?” Gus puzzles as the two shuffle to the rhythm of cold feet, attempting to keep warm as they await the streetcar at one of Harlem's trolley stops. “We’ve got plenty of markets much closer to Harlem. Do you just like visiting little India that much?”

“....something like that.” Luz gives a one-shouldered shrug, suddenly preoccupied with straightening her headscarf. “....Papi used to let me pick the vendor when we went shopping. He said I was a good judge of character.” Briefly, even her hollowing cheeks tingle.

“Well, he was right.” Gus wishes the same could be said for himself. Luz has always been an open book for Gus, but now this newest chapter has been disowned by language.

The two clamor aboard the rumbling clatter of the arriving streetcar, dropping their pennies into the service tin before grasping dangling handles to steady themselves in the bulk of bodies huddled together. Spears of afternoon light flash through the windows as the trolly takes off, bell dinging in its wake. Gus’s eyes zoom in on Luz’s ink-darkened hands. “So, how’s your seamstress gig treating you?” Holmes would doubtlessly be able to piece together in two seconds Luz’s true new profession. “Never knew it was such a dirty business…”

Luz hurriedly stuffs her hands in her pockets with a weak stutter of laughter. Her telltale face is far better-suited for the likes of charades than poker. “It’s just to be expected, at my workplace!”

Gus folds his arms and gives her the side-eye. “And where again is that,dare I ask?”

Luz immediately slaps Gus on the back with a bit more candor than strictly necessary. ““Oh, well, around!That reminds me: I’ve got a sewing joke for you! An Abuela once complained that her granddaughter didn’t even know what a needle was for. And her granddaughter replied: 'That’s not true, Abuela! Needles are for working the gramophone.'”

While the joke has the desired effect of having Gus bury his face in his hands with a mortified groan as Luz strangles a bark of laughter, he still finds himself with a heart full of question marks. To say nothing of the peculiar pain of carrying on a conversation with someone who appears to have already handed the sky everything in her pockets, and soared away. Leaving Gus marooned alone in the trenches no-man’s-land, where the war continued on with itself, whatever the papers insisted to the contrary.

~o*oOo*o~

Little India, known affectionately to the residents as Curry Hill, is awash with floods of people in the streets, bundled up in a brace of colors against the cold. Gus and Luz disembark from the streetcar, hurrying along to Market Square. It isn’t lost on Luz that neighboring taverns, liquor stores bars and saloons have already been boarded up, eviction notices fluttering feebly where they've been hammered to boarded-up doors. “Still think Prohibition's all for the best?” Luz meaningfully jerks a thumb in their direction of several officers flooded outside an old pub. "Now the coppers are really gonna be everywhere. Not that they weren't already...."

Gus winces in sympathy as the two skittishly retreat from the scene as hurriedly as their feet will allow them. “Boy, I sure am glad the market is at least stable, and we’re not eventually headed in the direction of a toppling financial crisis the likes of which would decimate the entire economy! Hooray!”

Alarmed, Luz’s hand at once finds Gus’s brow. “You’re not sick too, are ya?"

Heat drenching his cheekbones–they’re surrounded by throngs of people now–Gus swipes her hand aside. “Quick fussing, quick fussing!" He performs a double-take seconds later, yelping: "Hey, wait for me!”

Heartened, Luz dashes forward, arms briefly flying out. Someone somewhere strings the loops of a sarangi, playing the resonating chords of a lively Rajasthani folk song. The air is thick and warm with star anise and chai, fire-baked flatbread naan, abrightbite aroma of mango chutney. Seconds later, Luz winces against the rumbling pang that is all but clockwork in her keeling stomach each and every mealtime.

With yet another familiar pang as phantom as it is familiar, Luz dully realizes it’s scarcely lost on her how good it feels to be out-of-doors, away from kneeling in the stifled darkness of a closet-sized sickroom. Briefly, Luz makes the sign of the cross out of thanksgiving that the Ten have at not yet managed to land a foothold in Little India. Luz smiles at the sight of a nearby dark-haired little girl sitting upon her father's shoulders, clutching her yarn doll. The little girl makes her doll wave hello to Luz as the they make for home. Luz waves back, wistful and warm, before scurrying past a stand full of storybooks printed in Hindi, past a display of homemade embroidered saris that flutter like flags, a welcoming overturn of color in the January pale.

The market tables have little piles of produce, jars of preserves, boxes of tea, little wooden tops, strings of garlic bulbs, glistening roasted meats–Luz tries and fails to remember the last time there’d been money for such a thing back home. In the hollowed murder of memory following Papi’s burial, a well-meaning neighbor had brought some cream-and-meat dish that ultimately sparked no taste on Luz’s tongue. Everything had surrendered its taste for a time, even water. Hastening to think of anything else, Luz shades her eyes, scanning carefully this way and that.

While there are plenty of vendors at the outer ring of the market, Luz quickly plunges through the sea of humanity, carefully parsing past stall after stall in search of her favorite clerk. It’s all Gus can do to keep up with her stride, his breath puffing in the air. “What’s got ya so exci–”

Luz comes to an abrupt halt. Gus accidentally crashes into her from behind. Paying no mind, Luz waves furiously, hopping up and down for good measure. “Hello! Hello, Raine!” Briefly the name colors her mouth with something like warmth. “Hello!”

In Luz’s great excitement, she’d forgotten Raine Whispers was infamously easy-to-startle on a good day. Spooked, a nearby young clerk whips around from a nearby stall, as abruptly as a deer spasming in the shrinking distance looming between themselves and headlights. Hurriedly stashing away a parcel underneath their table, Raine's slender dark hands briefly entrench themselves within the folds of a faded apron, wringing the life out of the worn fabric.A fight or flight reflex briefly extinguishes all thought, reeling remnants like the unfurling of a film reel's black tape sputter through Raine's subconsciousness.

And then, after hurriedly adjusting their spectacles, Raine's mint-green eyes zero in on Luz's furiously-waving hand, the familiar signature of her smile from amidst the crowds. Raine's push and pull of breathing eases somewhat, shoulders deflating. A hunted look has vanished as quickly as it might, or might not have come. It’s only her. Raine at last eases into a fond, wearywarm smile, slight crinkle-creases picking at the edges of their eyes from their produce stand. "Ah, Luz. It's b-been some time, my d-dear."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Luz chants at once, once again wholly-mortified of her own excitement, biting the inside of her mouth hard. Way to go, Noceda. Go and have yourself a sandwich. "I wasn't tryin' to scare ya just now, honest-"

"Yeesh. What's his deal? He's jumpier than a rabbit during open season." Gus mutters in an undertone as he furtively rubs a now-sore nose. Sending Gus a reproving look from the corner of her eyes, Luz sweeps forward to greet the clerk at the stall, piles of produce neatly stacked iIn every conceivable configuration upon the table. Gus attempts to get a better look at whatever Raine has just stashed under the table-some matter of case-but Raine furtively nudges the case completely underneath the table, carefully-obscuring the Whatever-it-was completely from view.

Raine's hair has prematurely-whitened over a still-youthful, banyad-warm face, with not even the hint of a stubble upon their cheekbones, despite the clerk being in what Luz knows are late-thirties. Second-generation Indian American, wiry and tall, Raine speaks both flawless English and Hindi, voice occasionally ruptured by a nervous stutter that Luz is too kind to ever comment on. Often practically-radiating tension on the job despite having been a market vendor for years, Raine's mint-leaf eyes are nonetheless soft and twinkly behind their glasses. Or at least they certainly are whenever they swivel and light up in Luz's direction, as they do right now. Luz then and there bubbles into a rare grin not terribly unlike the one five-year-old-Luz had worn when Papi had first let her pick their market vender, and she'd tugged Manny over to a startled-young Raine's stall. This one, she'd said simply, and Manny had rumbled with laughter, hand threading fondly through her hair. Good pick, he'd praised.And so Rainewas, for reasons Luz did not-still does not-entirely understand.

Perhaps it’s simply the gentle tenor of Raine's voice, the refined deliberation of Raine's movements when doing something as mundane as piling fruit upon the ancient scalethat gravitates Luz to Raine's stall over again and again. After all, Raine is so very unlike the burly, rough-and-tumble men who are constantly spitting the dark of their tobacco juice upon the streets. Perhaps it's the fact Raine incidentally possesses a knack for incidental history when tallying Luz's total. Maybe it's the charming necktie with musical notes always omnipresent around Raine's slender throat, even when she'd first met Raine ten years ago. Maybe it's the bewildering novelty of anyone besides Gus and Mami being pleased to see her.

Raine holds up a hand, bringing the wandering ivy of Luz's thoughts to an abrupt halt. "Stop. It's h-hardly your fault. I'm a-always pleased as a-anything, to see my f-favorite c-customer." Briefly, Raine's features are suffused with not-yet faded grief. "You and y-your family have been in my t-thoughts, e-ever since..."

Luz bows her her head as Gus hesitantly squeezes her shoulder. Since. Raine's countenance cloud with sympathy, not pity, and therein lies all the difference to a grateful Luz.

"...thanks, sir." Her automatic address lingers strange on Luz's tongue. She puzzles at it. After all, doesn't everyone at the market address Raine as sir? "I, ah, brought my best friend Gus with me today!"

Preening ever-so-slightly at the prospect of being anyone's best friend, Gus beams and waves from behind Luz, suddenly shy. Raine's gaze dances. "So, this t-the bright f-friend of y-yours you always s-speak so h-highly of!" Luz's shoulders square like a soldier's, already half-expecting Raine to follow up with a swift and sly courting joke that carries more than an underlying note of warning, of judgment.

But Raine instead bustles around the table, as Gus shimmies the snow with the toe of his too-big boot, face fit to bursting with a hot blush at the compliment."H-how nice it is, to meet y-you...let's see, let's s-see...I assume you and ah-" Raine dryly coughs into their elbow in hopes of concealing a blush. "I'll be a-sssuming you and...Miss C-C-Camilla will be wanting your u-usual. Ah." Raine's gaze hurriedly darts away as the two youth look on, puzzled. "....speaking of....s-speaking of...Miss C-C-Camilla." Raine's mouth wrings itself with worry, and then with Something Else. "How...how is....s-she f-f-faring ever since...e-ever since...."

Luz briefly doubles over, as if there is a boulder lodged within her abdomen. “Better, much better, surely much better soon.” It surely smacks of desperation on her part. Raine merely contemplates the crossfire of stresslines around Luz's own eyes, and furtively adds several extra plantains to Luz's basket.

As Gus meanders over to a look at a nearby stall filled with flowers, Luz quickly develops a stutter in her palms as she hands over the change. “Um." Her voice drops as she turns frayed eyes this way and that for any potential eavesdroppers. "U-um." Now her own voice can scarcely stand itself, stuttering into its own, resounding nowhere. A song stolen right out of its casket. There's simply no telling if Raine would be offended or not, if Raine would swiftly and suddenly demand that Luz leave immediately, perhaps flinging Luz's money back at her feet, along with a handful of salt, of holy water. Just the very idea threatens a wrath and weep upon her rapidly-blurring eyes.

Soft with concern, puzzled, Raine co*cks his (?) head, clearly waiting for her to go on. Luz's eyes briefly flick to Raine's neck to look for an Adam's apple, only to remember with a jolt Raine's neck scarf is omnipresent, even in the very fiery heart of August.

"I've...I've always just called you sir. But..." Her sweat-shiny hands are a stranglehold upon her quivering basket handle. "All these years, I never once asked...and I'm so sorry that I never did...what d-do you like," she timidly manages at last, inaudible to anyone not themselves, in a pictorial language that has to be seen as well as properly felt, in order to be made recognizable. "....to b-be called?”

Raine says nothing for a moment that cannibalizes itself softly. At once, Raine's hardening eyes set the dry timber of themselves to a fine blaze, snagged in a history, and a dark history at that, warily sizing Luz up. Luz shrinks beneath Raine's stare, which is now fixated upon the headscarf. Luz squeezes her eyes shut, face crumpling in anguish. A ravaging hole in her chest, approximately ten times the weight of what had once occupied her chest-or perhaps never indeed ever had-threatens to consume her then and there.Whydidshesayanythingwhydidanythingwhydidshesayany-

And at last, Raine replies in a murmur, one that is not easy on the tongue, but scarcely-stuttered either:

“Neither.”

Astounded, Luz's eyes flutter open, enormous with disbelief. Hurriedly-attributing the trickle of moisture in her vision to the dry winter winds as she at hurriedly swipes at her eyes, Luz briefly feels on the verge of crying on all fours as she meets Raine's once-again kind gaze.

“I am neither." And Raine smiles somewhere the light unearths our buried selves as they fill Luz's basket, pushing it over the table to her. "I am j-just me. And what a-about y-you?" Raine crosses And what do you like, to be called?"

A prayer stumbles up the stairs of Dante's throat. Gus seizes Luz's arm seconds later."Luz! We have to get going!" He gestures emphatically to the skyline. "It's getting late! I maybe sort of promised Dad I'd cook dinner for him, which I didn't completely forget about until this moment."

"Keep y-your chin u-up.” Raine soothes, already stopping to greet another approaching customer. “Things will g-get b-better. Another t-time!"

Gus begins towing her back to the bus stop. Dazed, Luz stumbles along, to the gospel of her own stuttering feet. Raine had figured out somehow a way to make the bones wear the body. How?How? But that only merely meant that it was possible.

Chapter 3: Behind the Eight Ball

Chapter Text

~o*oOo*o~

“As little flowers, which the chill of night has bent and huddled, when the white sun strikes, grow straight and open fully on their stems, so did I, too, with my exhausted force.” –Inferno

~o*oOo*o~

January passes over, a pale outlier on its own horizon. February, written in the arithmetic of solemn and stolen language, amicably splits itself open with the stretch of Becoming as the shortest month of the year leaps off the last stretch of the stairwell, plunging straight into March. And for all the innumerable gramophone revolutions of Marches New York City had known hitherto, and the countless ones it invariably will, never again will there ever be a New York March on seismic parr of March 1920.

And yet, the new month certainly did not rip the door off its hinges upon arrival with bravura flourish to announce itself. It crept in with paper delicacy, as if bashfully shuffling in late to church, keeping both its gait and eyes trained down all the while, hat clutched to its chest, keen to remain undetected.

Upon a rust-and-mumble, labyrinthine network of pipes, where sailors sing love ballads to salt over the maritime rot of trash-gorged harbors, where shrieking seabirds hurtle at one another in batter-battles over barges, New York eventually emerges underneath melting, grimy snow the color of drainwater.

It emerges, beneath graying diluted-skies, woodsmoke-streaming chimney tops, lifting obelisks of skyscrapers crawling up themselves, innumerable spires, in spasming fleeting flashes of iridescence and crispcool winds. Like pigeon plumage briefly caught at the precise angle of illumination–or motor oil puddles rendered dazzlingly pearlescent-rainbow in the sporadic sneak of sunlight. The city wears a smile, albeit a smile with several teeth missing.

The few trees sheltered from the city’s marquis of glass and steel manage to keep themselves warm in their own weather. Bare branches weave open hungrily to embrace a brief flirtation of sun, illuminated by diffuse, watery light as emerald moss pimples its way up saplings. Several oaks are now living trellises for latticework of budding-blue skyvine.

New Yorkers largely skate unseeing eyes over it all as they hustle in hordes of damp wool this way and that, in the restless fret and rumble of commuting human engines, producing an indistinct din like summer insects amidst horns, the clicking of bicycle wheels, a cough of hooves upon cobblestone as daylight washes out the last of the moon and stars overhead.

But Luz, still playing the part of Dante after selling a mere fifth of today’s morning edition papers, surrounded by countless graygone trash cans and amber brown broken glass in the lonely alley where he perches upon a splintery old shipping crate, raptly gazes out at the clouds. They’re rendered a billowing pale gold overhead, like the countless dandelions sprouting with all the fierce tenacity of heartache through city sidewalk cracks. Dante’s cloak dangles half-mast off their shoulders, throat still scraped raw from shouting today’s morning headline: Extra, extra. Owl Lady Still At Large After Last Week’s Factory Distillery Heist! At least the hoarseness in his voice has now painted it a soft tenor, though it now hurts to spea–

Dante presses a hand to the infernal gape of his abdomen, gritting his teeth. He doubles over, catching himself against his knees, spots looming in his eyes. His pupils soon warily both dart this way and that to ensure he is, in fact, safely-alone to indulge in licking the open wound of his animal stomach.

The few crusts of moldering bread before dawn had scarcely been enough to line his stomach, which is receding at a rate Dante might perhaps find alarming if it ever occurred to him to be alarmed for himself. As it is, his very light head is filled at max worry capacity, while his hollow dark stomach is now as empty as one of the countless distilleries closed down, and boarded up under Prohibition law.

Swallowing down a whimper before it can break the skin, Dante curls up in a ball in the back alley outside a fishmonger’s, nails briefly clawing at brick wall. It doesn’t stink to high heaven so much as it surely must to deepest hell of rotting fish from enormous dumpsters, scuttling thick-with-vermin. Dante’s deerdark eyes skim their sack full of unsold papers beside them.

There she is again , a willowy spitfire gracing the Boiling Isle’s printing press front cover like a Hollywood starlet, her expression all coy-coquettishness, all burning color in monochrome topography: The Owl Lady. Still silently reeling through his sharp fit of hunger with watering eyes, willing with all his might for Papi to once again be brushing the tangles out his child’s hair, Dante slowly scoops up a newspaper with a shaking hand.

The steely flint in her stare alone might yet set fire to all of the countless newspapers that have skimmed Dante’s hands gray with ink. Briefly, the familiar sight of Clawthorne’s infamous mugshot, wherein she saluted the photographer with a middle finger, strikes up an unwitting smile of weary admiration on Dante’s face. Briefly, the frantic yanking, like a frightened child at their mother’s skirts, in his stomach relocates up to his chest.

Edalyn Clawthorne. She’d only graced headlines for the past several six or seven weeks consecutively now, something Dante knew better than anyone, having suffered the whetstone of the day’s news dashed against his vocal chords as he called out to passerby all day, six days a week.

Dante retrieves a now-tattered book, loved practically to its undoing from the inside of his coat pocket: Robin Hood and Little John. Briefly, he opens it, its binding loosening, and submerges himself within the storybook hush of its worn pages. He plucks out an utterly-scathing editorial, typed in austere newsprint, torn from one of his newspapers just last month. Dante already knows the contents by heart:

“....and so, as we can grimly excise, given Clawthorne’s notorious clot of indifference in terms of respecting our great nation’s decision to summarily banish alcohol consummation and manufacture, I bewail this unworthy spinster as a harbinger of the epidemic, that of the Mass Societal Death of Good American Women, of Obedient Daughters Who Become Wives, Who Become Mothers. Given Clawthorne’s outlandish penchant for pageantry, for amassing shiny things, for being an omen of both the unlawful and the unlucky, for refusing to conform the way a better-natured caged creature like a parrot or canary might eventually seek to please their masters–

I call this woman of misplaced character a veritable Owl Lady, in the exceptionally-dubious respects one might dub Clawthorne a ‘lady’ at all.”

Dante’s fingers dig in to bind quivering-with-laugher ribs as he gently, gently, gently, tucks the article away again, along with his book. Gus was wary of the rising relish of Clawthorne escapades sprouting faster than a forest fire– how is someone like her seriously any better than a member of the Ten, Luz? But with a strange agitation of light, Dante simply cannot rank Clawthorne among the Coven of Ten whom made death their bread, and rendered struggling New Yorkers fluent in the language of screams.

Perhaps it’s attributable to the simple fact that Clawthorne did not target the likes of poor florists and humble produce clerks–oh, no. She much preferred setting her eyes upon obscenely-deep pockets, bursting open upon the straining backs of the poor. Dante anxiously swivels the morning newspaper up for a closer look.

And if Clawthorne was yet another doll of the Ten Annihilations, she certainly kept her gang-affiliation mark well-concealed. Which strikes a high chord in the wrong note of a song within Dante. Members of the Ten are notoriously happy to show-off their affiliating crests,brandished so proudly, like fashionable accessories, or perhaps bared teeth. Dante shivers as he continues carefully scanning Clawthorne’s picture. No sigil.

Clawthorne’s portrait renders a woman whom roars in ethanol, neither young, nor old, white hair tangled like skeins of seaweed, eyes overbright like ringwoodite as she races off from General Motors in her latest caper. A few yellowing Wanted Posters flutter nearby where they’ve been to nearby telephone poles. And Dante knows without looking whom virtually all of them are for.

When fleeing the scene, Clawthorne wore bloomers beneath her aviation coat. In public. As a woman. Dante –or perhaps it is Luz, this time– can scarcely work themselves up to their own belief as a sudden knot swells their throat. It’s scarcely lost on Dante that New Yorkers who stop to buy papers seem considerably more-scandalized by the Owl Lady’s wardrobe than the veritable laundry list of crimes she gleefully accumulates like a Girl Scout’s growing sash of badges. Only instead of earning badges for Baking and Homemaking, the Owl Lady won honorary citations for more misdemeanors than Dante even possesses names for. This, despite the fact that people were already being arrested left and right for unauthorized alcohol possession, or selling without a license–just last night, one of Dante’s tenement neighbors had been dragged off by the police as his weeping family of ten watched on.

Lowering the paper with a sigh, Dante shakes his head in awestruck wonder. With the soaring bounty issued for her capture, it’s a wonder Clawthorne hadn’t yet been arrested. He wearily sends up a wish, with a heart rendered so soft it positively hurts to pray, that Clawthorne’s wings would simply remain unclipped. Heat rises, and so doubtlessly does Edalyn Clawthorne, who somehow carved her truth not in the deepest inseams of her heart, but right on the chapel door. She lived, and made sure everyone knew it, too.

Dante squeezes his eyes shut as the bell tolls the hour. Time to go, and face the music. Specifically that melody of Chopin’s Funeral March. He doesn’t care to imagine Mr. Piniet’s face when Dante returns with most of the papers he left with. The bulging-eyed lizard might even laugh, anticipating some sort of joke at first. Dolefully, Dante imagines himself within the bars of a rapidly-shrinking cage, not too dissimilar from the ribs now-closing around him like a coffin.

Face briefly betraying itself, knees still bent as if perfecting a poor pilgrim’s reverence, Dante tries and fails to rise on shaking feet. Aghast, holding the belt to his own back, Dante growls underneath his breath. Get up. Get up, damn you. Teeth grit, Dante strains with all his might to get up. He must get up. He must.

He had to run to the newspaper office as Mr. Piniet, scarcely a second outside the furnace of his rage, exploded and threatened him once again with the sack. Dante had to become Luz. Luz had to walk Gus safely home from school, preferably- before Gus staggered home on bloodied feet, buttons freshly torn out from his coat. Then, Luz had cook her fish and feed Camila, albeit a lunch she would in all great likelihood not eat once again, never mind how long Luz knelt beside her, and frantically wiped her feverish brow, and held water and spoonfuls of colorless gruel to cracked, bloodless lips. Sufficient–or insufficient–to say, there is no money for a doctor.

Then, Luz would have to again beg the elderly neighbors of the tenement to watch over Mami, so Luz could run to market and once more search for Raine, who had disappeared from their grocery stall weeks ago without a trace almost immediately after Raine had confided in Luz what Raine was. No one knew where Raine had gone. The emptiness from Dante’s stomach ventures up his chest cavity.

Then, Luz would have to again dress up as Dante to sell the evening edition of newspapers. And then, Dante would have to pray they sold just enough papers to keep him out of the blast radius of Piniet’s wrath. Then, he would have to become Luz, and walk home–

Briefly, where no one can see, Dante’s hands fall over their mouth as a whimper splits free.Another layer of his voice falls away, roof shingles stripped by a storm. He paces in his own mind mangle: Help me, Papi. Help me, help me, help me, help me. Please. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do.

Dante’s hands immediately plant themselves over his eyes, all but daring them to spring a leak. No. If he’d fell apart here, succumbed to the endless mantra of day after day, every night after night–why, he’d go to pieces. And there are scarcely few weapons more dangerous than wounds. It would be a one-way steerage, like the Nocedas’ treacherous voyage to America.

Camila’s near-endless sickness, the fever in which the body prays, was only ever becoming worse by the hour. Neighbors were already passing Luz pitying looks. The glutted morgue Dante passed on his way to the Boiling Isles Newspaper Office all but rumbled its reminder, an insatiable stomach, famished for more bodies.

Dante forces himself upright on unsteady feet and aching hamstrings. He might be wading through sepsis, or starstreams. He can do this. He can always do this. Even if just the idea of moving makes Dante want to climb to his straw pallet, and sleep for twenty years like Rip Van Winkle.

Dante scoops up a nearby parcel of mackerel he’d just bought, wrapped in yesterday’s news. Composing his features into a familiar tune, he shuffles along, bracing himself with a hand on the grimy alleyway wall. And if Gus and Camila are increasingly-hurt over his holding his peace–well. Dante Fortunato certainly has no secrets; merely stories he owes no one. A story that would never be understood, regardless of how many times it was laid cold upon an autopsy table, and picked clean like carrion bone.

Trudging along, Dante nearly trips in surprise when something warm nudges itself against his ankles. Looking down, he gentles at once at the familiar sight of a large pair of soft yellow eyes gazing hopefully at him. "Hola again, gatito."

Dante beams as a scattering of other cats, most very thin, several tattered with scars from scraps, come venturing out to greet him in a chorus of miaows. Stomach scraping his reminder, he nonetheless stoops to greet the familiar ringleader: A white Persian of all things. The feline strides forward on unnaturally small paws, her regal gait more befitting of a pet show than the dirty streets of New York. The thin smattering of dirt and grime that dusts her lithe form stands in stark contrast to her silksmooth coat and lavender collar. Her fluffy tail swishes back and forth, eyes fixated on Dante's parcel, nose twitching like a rabbit's.

He melts, wavering as she nudges him, purring. How Mami wished and wished over again that the city would do more to help these poor creatures; she'd left scraps of food and bowls of water outside the tenement before she'd taken ill. "Guys, I have to feed my Mami..." Dante's eyes fall on the telltale bulge of a pregnant cat. He sighs into a smile. "But I guess a little won't hurt..."

Peeling open the newspaper, he rips off a bit of mackerel, scattering the fragments into pieces he hurriedly divides, to keep them from fighting over it. "Good gatitos!" He kneels again to stroke the pretty white cat, curiously inspecting the collar. The ID name is written in spidery script: "... Ghost, I think your name is?" He ruffles the cat behind the ears. "It suits us. Now, you have a collar, so ya probably have a home somewhere. Are you not happy there?" Dante's smile doesn't entirely fade, but the sorrow mists his eyes. "Are you lonely? Are these guys your friends, even if they live on the street?"

Of course, Ghost is not forthwithcoming with a reply as she fondly nuzzles his hand, purring, mouth full of fish. She slinks off just as softly as she'd approached. Wrapping the fish back up, wishing he could give the kitties more, Dante empties his canteen into an old bowl from his shoulder bag. "Now, look out for each other, gatitos. Stay warm out her-"

BANG.

~o*oOo*o~

A trashcan is hurled several paces away, echoing like thunder;Dante leaps about a foot in the air. Spooked, hissing alleycats scatter in all directions, smalls of their backs hitching. Frowning pensively, newspaper-lined boots softly creeping forward, Dante hesitantly goes to investigate the source of the yelling. Certainly it’s scarcely unheard of for New Yorkers to argue. Quite the contrary; regardless of nationality, everyone comes to know the vernacular mother tongue of vulgar obscenities, the ones that are shared with all the generous libation of a newlywed couple cooing sweet nothings.

“–c’mon, ya bimbos. Yer treatin’ me like a gal who’s peddlin’ crack and firearms to kiddies out of an ice cream truck for her side hustle, here,” barks a throaty voice in the echo of an alley. The voice is strung-taut with tension even as it taunts: “Any chance I can interest ya good officers in twenty greenbacks to score yourselves some meth? Or maybe a shot of giggle juice to help ya forget how you’ll strappin’ applecheeked lads’ll never, ever get laid?”

Stony silence stretches on in reply, thick like geothermal pressure and volcanic ashes adrift through cindering air. A giddy shiver stands the hair at the nape of Dante’s neck.Feet toeing tenterhooks, he slowly peers around the fading dusty redbrick of the building, ready to turn and bolt at first flash of a coven sigil. Then, Dante’s eyes zero in upon the thick scatter of bodies blockading the next alley over. A prowlpack of wolves pace, where at last, they’ve cornered a fox. Fire closes off Dante’s lungs as his hands fall over his mouth.

The sky overhead winds, unwinds, with all the blithe languor of a dream. In one breathless breath, Dante’s rendered both exhilarated and terrified, body its own stalker.

Several police force members–Dante speechlessly counts thirteen among their number–ominously stand at attention in dark blue, belted, badged trenchcoats,smart, polished boots. Hurriedly, Dante dives beside several graygone trash cans, though no one seems to have registered his presence. Trembling, Dante kisses Papi’s old rosary for luck.

From amidst the enormity of the police force– thirteen to one is surely a sadism Dante can no longer even make-believe at understanding–there emerges the stride of a hulking ringleader. He wears arm-length gloves, knee-length boots, and his breast is covered in the coldclink glint of a decorated officer. Instead of a cap, he wears a helmet that nearly masks his face in its entirety. His men spring to salutes, parting to make a path. The surname WRATH is stitched upon his lapel. His boots drum the beat of a military march as frightened mice scamper out of his way.

The commanding officer’s eyes are so small and sunken in his face they might in fact be a doll’s button eyes. Only there is certainly nothing playful at all to be found in his features as he marches down the refuse-scattered backstreet, never breaking eye contact with a willowy woman with smoke-colored hair, surrounded by stacks of old stamped dairy crates. The loom of Wrath’s shadow threatens to swallow her own.

But far from looking daunted, Edalyn Clawthorne’s burning, hawklike eyes merely leave skid marks in everything they behold. Even in a backdrop of dumpsters and a wall far too high up to scale, there’s a radiance of her own anarchy, the aesthetics of wildfire. She might perhaps be a dandelion whose stalk would not be cut for a bouquet. Her prematurely-snow crop of hair ghosts over a roguish grin, a confession written in red. There was something stretched around the edges of her, as if she’d lived approximately five times harder than virtually anyone else in her age bracket to still possess a body.

Clad in charcoal bloomers with one patch upon the knee, a silk black shirt with a red vest, a green broach at her throat, a leather side bag, her slash of red lipstick turns into a mockery of a smile.

“My, oh, my.” Edalyn drawls, clicking her tongue. “If makin’ moonshine doesn’t lead ya to bein’ stalked down ye dank olde alley, are ya even makin’ it properly?” Eda flips her hair for good measure. “Looks like my moonshine brings all the girls and the boys to the yard. That's right–it’s better than yours.”

“Enough,” booms Wrath, coming at last to a halt as his men exchange stupefied looks. He’s mere feet away from her now. “As if my men and I would ever be caught violating the sanctity of the law in such a way.”

Yawning, Edalyn folds her arms behind her head. “Yeah, well, your carryin’ a torch for the law didn’t exactly stop ya from makin’ a pass on a wanted criminal, Mistah-I’m-Auditioning-to-be-Inspector-Javert-From- Les Misérables.” Chuckling, Edalyn pops open a side flask from her side bag, taking two generous gulps. “But hey: For some, the remedy’s booze. For other, it’s a generous helpin’ of lies that helps them fall asleep at night. Pick your poison.”

Dante nearly falls over from his hiding space in mounting dread. Wrath’s eyes spark as he briefly convulses, as if worked by wires. “Edalyn Clawthorne.” His voice snaps, like the clankbolt of shackles he produces from his belt. “You stand convicted of an innumerable amount of charges by the State of New York. Looks like Prohibition has only made you more foolhardy than ever before.”

Edalyn’s voice emerges a sharp and biting tangle, tough in the husk as ever: “Yeah, well, looks like your mug is still carved from the face of a cliffside, Warden. Has anyone told ya should really be in the clink for it? They can put a paper bag over yer face for yer mugshot.”

Warden does not betray even a flinch. “Better one’s face then one’s heart.”

“Wordplay turns foul play into fair play. But y’know: I take offense to that." Edalyn scoffs, perhaps at them both. "Ya seem to be implying this card-carrying anarchist has a heart.” She jerks a thumb in her direction as she flings the flask at the Warden’s feet. “As it turns out, neither your God or my apathy are willin’ to accept the charges.”

Wrath curses in the blistering swell of rage as the world pulses at his vision. “This is your last chance to come quietly. She led me to believe you were much wiser than this, you know. To keep kicking the hornet's nest, over and over, even now, running backwards from your own last name –”

“Yeah well, she told me you got you finally sampled some breath mints, but it looks like we're both sorely disappointed on that front.” Edalyn snaps, her smirk at last extinguishing like the last remaining spark of a campfire in a continental drift. Dante wonders whom “she” could possibly be.

Eda snickers as Wrath takes another warning step, shackles held aloft like a threat, or the heft of the executioner’s ax. “Snooku*ms, if ya think I'm a dame to go quietly, I’d say you’re in luck. Because…”

“...because you’ll finally go out on a date with me?” Wrath cries, wringing his hands in sheer delight. Dante shudders, making a face. Edalyn scowls heartily, concentrating a chill in her voice. “Because pal? I have a bridge, in just your color.”

Dante claps a hand over his mouth to suppress a warning cry as Eda draws a long knife from her bag. Eda rasps a choice curse seconds later as a junior officer soon trains a revolver at her throat. “Welp, that's an anaphrodisiac if ever there were one–”

“Firearms down. She’s wanted alive. And your big words won't save you now, darling,” growls Warden Wrath, unclicking the gape of the shackles as he advances. “I’ve added the new charge of breaking and entering–my heart–to your list of crimes! Along with attempting to sell a bridge without a license! This, along with your charges of Arson, Burglary, Counterfeit, Driving-Dangerously, Evading-Taxes, Fraud, Gambling, Hooliganism, Illegal-Firework-Manufacturing, Junkyard-Robbing–”

“Aw, ain't cha gonna sing the rest of the ABCs?” Eda taunts, eyes practically daring him to come closer.

Anguished, Dante squeezes his eyes shut, a wild pendulum swing at the wall of his chest. He’s certainly never tangled with the likes of the cops, whom were terrifying enough a prospect even well- before Dante Fortunato ever saw the light of day. Luz and Gus had learned to avoid both the law of the land and the law of the street well-before they even learned to spell their own names. All thought turns on its side, his wobbling legs briefly atrophying to toothpicks. If he were caught, he’d very soon bleed out namelessness, and no one would look after Gus or Mami. Briefly, he is bodiless, a shadow in reverse.

No–there was never anything he could do. Tattered clothes drooping on his frame, his hands briefly seize Papi’s old cap for purchase. Like the beat of a skipping record, a wound on repeat, his stinging face screws up into the telltale shape of saltache sorrow.

Nothing could ever be done–not for poor Papi, not for Mami, whom was slowly choking to death on her own heart, not for Gus, whose dreams of going to school would almost certainly never come true. Not for Luz, a gutter mouse scorned like all the moldering refuse of the earth. Nothing, it seemed, could ever really be done, not for the suffering countless neighborhoods writhing beneath the collective greed of the Ten and the authorities, where even the hands of time eventually curled into fists, where trauma was only ever a pretty word for exactly how you died, every single day of the year.

Dante swallows the tear-taste of a sob, brow and palm lines trickling tributaries of sweat. Run. He’d have to run, now. And yet he’s still paralyzed amidst the trash cans. Back away now, and flee for home. What else can he do, when the police all but declared themselves deities of this city, and he still doesn’t even know his own name?

And yet.

A calloused hand, tremulously cupping their child’s cheek in the stifled dark of a coming casket. Even in his sickbed, Manuel had a smile, and a promise : Las estrellas te conocerán por tu nombre. The stars will know your name.

Heart leaping up several octaves, Dante’s eyes catch fire upon opening, coppery-fierce and burnbright. A thread of febrile energy singsears through his blood. He is Dante Fortunato, and his cowardice was their worst bet. Before this city was ever yours, it was ours. Is ours. Becoming is just how he'll pray from now on, in huge block letters. Looking at the parcel still tucked beneath his arm, Dante soon brightens with an idea, a preposterous idea, a beautiful idea.

The rest, and unrest of it all, is history. Hurriedly concealing his eyes with the broad rim of Papi’s large purple cap, Dante grasps the biteback-cold metal of the nearby fire escape to meet his fate. ineffable ascent

From the sieves of the alleys, a shadow with the working shape of a silhouette might perhaps gaze on as Dante at once scurries upwards, frantically clamoring up beneath whipping threads of countless clotheslines fluttering like flags, tangled skeins of telephone cables. Clothes drapery on a scarecrow’s bones, Dante nonetheless climbs up, into the color of the horizon, into a bracing wind, cool and fierce and wild and free. And the shadow all the while bears witness–Good morning, you have to be the thing that saves you–as if not only had Dante been wholly expected to show up for his own , he had shown up, precisely on time.

~o*oOo*o~

“Careful, sir! She’s feral!”

Gnashing her teeth, ducking as Wrath’s enormous gloved hands hurtle in for her clavicle–she’ll likely find herself losing her head literally as well as metaphorically soon–Eda dives out of range, softly cursing beneath her breath, mind whirring as she leapfrogs over a cop barreling in to hold her down. Think. Think, damn you.

But all recourse of escape does just that–it escapes her. Well. Eda had played a stupid game, and for once in her life, she’d hit the jackpot, albeit specifically the one of stupid prizes. She hazards a scornful grin at herself as the men roar curses and jeers alike at the Owl Lady, cheering on the Warden as he pounces–Eda’s footwork is like an impromptu jig in her efforts to evade, a wild nymph fleeing a f*ckless suitor.

But the circle of men are only gradually tightening around her like the once open gape of a noose, the closing jaws of a hunting trap. Panting, her brow glistens with perspiration, but she’ll certainly not shed one tear. She tastes the bitterbite of a mirthless snort of laughter on her lips.

All this. For breaking into a boarded-up distillery.

This was really just what she’d earned, for her own inability to s top flirting with her own expiration date. Somehow, knowing she’s mea culpa for her own end isn’t quite the consolation she’s imagined it’d be. With no small amount of distaste, she braces herself to sweet-talk Wrath. Then–a soft fragment of human voice tears itself out by the roots overhead:

“Here, kitt-kitt-kitties! Who wants another treat? Go get it, fellahs!”

Boots skidding upon cracked concrete, Eda watches in stupefied disbelief as an unraveling parcel of rotting newsprint freefalls from the heavens. It spills open all the way down, revealing the rendering reek of oily raw-fish, lifeless eyes glassglazed as it strikes the Warden upside his best helmet. With a spatter of slime, silvery scales are soon-impaled upon the decorative spike at the helmet’s base.

Staggering back, now covered in decaying fish, the Warden howls in revulsion and rage, briefly lumbering back as his men recoil, several seizing handkerchiefs to hold over wrinkling noses. One of their number actually leans over to retch, dry-heaving as a fellow pats his back.

The sight and sound of a near-whole fish is a siren call to countless ravenous felines, who all emerge in a prowling procession of aglow eyes from countless trash bins and over turned crates. The officers cringe back as the alley cats’ famished eyes fall on the prize, right atop Warden Wrath’s helmet . Yowling, screeching, hissing-hunger, they all lunge for their prey, innumerable claws eagerly sinking hold into cloth, all furious, snapping teeth like piranha hellbent to dilacerate.

Wrath bellows, arms flung up in vain as he topples, felled to the ground by so many scrambling little bodies like a writhing Goliath.

Eda blinks, held-aloft knife dipping perhaps a centimeter in her stance. She’s surely no wow-hound born with a slack jaw, but it’s still a marvelous sight to behold, a man praised in the press as a pillar to society, now wildly rolling back and forth in filth as his fellow officers seize up in unmitigated horror. Their hands freeze over their pistols, unable to open fire with their superior in too-close proximity to the thrash of ravenous cats on a feeding frenzy.

Somehow, Eda doubts very much these new, still-dripping-behind-the ears cadets received training in the police academy for how to best deal with a particularly-murderous scourge of deathcats you couldn’t shoot. “Well, whaddaya know: ‘Wrath’ is Yiddish for ‘Schmuck’.”

Wrath shrieks; a calico paw over his mouth: “Get off! Get off, get off, get off, you vermin! Don’t just stand there, you miserable louts! Help me!”

“But sir, those felines have mange!” wails one, looking nauseous.

“I think that one has rabies!” Yelps another, flinging himself into the arms of his compatriot.

Howling with laughter, Eda wipes her eyes, scanning for the weakest line in the battalion to break through and run free . The getaway gal lifts her hand in a parodial salute. “Sorry, toots. The only relationship I do nowadays is long-distance, s’pecifically long-distance running.”

“Be careful, men!” Warden Wrath cries, now sporting several deep cuts on his face and scratches as his finger lifts in a quaking accusation to the closest woman he can find. The story of Eda’s life. “The Owl Lady has an accomplice!”

Thunderstruck–well, no one had certainly run the particulars of that little tidbit to Eda–Eda whips around at the source of a cry now echoing in all sides of the alley like an amphitheater: “Miss Clawthorne! Up here, please!”

In a singular moment that turns its porchlight on for her, a bemused Eda shades her eyes in the path of the uncovered sun. Squinting into a sharp frown, mind appearing to have a rock thrown in its whirring of gears, she gradually makes out the shape of an unfamiliar silhouette from the fire escape of a lightbulb factory overhead.

Amidst countless startled doves taking flight from the mayhem in a white upward rush of wings, a trill high and off-key, there’s a youth, perhaps ten, short-statured, dangerously -thin, as if they’re actively trying to become the overflowing sky behind them. A purple scarf flutters from their shoulders.

The youth is imploringly stretching out their tiny, fingerless-gloved hand from the nearby ricket-rattle upon its hinges of a fire escape, several floors up. Clad in a pauper’s fading overalls and breeches, more patch than work. Most of their sepia-colored face is hidden beneath the rim of a plum cloche cap, walnut curls tucked in. For a split second, Eda’s head briefly bows, quietly gazing at the youth as if from the bullet hole of her own life.

“Here!” Breathlessly, the youth extends their little hand. “Up the escape with me now! Please! Hurry! Ya have to jump!”

For a foolish moment, Eda can only soberly look on with gaze rendered unsober and unsteady with drink. Life has surely whittled her into something too sharp for the touch. And yet, briefly, the absurd sweet earnestness of this little runt fervently attempting to save her is enough to make your molars crumble out of your mouth with sheer sweetness.

Scraping the bottom of the world–the top?–Eda eyes once again the still blocked-off alleyway before her eyes find the telltale bars of a fire escape that end several feet above ground. Just as the men regain their wits and attempt to bumrush in, Eda seizes a nearby trashcan and flings it forward in a crashing crescendo of thunder. The cops startle back on reflex– ya ain’t supposed to shoot me, how damn thoughtful of her–for just a second, but a microsecond would’ve done nicely enough.

Eda dives for a nearby stack of crates that wildly tremor underneath her as she rushes into a carrying leap, adrenaline singing an old song in her veins as she soars. Her hand seizes the youth’s, though impact travels a rattle into her shoulder sockets; doubtlessly she’ll have bruises. The youth staggers slightly upon the wobbling-sway of the thundering clatter of the fire escape, Eda’s pale hand slip-sliding in the coppery-warmth of the youth’s palm. Ankles skidding, the youth hurriedly loops an arm around the ascending stairwell for purchase.

With a grunt, lungs chasing one another for a snap of fresh air, Eda’s able to seize hold of the railing, and drags herself forward on her belly upon the peeling drift of a woebegone awning. Well, she ain’t winning any points for dignity just now, but Eda surely ain’t h̶e̶r̶. Survival was really a style all its own. Eda scrapes her thoughts clean of a thousand incarnations of entwinement and of distance as the youth exhales too, practically deflating with relief.

“No, Owl Lady!” Warden Wrath pleads down below, somewhat stifled as he viciously battles a tabby in a custodial suit for his eyeballs. “You haven’t even accepted my confession!”

“Sir, just please take off the helmet! They just want the fish!” Yelps one of the force members, at his wit’s end.

“Never!” Howls the good commander, thumping himself tremulously over the heart as a delighted tomcat descends upon the fish. “I’d rather die in the streets than be caught out of uniform while on the job! Let this be a lesson to all of you: There's no place in society for you if you can't fit in!”

“I hate every word you’re saying right now !” The youth indignantly calls back, cupping their hands over their mouth for good measure. Eda snorts as she rises to her feet. “There are other hobbies other than bein’ stepped on by a woman, ya know. Go do them. I think we should see other people.”

“Young man!” Wrath snarls, waving his fist. The blowtorch taken to his rage does a service to his name. Dante jumps; it’s really only attributable to his excellent balance he’s able to avoid toppling over the railing. “You have no idea what you’ve just done! You’ll be in a holding cell for the next foreseeable decade, mark my words!”

“Young man!” Despite the gravity of the situation, Dante twinkles into an elated smile, holding both fists aloft in sheer delight. “Oh, boy, oh boy, oh boy! Thanks, Mister Wrath!” Boyish and buoy-ish, he merrily waves to the stupefied prison warden and his dumbfounded men below. “Yay! I’m killin’ Gender today!”

With a phantom pang that damnably signs itself off as concern, Eda’s eyes flick to the soft angle of the youth’s cheekbones, to their tiny, raggedy boots . She hurriedly sidesteps to block the youth from view of the police below. The youth blanches at the stormfront roll-roiling across Eda’s features. “Hey! I came to help ya, ya know! Ya could try for a thanks.”

“And I realize it might be a new-fangled concept for ya, considerin’ ya seriously placed your poker chip on me of all folks right now, but ya can try for some self-preservation here,” Eda snaps. The youth recoils as if stung; Eda mentally curses as she holds up her hands placatingly . Briefly, her mind teleports across time to when six-fingers-old King took it upon himself to create a DYI crash course in tightrope-walking, upon the roof of the antique shop. Eda’s brain ceased walking its own talk. “...sorry.”

The youth sharply whips their head up once more at the word, amber eyes waging a wavering warfare upon their face. Eda looks away, amiss. “Damn kid, you’re lucky these goons don’t exactly have to pass IQ tests before they join the leagues of New York’s best and brightest.” She jerks her head down at the overturn of sheer mayhem down below. “Speakin’ of which…” She crosses her arms, smoke threading suspicion through golden eyes . “...it goes without sayin’ that I wouldn’t follow a soldier of the Ten Annihilations in the f*cking desert to a water.” The only difference made in your demise would simply be the how of it.

“I knew you couldn’t really be one of them,” The youth murmurs softly, dazed like a muse of rhyme. Hope is a small cut in honest machinery. “I don’t know how I did. But I just did.”

Slowly, Dante holds up their calloused hands like a peace offering. Scowling, Clawthorne slowly leans in, with all the stony apprehension of approaching a landmine sleeping underground as Dante slowly turns over twigthin arms: Scars from fights, slender with near-constant work, but no initiation crests.

At last, the deep furrows in Eda’s brow ease the death grip on themselves “...nope, ain’t no coven sigils.” Eda rolls up her own sleeves, holding her own bare arms up for inspection. “And if I were one of them, I probably wouldn’t pick a messenger who might actually be a pile of kittens stacked upon each other’s shoulders in a trenchcoat. Ya positively certain–” Eda pronounces certain as soiten in her heavy Brooklyn accent. “–ya ain’t? Ya made the good Warden a cat tree.” She appreciatively cups an ear to the screams resounding in the alley below. “And ya don’t faint at heights. And here I thought there are no cats in America, And the streets are made with cheeeeeeese–”

“Hey!” Dante squawks, aghast. Eda winks. “Sorry, kiddo. Had to make sure.” Briefly, the clouds close over her expression again. “Again: I’d just as soon take my chances gettin’ buff in jail, tunnelin’ my way out of prison with a teaspoon again, before I’d ever accept a favor from the Ten Elites. Ain’t no free lunches. Ya better there’s interest involved, which you’ll be payin’ off the whole remainder of your short, sad, life. Never forget that.”

Softening, note stroked from the string section of his awe, Dante hurriedly extracts and flips open Robin Hood from his coat pocket, dancing from one foot to the other as if performing an impromptu jig on the spot. He hurriedly looks to and from a faded illustration to a now-thoroughly bemused Eda.

“You’re really Edalyn Claw thorne!” Delighted, Dante seizes Eda’s hands, shaking them vigorously as Eda blanches into a recoil. Fluster-fluttering with sheer joy, Dante simply can’t stop gushing, giddy with excitement. “I’m so excited to really meet ya! Why, Gus’ll never believe me when I tell him!”

Recovering somewhat, Eda preens. “Figures you’d be a fan, kid. Ya go t taste.” Guess Eda hadn’t rolled a pair of snake eyes after all that morning when she’d hit the shut-down distillery, and the police had hit back harder.” “Secondly: Only the press, certain people who will remain nameless, and the queen ma, hellbent on leaving the Victorian Era kicking and screaming, call me Edalyn.” Her hands find her hips. “So it’s Eda to ya.”

“Eda.” Dante feels the name in italics. “Wow. I’ve been following you in all the papers. You really give it your all, in fighting for the people!”

“Ya better believe the people have rights!” Eda booms, eyes striking a match waving her fist as Dante cheers. “Specifically the right to buy me things! Lots of things. Shiny things.” Her hands glance off each other with magpie relish. “An imperative part of my inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of things, rest assured.”

“Yeah!” Dante’s hopeful heart abruptly slips in too eager-fingers as they blanch with a dumbfounded double-take seconds later. A dislocated record needle scratches. “Wait, what?”

Snorting into a wink, Eda claps Dante atop his crown as she strides up the ladder, making for the rooftops. Making a face, fumble-fingered as he grasps Papi’s cap to keep it from soaring into the lifts of the winds, Dante scurries after her, amiss. “But–Eda–”

“Under no circ*mstances are we to allow her to escape!” Cries the Warden, righted at last upon his feet. “After them! Arrest Edalyn Clawthorne, and her accomplice at once!”

“Here’s three little hot tips to my roarin’ success in this dance of chances we call life, kiddo,” Eda grimly advises as Dante makes the mistake of looking down, gripping the metal for dear life. “Step One: Wear a lifejacket to your own baptism. Step Two: Run,” Eda advises, clamoring up. “And Step Three, the most important: Never look back.”

Frantically, Dante hurtles after. A whistle sounding its sharp blasts as the cops make for the stairwell, Wrath surely amidst their number. Rushing to the belching sootsmokes of the tin roof, frantic not to lose his purchase amidst flaking paint, drifts of drywall and steel beams, hickory smoke and boxwood, Dante races after Eda. He summons all his speed, and soon he’s running faster, faster, faster than ever before in his life, into the crash course of the sprawling New York City rooftops.

Wind tearing their breath into puffs, a quarter of all tastebuds jumping off his tongue, Dante glumly supposes this serves as a fine cautionary tale of why you never should meet your heroes if ever there was one.

~o*oOo*o~

Leaping across the scattered terrains of grimy-grit rooftops, Dante’s chest plunges for air as he leaps across the spread of gaps in-between rooftops. His mind plunges like a parachute soaring open as he does everything in his power to remain in step with Eda, whom races off gaps in-between roofs with a brevity both deeply impressive, and a blatant disregard for her own safety deeply-concerning. Gray pigeons chatter at one another from clusters of nest after nest upon the rooftops, singsong nonsense before they become words. Dante’s careful to avoid stepping on the nests, some of which are speckled with eggs.

Briefly, inanely, oversea and over the tundra of his history, Dante faintly remembers a tiny purple house in the furious infinite of Cordillera Central, the highest mountain range of all the Dominican Republic, and indeed, all of the Caribbean. The mountains were high, high, high up, as if the sky simply wished to lift you right into itself. Mami and Papi once explained the sheer altitude alone made one’s heart jump if you weren't accustomed to it.

Eda briefly breaks her own cardinal rule as her sharp eyes swivel to make out the youth’s shape still at the periphery of her vision; the youth flings his arms out as he leaps over a gap, several paces behind, but certainly not out. With the tug of a fierce smile that’s not just a touch- pleased, perhaps belonging to a more-fortunate Daedalus, Eda plunges ahead, furious cries and curses spilling in their wake.

As it so happens, Dante is used to that, too.

Eda and Dante soon clamor down the fire escape of a biscuit factory, the humming air adrift with the smell of salt. Several floury workers, huddled outside upon the rickety-rust of the fire escape, sitting in the collective cloud of a clandestine smoke break in unseasonable warmth, are soon forced to dive squealing out of the way as both Eda and Dante come barreling past. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, everyone!” Dante desperately cries, frantically flailing a hand through the air as if trying to wave aside the smog, ruefully coughing into his fist. “Ya best find a place to hide–the cops are comin’! Yuck!” He swipes watering eyes with his sleeve. “I’mma smell like nicotine for a whole week now!”

“‘The boss makes a dollar, to the everyman’s dime. And so let workers smoke, on company work time.’” Eda quotes with all the solemnity of a mountainside sage before hurriedly plucking out a worker’s cigarette from their mouths. taking an appreciative puff. Before the worker can even protest, she merely plunges the stalk back in the astonished man’s mouth, cigarette now blushing from her ruby lipstick. Dante scoffs, markedly-Unimpressed as he hurriedly shades his eyes to look down; there are no more buildings close enough to jump to. “Ya should write greeting cards.”

“Why, I really should!” Eda trills back, and Dante can’t help but side-eye her just a little. “Ya crazy kids enjoy being hapless cogs in the capitalist machine! By-eeeee!” She draws the last syllable into the mocking lit of a song.

“Down there!” Already holding his hands over his nose–didn’t they just escape the spilled fish?–Dante most-apprehensively squints below a brickway. There’s an open dumpster down below, and he moans, already wishing to take a scouring pad to his wrangling-with-protest skin. What unspeakable things he might consider assenting to, for a hot bubble bath. “....Eda, I’m so, so sorry, but it looks like there’s no choice but to ju–”

“Oh, boy!” Now it’s Eda’s turn to light up like a Christmas tree, with all of the enchanted awe of a child whom has been left unattended at a candy store. “Oh haven of wonders! Don’t have to tell me twice!”

The Good Warden’s bellow cringes the air as several boots come charging after in cold pursuit in the whip of the rising winds. “After them! The poor fool who lets them escape is the same one who’ll answer to her!”

Dante starts wildly as if slapped, shifting hastily to Eda. “Her? Who’s he talking about, Eda?”

But Eda has rounded on Warden Wrath, her delight momentarily pickpocketed, leaving sheer anger. “Go chew on drywall. Incidentally: I’ve got a special telegram you can send her,” Eda scoffs, raising her middle finger at full-mast. “You certainly won't be rising from someone else's ashes, and you’ll never be lifted up, by what you held down!” Whirring upon her heel, she rounds on Dante again. “Whaddaya just standin’ around, for?! Get a move on, kid!”

And with a fantastic shove, Dante finds himself falling backwards into the depths of the open stew-sewage of the dumpster down below. He’s too astonished to even cry out through the bruise of impact, which can only be a good thing, as his mouth would’ve at once been filled with teeming garbage. Squeezing his eyes shut against an increasingly frantic mantra of ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, he kicks to the surface, empty stomach convulsing over contents it simply does not possess, eyes watering as he avoids breathing through his nose at all costs.

Eda, on the other hand, dives in with an elegant backwards flip straight back into a landfill of pure waste, befitting both the form and the finesse of a celebrated gymnast or diver. Her head emerges amidst Dante’s, whom clearly looks stricken-sickened.

“Ooh, these fancy factory dumpsters have good pickin’s. I’ll have to swing by sometime. Want some?” She offers a handful of biscuits a second later, scoffing when Dante grimaces. “Oh, c’mon . You tell me you’ve never sampled some excellent trash biscuits before in your life. The dirt gives it that extra crunch.”

~o*oOo*o~

“Hey, why am I even running?! I didn’t even do anything!” Dante wails as they take to the streets seconds later, Eda stopping to stuff her bag full of more biscuits beforehand. Already more police officers are flooding after in rapidfire pursuit. Dante’s blistered feet might be actively chewed by the soles of his boot s for the sting of them. “These guys–they just won’t quit!”

Eda merely sniffs in reply, not breaking stride even as she accidentally sideswipes a young paperboy on a nearby streetcorner. The paperboy goes tumbling, his countless papers sailing to the ground. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Dante chants as he hastily scrambles desperately after Eda, not looking back. The crowds around are rendered featureless against his adrenaline.

Rubbing his sore head, grimacing and cursing, palms now scraped and bleeding, Mathomule’s scornful-eyes soon widen into blatant disbelief upon spotting Dante Fortunato sprinting off in-step alongside the latest cover artist for the day’s paper. Matt’s forced to dive out of the way of innumerable trampling boots as the police hurl themselves after, darks of their footprints bleeding through the fallen newsprint quivering in the wind.

“Today has been brought to you by the Letter A for ‘Aid’ and ‘Abet, kiddo.’ Considerin’ ya just sandwiched yourself into the capture of a dame the feds are now after, I’d say you’re in a lot of hot water for helpin’ me resist arrest.” Briefly, Eda’s gaze swivels away, cradling herself with crossed arms. “I’d say you’re looking at a charmin’ scenic trip up the river if they get their hands on ya.” Bet yer havin’ buyer’s remorse for bettin’ on me. Can’t say I exactly blame ya.”

But Dante wildly shakes his head, now struggling to breathe, hurriedly-blinking away the fog around his eyes. He’s already running on empty; perhaps he ought to have accepted a trash biscuit. “I don’t like,” His eyes ache, and Eda finds they ache, just to look at. “Hurting people. Ever. Even if they are being bullies.” His sepia-colored hands close in to swing-swaying fists. “And I can’t stand bullies.” He manages a grin. “But no matter what happens: I ain’t sorry for helpin’ ya.” Even if Eda scarcely waxed poetic on heroism herself. “I won't break promises, to the person I still hope to become. Looks like we’re in this together.”

Throat contorting around itself like a balloon animal, Eda finds herself flinging a nearby pretzel cart in order to cover their path in lieu of replying, sending the vendor screaming and cursing in a furious stream of German. “Take my advice: Don’t go to prison, kid.” Eda grouses thickly, barreling on ahead as alarmed people race out of their way. Gritting his teeth in a rising frenzy of frustration, Wrath bodily shoves over a passing cyclist as his compatriot flings over a mailbox, sending letters scattering to the winds; an irate streetcleaner, cursing in Portuguese, trips one of the racing cops upon the rim of his pushbroom. A wizened old Chinese man, resident of New York nearly his life entire, merely continues serenely playing Vivaldi upon his cello where he’s perched on a bench, even as the entire street descends into hell all around him. Eda snorts under her breath as she keeps running. Another day, in the life of paradise.

“...yeah, well, something tells me people like you still ain’t exactly cut out for the big house. Hell, ya probably don’t even spend yer birthdays gettin’ into fistfights in the parking lots of particularly-lousy pancake restaurants.” A streetcar comes clattering to a halt in the streets as a yelping driver seizes the reins to avoid mowing them both down; Eda doubles back to appreciatively stroke the pretty dark mare. “What? Like I’m supposed to not pet the horse?” She demands Dante, whose mouth is ajar.

Unable to argue with that logic, Dante sidles over to pet the horse, whom nudges into their hands. Eda produces a handful of sugar from her pocket, which glints in her open hand like snow. The horse immediately falls over the treat, tongue tickling Eda’s hand. Dante blinks, wondering if anything will ever again take him aback after everything has Gone to Hell today, and shows no sign of deviating from its itinerary. “Uh, dare I ask whydaya have sugar in your pockets?”

“Don’t ask questions you’re not prepared to hear the answers to,” Eda advises semi-soberly as she claps him by the thin shoulder. “Aw, f*ck–” She whips around, and a frightened Dante immediately dives behind her as Warden Wrath comes barreling from the sidewalk across the street like a nightmare. His once-handsome uniform is now patterned trash and all the filth and fury of the earth, skin covered with scratches as cars screech in all directions, careening to avoid him in the civilian mayday. Already Dante’s feet are on fire, having made the mistake of allowing his exhaustion to catch up along the heels of Wrath.

Frantically, Dante thinks of his pocketed slingshot, but just how is that going to be of any help, when Wrath can so easily shoot him on the spot? They wanted Eda alive. Breathing faint in the pounding in-between his eyes, now soaked with perspiration, Dante very, very much doubts he’ll be afforded any similar restraint.

Quipping an eyebrow, busy traffic of her very thoughts nearly causing a traffic accident, Eda’s eyes go flying in all directions, pool balls set motion by a rod prod. The sheer caliber of pure chaos also demanding aim in order to land true. Her eyes alight upon a nearby police van, and her eyes positively gleam with relish seconds later, like a crow’s upon the gleam of something shiny.

“Eda! What are ya doing? That’s a police van!” Dante yells, voice rip-rupturing with panic as Eda wordlessly drags him along to the dark of the vehicle parked on the opposite side of the road. The battery of police officers are closing in.

Seconds later, Eda smashes the driver’s window with her bag, spiderweb fractures quivering before bursting in on themselves. Dante nearly staggers backwards into a telephone pole as Eda crawls straight through the seat, sending a tinkering of glass tumbling as she fumbles for the engine, unfastening her bag.

“Oh, hell, oh, hell, oh, hell.” Right then, Dante swears, a silent bloodoath over the frantic rhythm of his heart: Nobody from home, not even Gus– especially not Gus–could ever, ever know of this. Then, his eyes dilate upon Remembering, pulse-quickening. “Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no! I was s’posed to run home, to cook for Mami….” With just what fish, that could be cooked now? He lifts a short, derisive gasp at Everything, jaw clenched with the effort of Not Crying as his hands weave around his eyes, as if attempting to keep lines from scribbling out of himself. Nightmared by his own mind, he hurriedly climbs into his skull.

He hadn’t thought, he just acted, leapt into the fray–he just hadn’t wanted them to harm Eda, that was all. Now who would walk Gus home? Now who would sell the evening edition? He smolders with shame on the spot. I’m so sorry, Mami. I’m so sorry, Gus. So sorry, so sorry. But Dante Fortunato will be damned if he appears before them as himself, let alone lead the likes of the police to their doorstep.

Inwardly, from amidst frozen white flatlands, he chances upon sunrise-startled raindrops releasing themselves from a branch, mottled gold and sterling, like a bale of raw hay taken to morning light. Breath hitching, singing beneath the skin, Dante finds himself almost thankful, even as the world erupts like a volcano all around him, even as Warden Wrath shrieks: “You’re mine, Owl Woman! Mine!” Not because Dante relishes chaos, or disappointing his family–his tongue would cinder on itself to a coil of ashes before ever he spoke such blasphemy. But for the mere fact that Dante can keep recognizing himself in the puddles upon the New York cobblestone a little longer?

It’s not something to say, but to sing.

His head lifts in benediction to the fanfare of open air. For a brief moment, he can breathe easily, his mind adrift in its own symphony, sunstruck.

Dante’s head swivels around as the cop car’s lights sputter to life, the muffler wheezing and ra ttling wi th the protracted labor of a chain smoker's lung. “Get in,” Eda rasps from behind the driver’s wheel. “Unless you would rather stick around?”

“Come to think of it, I could go for a Sunday drive.” pants Dante as he dives for the passenger seat, door slamming in his wake. He clutches his rosary as if they’re surrounded by vampires–and perhaps they are.

Roaring with triumphant glee, Warden Wrath dives upon the hood just seconds later–Dante cries out as Eda impatiently turns on the windshield wipers, sending Wrath hurtling to the ground as the Model T guns off, leaving Wrath in a crumpled little heap on the ground, stunned. Face betraying no remorse, gazing a venom back at his feebly-twitching form, Eda viciously floors the accelerator. Flattening against the backseat, wondering and worrying if this is precisely what a mental seizure is meant to feel like, Dante clutches his stomach again for dear life.

“Look.” She says at last, keeping her eyes doggedly fixed ahead, hand over the stick shift. “Before ya go around feeling guilty.” Dante bites the inside of his mouth hard–Eda must’ve overheard him fretting over Mami ago. “Is it really right, for anyone to get more of yer time than ya do, kid?” Eda doesn’t look at him. “Just my two cents.”

The world shivers around its edges; for a dangerous second, he might just be about to split the horizon in a downpour, and weep feral over himself. Then, Dante spots the outlying glint of several police cruisers in the rearview mirror. “Eda! We’ve still got company!”

Eda’s boot flattens against the gas pedal. She shakes her head, as though she would physically slough off her thoughts. Her eyes lift, a handful of stars piercing holes in the sky. “We insist, it seems, on living. God only knows why, but we do. We just do.”

~o*oOo*o~

Dante seizes hold of the upholstery for dear life as Eda throttles the accelerator, cackling madly all the while, eyelid betraying the periodic twitch of the truly unhinged. Amidst the burning rubber of the wheels of time, Eda runs death like a stop sign, and keeps relentlessly tearing forward still.

An officer bellows from behind the wheel of their cruiser: “Suspect Clawthorne! Pull over at once! I repeat: Pull over, or we will not hesitate to use force!”

Dante soon has a blood-vacant face as the color drains from his cheekbones, adopting the manic pulse of a hunted heart as he dazedly composes an elegiac hymn for himself. Eda’s grim countenance is soon paler than snow in a cemetery's shade. Streaking off into the street. Eda just manages to avoid a surge of cars nestled along a curb of their shadows.

A pair of unfortunate clerks, bowed beneath the great weight of an armchair they carry from a great truck, are forced to drop the colossal furniture in the middle of the street, and hurtle off for their lives as Eda toots the horn. “I did ya a favor!” Eda hollers back as the cruiser sends the object flying, lying in the road with a colossal bang, a shower of splintered shambles and ruined fabric. “Taipe went outta fashion years ago. Ya woulda never sold this thing, anything!”

Wild-eyes falling to the window, Dante’s heart hitches with wonder at an all-too familiar silhouette across the street. It can’t be. Breathless, he leans out the window, speechless with his own good fortune.

And yet it is, or rather they are. There.

Despite having been missing for weeks, despite their absence starring in more than one of Dante’s nightmares, Raine Whispers is across the street, the beige of a collared belted cloak over bright red leggings. Their back is turned to the approaching vehicles, sunlight glinting off their spectacles. Crown of thinning hair bowed, Raine clandestinely-accepts a curious-looking little parcel, one whose peculiar shape is concealed in brown paper and string.

The stranger whom hands the package to Raine doesn’t stop to chat–in fact, they’re off as quickly as they’d approached, large fedora and enormous sunglasses hiding most distinguishable features as the stranger plunges their hands in their pockets, despite the today’s gentle breezes, and welcoming respite from the chill. The stranger then all but evaporates into the throngs of sidewalk congregants seconds later.

Perplexed, Dante nonetheless shrugs it off. He’d feared Raine might be stricken sick with the same calamity that had devoured Papi from the inside out, the same heartless assailant Dante waged war against for Mami’s life, every single day. Or worse. The Sigils bled over all landmarks.

Dante cups one hand over his mouth, the other flying to his cap. Overjoyed , his voice falls out of him. He’s not even sure if he speaks in English or Spanish: “Oh! It’s Raine! It’s really Raine!” Dante renders the air alive with cries. “Raine! Hello! I’m so glad you’re safe!”

“What’s got ya jumpin’ up and down, squawkin’ up a storm?” Eda grumple-grouses, uneasily turning around before losing control of the wheel entirely, nearly crashing into a nearby fire hydrant as her jaw does slacken like a simpleton’s, pulse stuttering. An atrophying muscle in her chest cavity is a ball of string more and more entangled around this scene with every quickening beat.

Briefly, all screeches and honks of the New York symphony fade in her ears, with all the complicity of a particularly-tone-deaf screech owl. Her eyes glisten as she makes a brake for it, albeit by curb-stomping the brakes. Sinew and symmetry, fire and finesse.

By the time she can think to speak, all she can manage is: “Oh, now. Hello, there.”

Flames are soon rising from underneath Raine's floorboards as they whip around in mounting dread, unconsciously clutching their package to their chest. Raine looks ready to bolt as a police cruiser screeches to a halt mere feet away, rumbling up upon the curb. Dante blanches in his seat seconds later, prime server at a buffet of self-loathing. Again, he hadn’t thought, he just was, he was, with all his might. Someday, somehow, there might be a name for this.

Dante lifts imploring eyes to Raine’s bewildered gaze. Raine’s clearly spooked, clearly afraid for him as their eyes seize with recognition. Dante wearily supposes it’s oxymoronic, meeting someone again, and for the first time.

“I’m so sorry,” Dante croaks in a mortified hush–whom even knew if Raine went by that name outside of the marketplace? Eda seems to have become preoccupied with something, bent over the wheel.

Dante buries his face, now burning with humiliation as he slink-sinks in his seat, cap over his eyes. He could cry at his own thoughtlessness. What a way, to introduce yourself to the only being this side of the planet you knew was anything, anything, like you, when there was such a dearth of anything or anyone to admire in the heartsick of your life. “Please don’t be angry, I’m sorry, I just–” His words trip over themselves in their toppling gracelessness. “You went away, from the market, and–and no one even said why–”

“Ease up, kiddo. They don’t look pissed.” Even if they do bonafide look on the verge of pissing themselves. “And trust me: I know a thing or two about gettin’ on people’s bad sides. Wanna tell me who yer goodlookin’ friend is, kiddo?” Eda takes Dante’s shoulder. Eyes cautiously darting over to Eda–and then twice over, perhaps for good luck–Raine’s eyes become polished to a dark, tremulous sheen.

The tense lines around their mouth soften somewhat with a timbre of animal warmth, with something like recognition. The Owl Lady. Riotous and windswept, this fury of a woman who apologized to no one. Briefly, Raine feels the sweetness of absolution, even where surely none exists.

Raine inwardly quakes as the youth dares tip a hopeful face up burns under a quivering smile, eyes filming. Exhaling with lungs that might collapse with relief–the police must surely still know nothing–Raine slowly, as casually as they might lower a bag of groceries at the market, sets down their package beneath a nearby bench. Their voice dips into a hush. “N-no. P-please, don’t b-be sad. C-certainly n-not on m-m-my account.” Raine will sooner dead a man than dead a name. An astonished smile wears them.

Briefly, the youth dares to look up from between shaking hands; and that was the truth of them–this terrified youth now hid between their fingers, while Raine hid in plain sight. Raine’s brow creases with sorrow; what cannot be said will eventually be wept.

Eager both to rain down gentle assurance as well as distract from the package that sits mere feet away beneath a cracked bench, Raine hesitantly approaches, grateful virtually everyone is fleeing the scene. “I’m n-not angry a-at you, s-sweetheart. As i-if.”

Their features briefly crumple with the sweetbitter ache of something like gratitude. “In t-truth, I-I didn’t think a-anyone would n-notice–”

“Didn’t think– you just up and vanished!” Dante cries, voice riveting with distress and disbelief alike, a spasming rise and fall of rising questions in his chest. “I was worried sick! Gus and I asked everyone why you disappeared! I didn’t even know why! Anything coulda happened! It’s 1920! People die just from being alive!” Particularly if they, to take a page out of Warden Wrath’s book, refused to fit in.

“Ya know, I got to say, I dig the sensitive types,” Eda muses, humming the sound of a wink, playfully twirling a strand of her hair. It appears she’d been freshening up her makeup just a few seconds prior judging by a renewed sheen on her lips. “Ya look like the kind of nerd who has the basic human decency not to explain the ending of every film adapted from a book ever.” Her smile mischievously dimples.

Fluster-fumbling fingers overspreading their mouth, rendered all the hushed disbelief of an abandoned house upon waking up from hundred years slumber to its first inhabitant. Sewn up backwards, Raine holds up a hand. Their comforting smile collapses as apprehension chills them over. “Sweetheart , W-what are y-you two even dd-oing?!” Raine’s voice rises and falls unsteadily around its own syllables. “W-what are you involved i-in? A p-police c-cruiser?!” Camila. Raine’s face is taut with trouble. If she only knew–

“Oh, crumbs.” Dante hides beneath his cap as if determined to stay for the long haul. “Don’t tell Mami! Por favor!”

Eda fumbles in her bag, extracting what appears to be an ancient, weatherborne business card that still has biscuit crumbs on it. She tosses it at Raine, whom catches it by sheer reflex, looking thunderstruck. “If I survive this,” She rumbles in the low of her throat. “Call me. Bye!”

A hot blush skirts up Raine’s cheekbones. “Wait!” They reassemble their voice box as the cruiser tears off seconds later. “P-Please!”

But the police car rumbles off. Stricken, Raine can do little but gape as the Owl Lady sending clouds of dust into a crossroads. Eyes screwing shut–damn, damn, damn you, you coward, you coward–they might’ve seized the car bumper. Something. Anything. Camila. With a bite perhaps geometric in scale, hands tangling their hair, Raine does everything in their power not to think of her, and consequently can think of little else. Her only child, her only family left in the world. Was in danger. Raine briefly spasms over the sort of grief that runs through family trees, until no one ever runs again.

And then her. Raine’s stomach performs a peculiar twist when the outline of her, written in red, composes itself even behind closed eyes. The Owl Lady, the newest bane of the authorities with her selling bootleg alcohol. An enemy of the state. Raine slowly muses in to a frown, pacing back agitation and forth. An enemy of the state, was not entirely unlikely to be an enemy of the–

“You there!” Booms a nearby cop from his car, unrolling his window. Raine comes to a dead halt, and does not, does not, does not, look at the package stowed underneath the bench. “Did you see a cruiser commandeered by two hooligans?”

Spine stiffening, Raine nonetheless beams with their best and brightest smile, co*cking their head to feign misunderstanding. “N-Namaste! Kshama karen, m-main angrejee nahin b-bolata.” Hello, sorry, I don’t speak English.

“Bah,” snorts the officer’s compatriot in the passenger seat. “Forget about that bloke. We’ll just follow the trail of willful and malicious destruction of property!” He nods to several garbage cans rolling on their sides in the streets. His superior guns it in response.

Pleasant smile just this side of quietly-mocking, gaily waving goodbye, cursing under their breath the moment the cruiser has disappeared, Raine most apprehensively takes up the tiny card, adjusting their spectacles. This is their only lead, now.

“What’s this, about an antique shop?” Raine slowly crumples upon the bench, the package sitting on the ground burning an afterimage beneath their eyes, just Edalyn Clawthorne most certainly had. Has. “Argh, I don’t even have a telephone!”

But, they know who does. Raine’s eyes skim the ground and the scuff of their shoes. Arresting the likes of the Owl Lady seems about as sensible and sane as stamping a barcode on the sea; Raine surely doesn’t envy the authorities. Not to say they envy themselves just now, for everything that is coming. Raine’s eyes meet the clouds as they fold themselves over the sun, as if desperate to shield it.

“...I’m going t-to take you back h-home.” Where the stutter unevens them; the surety of resolve smooths itself over, re-tunes the string section of tongue and timbre. “I’m g-going, to k-keep you out o-of all t-this.” Briefly, Raine stoops to retrieve the package, spotting to their surprise, the sight of a small daisy sprouting underneath the bench. Briefly, their hand skims its soft colors like a caress. These things that are anonymous to ourselves, tantamount to our own aliveness.

“It’s the least I can do, for her.”

Thankfully, the package can simply be delivered to its next stop en route to getting access to a working telephone. Raine does not for the life of them wish to consider what they would choose first, the package being delivered on time, or saving a child whom had toddled to. Either way, they would not escape the stinging rebuke of their own censure.

Like Atlas scooping up their boulder, pocketing the card, Raine scoops up their package, continuing on their way. Briefly, Raine gazes at a hand drawn ring of kids playing marbles in the streets, a warbling croon of a windowsill phonograph echoing something like a promise: I’ll be seeing you.

Until then, stay safe, both of you.

~o*oOo*o~

“Ya seriously stopped in the middle of a car chase just to give them your number?!” Dante yelps, utterly aghast as the car zooms on. “Tell me: Do you officially have a sanity deficiency as well as a melatonin one?!”

“Look,” Eda sways her hand dismissively. “Please leave your disparaging commentary on a lady’s driving if ya know what's good for ya. I get that you’re all of five years old–”

Dante is affronted. “I’m fifteen!”

Eda scoffs. “Boggerslosh! Looks like they’re gonna add ‘creating fake IDs to your list of charges, ‘cause that don’t check out, kiddo. Look: Did ya seriously want Tall, Dark, and Handsome to get mixed up in all this by hitchhiking with us?”

Dante lights up. “You think Raine’s –oh, no, oh, no–” A blank desertion of Dante's own mind; movement extinguishes itself out of Eda’s realm of construct in the distance of ringing ears. “A blockade! They’ve made a traffic blockade!”

Sure enough, the road is now tourniqueted off with countless signs to stop the main flow of traffic. Eda seethes, drumming the wheel. “Unluckily for them, my motto’s ram, slam, thank you ma’am–”

“Wait!” Dante grabs the wheel. “I’ve got an idea!” He reaches over the wheel, but Eda only bats his hands away. “C’mon, just gimme the wheel!” In a fluster of frustration, his face heats to near-boiling. “Why won’t you trust me?”

“Ya do realize a birth certificate ain't a f*cking warranty. What can you possibly get out of this? What do you even want?”

“You, to live.” Dante snaps in turn, lifting their eyes to show every syllable they can’t say, heartstrings taut with a prayer. Eda says nothing. “Please. Just let me try, at least.”

Eda still says nothing. Slowly, Dante grasps hold of the wheel. Eda lowering her hands just now is as good a blessing he’s about to get. Rosary upon his collarbones, Dante reluctantly calls upon Saint Jude, patron saint of Lost Causes.

Swerving, Dante circles in a donut squealing of brakes, rumble-rambling across the midian, directly into a factory’s parking lot in its unloading zone. Eda is horrified. “Oh, c’mon. This is the oldest trick in the book. Ya can’t seriously expect this to work–”

Eda freezes. Several police cruisers go racing right past, hurried to clot the vein of traffic. Time refuses to retain its structural integrity; static worries and furies itself in their ears.

~o*oOo*o~

“Welp, I’ll be damned.” Eda whistles at long last. Hooting with victory, a disbelieving smile glancing over her, she adjusts her seat at a comfortable incline, as if preparing to take a long siesta, nap. Seconds later, she props her red heeled-boots upon the dashboard for good measure. “Whaddaya know, Ma was right: Stupid is as stupid does. Can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but bless those filthy hypocritical highbinders.” This here calls for a celebration.”

Rummaging in her pocket, Eda produces a positively-ancient lighter in the shape of an owl, neatly flipping the cap off. “And here I thought we was lookin’ at the business end of a Harlem sunset just now.” Practically purring, she preoccupies herself with attempting to light a cigarette. Eda curses beneath her breath as she tries and fails to produce a light, merely sending sparks dancing in grey-filtered sunlight. “Ah, sh*t. Pist-O-Liter, they call it? More like Piece of sh*te. Amirite, kid?”

It’s a singularly-long moment before poor Dante can respond. His hands are now entangled in the upholstery for purchase like a petrified cat’s claws, knuckles starkly white, spine taut like a tarpaulin, pupils shot. His breathing is ragged, as if his body has become its own corset. Faintly, Dante’s shivering hands fall over the hyperventilating drumbeat of his own heart, all but audible in his ears, refusing to play dead.

“Did it–” His voice finds its edge. “...even occur to you, we were b-both almost blown down, several times just now ?!” He dares an incredulous peek at Eda, who is still attempting to light her cigarette in vain. “I’m…I’m still seein’ the dawn’s early light. here.” The only time Dante’s aortic pump surged so much adrenaline was when Luz had first taken the shears to her hair, and all that Dante prayed to leave behind. “M-my heart feels like it’s about to explode.”

Eda absently swipes a wave, still attempting to kindle her spark into a working flame. Faintly, Dante supposes he would not be in the least bit surprised if Eda Clawthorne possesses more butane in her little finger than the entirety of her lighter. “Yeah, well, I’d call this one of my better landings, ‘cause I didn’t come to brutally-hungover in a remote alley in Tijuana again!” Dante’s quickly rendered speechless once more as he weakly mops his brow with his ratty handkerchief.

“Look: It’s just your heart giving your sternum a whole buncha high fives, ‘cause you’re still alive. Hence, the celebratory hooch.” She plucks her flask from her leather drawstring side bag, raising it in a cheers as Dante swivels to gape at her with as much mounting alarm as if finding himself alone in a car with a maniac. Which, in retrospect, yes, yes he is. He decides against ruminating what that makes him, now that the authorities consider him the Owl Lady’s accomplice.

Eda takes a hearty drag, proffering it to Dante, shrugging when he shakes his head. “Look. We lammed off in time, didn’t we? Ain’t too shabby, for a first-timer. You’re well on yer way to bein’ a real, repeat offender. Great work, kiddo!”

Warm pink swiftly mantles his cheeks as Dante hurriedly looks down, throat closing like a shy student’s upon being called to recite during their first day of school. When was the last time anyone had given him such praise for taking risks, for taking charge ? Like the lullaby he needs the most, he turns it over and over again in his hands like a gold coin. His eyes are pinprick stars–Eda silently muses they’re far too wide and too earnest to belong to a street kid.

Softening into the fine chord of an ache–perhaps no one is ever only at the scene of their crimes–Dante timidly lifts his head. Quietly, he reaches into their cloak pocket to produce a weatherbeaten matchbox. He strikes a match into light, cupping the soft of the nascent quivering warmth with his hand, as if to cradle the glow. Sheepishly lowering her lighter, Eda leans in– she smells sweet and peppery, both like tobacco and ground peppercorn– and lights her cigarette, taking a long drag as an ember pulses like the summer sun. “Thanks. Looks like you’re good luck, kiddo.” This statement, said so matter-of-factly, concedes her an impressed, nodding silence.

A torch of warmth catches in his chest, swelling his throat as he blows out the match like a birthday candle, silently making a wish. Gradually, his hyperactive breathing slows its stride as its quietly taken to the air. Eda takes a long drag on her cigarette, the dark warm smell of cloves filling the cop car.

It’s admittedly something of a novelty, to be regarded as the best thing that ever happened to you–rather than your heartbeat alone being regarded as some unfortunate, pre-existing condition. Dante’s hands briefly fall over his heart from the passenger seat. He’d been afraid, more than a little afraid, of dying in the chase. And something about that is strangely reassuring, more so than perhaps it ought to be. His heart giddily sings back: Yes, yes, you do want to live . He revels in his own aliveness, a prayer for which no words exist.

Eda exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke, watching it dissipate in the air. No more police cars come roaring past, but as if in unspoken agreement, the two remain huddled down in the parking spot. At last, Eda rasps: “What’s your name, kiddo?”

Words echoing in his ears as if underwater, Dante draws up his knees to hug them as he slowly meets Eda’s eyes. He asks himself precisely that same question. He opens his mouth in a mimicry of speech. Closes it again.

He contemplates her warily. An utterly bizarre woman, who laid bare her life on the top of her middle finger, an existence patched together with detritus. His stomach becomes an overture of butterflies. Briefly, he recalls Raine’s kindness at the marketplace. A flung open door, where the light was welcomed in. Perspiration prickles his brow. He can never tell Gus and Mami. He might perhaps, be able to tell Eda. He presses Papi’s cap against his cheek to soothe himself. “...I’m Dante Fortunato.” He says it again, not a song meant to be said under your breath only. “I’m Dante Fortunato.” It feels like it skirts its own truth just a little, because something yet is still missing, but certainty thrums to its own beat. “Like from The Inferno. My family–they call me something different, a–a girl’s name–” Time to fact-check the veracity of Eda’s claim of Dante being especially lucky. “–but–Dante’s what I like right now. I like, when people call me he–and they.” Is he babbling? Is he hysterical? Yes? His heart both leaps and drops.

Eda fixes him in his shock with a toothy smile, betraying neither the slightest strain of surprise, nor alarm, as if Dante had confessed instead his preferred brand of toothpaste. She’d had a pretty good idea during the confrontation in the alleyway just what the kid was, but outing is one of the precious few crimes you couldn’t pin on Edalyn Clawthorne. “Dante, huh? So ya like to read. I do too, although my library card might’ve been revoked for life, give or take a few suspicious stains and crumbs here and there. Which I think is stupid, and I told that Smarty Pants librarian as such! What was I sayin’ again?” Implication corkscrews her stomach as Eda looks at Dante’s face, her own swiftly falling.

Comprehension sobers her where nothing else can, and she plugs her flask, returning it to her side bag as Dante rocks back and forth in his seat, trembling.

Briefly, Eda might be a near-decade younger, only feeling twenty years older, rifling through a dumpster in the back of a bakery for her daily bread. She might be rifling through her blood. The sound of snap-snarling German Shepherds straining at their chains as the owner shouted for the vermin to go, before he got his gun. Eda taking off into the wintry scatter of winds with the first bundle from the trash she could snatch up, only to get a good look at just what she carried in her hands in the solitary light of a flickering yellow streetlamp–

Eda hurriedly takes another, fortifying gulp of Apple Blood after all, because while the burning down her throat is not Better, it is Something Else. And Something Else will do just dandy, when you can't sand off a memory’s fingerprints from your consciousness, despite your memory being so full of holes you’d think some of them had been drilled. Wiping her mouth, she inhales, exhales again.

“....I hate to ask. I hate nothing more when stupid-ass randos decide to get mouthy and start gettin’ real nosy about stupid sh*t, but level with me here.” She’d like to polish the gray mottle of her blade to give the fret of her hands something to do, but this kid already looks like he’s skirting the fine edge of a panic attack, and she decides against it. “...uh….f*ck. Does your Mami…… know about Dante? Are ya safe, at home?”

And Dante’s large brown eyes swell with tears like a foregone conclusion. Frantically, Eda’s hands fly up. Oh, f*ck. Well, this went South faster than a criminal fleeing off to Mexico to avoid the police. If Eda does have a weakness, it’s that she’s far more frightened by the mere prospect of tears than being actively shot at. “Oh, hell, you’re cryin’.” She fumble-flails. “Look. Uh.” She actually looks out the window, as if seriously considering calling to passerby on the street for help. “Kid. Please . f*ck, now ya got me using outlandish words. Do anything but cry. Uh–um–-I’ll pay ya?” She hopefully snatches out her wallet, stuffing several wrinkly bills into Dante’s lap. “There. Good as new!”

But Dante doesn’t respond, which is his response. Eda sucks in gustily through her grit teeth. “Ah, that always works with King…uh, wanna cigarette?” She proffers the one from her mouth, now red with Eda’s lipstick. “Why, kids love cigarettes right?”

Dante curls up in the shape of a comma. Briefly, he might be someone else doubled up over the broken hinges of a broken heart. Slowly, remembering the hand Dante pro-offered in the alley, knowing how the paucity of words are when you are in hell, she slowly pro-offers her own, nails glimmering crimson.

Slowly, his own hands shaking, Dante seizes Eda’s outstretched arm in his own, tears still vaulting themselves off his eyes. Eda says nothing. While he’d like nothing more than to bury his face in someone’s side, he’s now wary of pushing his luck, whatever Eda had claimed.

“N-no.” He manages at last, voice more hoarse than ever. It sounds tired, but also scoured clean. “N-no, I’m not in danger at h-home.”

“.....ya ain’t makin’ a very convincin’ case, kiddo.” Eda might very well be paying a home visit soon to right-hook Dante’s Mami right in the glass of her jaw. “Look.” She proffers her handkerchief, the stitching messy and uneven, covered in patches. Still, Dante accepts it with a murmur of thanks. “I ain’t no white savior here. Hell, I have it on good authority that I’m more like a white antichrist. But–” Take it from someone who Knows. “Ya need to find a safer place to live. I can hook ya up to a safe space with my underground network. There's helluva lot more of us out there like us than you might think.”

Dante is so startled he stops crying. “No, M-Mami doesn’t know about Dante. I don’t–present this version of me, in my neighborhood. I have a paperboy job she and my best friend don’t know about either. But–more like us?” Dante gestures at Eda, voice marveling itself into a hush of sheer wonder. “Underground? Safe? What do you mean?” Briefly, Dante finds his hand alighting over Robin Hood in his cloak again, mind dressing a creamy page with ribbons of black ink, a cartographer’s conduits of Sherwood Forest skirting the the villa of Nottingham.

But Eda, for all her goldfish memory, for once refuses to be distracted: “Would your Mami hurt you if she knew?” Her gaze spears him. Would Eda never, ever let that go?” Dante’s mind is abuzz, ricocheting with too many questions like an overturned beehive as he shakes his head.

“No. I don’t–I–Mami’s good–more than you could ever, ever realize–I just don’t want her to ever know.” The thread in his voice threatens to tear. “Don’t tell anyone, what I’ve told you. Please.”

“Is that why ya look so scared right now?” Eda demands, though her expression instantly warms with something like relief, tension unspooling. “Yeesh. Kid helps me get away for breakin’ the law like the cheap pinata it is, and thinks I’m seriously about to start runnin’ my yap about crap ya can’t help. I know firsthand you can’t help it.”

Buckling with relief, Dante leans his cheek against the warmth of the dashboard, turning over the weatherbeaten beads of a rosary in his fingers over and over again. It’s surely enough to break one’s heart, Eda silently supposes, red fingernails drumming the steering wheel, owls wide-eyed and looking on in the branches of herself. And yet, one surely can't break a heart that already arrived in pieces. Guess no one ever saw the Handle With Care stamps on the shipping crate.

“Look. Kid. Ya can relax.” She mutters at last, more gruffly than she’d meant to, as she stubs her cigarette out upon the ugly upholstery, letting it blacken and smolder. “I ain’t gonna tell nobody. You have my word. Dante?”

Wiping his eyes, trembling, Dante and Eda’s gaze swims in each other’s. Eda muses that the car blooms around Dante in stark shafts of light.

“For what it’s worth….” As is its wont, Eda’s mouth is moving of its own accord. “....ain’t just anybody in this lifetime who can bear to look at all their options, and choose conviction.” Suddenly red-faced, Eda draws her makeup compact out of her bag to touch up her features.

“Yer name is a gift. A gift you can always return, whether or not ya kept the damn receipt.” Eda dully wishes the casual vacancy in her chest could be so easily exchanged. “After all, who wants to keep something that’s itchy and don’t fit right?”

Dante snuffles into a weak sputter of laughter as he eyes run water, blotting again at red eyes. “I never thought of it that way. At first, I told myself it was just so that I could get better pay to provide for Mami. But…” Briefly, blessedly, the future's so bright it all but takes itself to burning before his eyes.

Silently exhaling, Eda shuts her powder compact shut with one hand. Kid struck her as the the type to take a punch much more gracefully than ever they took off a compliment. “Whatever ya reason, ya got some real moxie, kid. And that ain’t no gift that can ever be bought. Or even shoplifted. Trust me: I gotta plenty ‘sperience with the latter. Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah. You get store credit on your name. As well as street cred, for whatever it’s worth from a dame who looks like she runs a meth lab as her side hustle.”

The words alone produce a wild sprig of joy and doubt and fear and unfettered hope, hope, hope as Dante leans in, eyes desperately rooting around for any kind of falsehood. Eda solemnly meets her gaze without a shred of the mocking pseudo-smile she’d held up like a wound before. “You…you spoke of an underground. Can you please, please tell me what that mea–”

Suddenly, Dante huddles over in his seat, head lolling ominously, eyes fluttering shut. Bewildered, Eda reaches over to snap her fingers over and over. “Kid? Kid? Nice joke, but the jig’s up.”

There is no reply.

Creasing into a frown, Eda leans in, carefully listening for breathing. It rattles unsteady. “Oh, damn.” Eda’s eyes dilate with dread. “Ya fainted.” Already kicking herself, she gives Dante a light slap across the jaw. “Hey, wake up!”

Drooping, Dante still does not reply. Baffled, drawing her hands down a rapidly-draining face, Eda frantically grasps Dante by the shoulders, now shaking him. “What the hell just happened to you?! Wake up! I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but this ain’t no place to take a cat nap! It’s a damn police cruiser!”

Vibrating with panic–why the hell should this not happen, life has already picked her pockets clean–Eda attempts in vain once more to revive Dante, whose shrunken form again remains resolutely comatose. Their features are crumpled with exhaustion. Stricken, bracing herself for the worse, Eda hovers an ear over Dante’s heart. Still beating, albeit faintly. Briefly, her eyes own skim shut. Hesitantly, a pale hand drapes itself over Dante’s brow. Not feverish, but clammy.

“Yeesh,” she manages at last, falling back. Her voice emerges unusually small, and yet it’s overloud in her own ears. “Well, that ain’t good. Oh, hell.” Swearing once more, she slams her fist against the steering wheel. “Whaddaya do, whaddaya do, whaddaya do?” She swivels her head in Dante’s direction, as if expecting him to be forthright with a response. “I ain’t got a clue where home is for you…and I sure as hell can’t stay here forever.” Furtively, she checks her watch. Already the sun is dipping towards the West. Soon, the streetlamps will be aglow in anticipation of Dusk. Dusk means Nightfall, and the onset of everything beneath the streets of New York City.

Needing air, she swings her door open, hesitating on the threshold. Then, she marches out to lean against the back of the police cruiser, like an outlaw of her own truth. Hiding beneath the hoods of her eyes, in no mood to scour the diary of her own wounds–Eda loves nothing in permanent ink–ruefully, Eda takes a sip of hooch from her flask. The sip burns slick on her lips as she waters a wound. f*ck, that could’ve gone better with Dante. Eda was so pisspoor at helping she actively made the kid faint. Some people in this lifetime ought to try harder; Eda ought to try softer.

Seconds later, her pupils shrink as she whirs around, intuition lathering the back of her spine with an icy warning several seconds before it hits her like a freezing belt of water.

“Well, now,” drawls a familiar voice from the darkness of two steel pillars. It might almost be called musical, if music ever took it upon itself to sell its song, that was. “Can we by any chance assist you, Madam Owl Lady?”

~o*oOo*o~

Growling, Eda’s brow braids itself with disgust, the churning wind sending the chug of factory plumes swirling itself into mist. Gooseflesh levels her skin. Her hand moseys ever-so-casually to her belt. Drawing her weapon outright could be considered a violation of their understanding, but let it never be said Edalyn doesn’t know how to register a warning.

The air is sliced in half, and muttering thick with the charge of static. Eda’s hair might perhaps be standing on end. Underneath a now-colorless sky, rendered a shadow cast in umber and blue, Eda avoids staggering back at the prospect of the young woman now leering at her merely several paces away. Eda’s skin scathes as her bared teeth grit. From behind her high collar, and atop her high proverbial horse, Kikimora doesn’t grin so much as she dislocates her jaw in greeting. It might be a trick of the light, but her teeth might’ve been filed to quill points. She pulses like a coal with sheer smugness, which Eda dully figures just gives when you’re flanked by two hulking masses of muscle in fedoras whom tower over her. Eda mentally registers them as Thugly #1 and Thugly #2.

Kikimora leers–there is simply no other word for it, her eyes feverish. As always, her glossy dark brown hair is tied in an immaculate bun. She’s clad in an ivory tunic embroidered pangloss gold thread at its edges. A crest emblazoned seal, so proudly shown off like a ruby necklace or a particularly-ornate engagement ring, bears the mark of a crest Eda’s eyes recoil from. And Kikimora’s fond of calling Eda perverse.

You could be forgiven, almost, for assuming at first blush that Kikimora, whom is even more petite in stature than Dante, was younger and less capable than she really was. It wasn’t, however, a mistake you were liable to make a second time, considering the first time was usually just the last.

Eda snorts just the same; it’ll grate Kikimora all the better. “Kikimora. I thought I was northwind of a garbage barge, but turns out: It’s just yer smilin’ face. Dare I ask what brings your smiling face to this humble stewardess of a temple of Mammon today?”

Kikimora’s narrowing eyes are hard, like the dots of a dice. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, Owl Woman?”

Eda pretends to think it over. “Hmm, nope, I can’t say I have for the last decade! But I sure do kiss your ma with this here mouth!” Emboldened by her own brashness, she makes kissy noises for good measure, puckering her lips. “She sure didn’t mind, ‘specially I since used tongue.” She winks for good measure, flashing out a pair of finger guns. A little sly mirth coyly swing dances into her tone: “Could you tell your ma I’ll never forget that enchanting first meeting at the deli where she apparently found Jesus, considerin’ how much she shouted his name during?”

The armed muscle guards remain as still as gargoyles as Kikimora’s expression hardens with telltale revulsion. There’s a stagnant cesspool beneath her slivering gaze as a snickering Eda silently congratulates herself. Kikimora tucks twitching hands behind her back, as if to keep themselves from launching out, wringing the life out of Eda’s neck at all costs.

“...you people make me sick.” Kikimora’s gaze falls to a glittery crucifix pinned neatly at her throat, as if in hopes of warding off a vampire. “You’re awfully flippant, considering it’s really only a matter of time before you’re at the bottom of the New York harbor, or bearing a sigil like the rest of us.”

Eda mimes ruffling imaginary petticoats on her pardon. “Well, f*ck me sideways and call me Jim. By the way: Be hello and say hello to your Daddy too–I know what he likes. But ya apparently got no problem with ringin’ up ‘people like me–’” She playfully wheedles and baits, quipping air quotes with a voice scored with sarcasm. “–over and over again, when I believe the fifty-second no ought to have dropped a hint. Back to the arguably-invigorating subject of mouths, how very kind of you to take a break from your busy schedule of licking the Ten’s boots–”

“What–” Kikimora’s voice escapes in a deadly hiss. “–exactly do you do here, Owl Woman?” Her voice drips with contempt, positively-oiled with it. Icy cloud light drills her eyes.

Most unwittingly, Eda’s eyes flicker back to the police cruiser, where Dante still lies unconscious in the front seat. “Um,” she flounders. “Just–disposing of a corpse. Yeah. Because that’s totally a thing I do on the regular. Yessirree bob.” She pulls out her handkerchief and waves it farewell. “You can go away now. Better yet, go away five minutes ago. Shoo. Scram. Get lost.”

“Not without filling out the prerequisite paperwork, you’re not,” Kikimora retorts, wagging her finger. Eda scoffs. “Ugh, New York bureaucracy. Who are ya, my sister?”

Kikimora’s eyes swivel to the police car. Nape of her neck prickling once more with unease, Eda yawns as she casually sidesteps to block the car from view, like she only just so happened to do it. “In case you haven’t noticed,” Kikimora retorts sweetly, her mouth quirking into a smirk. “There’s a toll to be paid, in flesh, for unauthorized criminal usage of Territory Six.”

Eda’s eyes roll backwards into her head as Kikimora steps aside as well, revealing a glistening emerald sigil–a pair of Venus Fly Trap jaws– painted on the alley behind her. Damn it. Damn, damn, damn it all. Eda silently thanks her lucky stars that the true Overlady of this region hasn’t come to personally pay her respects. Eda’s skin capers over again with gooseflesh. “You sure are keen to be Snapdragon’s little lapdog. Well, different strokes for different folks, I guess….”

Kikimora strains at her leash, all snarls and snapping teeth: “I’m nobody’s lapdog, you degenerate scum!”

“Degenerate,” Eda replies softly as her eyes, threaded with smoke, briefly lift up to meet the telltale outline of Six’s infamous factory. True to form: Eda’s Deep Six in more ways than one if she takes the scenic route home. “Fair enough: Ya ain’t no dog.” After all, Eda as a rule, likes dogs.

“Now, unless of course, I can always help with your little problem. Granted, you’ll have to pay a different kind of toll–”

At her wits’ end, Eda’s hand flings up. “Look. I get the density of your head is thicker than a diamond, so I’m gonna say it one more time: Owl House operates in free territory. I don’t owe no allegiance to nobody. I kiss the ring, for nobody. And I ain’t actually burying a body here. Just taking an acquaintance home. That’s all. None of your beeswax.”

“Oh, are we now?” Saunters Kikimora, creaking a sound of disbelief. Now it’s her turn to titter as Eda silently fumes.

Kikimora hums languidly as she comes closer, the soft footfalls of her boots echoing. Hackles rising, Eda scowls heartily as she moves to block Kikimora again. Kikimora’s eyes nonetheless flick to Dante slumped over in the front seat. “Why, who’s your friend here? You know: I can’t tell you how surprised I am that you of all people made a friend.”

“Acquaintance,” Eda corrects, dusting off her best poker face. “I distinctly remember sayin’ acquaintance–”

“Don’t you know any little friend of yours, is a friend of ours? Are you sure you don’t want to drop your acquaintance off at Lady Terra’s property?” Kiki makes a show of batting her eyelashes, and Eda makes a show of reaching for her dagger.

“Take it from a professional button-pusher. You are really pushing it sister–”

Kikimora hums, rocking back and forth. “Your acquaintance might like a nice little sigil, even if you’re not so keen on belonging. Lady Terra loves new toys. She does have this unfortunate, wee little tendency of breaking them. I hope there’s no trouble….?”

For a second, Eda is still a word in a book as her eyes pulse. A well opens in her chest. It might very well be bottomless, threatening to consume them both on the spot. How very much she’d love to hurl a screaming Kikimora straight into its dark depths, have her wake up to being attached to a rotating windmill for the roiling rest of eternity.

Kiki’s goons silently train their revolvers at her as Eda pushes unseeing past, seizing Kikimora by the scruff of her neck, eyes sick with dread, burning. Briefly, Kikimora’s eyes betray a stir of fear, but she quickly flings a curtain over it. “Go ahead.” She taunts. “Do it. I actually hope you do, you filthy, misbegotten thing. Bring that tacky little shed of yours ablaze.”

“That’s enough.” Eda shakes her, hard. Too many feelings to possibly stay inside her lines. “That–Is f*cking enough. Hate to break it to ya toots, but this ain’t your territory. And ya know what?” Eda drags in Kikimora, yanking her aloft at eye level. Both sets of burning eyes attempt to burn the other down. “It ain’t even Snapdragon’s. He, that f*cking time capsule who never put a heart in itself, ain’t the kid who shares. Take it from a fellow hoarder: A hoarder hoards, and hoards, and hoards, till they ain't nothing left to take.”

Bodily, Eda shoves Kikimora backwards, snorting when the goons train their guns warningly at Eda’s face. “Look: Ya can see she ain’t hurt. I instigated nothing, and the treaty stands.” She turns away to storm off, whipping around once again. “But I sure will end it, if ya don’t take a hint and–”

But Kikimora is already gone, as are the scouts who’d accompanied her. Heart squeezing like the pleats of an accordion, Eda hurries back to the police cruiser, biting her lip. Dante is still unconscious in the passenger’s seat, murmuring inanely in his sleep. He looks so damn young, so heartbreakingly small and vulnerable that Eda’s throat sears with the ache of it. “Damn it.”

Eda clamors into the front seat. “I can’t take him to no hospital! Dressed up like this…...they’d put ya in a loony bin.” And leaving him out here was the equivalent of leaving a lamb wandering near a slaughterhouse. Something, perhaps with wings, goes crazy against her chest, soft and dark with spots, like mishandled fruit.

“Okay, okay, okay, calm down.” Eda rocks back and forth. “I just need some of my thinking juice.” Eda takes another swig from her flask of drinking juice, sloshing its dark contents as she again forgets the stalemate between her and God. “Now what would Jesus do?”

“Hey. You should totally take that poor kid out of here.” Solemnly advises what-appears to be a horned deity in a bathrobe and fluffy pajamas, passing with a shopping cart. Eda looks down at her flask, now concerned.

“...oh, crap. Maybe I should reconsider the whole alcoholic percentage of my Apple Blood. Let me drink it over.” Eda hazards another taste. “Appeal considered: Appeal rejected. Welp.”

She turns to Dante. “Luckily or not for you, I’m too spiteful to let those f*cking pigeons, or those damn vultures, near you. Now, I’mma just gonna get ya some food once you’re good and rested and conscious and sh*t. Then, we’re square, and more importantly, outta each other’s hair. Ya got it? ….I’ll take that as a yes. I’m glad we had this talk.”

She scoops him up, carrying Dante to the backseat of the cruiser to lie him down. “Speakin’ of food, Christ Jesus, when was the last time ya even ate, September?!” Eda squawks into a yelp, thoroughly aghast as she inspects Dante more closely. “Now I didn’t make straight As in school–I made queer As–but in my humble opinion, ya weigh approximately a handful of autumn wind. Dante, he calls himself. Welp, I’m starting to think Skeletor would’ve been just swell, since yer clearly all bones, anyway. I’ve got a word for your Mami for her not feedin’ ya, and it ain’t one fit for polite company.”

Rubbing her face with frustration, Eda shrugs off her jacket and places it around Dante. “It’s fine,” Eda mutters to herself as Dante’s cap falls aside, revealing some wavy strands. “A journey makes itself necessary sometimes. That’s all. Gil owes me a solid. He won’t tell nobody nobody else’s business.” Eda scoops up Dante’s cap, distressed at the sight of several strands of hair clinging to it. Her hands tremble as if chilled.

“Yeesh.” Is all she can think to say. “You’re actually starving, or stressed the f*ck out. Or both. But you’re an actual baby. Hell, you’re barely even older than…”

Eda almost darkly chuckles, but it doesn’t stick the landing in her throat. What a f*cked-up world, when the best-case scenario for this kid’s survival was in the backseat of the Owl Lady .

Flooring the accelerator, muffler sputtering along like a smoker's lung, the cruiser zooms off for Chinatown. Kikimora’s eyes watch furtively on from the ravenous darkness of the alley, one that gives back nothing of itself.

~o*oOo*o~

Chapter 4: The Juice Joint

Chapter Text

~o*oOo*o~

“Soon you will be where your own eyes will see the source, and cause and give you their own answer to the mystery.”

― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

~o*oOo*o~

Worn boots furiously pound the empty asphalt streets of New York City, echoing off the dark, lifeless walls of silhouetted structures that might once have been familiar. Dante―or, was it Luz?―pushes through the aching in their ribcage in their mad dash for their life past the blurring, melting scenery.

One corner after another, one street after the next, skyscrapers, storefronts, and alleyways loose their shape, warping instead into asynchronous masses of colorless concrete and steel. The city changes form as they run, into an endless labyrinth―an abominable amalgamation of mankind's making. Where had once stood hundreds of millions of tons of infrastructure, now there loom walls of misshapen and assorted debris which cast down from on high an all-encompassing glare of judgement and shame. Sharpened protrusions of rebar and glass grasp outwards like the digits of a claw, reaching for the runner as they pass.

A sharp tug on their arm pulls them forward, manifesting the figure running alongside them into their awareness.

Raine Whispers's coat flutters behind them in a panic, sporting a litany of rips, tears, and even the odd singe mark. The rest of their clothing fares much the same, dotted with flashes of tan and spots of crimson.

Raine turns to meet the eyes of their companion, a message of sorrow and regret clearly legible through a mask of blood and bruises. Their eyes glisten and voice sags with concern, pity, guilt. "Y-you n-never should have g-g-gotten i-involved in this, sweetheart."

“What?” The shaken teen stammers, fighting through the gray fog clouding their mind. “Raine, what's going on? Why are we-?”

The question hadn't the time to leave their tongue before it was cut off by an earth-shaking roar, the force of it nearly knocking the runners off-balance.The younger of the two shot a quick glance behind, and their face went pale.

A horde of indistinct figures trails the pair, eyes dark with hatred as they race through the thick, smokey fog blanketing the desaturated terrain. Among their numbers is a snarling Mr. Piniet, a glowering Mathomule, and at the head of the pack, a monstrous Warden Wrath.

The Warden roars once again as he violently tears the helmet from his head, in the process snapping it in two. Underneath, a massive maw full of dagger-like teeth is carved into a wrinkled gray face that, true to Eda’s word, looked to have been carved from stone. From the back of his throat, a jet of searing flame roars to life, washing over the street in a burning wave.

His targets can nearly feel the fine hairs on their bodies singed by the inferno, before the older of the two takes immediate action, diving into a nearby alleyway with companion in tow.

The sky, too, began to brighten, as black fog gave way to uncovered sunlight that warmed the outlaws’ skin.

Still hearing the mob behind them, the pair continue to run, stopping only when both stumble right onto the edge of a cliff face.

They avoid the fall, but only by a hair’s breadth, pebbles at the very edge breaking off beneath their feet and tumbling down into a pit of dark nothingness.

The horde is closing in when they turn around, but the teen’s heart sinks when they see it is headed this time by a new pair of faces. Gus Porter and Camila Noceda glare into their soul, eyes wet with tears of disgust and betrayal.

They are paralyzed for a moment, the feelings of unadulterated hate from people they so cared for overwhelming them, before Eda grabs their shoulders, staring straight into their eyes with a grave look.

"Kid." She states solemnly. "Whatever happens, remember: You've gotta choose yourself."

She pushes them off the cliff.

~o*oOo*o~

A pair of near-identical voices grunt in pain as they hit solid ground. Four eyes open to gaze upon the pitch-black absence of a sky. Two bodies rise from the mirror-like obsidian floor, and their gazes meet.

Luz Noceda and Dante Fortunato lock eyes. A moment of silence passes, before Luz’s expression hardens.

“Have you lost your marbles?!” She demands, her voice like broken shards of glass. “You blabbed to Raine and Eda about us! You ran from the police! Yer gonna put a warrant on our head!”

“I had to help Eda!” Dante counters, a fire burning in his throat. “And make sure Raine was okay! Would you ‘ave done any different?”

Luz opens her mouth to speak, before closing it again. She sighs, burying her head in her hands and groaning. “Mami and Gus‘ll be so worried…”

Dante averts his gaze. “I-it’ll be fine.” He reassures, words tasting like ash on his tongue. “We got out, and we saved Eda. And even if they start lookin’, it’ll only be for Dante, not for Luz.”

“Then where’ll the money come from? For Mami?”

At this, Dante has no response.

“Just… don’t get us killed. Please?” Her voice cracks at the desperate plea.

No further words are exchanged, but none are needed. They know each other—themselves—well enough that Dante’s reply need not be spoken aloud:

“I don’t intend to.”

~o*oOo*o~

Heart straining against their ribs, Luz jerks awake, thrashing with darkness-closed eyes. Unfamiliar shadow patterns loom themselves over her lashes, as phosphenes dance their electrical conduit underneath her eyelids. A trill rises from the back of her throat when she accidentally bumps her head against a cave-low ceiling. Flailing, crown of her head throbbing, she wonders wildly if the lime mortar of the tenement walls have at last crumbled in during a fire or earthquake, walls moving inward to hungrily close around their starving occupants in a mass pauper's grave. Luz fumbles blindly around for warmth. “Mom, where are you? Dad? Dad ?¿Mamá, dónde estás? ¿Papi? Papi ?”

“Whoa, kid,” A granitegruff, almost-unfamiliar voice rasps when Luz’s trembling hands at last light upon the fabric of something soft and woolen, at once clutching for purchase. “ Take it easy. Yer havin’ a nightmare.” Someone hums into a sound more comfort than language as Luz shakes with suppressed tears. “Wake up. Wake up. Breathe.”

Wrung, stricken, brow twinkling in a cold sweat, Luz’s eyes at last fly open, tears clinging to the edges of her lashes. She can't summon the spit to speak now, shivering from the teeming edge of delirium. Faintly, the blurring world reminds her of light-caught sprays of Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, refractions of rainbows scattering their colors everywhere. Like tourists flinging the contents of penny bags of seeds to waiting starlings.

Shreds of light and color at last become visible as she hiccups, cupping the poundpulse of her temples as she props herself upon her elbow, the world attempting to resist vertigo. For a moment, Luz dazedly wonders if perhaps she’s freefallen out of one dream straight into another, because she’s not lying on her pallet at all. Mami is certainly not beside her on her own beggar’s bedding, wheezing into her pillow in hopeless hope that her daughter will not hear what sounds like a throat tearing itself open.

Wide hazel eyes swivel in mounting disbelief. Luz is curled upon the austere backseat of a Model-T police cruiser . An unfamiliar white-and-teal blanket, patterned with willow trees, is draped snugly around her shoulders. The softsweet gesture quickly swells at her eyes and throat. Luz is still dressed as Dante in fading woebegone breeches and suspenders. The air still clings bonfire and cigarette cloves. At once, she hurriedly turns over her wrists for handcuffs. Bare. Free.

Red eyes skimming shut, Dante shivers into a prolonged steadying exhale that swims like the air. His eyes warily re-open, now dark as pockets. He is still here, still attempting to figure out what the name Dante really means, when worn upon the body.

“Thank f*ck.” Edalyn Clawthorne, the Owl Lady, crows from the front seat, the hustle and reverb of her unmistakable. Dumbfounded, Dante whips around, nearly banging the ache of his poor skull against the window this time.

Eda’s fierce amber eyes are agleam from the shadows of the front seat. Realizing in a mortified hush he is actively -clinging to Eda’s cloak like a cygnet attempting to bury itself under its mother’s wing, Dante fingers recoil back, smarting as if they grazed a hot pan. Thankfully Eda scarcely seems to notice. Mopping his brow, Dante dares peek outside, prickling, bracing to duck out of sight again, quick as reflex.

Specks of passing silhouettes are a blur of diction amidst the street currencies of fresh tar and food carts, soot and exhaust, the distant shuffle of an approaching train, all dissolving into the melt of late afternoon. The stolen police cruiser is now sheltered snugly deep between the shadowed awning of a dry cleaner’s, and a humble little building painted a pleasant jade with dark teal sliding shutters. The latter’s exterior is decorated with a sign written in Hangl Korean characters, and what appears to be a pretty hand-painted mural of two storks keeping vigil over an empty nest.

Dante tries and fails not to ruefully-ruminate on how good it smells out here: The air wafts promising warmth of bubbling sesame seed oil, cooking charcoal, garlic, ginger, scallions. The pale green building must be a Korean restaurant.

“Ya sure took yer sweet time wakin’ up. Ain’t no wonder why.” Eda’s gaze zeroes in on the shadows tincturing beneath Dante's eyes. Dante’s curiosity soon has him by the shoulders, even as he Doesn’t Really Want to Know: “I….I didn’t…I didn’t say … anythin’ palooka when I was out, did I?” The world throttles itself, like his voice.

“Nah.” Eda is doing her best imitation of a locked box as she plucks out a file from her side bag, dutifully avoiding eye contact. She can still feel the weight of Dante’s gaze upon her. The hell would it do anyone any iota of good, to know they’d spend the better parts of three hours deliriously crying out for parents whom did not come, imploring people named Gus and Luz to forgive them?

Wanting desperately to Believe, Dante releases a deep sigh, still lightheaded. Still, he finds himself furtively searching for condemnation concealed beneath Eda’s levity. He just does.

“Ya were out fer three hours. And here I thought I’d have to look into disposin’ of a corpse.” Eda blows on her nails, holding her hand aloft to inspect them. “Can I just say I’m especially glad I don’t have to give ya a scenic view of the Hudson River’s aquatic life today? Although, yer so scrawny, the sturgeon probably woulda cast ya right back to land, steada lettin’ ya sleep with the fishes.”

“Um,” replies Dante blankly, which seems about right when all else fails. He blinks. “.....you’re here. That …that means this….all actually happened .”

Slowly, he rests his brow against his knees as he winds his bony arms around them. He asks, faintly, for confirmation, as the anxiety begins bubbling and percolating to a quiet hysteria inside: “Holy Mother of GodMadre de Dios …. that …” He lifts his shaking face up, voice punctured open by punctuation. “... .that all really happened, with Wrath? Wait! How long have I been out?!” New York’s army of paperboys are almost certainly selling the evening edition of the news, but Dante weakly vouches that’s the least of his worries. His mind plunges itself to darkness with a near-violent stertor.

Making a disparaging noise, ironical smile quickly cooling, Eda slowly holds up her hands, keeping her voice carefully-level: “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, kid. Calm the hell down, before ya faint again. And then, more importantly, yer food’ll go to waste.” Her dispassionate stare briefly passes the stuff of edenic judgment. “Now, I don’t believe in too many cardinal sins, but deliberate food waste constitutes top three tier abominations in my unholy book. Hell, I tried explainin’ that to my manager at White Castle last year that my stealin’ unsold food was just me exercisin’ my constitutional right to religious freedom , but he still fired me. Now, I would’ve egged his house in revenge, if that weren’t a waste of perfectly good eggs, so I might’ve helped myself to a five-fingered discount of some of his valuable carpets, and made out with his–”

“Food?” Dante shakily interrupts, dizzy as if caught in a revolving door, voice caught in the soft-tongue of song. Eda squints; Dante can all but feel her train cars of thought breaking apart, ricocheting in all their twistiness of diction. “Well, no, your food wouldn’t go to waste even if hypothetically speakin’ ya did pass out again– don’t pass out again, because then ya can really take your chances learnin’ how to backstroke in the harbor. Pass out once, shame on me, pass out twice, shame on you. Where was I? Oh, yeah. So, your food wouldn’t go to waste, ‘cause I’d take one for the team and eat yer grub instead. But if one of us really needs food right now…”

Near-crazed with hunger, Dante’s stomach immediately contorts a desperate gurgling-scrape of sound, as if answering to a roll call, or an SOS. Face searing, he claps his hands over his empty stomach, mortified. Eda nods, brisk and businesslike. “Your gut there was sure singin’ like a canary while ya were asleep, in any case.” Briefly, her voice slips into a lower cadence–a slow and hesitant lilt, sounding far away. “...take it’s been awhile, since ya had any real grub?”

Dante desperately gropes for a change in subject: “Did ya bring us here to hide from the fuzz?”

“Partially.” Eda stretches stiff limbs, expression briefly eclipsing into a muted darkness upon tripwiring the memory of Kikimora’s smirk lying-in-wait. But Dante is clearly already skirting the fine precipice of a panic attack, and Eda certainly won’t send him sailing over into the dark of his own harbor. She coaxes a grin to reassure both of them. “Once I see to it that yer well enough to head home, I’mma take this baby to my best good buddy pal at the pawnshop.” She uncranks the window to give the car hood a fond pat. “Now, I adhere to the sanctity of finders keepers, losers weepers, but alas, a ride like this sticks out like a sore thumb. We’ll get the police off our trail, and make a greenback or two in the process. Waste not, want not, Ma always said. Incidentally, she also always said: Eda, ya ain’t gonna amount to sh*t, pardon my paraphr–”

“...so you’re…gonna just sell a police car ?” Dante’s voice is clear of all inflection. To his surprise, he’s not surprised at all.

“Now, now,” Eda wags her finger, all impish tutelage. “I was gonna cut ya a percentage of the profit. Just not before we eat. Ya…ya kinda just went cold earlier when we were talkin’, like your key stopped turnin’ in your back.” Cadence of her internal rhythm falters; she shrugs on affected lightness like a fake mink stole. “So, I came to Little Korea to get ya some grub when the coast was finally clear on the highways. Gil took one look at ya and ran inside to grab ya a blanket before he got started on our order. Good man. Those are in short supply upon this Earth.”

“‘Gil?’” Dante’s hand lights upon the door handle, his bony frame skinned with gooseflesh. “Eda. Who’s to say this Gil won’t turn us into the police ? They…” And it all threatens to crash over his head in a riptide roll again, the enormity of the overflow he’s in. “...the police probably want Dante , for helpin’ ya get away, right?”

Eda’s eyelashes briefly skim her cheekbones. “...I won’t deny it. Gilbert let me use his radio earlier.” She bites the inside of her mouth as Dante hugs himself. “The authorities do got a description of the boy who came to the Owl’s Lady aid. No photographat least, thank f*ck. Take my advice, kiddo: You’re gonna wanna keep a low profile as Dante for a while.” Her hands worry themselves at the steering wheel.

“....as for Gil himself, while I don’t normally trust anyone as far as I can throw ‘em, Gilbert is a good egg, ‘specially compared to a certifiably rotten one like yours truly.” She bows, grandiose an self-assured as a monarch, and Dante lobs a sigh as he hesitantly turns to her. “I barely finished askin’ him for help ‘fore he agreed. Plus, he owes me a favor.”

“Why, whaddaya do for this Mister Gilbert fellah?” Dante asks in hushed wonder, eyes dancing with excitement. He might be a youth toddling to an elder’s knee in hopes of being regaled with a breathless heroic exploit. Eda puffs out her chest in pride, beaming toothily.

“Why, I locked him and his current partner in the cloakroom three years ago until they finally agreed to go on a date. The End!”

Oh, but the sheer tenacity of poor Dante’s migraine is outstripped only by his mounting disbelief. When at last he locates his jaw’s whereabouts, it’s dropped at his feet. It takes him longer still to find his voice again: “...what.”

Eda barks a laugh. “Don’t worry; I watched at the door so no one would interrupt! I’m the best wingwoman that way, I’ll have ya know.”

“But–”

Eda waves merrily as a young, warm-toned man emerges from out the back door, carrying a large tray with two steaming white and blue bowls, making a beeline for the car. Clad in a faded brown tunic and black pants, with dark brown eyes that kiss at their corners behind his glasses, Gilbert is perhaps in his late thirties, hair jet black. Where his physique is strong as hickory, hands calloused with the rigorous labor of restaurant work, his features are soft at the edges, his eyes warm. Despite himself, Dante finds himself slumping against the backseat in relief. Gilbert is a welcome face of the tender after the terror.

Eda seems to think so too, because she readily emerges from the car to greet him. “Heya, Gil.” She jerks her head around to bark: “ Ya stay down,” as Dante wobbily emerges too, remembering his manners as he tries to assert the earth back under his feet. But the asphalt clearly does not believe in itself either.

“The boy…?” Gilbert furtively dips his voice to a low whisper as he comes to a halt. “Is he…?”

Eda shrugs. “Eh, he’s a little woozy, but conscious, which is already a solid improvement. Hell, he’s back to questionin’ both my sanity and my life choices.”

Gilbert chuckles into a fond smile, relieve smoothing over his edges. “Doubtlessly then, he’ll make a full recovery.” He winks over Eda’s head, briefly falling forward in a polite bow in greeting. Dante’s face warms in a blush as he bows too, feeling the ghost of a tenement auntie’s hand tugging at Luz’s and Gus’s ears, chiding manners, children, manners . “Thanks fer ya hospitality, sir.”

Dante wonders if it’s an accident that the precious few kind souls of this city that he knows of tend also to look sad more often than not. Gilbert sighs, meeting Eda’s eyes imploringly. “Eda, if you two wish to come inside, perhaps hide here until nightfall, you’re more than welcome. I don’t care, what the law–”

But Eda firmly holds up a hand to stay him. “Nope. This ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle. Ya know me. Don't I always figure somethin' out? Don't I always manage to land on my feet? 'sides, we can’t put ya two at risk. They could get ya both for harborin' felons, and for breakin’ the damndumb segregation laws. Ya two did more than enough, lettin’ us lie low here.” Plucking the tray from a bemused Gilbert’s hands, she shoves a thick wad of bills from her side bag into Gilbert’s apron pocket. “Don’t worry–I tipped like a Rockefeller for the both of us. Least I can do for ya trouba."

Gilbert’s brow pinches as he attempts to press the wad of bills back. “Eda, please. You really don’t have to do everything on your own. If you’d just let us hel–”

“Just take it.” Eda grouses in a monotone, whipping around to cut the cord of the conversation short. “Ya two stay safe.” Dante wonders what she means by two; Gilbert appears to be on his own. “We’ll eat and go. I’ll call it… Drive-thru dining, a revolutionary new experience. Huh. Note to self: I’ll have to copyright that and make wicked bank later on.”

Shaking his head, Gilbert for his part scarcely seems taken aback by Eda’s reaction as she strides back to the car with the tray. Dante jumps, fumbling for his bag. “Oh–” Surely he doesn’t have enough for the meal, but at least he should try tipping. “Sir, thank ya so much again. We can’t thank you eno–”

A tall man, Gilbert crouches slightly to meet him at eye level, hands upon his knees. “Nonsense. But if you do wish to pay me back,” Gilbert murmurs, and Dante’s heart pangs in sympathy without really knowing the why of it. There is something innately-familiar in this stranger’s face, something that does not go announcing itself, and yet is. Something that also belongs in the comforting contours of both Gus and Raine’s features, despite all three belonging to different races. Gilbert’s own features are touched with knowing as he quietly contemplates Dante, and what Dante ached to keep hidden, aches to be seen now.

“You’ll both look after each other, won’t you?” A gracious smile that’s nonetheless no small part wistful on Gilbert’s part. Here again is the singular sharpness of grief, its telltale calling card laid bare like another offering. “We can all stand some looking after in this life.” Slowly, his hand finds Dante’s shoulder. “I have a feeling you’ll do each other entire mountains of good if you just remember: Vulnerability might be the last thing you want anyone to see in you, but it's the first thing we look for in each other."

“C’mon, kid, before yer grub gets cold,” Eda calls impatiently.

Before Dante can ask what Gilbert possibly means, Gilbert is already eagerly hurrying away, murmuring something too soft to be words to what-appears to be a towering bald, bearded man skittishly approaching from around the back of the restaurant. Dante briefly seizes up at the approach of the newcomer, relaxing upon realizing neither Eda nor Gilbert seem alarmed. For all the bulk of this stranger–he’s taller even than Gilbert, and broadly built like a colossus tank besides–he looks positively bashful as he shuffles over to Gilbert, whom seems giddy like a schoolboy for the flush playing in his features.

Slowly, Dante wanders back over to the dark blue Model T as Eda sets two enormous steaming bowls on the dashboard, rubbing her hands with relish and monosyllabiccackle.Dante smiles. “You’re right: He is kind.”

A twinkle taking residence in his eyes, Gilbert and the stranger briefly shake hands; their entwined fingertips lingering slightly longer than most men would over the likes of a handshake, a tendertight squeeze. The air around the two is overtaken by a sweet, molasses slowness as the strange man lowers his face, fevered and reverent. He slowly pries open Gilbert’s hand open, and gently places something inside. A lyric to a song Dante knows the melody of, but not the words to, turns final in his chest, like a key.

When Gilbert slowly pulls away, it’s with a green carnation in his hands. He beams into a darkening blush. The shape of something nameless indents its contours in the shape of Dante’s brow. The two men hurriedly disappear back inside the restaurant, warywatchful eyes all but on the sides of their heads, like animals of prey.

"Yeah. Them's good people." Eda admits begrudgingly, softening into something somber-eyed as she bites her lip. "I just wish the poor fellahs could have their own-" Eda's voice draws in, as if with a laryngitis throat, spilled out like a terrible song. "-ya know wha? Forget I said anythin'. It ain't my dirty laundry to go around airing."

Dante settles back in the car beside Eda in the front seat. Well, it would be rude to leave without first accepting such hospitality. His ravenous stomach claws itself in agreement. “Um–should we recite grace first?” Camila would always gently scold Luz for not saying a blessing over their food beforehand, no matter how poorly a serving it was.

“I’ll say disgrace,” Eda offers, placing her hands together. Dante can’t tell if she’s raising her eyes to heaven, or merely rolling them: “Dear Lord I’m not entirely convinced isn’t in fact a Lady: I got away again. In your face, Lord. We thank thee once more for having a bizarre sense of humor, and ask that this food nourish us to continue breaking all thy earthly laws. Amen.” Eagerly, Eda draws an enormous bowl into her lap, lowering her spoon petulantly upon seeing Dante’s face. “Wha? What is it now?”

“....you’re really sharing,” Dante asks, more softly than perhaps he means to, blowing on his enormous steaming bowl brimming with rice, onions, peppercorn, and puffy hot, glistening chicken. His hands are shaking so badly he nearly spills it down his front. “....a meal, with me?”

Eda’s smile fades at once. “After all the sheer crapola that happened today, it’d be this that surprises ya. Of course I am.” Moodily, she stirs her meal. “The racist pearl-clutchers with a suffering in the soul can take their f*cking stupid Whites Only signs, and flee to paler pastures.” Lip twisting in a pained grimace, Eda appears to drop her gaze within the bowl of soup, losing it inside. And people wonder why Eda drank. “....it don’t matter to me none, s’long as ya don’t mind eatin’ with a crazy lady the color of paste with no table manners.”

“We-eell…” Dante draws a one-syllable word into two as he playfully pretends to think it over. He smiles, tentative around the eyes, but sincere. “...there's no table just now, right?” He raises the rim of his bowl up in a toast.

“Good kid.” Eda’s bowl glances off his. “Now, eat.”

Dante obliges, unable to wait even a second longer. He tries to keep his first bites slow and measured, but soon Eda isn’t even bothering with her spoon, positively slurping her samgyetang down in noisy gulps. Brightening, Dante follows suit, toes positively curling in his ruined boots as he scarfs down his noodles, grateful for the mere savory fact of them. He scalds his tongue in his great haste. He doesn’t care. The broth tingles dark and savory with ginseng, garlic, jujube, all things he’s practically disassociated to mere memory. Every iota of a body that kept filling up with time and nothing else for the longest while rejoices.

Ravenous, Dante fails to notice his eyes are streaming again, and he’s watering the broth with saltwater. Eda’s expression becomes pensive as she eyes him over her own bowl, reluctantly lowering it. “Kid, I get it– believe me, I f*cking do–but ya gotta slow down. You’ll make yerself sick, or go into shock. Now, I ain’t no Miss Manners, but chewin’ ain’t too newfangled to try.” Reluctantly, Dante attempts to pace himself, choking on his reply.

Outside, a crepuscular ray traces a twilight pattern of sunwarmed honey dust as Dante soon lowers his empty bowl, stomach stuffed sore and happy as he stifles a burp. If Esau in the bible really sold his birthright for a bowl of soup, perhaps he was not in fact sorry for it, if it was a bowl such as this. The iotas of fullness are a taste of their own as he sleepily flops back. “Thanks, for that.” A sustained and quiet tension steals over him. “What ya said earlier….about Gilbert and his partner.” Time arches its back as he curls up. “Did ya mean,” He falters; then, emboldened by his own follow through: “...his business partner? His wife?”

Eda’s face shifts gears as she sets her own bowl down. “....his boyfriend. Harvey was the other fellah ya saw just now.”

Down the road, an acoustic signature of trees sway over the city's near-constant running record of clicks and whines. A wildfire blush hotlines Dante’s features, awakening a quixotic quaking even–especially–in his blind spots. His neck is beginning to prickle and sing.

“....that happens?” He asks in a hush, before frantically answering his own question. His voice lifts itself until it seems on the verge of falling from the sky: “It happens.” He desperately remembers Gilbert's hands so briefly playing over Harvey’s, agitated in the repression of untenable love. Antonio in The Merchant of Venice, whom did not know why he was so sad, but certainly knew he loved Bassanio. In Carmilla, weren’t Laura and Carmilla inseparable? In Twelfth Night, hadn’t yet another-unlucky Antonio–whom really knew how to pick them, it seemed–loved Sebastian? Briefly his lips part into the shape of drowning, briefly widening around an unspoken how.

Hadn’t Dante returned to the hurt of those books, again and again, in the scarcity of the library over and over again, in sympathy pains for those characters whom were largely left behind, the intensity of their feelings reduced to odious villainy, or mere comic relief?

“...yeah.” Eda manages a wan smile. “For obvious reasons, people don’t exactly go flappin’ their yaps about it topside. But like I said, it happens much more often then ya’d think. Yours truly included. I guess…well, pan means all, so I guess that’d make me a…pan…sexual? Hell, I dunno. I guess closet case pans are in the pan-try.”

Dante plucks Papi’s cap off his head and clasps it for a reminder of his own solidity. For a prolonged pause, there’s nothing left to leave him but sound. As frustrating as it was, the sheer nebulousness of the unsaid, the namelessness of itself –left you hoping, against hope, it was also something consequently ethereal. Insubstantial. It was something you'd somehow outgrow. Outwit. But the undertow, incidentally also has the underhand.

“...I see.” He clears his throat. “...that’s….I don’t mind.” Eda slowly meets his gaze, and Dante smiles, tremulous around the edges. “Mister Gil and Harvey seem….nice.” Briefly, the blooming warmth in his stomach migrates upwards. “So do ya, Eda.”

Snorting, Eda leans over to rest a pale hand over Dante’s brow. “Maybe I ought to take ya to a quack after all, cause I’m thinkin’ ya either sick as a dog, or hit your head real hard when we jumped into that dumpster earlier. I ain’t nice, anymore than a rabid wolverine particularly is.”

“So, does this mean I’m…” Dante vaguely waves a hand over himself, fumbling into an unspoken question. Thankfully, Eda catches the freefall.

“So, yer bein’ you? That’s one thing.” Privately, Eda thinks the poor kid could probably do better getting the talk than a surly trash panda, but she hazards a guess the teachers at this kid’s school aren’t flapping their jaws on the subject anytime soon. “This is who ya are, and what ya like to be called. Now, whom ya areattracted to, whom ya–” She scratches her head, coughing. “....well, fall in love with, that’s another matter entirely. And I can’t as sure as sh*t can’t say who ya are, kid. Only ya can do that.”

Dante hums into a noncommittal reply, allowing his cheek to brush against the glass as he attempts in vain to meet Luz’s gaze in the glass.

“I actually,” he says at last, voice rasping from looted lungs. “Don’t really have a clue who I am.” He settles the cap back upon his head, a self-mocking smile playing upon his lips. “Dante feels closer to the truth, but–” He moves a hand to his gut. For his fullness, a hole in the shape of a puzzle piece might plausibly reside here. “.....it doesn’t feel like all of it. As for–well, people back home, they really, really like the idea of me n’ my best friend Gus bein’ childhood sweethearts, but I’ve never wanted to marry Gus.” Dante thinks it over, squinting. “Well, he would make an excellent housekeeper, considering he loves organizing stuff…

“For the longest time, I’ve been so busy just tryin’ to stay alive, to keep Mami and Gus safe, to–” Dante strangles Papi’s name on his mouth. “....I guess….I’ve never really known , what it was like to want somebody…like that.” Maybe crushes on fictional characters like Robin, or Maid Marian? “I know,” he murmurs, eyes taking flight. “What it’s like to want to be somebody else, or to want, over and over and over again, for those somebodies to be my friends.” He flings his arms around himself again. “Or what it’s like, just trying to forget I was even a body. But…”

Eda seems unfettered. “Hell, maybe ya just don’t experience romance in your own skin. Ain’t unheard of. Don’t mean you’re broken. The fact that ya don’t necessarily know who ya are yet don’t make ya broken either. Most of us don’t innately know these things. That’s what’s life’s for–breakin’ yourself down, and piecing together a truth only ya can tell, Dante."

Dante slowly turns at hearing his name in the corridors of Eda’s voice. Eda’s eyes are hooded. “I’d bank most people like us never live openly, and outlive their own shelf lives. They live, as much as any of us can really call it that, in the margins of history, in the spaces of loopholes, inside closets and within the bans of marriage rings. Just bein’ willing to ask yourself the real hard questions about yourself is already a sign yer on a better track.”

“How do you know all this?” Dan te wipes at his eyes. “Ya must think I’m really dumb.”

“Hey, now.” Eda snaps, all salt and vinegar and prodded flareflamw. “Ya ain’t dumb . Ya want dumb? Go look up the word in the dictionary and find Wrath’s mugshot. I gotta warn ya; it ain’t fit for the likes of young children.”

“Hey!” Dante squawks, aghast. “I’m not a kid! I have a job!” Although that seems more and more dubious a prospect as Dante hears the evening bell toll the hour. Sickened with himself, Dante nonetheless shakes his head fervently. Just a bit longer. If only anyone in his building owned a telephone, and he had access to one himself. If only there were a telegram office nearby–and that it wouldn’t cost him three weeks' salary. If only the truth wouldn't be far, far more gastronomical a bill then he could ever pay.

Eda smirks. “I will respect your name, and pronouns. Just not the clearly- dubious claim yer not actually a baby.” Eda scoffs, merely sticking her tongue out when Dante slipsides into an inadvertent pout. “Look, kid, back to what I was saying before: Yer clearly sharp as a tack. Bet ya do great in school.”

Dante’s face falls. “Of course not.” His gaze meanders to alley shadows chasing astral ancestors. His mouth sprains itself. “...I actually had to drop ou–”

Unfazed, Eda cheers then and there, shooting her fists in the air for good measure. “Good for ya, kid! Why, just look at me: I dropped out of school, ran away from home, and became the wildly-successful businesslady ya see before ya today. Gosh, I should get a lucrative book deal and pen a bestseller."

"Your business involves kneecapping wardens down in the street with his stolen car!"

"Logistics! Remember, kiddies: Don’t stay in school! Don’t do hard drugs, though–save those for me. Oh, c’mon,” Eda scoffs, as Dante side-eyes her. “How else would I have been able to create my safe haven in the underground for people like us?”

Dante perks up at the words people like us. “...that special place…” Dante places a hand over his heart. Eda’s mere menion of a safe haven was a gritty salve paste upon the soles of torn feet. “Tell me more, please?”

Eda scoops up their empty dishes, and takes them to the back of the restaurant’s back door. For all her earlier vigor, she seems curiously subdued just now upon her return. “As it so happens, I wasn’t legally allowed to independently open my own legit business, because I’m a broad in this stupid country.” Surly, she slams her door hard enough behind her to make the entire vehicle rattle warningly. “Don’t even matter if ya have the capital, and wave it under those shmucks at the banks’ noses. See: Ya need a male co-signer to vouch for ya if ya really want the deed in yer name.”

Sickened with sympathy, Dante’s heart squeezes itself. “Oh, Eda.”

“As it so happens,” Eda is quick to wave aside Dante’s sympathy, very keen not to be on the receiving end of any. “I did find a guaranteer whom lives with me, even if he never shuts the hell up. He signed off on my gettin’ an antique and resale shop. ‘Course it’s me , who really runs things.” She might be wearing a feathered stole with how she preens. “With some help. Those two jerks will flap their yaps if I don’t give credit where credit’s due.”

Dante co*cks his head, completely lost as he performs some mildly-inact mental math. “And this… antique shop is.... your safe place?”

Dante hums into a frown, rocking back and forth as he takes his chin in hand. “...well, one of the reasons why Wrath wanted to get ya in the first place was because you’ve been linked to bootlegging .” His eyes widen with realization seconds later. “So….it’s…..a distillery , you’re hiding there? Someplace hidden, where no one would think to look? Like… Underneath your shop?”

And Eda crinkles like tin foil when she laughs a low throaty hum, pleased. “Ya could easily have Wrath’s job if I didn’t sense ya possess a functioning soul.” Dante beams, flush with praise. “Yeah. But it ain’t just a moonshinery. It’s known as the Owl House , ‘coz, well…that’s the name of the antique store above it. Now, I used to make my homemade Apple Blood liquor for sh*ts and giggles, and when they threw me out at the saloon again for not payin’ off my tab once or twice.” Dante raises his hand. “Whaddaya got a feeling that happened more than–”

“Then, as ya already know, Prohibition was passed earlier this year. Seemed like a cryin’ shame not to make a dime or two by caterin’ to a very specific clientele, if ya catch my drift.” Eda flaunts her two finger guns again.

“Oh, I just bet.” Dante scoffs, folding his arms. Eda’s obsession with money is beginning to wear on him just a little, and Dante has been thinking of little else lately. “But…” His lower lip briefly disappears as he bites it hard , struck by the clarity of realization that ambushed you from behind. “Opening an illegal distillery…in New York City …”

Eda’s face is now vacant of all amusem*nt, of all pomp. Her expression gives no pretext of Not Knowing. Dante grows very hot, and then very cold. “....it’s one thing, to try and outrun the police. But…” His throat stings with bile. A bitter king touching everything bloodgold. His teeth clench involuntarily as he pushes the name out: “The Te–”

“Hey.” Eda's voice is on the overtime shift of talk.“Believe you me, I get it.”

Dante Looks at her. The air yet retains the memory of dark matter in its taste and consistency.

“Look. I got an understanding with them.” Briefly, Eda is a woman not on fire, but under dust. Even just alluding to them does her no small violence. “I do my own thing, in my happy-go-lucky little neck of La-La land, where ain’t nobody gets shot at. Owl House don’t operate in any of the Ten Lords’ Coven territory. We kiss the ring of no f*cking crime lords. Needless to say, I pay no man tribute. Because, at the end of the day…”

Eda leans over the steering wheel, resting her cheek upon folded arms. She might briefly stand over a hearth fire, eyes soft with firelit contemplation. “At Owl House, ain’t no difference to anyone who ya are, or what ya look like, or where ya come from. Just come in, have fun, and tip the performers and bartender. Rule Number 2: Don’t be a douche, or I’ll haul ya out on yer dumb ass. As a matter of fact–” She checks her watch. “–speak of the devil. I gotta get to work soon.”

“Tonight?” Dante cries, seizing her forearm. “You’re–you’re, going, to the Owl House, tonight?”

Eda’s nonplussed. “Well, yeah. I go most nights. Like I said, I own the pla–”

“Please.” Dante’s hands clasp together, as if attempting to warm themselves. “Can I please, please, please, come with you tonight?” He can't bear the idea of stumbling home into the firing line of his own questioning, exhausted by the acrobatics of secrecy. Of Not Seeing. The prospect of an evening on the edge of collapse. He squeezes his eyes shut. If Luz is already late, already surely in trouble, how much more trouble can they possibly be in if he delays his homecoming just a little while longer? I’ll go home tonight. His voice bleeds out in the memory of hands. I will. I will. But not now. Please. Gus. Mami. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, so sorry.

Eda chortlechokes midsip on a glug of Apple Blood from her flask. At last, she shrugs. “Ah, hell. Why not.” She holds a hand aloft as Dante cheers, voice choked with sheer joy, skin singing like the trembling bow of a fiddle. Eda downs the rest of her hooch, wiping her mouth. “But I gotta warn ya up front: Like I said: Gil told me what’s been on the radio this afternoon. It’s awful dangerous, for Dant–”

“Hold on just a sec!”

And Dante bolts out of the car, bag in tow as they dash up the stairs of the restaurant. Mere three minutes later, it’s a young, beaming, sepia-skinned girl with a heart-shaped face whom emerges. Her brown curls peep out of a sweet lavender kerchief as she bustles over to the car, clad in a long white blouse, a periwinkle patched skirt. Someone –and Eda feebly thinks she can guess at the culprit as Harvey draws aside a curtain to wave from a window–has lent her a hooded plum and gold cloak that rests upon her shoulders now.

Eda’s swiftly rendered speechless; a rare feat as the girl cheerfully settles in the front seat. “Mister Harvey said ya should try and stay undercover.” She flings a folded scarlet cloak in Eda’s direction. “Hi Eda, it’s nice to meet ya!” She says, sporting a blindingly-bright grin in sunshine strong as a wish. “I’m Luz, Luz Noceda!” She tugs at Eda’s shoulder. “Now, let’s go, let’s go to Owl House! Let’s go, lesgo, lesgo, lesgo, already! We’re going to miss everything!”

Put the keys back in the ignition, Eda quips a pleased smirk as the engine sputters to life: “Well, Luz, we still gotta play my favorite party game: Dispose of the Evidence. And don’t be a bunny, will ya? We ain’t gonna miss sh*t: First rule of bein’ queer, ya now exist on the unfathomable circuit of the gay time continuum.” Eda mysteriously combs her hands through the air as if a goddess weaving through nebulous orbits in the fabric of time itself. “And one of the cardinal rules of gay time is that you never, ever come to a party exactly on time. Or, goddess forbid, early." She shudders, performing her best im-priss-ion of her sister: "Why, it’s a faux pas if ever there were one.”

Luz listens with renewed attentiveness, even though Eda makes about as much sense right now as a bowl of word soup, a sheer flotsam of hieroglyphics. Though it’s likely risky to stick her head out, she does unroll the window, sunshy hand slowly rising out to let the light warm her skin. All her life she’s been a victim of place, or a victim out-of-place. What would it be like, to be wanted by a place? She can't mask the urgency that dogs her now.

The car zips pass a street light's maraschino cherry glow as the police cruiser rumbles off beneath a sky, unraveling a new season before itself.

~o*oOo*o~

“Bye, Morton! Always pleasure doin’ business with ya, old pal!” Eda calls gaily over her shoulder as the two leave the pawn shop alley, both she and Luz thickly-hooded. Whistling, Eda counts through the crumpled bills in her hands. “Ah, God bless the good pawnbrokers of New York.” She mock-solemnly makes the sign of the cross.

Jitterjangle, Luz dances from one foot to the other. Eda finds Luz remarkably-reminiscent of herself upon her fourth cup of espresso on particularly-hungover mornings. “I don’t see why we didn’t just drive to Owl House first .” Luz positively vibrates, to her own surprise. When was the last time she’d been so excited, to be Luz? When was the last time, she looked forward to anything Not Sleep?

“Ya know the cops are probably combin’ every nook and cranny for us. And that car had a license plate, ya know. We’d be sitting ducks if we didn't get rid of it eventually,” Eda stoutly points out before handing Luz her portion of the cash. "Ya need to learn when to cut ya losses." Slightly-mollified, Luz stuffs it in her bag. At least she would not return home tonight with nothing.

“Halt! Hold it right there!”

The air hums with warning. Luz jolts, electric with alarm at the telltale mantra of boots pounding pavement behind them, her heart hammered ingot on a blacksmith's anvil. “Case in point.” Eda grouses beneath grit teeth, her face hardening to steel as her hand falls over her sheathed blade under the dark red sweep of her cloak. But Luz raises a hand, gently looping Eda’s arm in her own. Eda scowls a question mark. “Don't run, and keep your hood down,” Luz murmurs softly, even as she throws back her own. “I’ll handle this.”

She turns; two police officers are storming down the block, past a milk truck and post office, gleaming royal blue helmets largely obstructing their faces as they barrel in straight for Luz and Eda. Eda tenses. “Excuse me, miss.” An officer’s bulging blue eyes dress the two women both in guilt on the spot as they come to a halt before them. “Have you witnessed an insane woman, of this description?”

He plucks out a wanted poster from his belt, allowing the yellowing newsprint to unravel damningly to reveal the Owl Lady’s wanted portrait. “Her escape was aided and abetted by the likes of a young man earlier today, about your stature and complexion, young missy."

Eda rattles quite the wracking cough that sounds suspiciously like: At least ya got her good side.

Praying in all directions that her purple kerchief would hide the prickling glint of her brow, Luz smiles, vaguely playing with a strand of her hair. Just for once, she doesn’t shy away from the softness in her voice. Better to avoid the defensive tenor unique to liars. “Why, no! I can’t say that I have! Why, are they very dangerous criminals?” Her hands rise to skirt her cheekbones as she allows her mouth to slacken.

“We can already surmise they’re the worst of the worst.” Darkly warns the first officer’s compatriot, driving his fist against his open hand. “Our poor Warden was injured in a noble effort to apprehend these two crooks. Needless to say, any accomplice of the likes of that devil is no liable to be any better, mark our words. Menaces to society. We’ve reason to believe they’re still in the surrounding area.”

Luz feigns cowering, hands over her ears. “Oh, no, not hooligans! That’s my least favorite kind of gans, I'll have ya know.I’d better get out of here! Good thing I’m walkin’ mi Abuela, my grandmama home!” Luz fondly pats the red-hooded woman stooped beside her, face concealed in fabric. “The doctor said a little exercise is good for her arthritis.” Soon, Luz’s eyes water as Eda emphatically stomps upon Luz’s shoe. “Ow! Now, now, grandma. The doctor says you mustn’t keep doing that, or she’ll put ya in a home!”

Unable to resist camping it up a little, Luz bats her eyelashes, all giggly-coquettish smiles as the officers trade looks. “Can I just say how glad someone is brave enough to catch those hardened thugs? Why, they could be hiding anywhere. Even in plain sight! Well, we won’t keep ya big strong feelahs from your search! We’ll just be getting out of your way now.” Luz beams into a wave. “Good luck, now!”

Pleased as punch, one of the officers bows as the other plays with his cap, flustering dark pink beneath the bristles of his mustache. “....go about your business, citizens.”

The two are soon off again, hustling across the street to question a group of civilians teeming at the crosswalk. Luz stumbles over. The sounds coming from her chest are so new, she almost doesn't recognize them as laughter.

“Seriously now,” Eda grouses, sniffing when Luz doubles over, attempting and failing to keep her stitches in her side, dissolving into near-hysteric guffawing that radiates. Eda rolls her eyes again, propelling them in a full circle around their sockets before glaring. “Ya just had to call me yer grandmama?"

Luz playfully shrugs, her tug of a smile all overpronounced innocence as she folds her arms behind her back. “I mean, if the shoe fits ….” She recoils when Eda flicks her nose. “Ow! Hey, lady. I’ll respect ya pronouns,just not yer insistence ya ain't old!” She rasps her voice into her best imitation of Eda in retribution. “Look: Can ya seriously tease me about my age, and not expect fair turnaround on my part?”

“Sassy little witch,” Eda harrumphs, but there’s a begrudging flash in her golden eyes beneath her hood. It’s surely not just anyone whom attempts to play ball with the likes of Eda Clawthorne.Luz twirls. For the longest time, she could scarcely stand to wear her own skin. But thesky surely feels it, Luz supposes,The strength of your joy.

Eda strides off. “Let’s get a move on!”

Too happy to oblige, Luz skips after, briefly allowing her arms to fling themselves open to catch the wavelength of the open air.

~o*oOo*o~

New York is soon enveloped in a civil dusk of countless anticipatory lights appearing in the windows as commuters head off in the rhythmics of homecoming. Eda’s untroubled pace gradually takes on a meandering key to a historical district of New York Luz doesn’t recognize. Soon, the near-eternal backdrop of traffic is replaced by the metallic chirp of cricketsong. Countless houses are protected by the dark iron sharp of towering gates.

The copse of countless neglected dark houses, where several unkempt and overgrown trees sway overhead, is not too dissimilar from the mouth of a dark wood. Luz’s eyes are wide as they fixate in the mysterious deep gold slant of trees, rendered-tendered in fading sunlight. Drifting pollen gradually becomes ochredust in daysutterance, catching the orange glow of reviving streetlamps. The long shadows of the streetlamps are almost mauve.A honeysuckle solstice, in pink and periwinkle skies.

Awestruck, Luz looks out at March, with an April-upon-April hope. The trees reach sap-slow toward sky, sundrunk. They pass abandoned gutters and ditches flecked the color of purple with nightshade, with violets, with pansies. Soon, Eda might be a drifting ember through the eaves. It’s as quiet as glass marbles rolling at your feet.

Struggling to breathe, shuffling footfalls uneven, Luz suddenly and most inopportunely remembers a toothless Babushka, an old granny, back at the tenement in her rocking chair that sang its age. Babushka delighted in terrifying the tenement children with old Slavic tales featuring a witch by the name of Baba Yaga. Little Gus ran away wailing for his mama at the mere sight of that Granny upon her ancient chair; her folklore scared him so.

Luz, frightened, nonetheless toddled in closer whenever Babushka’s fierce eye fell upon her. After all, Baba Yaga, whom lived deep in the woods, could be a ravenous lunatic preying on unwary passerby, or she might be a benevolent savior rescuing girls from miserable families, depending on which story she starred in that night. She was as liable to save you as she was to destroy you.

Luz’s eyes skirt Eda nervously from behind, stomach frantically aflutter. With how volatile she really was, Eda really might perhaps be a Baba Yaga in her own right, though Owl House probably doesn’t stand upon chicken feet. Probably.

Not for the first time, nor the last, Luz wonders if perhaps she’s once again come to a conclusion with the wrong calculus. But she might be propelled after Eda with a copernican magnet inside, urging Luz to go towards herself.

So lost in thought, Luz accidentally bumps into Eda when she comes to a stop. “Ya alright?” Eda asks softly with a brief thrust of her jaw. In the fading of the day, the silver-haired woman looks both arcane and ancient, a portrait invoking reverent grief.

Luz thinks the matter over. She radiates in clear, cold breaths that paint the cooling air silver. “Hmm…go back to my awful boss ….or….follow a sketchy stranger to a secondary location deep underground?” Shakily, her fist sings through the air. “And how, sketchy stranger!”

“That’s the spirit.” Eda idles on, hands in her pockets. Luz looks on beneath the shadows of the trees. A song plays in her bones. How nice it would be, just for once, to break the standing record of standing in her own way.

The sky incandesces from dusk in a violet extinction in the coming nightfall. Moonshadows and stray-streetlamps alike brush the cobblestone streets incandescent molten matter. Luz stumbles more than once. The heavens are a starlit expanse of brilliant, infinitesimal purple. Many houses here are historical, some meticulously-kept with plaques, some picked-over by vermin, settling in the generous gloom. Spacing between structures soon becomes farther and farther in-between.

Just as Luz’s feet are beginning to ache from walking, a cloudy light of a flickering lantern hanging from a tree glistens in the distance, marking the shape of a stony drive. A pale trail of countess pebbles catch the weak sputter of a flame, glittering like the trail of a shooting star. Eda’s features draw up like a glistening red bow as Luz gazes on in fascination.

In a yellowing field slowly parsed by shy bolts of young grass, a fence flakes upon ancient dry bones, shedding itself off in rust like dark snake scales. The fence is skimmed with thornish fleur de lis growing over it like living barbed wire. But it’s the ancient house–and the old barn–that truly give Luz pause, stopping her in her tracks altogether.

An enormous, two story Gothic Revival house, that surely might've once been fine in its prime, now ghosts in and out of the trees. A crumbling building, whose color is now impossible to distinguish in nightfall, is all peeling parapets and swooping pinnacle, fading decorative tracery over grimy clover-shaped windows, a steeply-pitched gable, a great grouped brick chimney. It sits, serene amidst the stars, beside an enormous, splintery gothic farmhouse that has an old sign attached, swaying from its rusty-chain. Stupefied, Luz stoops slightly, leaning in to squint. There’s a little wooden owl carving perched atop the letters:

THE OWL HOUSE

ANTIQUES, COLLECTIBLES

“Ya like it?” Eda asks proudly, hands on her hips. She nods to a sprawling field nearby full of automobiles concealed under the cover of drooping wisteria. “Looks like the party’s already started. Thankfully them stiffs got a cover story for bein’ out here if the cops go snoopin’ around.”

“This place…” Luz’s voice slips on itself in this hushed dance of a clearing over the bluster of the wind. “It’s…really....all yours?”

“Yep,” Eda saunters into a grin. Her eyes dance with the kind of fire no one can catch in time to name. “A little rough around the edges here and there–but eh, it’s moi.” She nods towards the settling rust of the storefront. “So, this little farmhouse used to be a stable way back in the day.” Luz lights like a flame held to her wick. “Don’t get too excited, it isn’t anymore, trust me. Hey, if I were a gay frontierswoman with horses, would that make me a…Jolly Rancher?”

Luz rocks back and forth on her feet in an agitated two-step. She tries–and swiftly fails–to reconcile the Eda whom would own such a property with Eda whom delighted so in dumpster biscuits. “How’d ya even get a place like thi–”

The sign promptly falls off its brown rattlerust chain, and Eda snorts as Luz jumps. “Well, when I said way back in the day, I meant these grounds were created, way, way, way back in the day. As in, this building’s a holdover from the Civil War. The barn’s been repurposed , as you’ll see in just a moment.”

Eda strides over the dusty courtyard and knocks sharply upon the shop’s barn door six times. A very tiny little window slides open–it’s really only big enough for a pair of great eyes to solemnly peer through the generous darkness. “PASSWORD?” Comes the muffled question in an ominous falsetto. Luz jumps; heart stuttering. The pair of eyes glistening in the door are huge, and might feasibly belong to an owl.

“Hooty, ya know it’s me,” Snaps Eda, clearly losing her patience. She appears to be debating the merits of giving this Hooty a minor limp. “Now, let us–”

“SLEEVES U–” The rest of Hooty’s demand is soon lost in a strangled squawk as an irate Eda proceeds to jab both her index and middle fingers into the slot, prodding him straight in the eyes. “OW!”

“Eda!” Luz scolds, aghast as the enormous oaken barn door slowly swings open, a lantern flaring overheard. She scurries inside, a yawning and unrepentant Eda wandering in afterwards.

Inhaling the fading scents of animal feed, straw residue, and dust, in a musty barn that thickens and damps the air with presence, Luz’s head spins this way and that in the faint lantern light. She’s surrounded by countless shelves brimming with broken appliances–salvaged holey umbrellas, tea strainers, incomplete tea sets, rickety old canes, broken open piggy banks, fire pokers, shoe buckles, tattered phonographs, scratched records, innumerable stopped alarm clocks, sewing machines, a peculiar compass that quiveringly points to Luz as she passes, a Shakespearean bust someone had seen fit to place monocles on, innumerable silvery knickknacks buffered with elbow grease, and squirreled-away whatchamacallits lovingly extracted from refuse piles, dumps, forgotten trunks in forgotten attics. Things purposefully abandoned, a smorgasbord of things that had simply been forgotten along the way.Luz briefly gapes at it all before giving her head a shake. “Hey, mister, are ya alrig–?”

And Luz’s voice dies at once upon accidentally colliding headfirst into what feels like a towering brick wall. She could scream so loud it could be rendered audible in the lining of her stomach, but her face overturns, voice lost at the edge of crisis. She could scream so loud it could be heard in the linings of her stomach.

A pale, brown-eyed, chestnut-haired young man rises out of the flickering shadows like a fixture merged with the foundation of the Owl House proper. He clutches the swingsway of an old lantern sending shadows lurching this way and that, gaunting his eyes. Luz actually has to crane her neck to look at the tallest human she’s ever before seen. His neck might be a goose’s for the length of it.

Placing the lantern on a nearby shop counter, the owlish young man clamor up splintery wood panels still on the wall, nudging a beaklike long nose into his arm, as if grooming himself. Remembering her manners, glistening with sweat, Luz nonetheless pro-offers her trembling hand. “N-nice to meet ya. I’m–I’m Luz?” It comes out like a question.

“Hooty.” Eda answers curtly for him, hanging up her cloak upon a nearby wooden stand as the man slowly turns almost the entirety of his whole head around to consider the newcomer. He hoots deep from within his throat in greeting, dropping down from the wall to seize Luz’s hand in his own, inspecting it closely.

Eda strides over. “Don’t mind him. He’s a live-in employee, the co-signer I told ya about earlier. But Hooty here thinks he’s actually an owl. For the sake of his dwindling sanity, we let him go on thinking that. It’s just kinder for everyone.”

“...why?” Luz dares ask in a mortified hush as Hooty ravenously flings himself at the nearby wall. “OH BOY, A BUG!”

And with that, he seizes a spider skirting its web from a cobwebby old window corner, stuffing the live arachnid eagerly down his throat, chewing with sheer relish. Unfettered, Eda crosses her arms as Luz blankly looks on in dawning horror, one of her eyelids drooping. “I ain’t gonna tell ya why, because I paid good money for that food ya just ate, and I don’t need it paying an encore performance all over the floor. Regurgitated food is piss-poor for business. I don’t need to go to business school to tell you that much.”

At a loss, Luz nonetheless slowly approaches Hooty again, whom is still chewing his catch. “Welp, best of luck with…well, whatever you’re doing, Mister Hooty!” The effort strains more than just a little at Luz’s sprained smile, which appears to be waging a losing battle with her sanity.

Eda curses. “No! You fool! You’ve given him attention! Now he’ll zero in on you!”

Delighted, Hooty hurtles in, now barely centimeters away from the two of them. Again, the awful falsetto that might belong to a cartoon character, perhaps one commandeering a steamship. “OHH, I LIKE YOU! I THINK WE’RE GONNA BE BEEEEEST FRIENDS, FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER! HOOT HOOT!”

Despite herself, Luz chuckles, briefly charmed. “Awww.”

“You have no idea what scale of cosmic horrors you’ve just visited upon yourself,” Eda darkly whispers in Luz’s ear as she tugs her along. “I trust you are entirely satisfied.”

~o*oOo*o~

“....so, to clarify: Everyone who comes here after the antique shop's closing time has to go through Hooty first, and give him the password?” Luz asks softly, keeping her voice carefully trained down as Eda leads her to a back room. It might just be Luz’s imagination, but the floorboards appear to be singing beneath her feet, judging by their vibrating beneath her soles.

“Everyone except me, obviously. And one other thing ya should know for future reference: One of the three only Rules this place has is that ya do have to roll up yer sleeve when yer here. And that ain't a metaphor-ya gotta prove ya ain't affiliated with the Ten Deadly Plagues, or whatever charmin' nickname those idiots are going by nowadays-"

Luz nearly trips. "But-" She bleats, eyes straining with panic. "I thought ya said ya had an understanding with them!"

"Oh, that don't mean they don't want me to understand differently," A bobbin in Eda's voice unravels. "Just because this neighborhood hasn't been taken by one of the Ten Lords don't mean they still haven't tried placing mass orders here of Apple Blood, to serve at one of their own gin joints in occupied territory. Like I said: My sh*t is good sh*t. As of matter of fact, Apple Blood is the sh*t. But the coven scum, they ain't sh*t. You'd think they was missionaries on a quest with how f*cking persistent they are in tryin' my patience. But I ain't helpin' them make a single dime. Even if it means I can't sell to anyone in Coven-occupied territory without breaking our treaty. And I've tried bein' nice and lettin' in 'em, tellin' their scouts not to do it again next time. And the very next night, they're at it again, attempting to coax me to change my mind with a new deal. Ain't no respect at all for my boundaries. So, I finally had to turn 'em away at the Owl House altogether. Huh. I oughta get me someNo Solicitorsand Beware of Homicidal Bird ManWith tea set signs."

"Aw," Luz bites the lining of her lip, sagely choosing against prodding for more information about the tea set. "...I understand, Eda. But not serving to any members of the Ten Elite, or being unable to sell Apple Blood in their territories...that probably cuts way down on ya profits, right?"

"Don't remind me," Eda gripes, before managing a smile. "Eh. Let's forget about it. Ain't no use ruminatin'." At last, she comes to a halt in a backroom that appears to double as a repair shop judging by the work table, the tables, the tools scattered around. Luz looks around, puzzled.

Widening smile catching the candlelight, Eda kneels over a small, innocuous ring in the floor, slowly turning it. Luz’s heart sustains an orchestral tension, her eyes widening with disbelief as triumphantly Eda pulls back an enormous trapdoor from deep underground, light and brassy melody spilling from down below like a siren's invitation. Smirking as Luz can only gape at her–it’s one thing to hear, it’s another matter entirely to bear witness through the pulse of the world. “Ya ready?” Eda’s hand outstretches as she toothily grins, a golden snaggletooth twinkling.

Much, much, later on, Luz has no idea whether or not she replies anything clever, or kind, or crude–or anything at all, for that matter. Dazed, she only takes the Owl Lady’s hand in her own, before Luz’s tongue rots sweet, with gospel.

~o*oOo*o~

A music of frantic palms bursts into being as Luz and Eda climb down a winding latter. A backdrop of vaporous color. The tempo of Luz's breath sets itself to rising. She might perhaps sing if not for blood in her throat. Talk flows easily around them as warm as bathwater as patrons , countless patrons, fluenting the language in-between each other’s words. Eda lights to the floor first, and mockingly bows. "Party don't start, 'till I walk in!"

Luz falls to the red carpet of the ground, wringing Spanish, and then English, unsuccessfully for words. She weakly attempts to gather the periphery of her own life in the sea of color; it's enough to knuckle your eyes in disbelief. A modest-rise of a tin ceiling. Tasseled mismatched lamps, salvaged from dumps and polished with elbow grease till they sparkled fierce, casting warmth in all directions. Warm wooden floors, ancient rugs that glow a frenzied assemblies of dark golds and redbuds, chartreuses and ambers, woven and warm. Walls painted evergreen. A nearby bar twinkles with firefly lights. Even a little gold chandelier casts spots of luminescence. "Ya like it? I got it for a bargain at an estate sale." Eda holds up her hand and winks. “Five-finger discount."

Someone somewhere plays a blast of trumpet, blasting the valves of Luz's ears open. Luz gasps as Gilbert waves at her from the cavernous chamber, arm-in-arm with a grinning Harvey.Somewhere, a tender tremble of a piano sets the world to music, soft and twinkly in between beats. Luz spins on her heel, heart opening every valve to the desperate hope of being a self in a song.

Amidst the throngs, there’s a raised miniature stage with a makeshift velvet curtain draped around it.A string quartet is glossy with exuberance surrounding it. Miraculously, the guests are a parade of everything, in countless skin colors and in streaming mermaid gowns, every assortment of size and body shape clutching and twirling thin cigars that tweak the air vanilla and musk. Statuesque and gloved, fringed and pearled, sequinned and studded and feathered and headbanned, friends eye each other from behind masquerade masks with the kind of mutual recognition one could feasibly call flammable. People whoop from atop towering stilettos, inside intricately-beaded silver dresses.Luz finds herself caught in a whopping blush-there are simply far too many pretty people here to take. It’s the Palace of Versailles, underground.

Flustering, Luz accidentally stumbles backwards into an ebony-skinned beauty adorned in a mauve gown that clutches their curves, and billows at the edges in sparkling ballroom regality and splendor. “Oh–excuse me, I’m so sorr–”

Luz trails off again in disbelief, as the stunning debutante turns around, revealing the gloss of a well-kept goatee. A Queen of a Man regally tosses his sweeping velvet cape. “What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen a man, a gorgeous man, mind you, in a dress?” His voice is throaty, velvet-smooth, smoky. “Especially when that man happens to be the undisputed Queen of this Ballroom, Her Royal HighnessAvery Goodlay –aka, the Darius Deamonne?”

Positively exultant, breathblown, glacéd by a fervor of inward sunlight, Luz recovers enough to squeal: “You’re beautiful!”

“Well, naturally.” Pleased as punch, a smug Darius tosses his immaculately-kept hair as Luz swoons, positively aglow. “Eda, who’s your little friend here?” Darius gloats into a mischievous smirk, as he adjusts his pocket book. He might be the most magnificent of church grandmas if the most magnificent of church grandmas were also a drag queen.“The one who looks like they clearly ought to be working on coloring books with King? Seems Owl House deals in drag, discount-antiques, and now daycare."

“Hey!” An affronted Luz squawks, before performing a double-take. “Wait, who’s King?”

Eda growls as Darius quietly titters behind his glittering gloved hand. “You're forgettin' another d for dicks, which just so happens to be you."She spins on her heel, rounding on Luz. “Kid, I’d warn ya against admiring this here smirksmug f*ckface too much. Darius is so high up his own pedestal he might as well be the first man in space.And discount antiques? Please. Only thing discount here is clearly that wig."

Everyone in the vicinity gasps at that one, Luz included."You take that back, you bitch." Darius clutches his sparkling paste diamonds around his neck in outrage, pursing impeccably-glossy lips. “Excuse you, madam. Maybe you’d be a f*ckface proper and finally have yourself a date if only you considered moisturizingevery now and then.” He playfully elbows Eda in the side as Luz’s jaw drops in abject disbelief. “Only a thought, my dear. Have yourself a drink.” He hands her his own glass, glistening with amber contents. “Welcome home.”

Eda cackles. “I suppose I can keep ya around. After all, should put you on a watchlist for the amount of numbers you slayed in your drag performances.” She’s only too eager to raise her glass in a toast. “Tonight, we're gonna party like it's 1929!”

The room bursts into cheers as countless glasses come rising up on all sides in a toast, whoops and whistles spilling over like bubbling foam. Eda beams as she’s lighted upon the many adoring hands of the cabaret crowd, caught in the collective thrall of sheer excitement as she surfs upon a sea of open hands, air twangy with sweat and wine amidst a traffic jam of souls. Speechless, still shy, Luz steps back, shoulders hunching just a little inwards instinctively as a young girl, perhaps no older than sixteen, approaches the little stage, soliciting merry cries of Viney on all sides, a spotlight beam fixing its sights upon her.

Viney smiles from within the spill of her shadow. Pale-skinned, green-eyed, messy long chestnut hair drawn up in a messy bun held by an orange ribbon, wearing a fishhook earring in one ear, she serenely waves to the adoring gaggles in a taffeta orange party dress, cradling the microphone stand. Scrambled and wrung, Luz leans in amidst the crowds as Viney sings, snapping her fingers to a rhythmic accompaniment:

“Ever since the Prince of Wales in dresses was seen,

What does he intend to be–the King or the Queen?

Grandmother buys those tailor-made clothes,

Grandfather tries to smell like a rose,

Those Masculine Women, and Feminine Men….”

Laughing until her eyes dew over-and then do not cease in their hot overflow-as a piano player rolls into melody. Seconds later, someone clears their throat behind her, pro-offering her a glass. “Here. Ya look like ya could use this.”

Luz's stomach folds, eyes drawn wide. Sheslowly turns around to see a youth even shorter than herself, dark-haired and olive-skinned-he might perhaps be Greek-behind the oak of a bar he's vaguely wiping down with a blotchy cloth. He looks even smaller amidst the countless assortment of bottles that lackey him from behind.A long scar trails his skin like an open fissure of a geode upon his face. The boy’s eyes are ambered, suspicious, no-nonsense, where he sits upon a red vinyl stools behind the counter. He sports a sweet sailor outfit.There are a few spaces parsing gaps in the youth’s baby teeth, a few white vitiligo patches scattering his skin. Unsure of what to do, Luz accepts the proffered glass as she sits upon a wobbly stool missing a leg. “Gracias, but aren’t I too young to drink?” Her sunsoft face cut is briefly by worry.

At that, the youth swipes his shaggy bangs out of his face. “What drinking age? The authorities threw that out the window along with drinking!”

Luz brightens on the spot. “Welp, I’ll be darned! Hiya there. Oh–you’re adorable, little fellah!”

“Well,” scoffs the youth, snorting with symphonic gusto, crossing his little arms as he swiftly turns his head. This was, Luz thought, the bearing of someone whom wished dreadfully to be taken seriously, and knew in his heart of hearts he never, ever would be. “We all gotta make a living one way or another in this life, don’t we?”

Luz’s features trickle just a touch bittersweet as she raises her glass full of golden liquid in a cheers. “I hear that.” Briefly, her smile falls as she hurriedly looks around the room for Eda, feeling curiously lonely. Eda briefly catches her eye as she makes her rounds around the room, speaking with the drag performers lining up for the evening. Eda brieflygives her a reassuring wink and two thumbs up. Luz timidly smiles back, attempting not to ruminate on how Eda has given what appears to be an eight-year-old boy the task of barkeep. “What’s your name, little fellah?”

“King,” King says proudly, with no small touch of relish, as if he never tires of his own voice, or his own name for that matter. He beckons Luz to lean in. “And I work here, for Eda.” His face briefly wavers, as if considering turning itself inside out. “Alongsidethat actual fixture in purgatory, Hooty.Now, I don’t normally just give anyone free Apple Blood, but I saw ya come in with Eda just now, so ya must be a friend.” He furtively drops his voice again. “Eda’s in short supply of those. Don't tell her I said that to ya. She's still my boss."

Luz is taken aback. "Really? Everyone seems to love her. Even Warden Wrathdid!" Luz takes a polite sip of alcohol for the first time in her life, and nearly spews it all down her front, gagging profusely, eyes watering as her throat burns. Wheezing, Luz shakes her head wildly. Apple Blood leaves a fiery residue in her throat that she imagines is reminiscent to paint thinner. King snickers under his breath as Luz desperately pants: “W-what is this stuff, rubbing alcohol?!"

King tsks, lowering his rag and a glass. “Of course not! Rubbing alcohol doesn’t have nearly the alcoholic content of Apple Blood! Eda says even a little of this stuff really goes a long way. Heck, Eda says ya could probably theoretically put it in a fuel tank if ya were out of petroleum!"

Luz tries to process what she just heard. Casting a thoroughly-discomfited look at her own glass, Luz nonetheless produces a penny from her pocket to tip a beaming King. He eagerly produces a cashbox from under the counter, and Luz nearly drops her drink again at the sight of the cashbox's sheer overflow of money. “Whoa.” She whistles, long and hard. “Ya guys really are rolling in the dough off this stuff. I guess folks are pretty desperate for a drink right now." Key word being desperate, if they were willing to drink what tastes like death.

“Yeah, business's been booming!” King preens, as if the idea had been all his own. “Myself? I prefer Root Beer, but eh? Eda says if people, specifically payin’ customers, want their kidneys to be whiskey-colored, that’s their business. He hurriedly beckons in Luz again, his burning gaze catching a nearby taper, becoming borderline pyromaniacal in its rabid fervor. “But between you and me again,” he croaks, fire raging in his eyes. “I’m actually going to be the downfall of this great city.” He hops upon the bar, his maniacal laughter scarcely being drowned out by the pretty crooner singer on stage. "All hail, the King of Demons!"

At a loss, Luz tips again for good measure. King stops laughing just long enough to tip the jar to her.

~o*oOo*o~

Shyly, Luz meanders around a chapel of the God of Forgetting. Everyone seems untethered to the earth, lighting everything they come up on. Countless gaggles of people are clustered in corners to catch up. At Owl House, coming out clearly represents a coming in from the storm. Luz attempts to reacquaint herself with the earth under her tottering feet. A luminous orchestral call in her heart renders her insides soft and translucent. Thunderous applause swells and spills like water as Viney bows, finishing her number. Luz joins in rapt applause as musicians swell anoter swing number.Not even the triumphal Arc of Gold in all its violent beauty at church can possibly counter the likes of this.

A gaggle of pretty performers pass by, graceful like swans skimming a dark lake in their feathery stoles. A monarchy of outsiders, who make their own court. Luz spins, a little giddy as a first date with the underground itself, a little moon mad, bubbles bursting in her blood after a few very measured sips of Apple Blood.

She marvels at the chuckling women wearing pinstriped suits with smart matching top hats, knee-length tasseled flapper dresses with fishnet stockings, smoking cigars and chatting. Men wearing makeup and ballroom dresses, stealing coy kisses. People whom simply resembled people above everything else, wearing whatever they so pleased. What is her–his?–place among these people? Those whom dare ask for nothing but their own names, names that thunder the room when friends gleefully call out to one another in hellos. Briefly, Luz falters in her smile, smoothing rogue creases in her patched skirt. What good is even a name anyway, if no one answers back?Why was throwing a punch in a streetfight so much less intimidating than socializing?

Still, Luz meanders into the seated area full of mismatched little tables, sinking down and resting her fingers upon entwined fingertips as she gazes on. If she leaves now, she'll go on pretending to be normal until her body dies, never truly living. Because that liminal space before you knew what you were surely isn’t being alive. Nothing like this. Her hands fan over her fluttering heart. And despite being a great performer of her own lore her whole life long, Luz wonders dully if she were, in fact, the solitary person in the audience all along. She feels like curling upon the floor to listen to the earth's heartbeat, to see if it yet had a name for her/???

I wish Gus could see all this. Her heart twists. Oh, Gus. Luz wants to tell him everything, especially becausetelling makes a thing more real. And Luz can never tell him, especially because telling makes a thing more real.

The room basks in its own radiance, in remors of a breathless chandelier, even more majestic than what Luz imagined a theatrical scene would entail. Glorious and incandescent, like the feeling of the discovery of the word ichor. Briefly and perhaps morbidly, she imagines everyone present here tonight unstitching sweetly under soil, in proud homage to all the ruin they risk, ready to compose a love story, or an elegy.

Uneasy, Luz shook the dark out of her eyes. Surely no use dawdling, on what happens if they’re all caught. Still-everyone here already seems flushed with foundness as well as fondness for one another, where they already fit, in the enormous quilt of their interconnecting lives. Does anyone else here seek themselves out over and over again, partially-terrified there is simply nothing inside to be found? Wandering around in an ambulatory haze, not yet acquainted with their own intentions, let alone their own lives.Fingertips electric with all the things they couldn't yet touch, at the knuckled and tortured interlude between wondering, and Knowing?

Luz holds her glass aloft to look for Dante's reflection, if only to be with someone whom knows her,slightly-wistful as contagious guffaws punctuate brief jokes as friends and lovers fondly rendezvous. Seconds later, Luz has the impression of being in someone else’s shadow. Someone clears their throat. “Hey, new kid. Wanna sit at our table?”

Starting wildly like a spooked doe, nearly falling over in her stool, Luz spins around. A handsome youth clutching their drink, wearing a Star of David necklace around their neck, perhaps some sixteen or seventeen years old, with dark brown hair cut in a sleek short bob, with light brown eyes and an easy smile, clad in a knee-length brown dress over a translucent mesh top, with two earrings upon one ear and ankle boots, has approached. Gulping with a suddenly dry mouth, Luz might say hi. She also might quite feasibly say help.It's too hard to hear in here.

Pointing mutely at herself to verify, Luz wonders if she must've looked as displaced as she'd felt. "Yes." She can't hear herself. "Yes." The second time, she says it with her whole tongue as she hurriedly stands, knocking over her chair in her great haste. "I'd thanks to, love. Um, I'd love to, thanks."Welp, time to roll underneath the table in abject mortification and slowly wait to become one with the cold clot of the earth.

“Bee's knees!" the youth readily opens their hand for a hearty shake. "I’m Masha. So, I’m not either a boy or a girl–I’m a ne’er,ya might say.”

“What does ‘ne’er.’ stand for, exactly?” Luz asks, fascinated as she swipes her clammy hand upon her cloak before taking Masha’s hand in her own. Masha easily laughs, tugging Luz along as Luz attempts to casually pass off what appears to be a severe mental hemorrhage in being in such proximity to someone so stylish, so unfairly offhandishly-good looking, as if it were mere afterthought. “Ne’er a boy, ne’er a girl, I only do well at being ne’er. So, I guess that makes me a ne’er-do-well!”

Luz coughs up a short and breathless laugh. “I’m Luz. Sometimes! I’m a girl….sometimes? Oh, hell, I don’t even–oh!” Her shoulders square like a sea captain’s upon beholding Viney sitting at Masha’s table, gazing morosely at a crumpled letter in her hands. Luz is seven times over relieved when Masha cheerfully jerks their thumb in Luz's direction to introduce her. "Hey, guys! Look at the dame who came in with the Owl Lady."At that, the two girls at Masha's table look up. "Ain't just anyone Edalyn Clawthorne parties with, lemme tell ya that. You must be special!"

Luz's ears threaten to set fire, just like the rest of her. "I don't know why everyone keeps saying that." She gestures emphatically to Eda juggling empty bottles atop a nearby table before a cheering crowd. "Eda's clearly the life of the party!"

Viney leans back in her seat. "Clawthorne's something of a walking riddle: More you know of her, the less you understand."

Masha merely shrugs into a lazy toast. "Hey. She lets us in. All I need to know."

“Oh, you must be Viney!" Keen to know a name, Luz eagerly clasps Viney by the hands, spellbound. "You were so amazing, on stage earlier! I'd never heard a song like that before!"

“Thank you,” Viney croaks, attempting a smile. Luz realizes too late that Viney's eyes gleam furiously full of water, quickly disintegrating her placeholder smile. She glowers daggers again at an elegantly-scripted letter with as much rancor as if it owes her money. Masha shakes their head sadly. “Oh, Viney. Ya really shouldn’t have brought that with you tonight. Ya said ya wanted to perform in front of everyone. And take your mind off things for awhile." Luz wonders at how the word things has energy when Masha says it aloud, the energy of a living name.

Viney buries her face in her hands, slumping around a crumpled letter as if she folds herself over a sword. “I can’t believe I lost her. After all these years-" She breaks off, hands in her face. At a loss, Luz rests a hand upon Viney's shoulder.

“She lost you, Viney," Masha firmly counters, holding their hand out open expectantly. “You're a real catch. Ya just gotta heal, and remember that. Now, I’ll hold onto that letter for you. It won't do you any good to read that, over and over again. Don't even pretend ya haven't already got that breakup letter memorized-"

“I for one came out to have a good time and I’m feeling so attacked right now,” Viney grouses, hand banging mournfully against the table in rhythmic thuds. Luz hurriedly casts her cloak down upon the table so Viney doesn’t accidentally hurt herself. “What kind of girlfriend goes about gettin' expelled from boarding school on purpose, sends ya a letter sayin’ she just wants to be friends, and then has the sheer audacity to spritz the letter paper with her violet perfume?" She bands the table for good measure, fiercely looking to Luz for swift affirmation.Luz is at a loss. "Um, a bad one? But I'm sure your girlfriend didn't do get expelled on purp-"

"Oh, but she did. She even admits as such, on page 2, paragraph four!" Vineycries, and Masha pulls out a chair for Luz with a look that all but pantomimes: this is gonna take awhile. "And then, for the ultimate coup de grace, she decides to oh-so-platonically enclose a lock of her hair to remember her by!” Viney bursts into tears, drawing a ribboned strand of brown hair held together by a mint green ribbon. Flustered, Luz pats Viney on the back as the girl dissolves into sobs. Luz is staggered. “Are–are all breakups between–between girls–like this?”

“Actually,” Pipes up the fourth occupant at their table, a young woman with short ash-blond hair in a kneelength dress decorated by Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, and brown birthmark circling her neck. She briefly looks up from her typewriter, typing away at something. “This here is what you'd call pretty mild.”She pats Viney on the back consolingly. "Can I just say how gracefully you are taking this, dear?"

“And that would be Laur.” Masha introduces, squintinghard as Laur alternates sips between a coffee cup, and a glass of Apple Blood. “Why do I feel this explains so much about your whole creative writing process?"

Laur defensively produces a flask of water from under the table. "See? I do have a third one to balance them out. Now, I just need to finish this chapter. I'm hoping to use less nature imagery in my work as a crutch, and challenge myself by writing about a more urban environment for a change.

Masha looks over Laur's shoulder. "Honey? Um, you've written six paragraphs here about moss.Isn't your newest story supposed to be about organized crime?"

"It's called a process. I'm trying, here," Laur snaps, hiding the typewriter behind their back as her cheekbones redden.Luz contemplates Viney, misy-eyed. Her voice comes whispery from her throat. "Even in a place where everyone goes to forget, ya chose to remember. You must really love her." The way she says it with such gentle immediacy is was the antithesis of an afterthought

"Fat good that does me when the only thing she wants out of life is to be with her best friend," Viney grouses thickly, but she does accept Luz's handkerchief when pro-offered, blotting her red eyes. Luz's throat is caught up with questions looking at the crumpling expensive stationary in Viney's hands.

Laur pats Viney's shoulder sympathetically before returning to her typewriter. "We stand trembling in the place between stillness and movement for as long as we can. She might've sent that letter after her daddy declared his candidacy this week. You know that family's going to be in the public eye now more than ever. Reporters are always on the prowl around the estate. One good scandal could be more than enough to topple Blight's chances at candidacy. Crazy as it sounds, she might've done you a solid long-term."

Luz is lost. Masha for their part keen for a change in subject. “First time?”Luz shrinks a bit in her seat, both embarrassed and grateful. “Uh, yeah. Is it that obvious?”

“No worries.” Viney downs an impressive draft of Apple Blood, only grimacing slightly. "People like us, we gotta stick together now." Briefly, she pockets the letter and lonely lock of hair, and Luz wonders about whose head it came from, the girl Viney so clearly still loved. "We share our real lives, our real selves, with strangers. And we keep them from our bloodfolk.” A halfhearted shrug as she slaps down her empty glass. “That's just parr for the course, for most of us."

Discomfited, Luz takes a sip to think about anyone but Mami.Masha rises, beckoning everyone to their feet. "Ooh, I love this song! Now, let's remind this whole place how beautiful ya are, Viney. Let's go on the dance floor before the drag show! We all get to vote on who takes home the trophy tonight. Granted, it's probably gonna be Darius because he's the bee's knees, but it sure is refreshing, being able to vote. Even if only underground."

"Now, ya comin', new kid, or aren't ya?" Viney barks at Luz, swiping her swollen face.

Wild with an adrenaline so palpably unattainable it all but threatens to become sound-is this what feeling outside your body is like, or is the right word inside?-Luz drains a gulp of Apple Blood. "C-coming!"A stutter not only in her words but her breathing, shescrambles after the gaggle heading to a cleared square upon the floor in an oceanic collision of silhouettes.

~o*oOo*o~

“Uh-oh.” Bemused, Viney apprehensively leans in an hour later. “Well, that sure didn’t take long. Poor kid didn’t even finish their glass.Yeesh."

“Now that I’m–I’m-gonna tell ya what I really think about ya people!” Luz retorts, pointing, giggling upon the sea sway and swell of the room as she totters back and forth like a sidestepping crab. “I think-I think yer all pretty great, and probably really good at Parcheesi. There. I said it! Live with it!"

“Maybe there’s something to that whole drinking age thing….” Eda mutters under her breath as she struts over, penchantly-unamused as Luz giggles, lost to the wind. “Damn, what a lightweight."She plucks Luz’s glass from her hand. “I’m cuttin’ ya off, here and now. Go home, kiddo. You’re drunk.”

“Maybe we can call a cab to take them home?” Masha slowly proposes, raising their hand. “Now, what’s your address, sweetheart?”

Luz stops to think about it, eyes dilating in panic. “I don’t know.I forgot."

Eda buries her face in her hand as all eyes soon flick towards her expectantly. “Hookay, welp that answers that: You ain’t going on those mean streets like this, especially at this hour.” Briefly, Eda thinks of District Six's Nightprowlers.“Ya know what–to the main house with ya. It’s gettin’ late, anyway. She turns around. “From now on, it’s Root Beer for ya if ya come to the nightlounge, got it?”

Luz mumbles something incoherent in a chorus of tipsy giggles before Eda unceremoniously bodily tosses her over her shoulder. Brimming with thoughts she can't keep up with, Luz’s face burns as she waves goodbye to the ballroom, goodbye to the people kind enough to invite her to sit with them, goodbye to the disappearing floor as Eda ascends the ladder, as easily as if she had a mere bag of potatoes in tow. “I’m–hic–too big to be carried.” A glazed hush enters her voice, as if admitting to something awful. "I-I can walk home."

Eda does not turn around. “Yeah, well, realityclearly begs to differ. And considering ya don't even know your name right now, safest bet is for you to sleep off the moonshine and head back in daylight."

The Papi who survives in the outer corner of Luz's mouth briefly quirks up at the corners. Something catches in Luz's lungs; an opera collects at the base of her throat asthe wind outside sings ashrill song, a backwards lullaby in a night that stretches out and expands, as if it might go on forever. Insides humming, shecan't possibly believe, how very much there is to belong to in this life."I feel like I'm forgettin' something..." What was it again, she had to urgently do? "....something important...oh! I danced with people, Eda!"

"I saw." Alatch clicks open like teeth. "Good work, kid. I'm proud of ya."

Eda's home is a far cry from the warmth of the speakeasy next door. Drooping from Eda's shoulder, Luz looks on in alarm as they ascend a dark stairwell echoing, bulbs scattered few and far between. Thick, musty carpeting swallows their footfalls amidst fading chintz chairs. Smell of rotted wood, mothballs, mildew and dust rushes in, making her wrinkle her nose. Her wavering vision is fuzzy-the furniture appears ominous and animate in the unwelcoming gloom. "Is...this really where ya live, Eda? Oh! I got to talk with someone named Masha. Masha isn't a boy, or a girl! They left home in Conneticut to live with their spinster artsy aunt and her "roommate" in New York. Isn't that amazing?"

"Yeah, that's great." Eda sets Luz beside an untidy old bed in a little old room the color of grease, with a bare bed and nightstand. Several drawings are pasted to the walls, most of them including burning cities. "You'll be sharin' with King tonight. And be sure ya get some water in ya, or ye'll be sicker than me after Mardi Gras."

Luz's face warms sweet with gratitude, turning around to look for Eda. But Eda has already taken her leave. Luz gapes on, dumbstruck and already slightly-lonely. Instead, a young, familiar boy peeks his head inside.“Hey– Luz , was it?” King asks, slowly shuffling forward in his patched pajamas.

Still tipsy, Luz curls upon her side upon an untidy little bed, taking a draft of water. “Yeah. Dante sometimes.” She gazes at her palms, parting them as I tolet life take off in her hands. "King doesn’t even miss a beat: “Luz-Who-is-Dante-Sometimes. Will you tell me a story?”

Woozy-eyed, Luz merely pats the space beside her as King eagerly crawls over. When sleep does come, it comes buried in stars.

~o*oOo*o~

Morning comes, on a bruise-and-blue horizon, at Eda’s. Windowpanes fog around their edges, as if they know something. They might yet, still. Hickory chimney smoke threads through the wind, with the smell of oncoming rain. The sun and clouds chase one another.

While the grounds of Owl House are largely a pocket of quiet swaddled from city chaos, somewhere a hanging bell catches, concentrates a ghostly and ambient reverberation through early spring trees in state of dress and undress. An enormous oak sways budding branches in the unflagging scrape of March winds, knock-knock-knocking, at Hooty’s attic window. Hooty for his part snoozes on from his room, in his striped blue and white nightcap, and matching pajamas from his cot. King remains curled up in a warm ball, snuffling on in his sleep, little feet kicking as he cuddles the pallet’s occupant. The house's sleepy radiators breathe into a thrum to warm the mothball-and-creak of the place.

Sober-eyed, mouth the consistency of cotton, head pounding once again, Luz slowly sits up, careful not to accidentally wake King. Halfheartedly, she whistles. Manuel was always able to make the air sing, even when the air didn't want to. Slowly, she crawls to the window and peers out below–the house carpeted with a century’s worth of dry vines. Briefly, her brow kisses her knees. A room that swooned and sang. A Marquis of stars, where senses gorged themselves on beauty . Luz hadn’t been asked to dance at the ball, per say, like in a fairytale–that felt too much to hope for–but she’d been welcomed . She’d been wanted, flush out of the cold. Bubbling like the condensation clinging to foaming glasses, where people downed the stars.

And now–Luz hugs her knees in the thick of the dust, biting down on a whimper. Now, the night of dancing is over. And the piper stands over her, hand raised, expectantly, for his paycheck. It is now a king’s ransom.

She flops upon her side at the window and stifles a whimper, a prayer burrowing in her chest. Who can possibly stomach, the reality of how much you can stomach? Luz finds a woebegone, one-eyed looking bunny upon the floor and immediately scoops him up to clutch in her arms. She might’ve crawled beneath the skin of the world to clasp at its bones.

Here at the end of the world, the edge of her also asserts itself. She–he? Was not even one whole self. There simply isn't enough of you to save.

She’d never returned home last night. Not a single word. Gus probably visited the morgue. Perhaps he thought Luz had been stolen away by District Six workers, forced to sign a contract before her sigil-tattooing. And Camila. Luz buries a knuckle against her mouth. Camila would blow a gasket. Or worse, she wouldn’t punish Luz at all–she’d just look at her, Disappointed, where grief has ravaged not only them, but the growing gap between mother and child. Again, Luz would be lost to a kind of immobility despite working night and day, largely-reduced to the disoriented rhythms of loss.

Puffy-eyed from crying, attempting to will away the imminent end, Luz stands up to leave. Thank you for the good time, but I can never see you, or be Dante, ever again. Dante has almost definitely been fired now in any case. Mr. Piniet was scarcely celebrated as a generous man, and there were no shortage of boys reduced to nothing but eyes and teeth in their desperation, not caring if their bosses flung things at them.

Luz scuttles down the ancient staircase, lingering creaks in her wake. Hesitantly, her bare feet pad to a halt in the living room as she comes across the brassy gleam of a phonograph, its horn like a bellblossom.

Briefly, Luz sets the needle upon the record player. A halting, gritty melody:

When I last night, Had a bad big fight

Everything seemed to go on wrong

I looked up, to my surprise

The gal I was with was gone.

The music meanders on; Luz looks on in stillness, eyes glistening with roiling salt brightness amidst the countless yellowing books upon shelves. Smell of dust on pages. Cindersoot of a neglected chimney, drifting arabesques–she’d been too tipsy to notice much of it when Eda helped her to King’s bedroom. Ashing cigarettes flaking silver in the incense burner. Dry, crumbled incense of faded flowers. Luz’s breathing beats into something else entirely.

Where she went, I don't know

I mean to follow everywhere she goes;

Folks say I'm crooked. I didn't know where she took it

I want the whole world to know.

The jar of me, fit to bursting. Luz draws her knees up.

In an Orphean second, she’d been rendered from sacrament, to sentence. A humbling at the knees, lunar and fragmente, and impossibly, alive. Briefly, their shaking hand skims their chest cavity. Hazel eyes swivel to gaze out at fading italianate ogive windows.

How it had felt, just to be surrounded with those who were just waking stardust, with people names? She remembered her own body as something urgent. His eyes swivel to a sweeping ceiling of exposed beams. This poor house. Brow flustering, Dante wonders if sometimes atoms–be they in the shapes of houses, of human beings–converging at certain configurations, simply become haunted. There's a whole lot here falling apart at Clawthorne Place. The foundation included.

Trembling in prayer, with a sense of ache and unraveling, he tries and fails to summon momentum to leave– you’ll go to hell, you’ll go to hell –slowly, Dante reaches for an empty bottle of Apple Blood upon the table, turning it over in his hands. Probably one of Eda’s. If he were already going to hell, then why should it matter what risks he took up, to protect Camila? To give Gus a chance to go to college?

Dante meets Luz’s gaze in a great old mirror Eda appeared to have punched years ago, and simply left hanging, leaving an enormous hollow wound, and countless jagged shards still clinging to the wound, quivering. Sadness renders itself known in the temperature of glass. With wishbone eyes, Dante prays now to teach themselves out of invisibility as he turns for the ricket-rattle stairs to search for Eda.

Delineating pleats of rippling curtains flutter through the invitation of a half-open window. The phonograph wanders the slow of itself through its final stanzas:

They say I do it, ain't nobody caught me
Sure got to prove it on me;
Went out last night with a crowd of my friends,
They must've been women, 'cause I don't like no men.

Cause they say I do it, ain't nobody caught me
Sure got to prove it on me.

After all, Life, like Luz, like Dante, needs an exoskeleton to rest upon. Especially when our lives demand we give birth to ourselves, over and over again.

~o*oOo*o~

In her bedchambers, Eda is still sleeping with all the impassivity of a drunken sleeper as Dante draws back the patched curtains in her room. The colored glass with a cluster of violets resembles a quilt of lanterns, gently inviting a stream of sunlight in. Growling, Eda nonetheless draws herself into a warm ball beneath her covers. “Tell the light to shut the f*ck up.”

Dante winces. He’d learned to read in the light of riotfire. He prays those lessons save him now. “Sorry, Eda. But this can’t wait. I’ve got to talk to you.” Thrill of inquiry possesses him.

Propping herself upon her elbow, fair hair flyaway and bed-ruffled, Eda gapes at him in abject bewilderment, as if the Angel Gabriel came calling. “Who the actual fresh hell are you?”

Dante’s smile could almost be pronounced dead upon arrival; it’s barely pieced together by incredulity that looks like a prayer. “The–the one–who saved your life yesterday?” He drops anchor in the drift of the world. “I helped ya get away from Wrath? Remember that? Remember that time that’s gonna pay my future psychiatrist's mortgage?”

Squintsullen, Eda looks at her upside down alarm clock before flinging it bodily through the now-open window. “The house better be burning down,” Eda warns, and Dante gapes at her, amiss. “Although that still feels like something that could’ve been a telegram. Delivered at noon.”

Sucking in a deep inhale, exhaling again, hands squeezing into fists to hold onto Something–Dante blurts it out: “I want, to work for you. With your Apple Blood business.”

Face wrenching, paling, Eda sputters into a hiccuping choke of sound, as if Dante had cheerfully announced his heart’s latent desire to swandive straight into a wood chipper. Seconds later, she rolls off the bed with a thud. Dante scurries to offer her a hand, but Eda merely draws herself upright on her own, trudging off for the kitchen. Distressed, inwardly flailing, Dante follows her down the hall.

“Eda, please! Just hear me out! If ya just had a little more help, ya could probably sell a lot more. Even in Coven-operated territory! Ya could make even more customers–”

He had thought the mere mention of money would’ve been more than enough tantalizing, glistening skewered meat upon a butcher’s hook to make Eda agree on the spot. But Eda merely raises a finger, specifically her middle one.

“For the sake of my sanity: We are gonna wait,” Several inches taller, she nonetheless crouches to be eye-to-eye with Dante. The words are not on the tip of her tongue so much as they are forced out through the golden molar in her teeth. “Until I have my coffee.”

Dante balks. “Yes, ma’am.”

~o*oOo*o~

Compared to the whopping disrepair of the rest of the house, the kitchen’s clang-dangling medley of copper-and-tin pots and pans dangling overhead appear largely untouched. Privately, Luz doubts very much that Eda ever prepares much more upon her stove than perhaps her teakettle, judging by the sheer overflow of oily takeout food wrappers brimming in the trash. She's not one to judge; she never found cooking so soothing quite like Mami does.

Curious, Dante takes hold of one of the pots, allowing it to fleck backwards into its fellows like a metronome of motion and sound. He laughs, delighting in the orchestral musical chaos.

“Will ya quit that, already? My hangover has a hangover!” Eda yelps over the dark grit of her Hobart Coffee grinder, whipping around with a martyred look.

“Sorry,” Luz peeps at once, hurriedly grabbing the clotheslines of swaying pans to still them. “So….have ya given it any thought?” Her mouth might still be testing her capacity to say the words aloud.

“Kid.” Eda lifts tepid coffee cup to her lips. A dark laugh cracks its way out her dry mouth even as she leashes her impatience. “I don’t need to tell ya there’s far more to it than just wild parties and runnin’ off from the stupid cops.” She picks up a nearby newspaper and tosses it as Luz’s feet. Luz slowly kneels, biting the inside of her mouth upon reading graveyard block font: INFAMOUS OWL LADY ESCAPES ARREST WITH ACCOMPLICE, cont. Page 4. “Dante’s been implicated.”

Luz leans forward. “Well, if they’re gonna call me your accomplice anyways,why not, I dunno, go ahead and be your accomplice?”

Eda pinches the bridge of her nose, her eyes briefly skirting with worry. Luz wonders if that in fact makes Eda closer, or further away right now.“Please, don't make gravity play God. This sh*t–selling and distributing–gets dangerous.People have died."

“...I know.” Sadness settles into the hollows underneath Luz's eyes. “Even so.” Her hands buckle into fists. “No one would ever give me a chance, to make it.”

Eyes undulating like flames, Eda quietly contemplates Luz over the rim of her cup, releasing a sound that bit and caught at the air. Luz might be staggering into the threat of the sky in this pale of morning.

“I worked my hardest in school, and I still had to drop out, when Papi died, and Mami got sick.” One fist curls over her heart, eyes glassed with tears. “I tried, so hard. To pray. To be a good Catholic girl. To be a girl. To fit in. But when everyone at Papi’s wake said I should marry a working boy–or e-even a working man –so that my Mami and I would be taken care of –”

Luz’s whole body beats with adrenaline, head bent as if telling the ground a secret. Camila's body in the steady lilt toward oblivion. “I didn’t want , to curl up on some stranger’s fist. If that’s what they call salvation, then I won’t take it.”

Sharp and angular profile vulpine, Eda shuffles a few steps forward, shadowed face wavering with admiration. Can you possibly be mad new, when you haven't felt new in years? Luz’s face is still turned to the window, wherethe world outside announces itself in warning and promise.

“If it were just me,” Window is speckling with tentative raindrops, falling in an arrhythmic patter. “I’d be fine. Even if I starved or froze to death on the streets, I’d be fine, because I’m just me. But Mami–and Gus–they aren’t just anything.” Hot tears land upon her bare feet.

“I tried getting work, and I just couldn’t make enough. So what the world won’t give me–” In the wash of light cast by the window, Luz lifts her eyes bright with determination. Quietly looking on, Eda thinks words have this funny way of rearranging you.

“–I’ll take. I don’t care what it means, I have to do! Especially if it means I can protect Owl House this way, too.” Wretched, nerve-jangled, Luz plucks out her rosary from under her collar. “G-God forgive me–” Dante should not be left alive with the reminder of his own unaliveness. It was too cruel a fate, for anyone to bear.

Luz starts, wavering in an exhausting choreography of crying, and trying not to cry, as Eda’s hand briefly rests upon her head. Eda’s expression is set, but even Chaos surely pales at Eda’s eyes. Oh, but it is hard, lifting her heart off this ground. But Eda is not the sort of person to be tamed by fear, or anything else, for that matter.“I’d say ya good and made yer point, kid.” She looks Luz over hard. Scrubbing at her eyes, Luz readily meets Eda’s gaze, something galloping drum-furious in her chest.

Lowering her hand, Eda quietly turns to the window. Oh, but life has already keened Eda's edges. Why should even matter, if the kid were that desperate? Still. “Hell ain't exactly where you should be placin' your bets….”

“Well, who else is gonna lend a couple of ladies a startup loan?”

Eda snorts, pale as a ghost in her bathrobe. “Touche.” The saddest part, Eda muses, peering at the sea of dry wintry grass surrounding the house, in making a deal with the devil is that the very action itself implies there simply are no other takers to be found. Invariably, you'll probably wind up selling for less than market value. “Well. What hasn't killed you can possibly pay the rent….”

All the world falls away as the wind sucks itself from Luz’s lungs. Eda turns to Luz, whom is dancing up and down, waiting . There have been days Eda wasn’t wasn't sure she'd survive myself. She wonders now if they will survive each other. “Fine.” Eda’s hand swings forward like a pendulum. Wonderingly, Luz takes it. “It’s a deal. You work for me now.”

Luz breathes in a constellation of green as her heart sings. “Gracias. I won’t let ya down, I promise! How long have you been at this? Not the bootlegging part, but–”

“Long enough to be different after” is Eda’s threadbare reply as she goes to refill her coffee mug. She has the niggling suspicion she will need it.“Coming here is a declaration of accepting ya might get caught.” Eda props herself upon the counter. “And that, by extension, means acceptin’, our own deaths. Ya do know that, right?”

But to Eda’s surprise, Luz merely smiles, eyes sparkling with such determination the shine can be felt from the inside. “If that what it takes, to finally be alive!”

A candlestick telephone rings upon the counter. Luz jumps. Eda frowns. Slowly, she crosses the room, downing her coffee, holding both the mouthpiece and receiver aloft. “Hello?”

“HIYA, EDA! GOOD MORNING!”

Eda draws a hand down her face at the familiar chirp, as if in attempting, in vain, to wipe her own face clean of mounting annoyance. “Hooty, quit playin’ prank phone calls and tyin’ up the line!”

“BUT EDA, WE’VE GOT A CUSTOMERRR! THEY WANTED TO ASK YOU ABOUT A CERTAIN COLLECTIBLE, HOOT! SHOULD I INVITE THEM TO THE BACK FOR A TEA PARTY?”

“A customer?” Eda brightens on the spot. “Hold it right there. I’ll be right down to the barn.” Hanging up, Eda turns to Luz. “Guess ya might as well come with me kid. Start learnin’ the ropes.”

Remembering herself back into a working outline, Luz co*cks her head. “Antiques? But I thought–”

“C’mon,” Eda returns an exasperated look as she toes on her slippers. “I don’t only deal in booze and fun-timey shenanigans, ya know. We gotta sell some sh*t around here. Helps the look of legitimacy. The more legitimate a business looks, the less likely police are goin’ to come around askin’ dumb questions like, “D’ya have a license? Or: Is this a moral abomination, abhorred by God Herself?” She grins toothily, slapping Luz across the back. “All part in learnin’ the ropes, kiddo.”

“Well…” Luz certainly knows the choreo of this dance all too well. Hard labor. “Lemme see to this customer, and I’ll go check in on Mami and Gus. I’ve got the world’s best cover story!”

“Which is?” Eda barks as Luz scampers off, Eda hot on her heels.

“I’ll know it when I see it!”

~o*oOo*o~

The musical clang of the bell announces them as Luz eagerly bursts through the Owl House door, face fully lit by its smile. “Hello there, folks! How can we help ya this lovely mo–this mor–”

Beneath the wan daylight filtering in through the rafters, Luz’s voice plummets, door still ajar in her wake, a languorous breeze taking her hair to flight as her boots come to a halt. Bewildered, Eda prods her shoulder from behind as she strides in. “Hey, what’s going o–”

Eda’s gaze darts over to the shop’s woodscarred counter, where Luz is currently staring. Soon the entire shop is quiet–even the drip of the nearby old faucet spigot remains lipless.

Standing in the crooks between grimy windows, telltale night circles looping their eyes, Raine Whispers whips around at the sound of the bell, face prickling with an undifferentiated rush of worry and affection when their gaze darts over to Luz.

Eda and Raine’s eyes meet next across the storefront of quietly-rotting things that still clings with the smell of must and old hay in the soft of its fading wood. The memory of their brief encounter yesterday comes rushing back to Eda’s face, levers under her ribs. Something like whiskey moves in her throat. Raine’s gaze briefly touches her face with a kind of reverent curiosity, before quietly withdrawing.

Squealing, heart almost too hopeful to breathe, Luz recovers enough to scramble over in greeting, joyously flinging her arms around Raine. “Raine! Raine! How’d ya find us? Whaddaya doin’ here?”

Clearly taken aback at being hugged, cheekbones fevering into a flush upon stumbling back a step, Raine nonetheless returns the embrace seconds later, pulsing with relief as unguarded softness briefly steals over their features. Raine savors a deep breath, albeit one chased by a pang of protective loyalty.

Bemused, Eda leans against the wall. There is a wane and winnow of Luz’s friend–Raine does not appear to have slept properly, judging by the oil wells darkening the atlas of their eyes. “Are y-you h-h-hurt?” Raine’s voice is hoarse, voice stripped of its signature song, stammer more sharply pronouncing itself.

Seconds later, Raine anxiously draws back to look a broadly-grinning Luz over for injury, something Eda assures herself doesn’t hurt her feelings one whit. Then, Raine’s gaze briefly cools as it meets Eda’s again. Their dead-eyed stare is briefly the color of glass, expression appraising her as from over a long distance. Slowly, their foot starts pattering a morse code rebuke of tap, tap, tap, tap,

Eda resigns to them a weak smile. “Look, kid followed me home, okay?”

Chapter 5: One of Gus, Part I of III

Chapter Text

~o*oOo*o~

After all

Darling, I wouldn't sell the world

The way that things are turning

If it falls

I would hold on for all it's worth

The future's so bright, it's burning.

~o*oOo*o~

“Raine.” Amazed, Luz grasps the dark coolness of Raine’s hand in her own, as if to reaffirm its solidity. “I was worried sick, when ya up and disappeared so suddenly–”

Startling, Raine exhales a sound too soft to be spoken. For the first time, Luz notices the tiny bloom of a budding red rose, pinned to the dark rough of Raine’s herringbone vest. “My d-dear.” The sheer sweet earnestness of Luz, now so thin light outweighs her by margins, startles a pained smile out of Raine. “I b-believe that i-is m-my line.” Slowly, Raine’s expression falls as they wince in sympathy for what’s surely coming next; Luz’s tongue shoots to the roof of her mouth. “Y-you’ve no idea, child, none a-at a-all, h-how much you w-were…” Raine does them both a kindness in not completing the sentence.

“I know.” Shamefaced, Luz hangs her head, as her stomach plummets into a cold cellar. “I’m so sorry! It’s all my fault. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, honest! Oh, I hope–” She’s about to say Gus and Mami , and her throat becomes a garrote, tightening into the open gape of a noose. At once, she switches tracks, keen not to cry.

“I was stupid , but I was so desperate to meet more people like us, when I heard about the underground. I just couldn’t wait any longer!” Luz attempts to unclench a knot of pain in her spine. “I was afraid if I went home, I’d wake up, and everything would’ve been just another dream. I meant to go home after the party, but I was so tired I couldn’t move no more, not even a single step.” A blush as Luz ties the truth of her life to the end of a kite string and runs a crooked, weaving line to vault it into the air.

“....so, turns out I’m what Eda calls a lightweight, and I’m not meant to drink Apple Blood now. Or possibly ever again. But….where have ya been, all these weeks? You’ve never disappeared from the market that long before. Not without tellin’ me first.”

With all the fresh lucidity of loss, Luz nonetheless finds herself faltering as Raine closes their eyes, clearly pained. The outline of an implication sinks between their ribs, and into their heart.

A dark harvest of wind chimes takes off tinkling, stirred outside the Owl House antique shop. Eda leans silently against the shop counter all the while, her falcon yellow eyes quietly darting from the red rose in Raine’s buttonhole, to Raine’s freshly-bandaged left wrist. Knowing skirts her eyes seconds later, raking them thereafter with apprehension.

Luz, however, is still completely lost. “I thought something awful happened. I even asked around the marketplace if Little India had been–” The mere idea of a scarlet banner, sigil traced out of the unfortunate residents’ blood, waving like a triumph over the decimated remains of a once-glowing neighborhood, is enough to recoil her from her own words again.

“And then, I thought maybe, y’know, what if it was something I said at the marketplace last time we saw each other, and I hurt your feelings–if I did, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry–and ya just didn’t want nothing to do with me anymore, which, hey, I understand, no hard feelings, a lot of folks come to that conclusion–” Shut up, shut up, shut up , she inwardly pleads, but Luz can’t stop babbling at the swaying brink where she belongs to nobody, and where nobody belongs to her, either.

Eda silently takes a step forward, but Raine is faster; their work-worn hands, which Eda finds herself quietly lingering over, quickly tug Luz in for another embrace. Those hands hold Luzin fragility.

“Sweetheart. Breathe .” Eda muses that Raine’s hair is prematurely-thinned, like a dandelion in an early wind. Their skin might’ve been touched by molten gold leaf for the warmth of it. “N-nothing of the s-sort h-happened.” Raine briefly betrays the battlefield life has made of them when Luz looks on the verge of crying in her first language. “M-my stars. I never d-dreamed a-anyone would even n-notice .” Raine's voice briefly plays E-sharp, before flatlining on all keys in a dissonant chord. “I h-had m-merely t-t-taken i-i-ill, was a-all.” Eda wonders if it’s coincidental that Raine’s lisp comes more pronounced when they’re obviously lying.

“N-not without y-you.” Raine picks up a nearby violin case from upon the floor, whose embroidered wood is ancient, and so meticulously-polished it all but pulses softly in morning gloom. Raine hurriedly steps in front of a bemused Luz. Eda looks on with a color of impatience as she and Luz’s eyes wordlessly meet. Although, for all the stammer frequently waylaying Raine’s words, for all the timid, gangly look of them that suggests they relish a prescribed treatment of leeches far more than a confrontation, Eda begrudgingly admires Raine still does not back down from the prospect of a fight, if only for Luz’s sake.

Raine’s features darken. “You h-have no i-idea, just w-what you’re r-risking right n-now, being i-involved in the u-underground like this.” Briefly, Raine’s grasp tightens over the handle of their instrumental case, and Eda wonders what sort of heat Raine is packing. “T- things are a-about to get extremely d-dangerous in this city.”

Scarce-enough light filters through splintery wooden rafters to shrink the shadows. Dust flecks drift hazily in a pale spotlight. Flabbergasted, Luz finds herself quickly accosted by a cold thrill of gooseflesh, even as an impasse wedges resolutely in her stomach. No. Please. You have to understand.

Raine inwardly curses as they force the erratic pulse of their breathing under control. “I’m not….a-at liberty, t-to explain. I’m s-so s-sorry i-if I’m frightening you. But I do n-not wish, for you to be caught up in a w-war few will s-survive.” Raine’s voice catches upon something like a nail–perhaps itself. “I do n-not wish, to see you h-harmed. Do y-you understand? Why y-you should f-forget this p-place, and g-go home?” With all the weight of their own mortality, Raine softens. “You are e-everything, to her.”

Torrential chords pluck sharp in Luz’s heart. Her face is burning her down with wave upon wave of open franticfire. “Raine, ya don’t understand. I have to be part of all this. For Mami’s sake! And how…how do ya even know all this? What are ya talking about?”

The real question she desperately wants to ask: Who are you, really tangles up in the telegram wires upon the way. She’s nearly leveled with relief upon glimpsing Raine’s forearms still bear no coven sigil crests, although there is a small bandage upon the inseam of their left wrist. “Raine, are you hurt–”

“Hey.” Eda breaks her silence at last. The edge in Eda's voice shivers the air as Raine and Luz both whip around to gape at her. “Ain’t things already ‘extremely dangerous,’ as I tried explainin’ to the kid earlier?”

Eda marches over until she and Raine are nearly nose-to-nose. In the sudden, fervent hush, Luz winces in sympathy, as if a thumb plays at her windpipe. No one with an inkling of self-preservation in this lifetime surely wants to be on the receiving end of Eda Clawthorne’s leveling, beacon-of-flame stare. And yet Raine’s dark, timid gaze is unwavering.

“Sorry, Tall, Dark, and Cryptic. But the kid ain’t goin’ nowhere, unless she consents to leave with ya.” Eda’s voice deepens as her decision forward solidifies. “Ya try forcin’ Luz into anything, yer lookin’ at the business end of a tea party with Hooty. Ain’t as picturesque as it sounds.”

“Oh, boy!” Hooty cries, hitherto forgotten in his nearby corner as he frolics into a gleeful jig, positively radiating with excitement. “Tea party, tea party, tea party!” He furtively stoops to whisper in Luz’s ear: “ My teas are a special, homemade blend of darjeeling, strychnine, and broken glass. With a little honey, courtesy of live bees.” He winks as he raises his index finger to his lips. “Don’t ya tell nobody now!”

Raine tenses, regarding Eda with a hyacinthine coolness. “I do not w-wish to f-fight.” Their gaze falls upon the nearby violin case. “This does not m-mean I am not prepared to.”

“Stop it now, both of you!” Luz cries, racing out behind Raine to stand in-between the mutinous parties. Spasmed seconds crawl up the dark mirrored face of a nearby antique clock in the corner. Brow glistening with sweat, Luz rounds on Hooty first as he plucks a nearby silver teapot off one of the merchandise tables. “Hooty, no tea parties! At least none where someone chokes on their own esophagus and internally bleeds to death!”

Hooty’s face quickly folds in, crestfallen. “Aw.” Sulking, he kicks his loafer upon the floor, suddenly a mere slip of a boy denied a trip to the drug store for penny candy. “Can it be called a tea party then? I had a new hat and everything.” He produces a charming straw hat with a trailing cream-colored ribbon from behind his back, morosely donning it. “It was going to be a real hoot.”

Eyes soft with emotion, Luz slowly turns to Eda. “Eda–thank you, so much, but this is a good friend of mine.” Eda harrumphs as she looks away, feigning nonchalance. “Raine–Eda’s not bad–”

“Speak for yourself, kid.” Eda can’t help but flaunt it–why not, if you’ve simply got it? “If you’re going to be bad, ya might as well be perfectly good at it.”

“Not helpin’ your case here, Eda!” Luz snaps, at her wits’ end. “Raine: Yesterday kind of just kept happening, and happening, and happening. All over the place. See, I work…well, I did work….” Dante’s almost certainly been fired, now. “...a job, dressed as a paperboy.” Luz wonders if it’s possible to play the part of your shadow's shadow as she meets Raine’s gaze. “Mami doesn’t know, and I beg that ya not tell her.” Luz’s fingers curl in her rosary beads for comfort as Raine steadies her. “But the police cornered Eda in an alley. The Warden was a gross old codger, and wanted her to force her to go on a date with him!” Just the memory alone is enough to have Luz’s skin thrash on the bone. “I had to do something. ”

“Of course you did,” Raine sighs, sounding far more fond than particularly surprised as their gaze briefly flicks to the ceiling. “The i-infamous Warden W-Wrath.” Briefly, Raine’s eyes wander curiously to Eda. “I take it you did not accept his courtship…?”

At that, Eda scoffs and crosses her arms. “As if. Not my type. I might go dumpster diving on the fly, but even I have some standards.”

“Splendid.” Raine seems shy of aiming their smile her way, so they aim it at a nearby dented compass at one of the display tables instead. “You have t-taste. Wrath is ss-urely not renowned in this c-city for his a-altruism, or hygiene, for that m-matter. The loss is e-entirely his o-own, I am sure.”

Eda’s reddening cheekbones clutch at flames, because if she didn’t know better, she’d say Raine’s veneer goes from defensive to teasing in a mere matter of seconds. Thankfully, Luz doesn’t seem to notice as she starts.

“Oh–I forgot to tell ya.” Her eyes are the reflected shine of streetlights on a rain-wet street. Her hands wheedle at each other. “I’m still figuring things out, but I’d like it if ya more than anything if ya called me Dante when it’s safe to.”

“A lovely name.” Raine praises, and now it’s Dante’s turn to taper into a blush, pleased. “Good to m-meet you. It’s quite alright, to t-take your time in f-figuring out who you a-are. In fact, I would a-advise it.”

“Eda!” Comes a frantic voice across the courtyard. Everyone jumps. “Eda! I woke up, and I can’t find–” Panting, King flings open the shop door; Briefly, his eyes zero in on Dante.

“Oh, it’s you.” Coughing dryly and delicately, King feigns a theatrical yawn as he leans against the doorway, inspecting his nails. “For the record: I wasn’t looking for ya. I just wanted some jam and bread, is all.” His voice drops so low as to be pure mumble: “And to maybe eat it with someone it whom isn’t a criminally-insane sadomasoch*st.”

Hooty perks up. “Did someone call my name?”

“Run along, for a sec, ya three,” Eda barks, with a twinge of internal guilt. “I just need a moment alone with–”

“Them,” Raine fills in quietly.

King can scarcely believe his good fortune. “Don’t have to tell us twice! Let’s go!”

Dante balks as King seizes his hands, his heels soon swallowed up by mud. “But, I’m late! Late, late, late, for a very important date! I’m so late, it’s early! What about my heading home?”

“C’mon, please?” King begs, widening his eyes as large as they might go. “Hooty is deranged, and doesn’t count as a playmate.” He cheerfully ignores the pointed squawk of indignation rising in his direction. “And Eda’s usually too tired.”

Easing into a soft sigh–King’s warm dark eyes remind him just a little of Gus’s–Dante at last slips into a small smile as he hesitantly slips Eda and Raine a thumbs-up. “I have an idea, boys.” He stoops to collect a forgotten coil of rope lying in the corner of the barn. “Hooty, can ya help us right quick? I wanna show ya guys something.”

The three go spilling out into the morning, where the rain has abated. Furtively exchanging glances, Raine and Eda follow past the creak of the splintery-soft shop doors. Morning is now adrift like a golden benediction over speckled pale green boulders with moss and lichen, underneath the flicker of shade and sunlight in the scattered prose of prairie. Inhaling appreciatively, Raine thinks they detect the harsh, poignant scent of sagebrush on the wind, although it doesn’t seem accidental that it’s coming from Eda’s direction.

Dante directs Hooty to clamber up a nearby enormous oak, catching the rope end Dante tosses him, instructing him how to tie something called a swing-hitch knot to the branch.

“Well done!” Dante praises heartily, cups his hands over his mouth, the shadow shapes of weaving cedar boughs playing over his young face made younger in the strike of sunlight, greening the wind with pollen.

“I for one wouldn’t make that a habit if I were ya,” King advises flatly into a frown as Hooty cheers from overhead. “I once overheard Eda saying Hooty has something called a praise kink. She wouldn’t explain what that was, exactly, but it don’t sound like anything good.”

“See, we street kids have to make our own fun back in the city with whatever we can find,” Dante explains patiently, hopping upon the dangling coil of the swaying rope swing. “Especially since most of the playgrounds are for Whites Only. Lemme show ya…”

King performs a fantastic double take as Dante jumps from the swing, alighting to the ground and raising their hands in a ta-da. “I wanna try! I wanna try!”

Dante laughs, wiping their hands off his sides. “Alright, I’ll give ya a push. Hold on tight now!”

“I must a-admit,” Raine confesses at last beneath the golden knolls and the season's slant of light, peering into a nearby pond, whose shadowy-sunny water glints with the silvery dart of passing minnows. “This was really not w-what I was e-expecting..”

Eda’s pleased lazy smile at seeing the boys having fun swiftly curdles in on itself. “What? Did ya think I had the kid tied up in a dark basem*nt or something?” Eda barks, regretting it instantly as Raine says nothing. She’s infuriatingly-perplexed; when has she ever given the slightest of f*cks what anyone thinks of her? “Quit projectin’ your kinks on me.”

Raine removes their glasses, shining them on the edge of their vest. “A y-youth who’s in a c-considerably-vulnerable p-place in their lives d-disappears without w-w-warning. Wouldn’t y-you i-investigate?” Briefly, Raine’s aquiline features sober as they pluck out Eda’s wrinkled business card from their inner pocket. Eda is struck dumb by the fact that she’s pleased Raine kept it, if really only to track her and Luz down. “I d-didn’t know what t-to th-think.”

“So, ya a relative?” Eda’s eyes yo-yo Raine’s features, and then Dante’s. Then, she sizes up Raine again, if only because it’s an easy task even on her morning-sore eyes. “Ya look a little bit like him, and I’m startin’ to think the whole ‘concerned heroic bystander ’ bit is hereditary.” Eda almost hopes that it is, lest the affliction instead be simply contagious, and they all inevitably die of it one day.

Raine’s face fills with warmth at the insinuation, baffling as it is. “N-No. I’m a f-f-family f-friend. I was c-close, with Dante’s l-late father.” It’s not lost on Raine on how Eda’s head betrays the slightest of involuntary tremors, her stoic countenance briefly rippling with unease like radio static. “C-C-C-Camila…” An articulation of an ache, in a refrain of a ballad. “...ah, Mrs . Noceda, his w-w-widow, she’s b-b-been very w-w-w-worried about her child. As have I.” Curiously, Raine turns to Eda. “You have, ah, many c-children on the p-premises h-here?”

In a swell of panic, Eda sees then the spirit of her own desperation. “As if. I’ll have ya know there are no kids here.” She has to raise her voice to be heard over Hooty, King, and Dante’s chuckles and cheers as Hooty takes a turn on the rope swing. “Just workin’ employees.” She hurriedly swivels her gaze hard, because she can all but hear Raine quipping a skeptical brow. “Look. Dante cornered me this morning, and asked me to take him on as an apprentice in my work.” She admires her boots. “Figures why he’d be so damned desperate if he’s the sole breadwinner for his household now.”

Raine closes their eyes. It’s their turn, to look pained. “Miss Edalyn.”

“Eda.” The rising sun sketches the architectures of the light as Eda doggedly gazes at the skyscrapers on the horizon. “It’s Eda to ya, ya hear?”

With a rising as soft as sinking, Raine ruminates how Eda’s smoke-colored hair catches the light. “....Eda.” Her name is a kiss to say; the song-syllable at the back of your throat of Eh, the slight curling and dip of the tongue on the finish of da. “I have m-my c-concerns–”

Raine marvels how Eda’s flintlike expression might’ve been carved into her like verses cut in old stone; she might be an obelisk amidst the unkempt grass in the vowel of the earth, if not for the heat of her. “It’s my own damn business if I want to have my own business. I ain’t waiting for no law to tell me what I can sell in this life.” Briefly, her head dips slightly. “Not everyone passes for a man like ya do.”

“That isn’t m-my worry h-here.” Raine quickly counters. “In fact, I t-think it’s n-noble of you, to give p-people like us a s-safe space with the O-Owl House. I worry only for D-Dante’s safety–”

Eda could snort. Noble. “First of all: Whatever hash ya and the kid have been smoking, ya better have brought enough to share with the class. Secondly: Speakin’ of the kid, I wonder why,” Eda swallows Raine’s bewildered stare and tries not to ruminate on the taste of it as her voice dips. “Ya went and lied to him earlier.” She turns on her heel, reciprocating Raine’s earlier coolness. “I ain’t been birthed yesterday. I didn’t bring it up in front of him, ‘cause I see he admires ya.”

Silence. Raine is adrift, far out on a windless sea, numbed save for the cold spray at their back. Guttering from the black river of themselves, Raine’s wrenching features briefly tell on themselves: “Why?!”

Eda performs a half-shrug as Hooty gleefully attempts to launch himself off the rope swing and take off soaring, only to land gracelessly on the ground. Dante scurries over to check for Hooty injury whilst King doubles up cackling. “Hell, I asked myself the same question yesterday when Dante went around comparin’ me to one of his book characters.”

Raine smiles, creases digging footholds around their eyes. It is not a happy smile, beneath trees that stand in placid mortality around them. “Robin Hood ? Or w-was it Treasure Island t-this t-time?”

“Robin Hood.” Eda pokes Raine in the ribs. “But don’t think I don’t know what you’re avoiding. I could tell just now that you bein’ sick wasn’t why ya up and disappeared on him.” She shrugs, keen to appear the picture of indifference as she plucks out her lighter and cigarette. “Hell. I ain’t no saint myself. I just wanted to know why ya felt ya had to lie to him. Ya seem smarter than that, I ‘spose. Maybe it’s the glasses givin’ me false advertisin’.”

The sky vaults overhead an abyss of blue, briefly parsing even the emptiness between them. For a brief moment, Eda even imagines it washes the hollows out of her with skylight in a speckled green impressionist painting.

Like a tree, Raine resorts to their roots in times of danger. When at last they speak again, they’re softer than the wind making the grass bow to the ground. “It was t-truly not my i-intent, to hurt anyone. Especially n-not Dante.” Raine takes on a more turbulent tempo before assuming the tempo of emptiness. “In truth? I h-had not believed t-there was anyone to be hurt. By m-m-my absence.” A self-effacing smile twinged bittersweet, eyes a memory of a million varnished stars. Oh, but the tell of it is damning, particularly Raine's tell of it. “It doesn’t ma–”

“Well, reality begs to differ, don’t it?” It’s surely a seance in the middle of a sentence, Eda attempting to sound as brisk and unaffected as possible. “Kid was obviously worried sick about ya back there. No skin off my back–just an observation. So, logically speakin’, ya can take your own advice, and quit actin’ like ya already have one foot in the grave.”

Raine fumbles. “I’m sure I d-don’t k-know what y-you mean–”

“Oh, but I think ya do.” Eda inhales, exhales embers from her clove cigarette. She might be an old god wreathed in smoke, eyes wine-dark with warning. “Cause ya look like you’ve already given up on yourself. I can see by the look in your eyes; you stand here like someone already -half erased.” Once more, her fading hair might light itself ember orange. “Ya really want to do that poor kid a favor? Ya won’t needlessly make him worry .” She extinguishes her cigarette in the sand. “And you’ll try lookin’ after yourself for a change. I can’t stomach hypocrites who refuse to take their own advice. Capiche?”

“...I suppose.” Raine’s voice is still halting even when not stammering. Raine appreciates how the clearing has all the warm, adrift luminosity of a child ambling through a sunlit lot; there is little not improved by the touch of daylight. Save for perhaps Eda Clawthorne, where there seems precious little of her that can possibly be improved upon.

It might simply be Raine’s spectacles catching the light, but Eda briefly catches sight of a passing twinkle in the vicinity as Raine looks upon her with something akin to grateful gentleness.

“You’re in t-the r-right.” Was Raine really that obvious? “I am n-not c-currently at liberty to honestly say where I was.” Raine's tone arranges itself into the shape of not-quite-a-lie as their eyes briefly flicker down to their freshly-bandaged wrist. “Or w-what I was d-doing when a-away.” Raine’s hand briefly glosses over a red rose in their lapel, holding their hand over their heart. “Only that I a-am now i-involved with the u-underground to t-the extent of no r-return.” Raine’s voice is void of any regret, least of all for themselves.

Unsure, unshod, Raine gazes somberly out at the sandy pale patch of trail at their feet, where a stretch of road, long as winter dragging her skirts, unfurls itself off, beneath the looming shadowtackle of the trees, into an umbered unknown. Briefly, Raine walks out into the wilderness of themselves. “And in my h-heart, I do not wish t-that fate for him. Dante, I m-mean. He is d-dear to me–” Raine trails off sheepishly; they themselves seem taken aback to be speaking so much.

Eda briefly finds her own mouth too full of Raine’s name, and the prospect of their own ending– ending, ending, can something end if ain’t ever even begun? Keen to recover some sense of composure, she gazes down the hill where Hooty has eagerly clamored upon the makeshift swing again, Dante gaily pushing him.

“I tried talkin’ the kid out of it, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He’s desperate to be able to provide for this Camila lady.” She folds her eyes and admires a passing pair of starlings back from their night journey. “Ain’t none of my business why. I don’t really care, either way.”

Raine hums. “And I t-think,” Raine says gently, armed with proprietary algorithms, scars breathing coarse on the inseams of their voice. “You yourself, are a liar, E-Eda C-C-Clawthorne.”

Eda cannot steer the compass of her own mind; she gaps from amidst the wind-fretted grass with an involuntary shudder. Daylight stings yellow; the sun turns its cheek. Her dropped mouth is briefly a gate through which she does leave herself.

Raine’s accusation is uttered so warmly it’s devoid of all venom, made soft even. There is surely no slap to the rise of its hand; it might’ve instead pressed its softness against her jaw. And even as she rankles on reflex to be called a liar, the words chafe. Eda blushes instead of answering.

“You c-claim y-you don’t care a-about what happens to me.” Raine plucks the rose from their lapel, studiously turning it over. “And y-yet, here you are, t-trying to convince me not to lie to anyone, myself i-included, n-nor u-unnecessarily hurt m-myself in o-order to a-avoid hurting Dante.” Their lighted eyes glisten with outward luster.

“If you r-really didn’t c-care, you wouldn’t h-have even b-bothered drawing oxygen to scold me for my own c-carelessness. Am I r-right?” Raine looks on with a smile rendered both tender and sly, with a quiet attention to all things.

Beneath her own stitching, an orchestral thrashing through time. Solar ash and silver stardust, thoughts, still spinning upon Raine’s last syllable, scatter like dandelion seeds as Eda briefly closes her mouth again, pulse humming in her neck. Briefly, her thoughts are chased with the patterned lights of bright cities, from your foothold where you could await the first of calm stars where, vastness slowly enters deep in with your breath. She almost inanely, tells Raine. She almost does, a great lot of things.

Instead, Eda flippantly folds her arms behind her head, feigning a yawn even as her heart shivers. She playfully purses painted lips. “Hey, believe whatever helps ya sleep at night. I’ll not “Raine” on your parade. I just figured it’d be a shame if something happened to yer perfectly pretty mug, is all. They ain’t a dime a dozen.”

Raine blushing hotly and hurriedly looking away again is surely its own satisfaction, as well as its own injury. Smooth. Real smooth. She’s almost relieved when Raine changes the subject. “About your speakeasy: W-While it doesn’t h-have a coven b-banner now, what a-are y-you going to do if the T-T-Ten attempt to take this territory by force? They’d f-force you to p-pay t-tribute for operating in t-t-their territory. If you r-refuse–you and D-Dante’s lives could both be forfei–”

Eda thumps Raine’s shoulder, nearly causing Raine to stagger beneath the force of it. “Hey, quit worryin’ so much! Shouldn’t the fact that I don’t serve Coven shill at my bar be proof enough I don’t have any plans of joining those sons of bitches, come hell or high water? I ain’t about to sport this season’s worst fashion craze with one of those stupid-as-f*ck sigils, and Dante ain’t either. People like us might’ve been born broken according to the Bad Book,” Her hand forms a fist. “But we were also, incidentally, born free. Owl House will never fill the coffers for the likes of any of the warlords. I’d sooner see it burn, first.”

Raine contemplates her, long and deep, from seafloor to daylight. “I find myself w-wishing,” And Eda wildly finds herself holding Raine’s voice against the soft of her bones as if her life depends on it. “Very m-much,” And Raine is somehow considerably-closer than before, and suddenly Eda’s mouth might be ashes. “To believe y-you, Eda.” Raine says her name like a vexation in their mouth. Or something else. “Still. You cannot deny, this u-undertaking w-will be d-d-dangerous for you both–”

“Ain’t life a risk, if it’s any life at all?” Eda saunters. Briefly, her hand twitches, as if she might simply wipe away at all the lines still doggedly wrinkling Raine’s brow.

Raine regards her from beneath a skeptical brow. “You r-realize,” And Raine’s eyes again fall to their bandaged wrist. “If this region is forcibly taken over in another turf war, t-they m-might not grant you m-much choice in the m-matter. Please u-understand: I am n-not h-hostile to you. Dante is a p-poor person of color w-whom does not f-fit in. He can b-be arrested just for crossdressing alone. He can e-expect no mercy at the h-hands of the law, be it of the street, or the l-land.”

“Land of the free and the home of the knave,” Eda darkly agrees, body aching between vertebrae. “Hey, ya realize this gig still beats the kid workin’ a dangerous streetcorner all day and all night in all the elements, hawkin’ papers for pennies. When ya think about it, the kid is gonna be a lot safer with me than otherwise.” Suddenly, she blanches at her own words. “Huh. That's all kinds of sad, if ya hold still for too long and think about it….look, will ya stop lookin’ so morose if I promise scout’s honor I'll keep 'em out of trouble. How hard can it be?”

Eda wavers on the pang of an involuntary shudder seconds later; her frame might yet be rehearsing the journeys of the body to come. “Ugh. Apprehension, much? Still, my word is unconditional, for what it’s worth in this market.”

“Nothing is u-unconditional but f-fate.” Raine’s gaze carries so far away they might be glossing over the waltzing of tides, the wrecked sciences of all their lives, in a dusky nothing. There is surely something expectant, the singular expectation of ruin in Raine’s eyes, Unable to parse her own fictions, Eda suspects if Raine ruined Eda softly in the little flings of their bodies, she'd still remember Raine’s name.

Something inwardly sputters in flames, attempting in vain to counter a dark premonition, seasoned with shadow and a pastoral howl.

“Eh.” Eda squeezes her eyes as if attempting to ward off a migraine. “WelI, I say whatever we obey, becomes our fate.”

Raine jumps. The breeze hums between them, to the rhythm of its own pulse. Raine might frantically be sanding down the jigsaw edges of themselves, where they and Eda, to their own surprise, glimpse one another. Raine suddenly preoccupies themselves with straightening their glasses with a bit more finesse than the situation particularly warrants.

“....I’ll b-be checking i-in on D-Dante periodically f-for updates.” Raine’s words are both a warning and a grudging smile of defeat by someone conquered with admiration. Gold of amber, red of ember, brown of umber, Raine’s smile briefly reaches upwards, and undoes gravity–specifically Eda’s. “...work keeps me p-preocupied to say the l-least, but I’ll be h-here, if ever you both d-decide you n-need help of a-any kind.”

The quiet catches fire, among other things. Raine muses they could easily light their mind on thoughts of Eda. Slowly, they proffer the rose from their lapel. Quietly, Eda accepts it.

“You were wearing a red rose.” She turns the bud over in her hands, expression impossible to decipher. “Now, either ya came a’courting today, or, far more likely, ya belong to an organization even crazier and more foolhardy than the Ten Misfortunes. Am I wrong, here?”

Raine’s smile takes flight at once; they choke on the taste of salt. Lurching on the precipice of discomfort, Raine wonders if there’s anything more exhilarating or more petrifying than the prospect of being known. “...am I r-really t-that obvious, o-once again?”

Eda leans against a nearby tree, crossing her arms. “Pro tip: Bein’ at the center of an underground network full of gossipy queers means that the hot gossip comes from all corners of the city.” Even fleeting whispers of what goes down, even further below, in the very depths of the earth.

Raine bows their head, so filled with the intent to be lost their loss is no disaster. “Are you g-going to t-turn m-me i-in? To the a-a-authorities?”

“As if,” Eda scoffs, and Raine’s head flies up. “Sometimes, ya need to do something not because you have a hope in hell that’ll it work, but because precisely because you know in your heart that it won’t. Even so, ya have your own marching orders.”

“Eda!” King merrily waves a little hand in the distance, a prinpick blur. “I flew on the swing further than either of ‘em! Did you see me? Did you see me?”

“Don’t every generation,” Eda saunters, looking on as Dante, King, and Hooty come scurrying up the hill towards them. “Need a new revolution?”

The wind takes again her hair to flight, and Raine Whispers’ coherent thread of thought to pieces. “Who’s to say. theirs and ours can’t be the same? Oh, for that matter–” A flash of teeth, and Raine’s ragged overcoat is a fluttering banner on a hungry frame as the nape of their neck prickles, breath hitching.

“Yours, and mine?”

Speechless, Raine looks on in awe. A sibilance heard once before, perhaps in Eden. Raine can imagine, far too easily, their lives keeping the same time, or them teaching one another new ways of exhaling in the country of each other's skins. ​​Briefly the two of them are eased by the majestic order of things, and their microbial place within it.

“I,” Raine says, voice faint in their own ears even as they slowly step backwards, keen on composing themselves in a remembered distance. “Promise to keep t-that in m-mind.”

“What’s the matter with ya, what's-your-face?” King demands with all his usual tact as the three come huffing to a stop before Raine and Eda. “Ya look like ya just got kicked by a horse.”

Dante co*cks his head, clearly concerned. “Are ya sure ya really feelin’ better, Raine? You’re all red.”

Raine coughs delicately into their knuckles. “Just fine. I t-think I h-have a relatively-decent c-cover story n-now.” Raine speaks so matter-of-factly that you’d think it was all they and Eda discussed between them. “Dante, we should p-probably g-get g-going.” Briefly, Raine gazes at the blur of towering buildings in the distance. The city before them is a euphony, singing sorrow songs to itself “Ah, C-C-Camila will be w-worried.”

King’s face falls; he at once turns away so he appears to be admiring his own reflection in the pond. Dante bites the inside of his mouth hard as he nods sheepishly. Suddenly Eda feels on the farthest margin of old age. It’s not lost on her just how Raine’s voice folds just a little more on this Camila’s name, like an origami flower piecing itself together in its papery folds. It seems just as liable to tear.

Eda’s heart sinks. It'd just so happen Raine would exactly be her type, Eda’s type incidentally being those who don’t, in turn, regard Eda as their type. But hell, Eda wants to say, I ain't my type, either. Who is she to build shelter in someone else's skin? “Ain’t no matter to me, what ya do.” She proffers the rose back to Raine, whom merely shakes their head. “No…keep it.”

King looks aghast. “Do ya really have to go? Ya just got here!” Briefly, he seizes the hem of Luz’s dress–mortified, he pretends to dust it off a second later. “Um, ya had a spider there. I really don’t care what ya do, either way. It’s just that Hooty resorts to playing with dolls when he’s left alone for too long.”

Hooty looks properly perplexed. “But King, you’re the one with a collection of–”

“Shut your beak, birdbrain, or I’ll put another hole in your head,” King warns in-between his grit teeth, face flaming.

Heart surging soft like her eyes, Luz stoops to cross her heart. “I’ll be back.” Briefly, her eyes rise up to Eda’s. “Promise.”

But Eda’s already turned around. “...do what ya like. Like King said: Don’t matter to us none.” Gaily, she waves farewell without looking back as Eda turns and struts off the grounds for the house. It’s not lost on Luz however, that she furtively pockets Raine’s rose in her wake.

“Remember,” Are her parting words. “We at Owl House are here, because we’re not all there.”

~o*oOo*o~

Chapter 6: One of Gus, Part II of III

Chapter Text

~o*oOo*o~

this year, I swear it will be buried in actions

this year, I swear it will be buried in words

(The diggers are digging the earth)

Some close to the surface, some close to the casket

(I feel as) useful as dirt

Put my body to work–

–Wildflower & Barley

~o*oOo*o~

Luz’s boots regress into a trudge as they touch concrete once more in a limping afternoon. Countless sheets feebly droop like windless sails where they hang to dry from labyrinthine telegraph cables. Soon grass can neither be seen or heard; the air breathes hot and dark with motor oil–trolley bells clang like a blacksmith’s anvil past bustling warehouses, slabs of broken masonry. Steel dust and hatches, grates, stairs, puddles, rubbish, wires, dust.

Her teeth ache in memory of sweetness–for a lighter, queerer gravity, where curiously, somehow none of the guests dressed alike for the same party. Where everyone spoke of Important things– The Wind & The Willows and Ethel Waters, women’s suffrage and civil rights and , of reading something so beautiful it naturally distressed you just a little. Outside seemed a wilderness of creation, where little owls could be heard bidding the night to be longer still, amidst the dusty milk of the moon spilling light, a cold twinkle of stars holding aloft the night sky like little pins.

“Are y-you a-alright?” Raine presses anxiously, pausing amidst cigarette advertisem*nts leering from the windows, through a bustling sea of pedestrians with countless events and affairs to be late to, all in the backdrop of a drowsy, syncopated tune.

And Luz merely pains a grin in reply as she nods, even as she sheds a layer of light. “Just dandy!” Once more, her eyes genuflect the fishscale cobble; she looks on longingly as a flight of roughshod boys scatter across down an alley, laughing and jostling one another. Perhaps guessing at her thoughts, Raine wordlessly pro-offers the comforting loop of their arm. Grateful for purchase, Luz threads her arm through theirs, her throat a searing edge. “Raine? Is it supposed to be, this hard, to be one person …?” Luz cuts off before she can weep; Raine squeezes her arm in reply, eyes rendered with pained tenderness behind their spectacles.

It’s not lost on Luz how many eyes soon follow them from the brownstone windows, just how many aunties and grandmamas suddenly hush as they walk past, demeanors suddenly bright with apprehension . More than a few onlookers lean in to cup a hand around the shape of furious whispers. Mouth dry as drought, Luz’s perspiring-grip doubles on Raine’s arm–would Dante tremble like this, in his own community? Perhaps so, when folks could yet make a crime scene of his own becoming. Faintly, Luz wonders perhaps if she could sew Dante’s name on the inside of her pocket, for her hand to secretly parse like Braille. Raine for their part appears to notice none of the gawkers, solemnly walking with all the dignity of a dignitary.

To Luz’s growing, electrical charge of dread, as they approach the familiar uprise of her tenement building, a snarl of souls is already gathered outside of it. Sure as an empty stomach, her absence hadn’ t gone unnoticed–the one damned occasion Luz would've been perfectly content with simply being ignored . Eyes blown huge, stomach plaiting itself like a knot of bread, Luz rises to the tip of her toes for a better look. And regrets it.

Despite his partial-concealment by both the thick of the crowd and the thick of his own oversized cloak, Luz nonetheless zeroes in at once upon Gus in a cracked and crumbling courtyard. His own eyes are all but drilled open huge with terror from where he is perched upon one of the dilapidated benches.

“We can’t look there !” Protests a balding old neighbor irritably. “That’s in the heart of–” He holds up one hand, and one of his middle fingers. “–and ya know it, ya puny little nitwit. I for one, don’t have no stinkin’ death wish–”

“We won’t know until we check!” Gus cries, hands flinging out in exasperation to tug at his hair. The tiny boy looks a sorry pallid hide upon a shack of bones, the mottled dark beneath his eyes a night a rosary of unanswered hours, rapidly rising all around you unchecked, like rent. “I don’t care! She’s in danger–she has to be! Luz’d never just up and–pull a disappearing act without telling me–”

The old man snorts as he rolls his eyes, straightening his cap with both hands. “Son, womenfolk ain’t even s’posed to be wanderin’ off from their fathers, or their brothers, or their beaus in the first place! Cau tionary tale, that’s all this is. Take my advice: Better get a longer leash for your lady love , kid.”

“Or better yet, a new lady love altogether,” Uneasily asserts his balding peer with a shiver. “Ain’t no helpin’ that poor girl child if she already fell into the–” He furtively crosses himself, spitting three times before s troking a saint’s medallion benea th his sweater vest. “– dark garden of Six–” His fellows at once shy away, as if he’d admitted to having typhoid fever. “God rest her soul.”

Gus’s spasming voice catches upon a nail, threatening to tear itself open upon its own anguish. “For the last time, Luz ain’t dead, and she ain’t my girlfriend!”

The world around blurs into mesh and murmur as Luz plunges into her own passing, face burning with shame. Countenance creasing with sympathy, Raine whispers something reassuring in Luz’s ear that nonetheless sheds its syntax. Soon, the search party takes notice, swiveling to gawk at the approaching newcomers. Frantically, Gus whips his head around so abruptly he cricks his neck–perhaps he feels her, before he sees her. Grimacing, the young youth’s face is flooded seconds later with joy like sorrow unmasked, the same well once reserved laughter now positively filling with salt water. “Luz!”

Euphoric, haggard and tottery with relief, Gus soars off the bench in a leap, nearly tripping over his too-large boots as he bolts over. Luz’s own gait is as unsteady as it was the night before as she lumbers over to fling her arms around him. The city above shakes itself overhead.

Sputter of sobs slicing open in her chest–can she really survive its own ruptures?– Luz seizes him for dear life and breathlessly spins him around. The courtyard intensifies into one collective staring Eye–this will do no favors for the tongue-in-cheek rumors of them being sweethearts, but Luz can’t bring herself to care, especially as the tears scatter hot and fast and blinding down her face. “Lo siento. Lo siento. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Gus.”

“....girl, where…where ya even been, all this time?” Gus’s striking sparks of wonder at her reappearance are quickly trampled by apprehension as she carefully sets him down again. Confounded, Gus turns to Raine, whom remains mute and impassive, sizing Gus up warily even as Raine produces a handkerchief for Luz to take up in shaking hands. While Gus prefers card tricks over card games, Gus still knows a poker face when he sees one. His brow furrows. Whatever had happened to prevent Luz from returning home last night, Raine was certainly in on the take.

And oh, it’s not wholly- unexpected , Gus inwardly swooning where he abruptly finds himself on the lonely outskirts of his own life, but it’s no more the pleasant for it, as the gaggle of search party members begins dissipating all around them.

Shivering, Luz finds herself coming in at exits, going out at entrances, as Gus waits in vain for a reply. Gus had every reason to believe she’d been murdered at best, trapped from the light of day with a sigil mark announcing a dark anointing upon her arm at worst. Yet he’d still passed off hope like a bounced check, rallying a search party to attempt and find her.Her mouth parts like a gaping fish’s; she hadn’t meant , for any of this to happen–she just wanted to help Eda, and to be seen , away from the boot of the law, where even those not looking for a quick lay could take a quick consolation of sharing with others the true color of their threads, the specifics of you.

“Luz?” Gus renders her name a plea. “Luz?”

Her insides might be caving in. She wanted to play, like a child, with wild dandelion abandon, chasing even a moment of levity, far away from the stuff of endless coughing, a stifling sickroom and a topside where cast stones are a jury's verdicts. But the air holds her to secrecy as Raine takes by the shoulder to steady her. “I'm sorryLo siento. It’s….it’s a long story. How’s…” Luz attempts to wet dry lips with a dry tongue as she croaks: “...Mami…?”

Gus looks at her, long and hard, as if they no longer speak the same language. Wordlessly, he points upwards. Luz’s eyes climb, praying what she’s now witnessing is a mere accident of shadowfall. It isn’t.

The tenement fire escape is not unoccupied; a familiar silhouette, bones the slightest threads holding together a tenuous seam of spine, is huddled in a mass of fading sheets, coughing into her spotted handkerchief. Luz’s already-puffy eyes swell again with tears upon the spot, her fumbling hand falling over Papi’s rosary beads. The sight only moves her closer to the sound of her own cry.

“Camila,” Raine gasps, whom had followed Luz’s gaze, freezing seconds later into a statue, heart collapsing.

“ No ! No, she shouldn’t be out here !” With a double take of sheer feeling, Luz tugs at her hair. “What is she even thinking ?!” She cups her hands over her mou th seconds before taking flight: “Mami! Don’t move! I’m coming! Mami! Mami!”

~o*oOo*o~

Camila’s face is rendered devastated with sheer relief as Luz carefully clamors out the window to the flaking stairwell below, air heavy wi th the smell of iron and grime . At once, Camila attempts to rise, but her sick-was ted legs can take no purchase . And Luz tries, tries, tries–and swiftly fails , not to imagine her mother crawling out here, on all fours, to the fire escape wrapped in sheets like La llorona , weeping for a child whom never came home last night. “ Mi ciela! My sky.”

“Mami, Mami ,” Luz snaps, or a t least attempts to. The effect swif tly capsizes like a sailboat torn asunder, whose hull just as quickly fills with salt water as Luz flings her arms around Camila. Luz winces as Camila starts wheezing seconds later wi th the spike of agitation . “Ya should lie down , this isn’t good for you–”

“What happened? ” Breathes Camila desperately, as she hurriedly pulls back to look Luz over for injury. Her trembling frail hands skim Luz’s sides, as if disbelieving her child's shape would truly hold out as itself. In her dark eyes is her heart, already full afraid of the asking price of Knowing. Her shallow breathing is labored, rattling about like a solitary penny in a beggar’s can. “Why….why didn’ t you come home last night ?!”

Luz gulps. Camila’s relief is already giving itself up to the fraying edges of anger; Luz would almost sooner take her chances wringing her hands at the facades of cathedrals then be faced with Camila when truly ballistic.

Scurrying over, a panting Gus pauses by the window, watching, waiting, his face set. Luz’s features briefly screw up, threatening to tell on themselves as she wobbly attempts to lift Camila upon her shoulder. But now the unsteadiness in Camila’s legs seems to have found its way to Luz’s arms. Mind splitting with static, world throttling at its edges, helpless hot tears fall a wild rain from Luz’s eyes. Please, don’t hate me, don’t hate me, don’t hate me, Mami .

“I thought, Please God, I already washed, my poor husband’s body for burial. If I lose my child too, I bury my heart. What were you even thinking?! ” Camilla begs softly, the cold of her hands cuppin g Luz’s cheekbones. “You know this city has teeth, and too much prey besides. Ah–”

Camila’s starved face almost mantles with the likes of a blush seconds later as Raine carefully steps out upon the rattling escape. “Mister Raine!” Luz opens her mouth to correct her, but hurriedly shuts it again when Raine gives their head the most imperceptible of jerks.

Hurriedly, Camila winds her thin arms around herself, mortified as her dark hair takes flight in a gust of wind. She hurtles from a feverish daze, right back to herself; widower Camila Noceda, on the railing in nothing but her nightgown, accompanied with a man of all things, upon the miraculous return of her missing daughter. She titters a hysterical chuckle. The Abuelas will speak of little else for weeks , gossip larders full when their pantries are empty.

Raine’s head briefly falls forward in a reverent bow. When at last their eyes touch Camila’s, Raine seems to be rising from the bottom of themselves, to eventually find her face. “....Señora N-N-Noceda.”

Slowly, Raine approaches, with all the loyalty of water to the force of gravity. With a poignant twist of their insides, Raine supposes it’s no kind state of affairs you’re in, when both your voice and your fingers shake with the ferocity of your own loving. It doesn’t help that according to some reliable sources, Raine is a particularly-crummy liar. “Forgive m-me the i-i-intrusion. A-A-Allow me to e-explain? Luz m-might still b-be in s-some s-s-shock.”

Features kindling, Luz fills so much gratitude it couldn’t possibly be said, it would have to be sung: Thank you, thank you, thank you, why are you even so damn good to me –Luz’s eyes flutter shut. “Yes, yes, please,” Camila coaxes at once, grabbing at her handkerchief to swipe at her eyes. “ Por favor . I just need, to know. That’s all. That’s all.”

Raine exhales. Please. Forgive me . “Yesterday, Luz w-was walking h-home, and e-e-encountered members of the e-elite performing a raid in Territory F-Four. Too many f-families went without p-paying their m-monthly, ah, tax once a-again.” And certainly the cold slash of rage that ripples itself across Raine’s face is no fakeout, especially as their hands curl into spasming fists.

Gus briefly blanches, seconds before they side-eye Luz. “Dios mio! Those brutes !” Camila cries, eyes dilating to the beat of her own mounting horror. She seizes Luz by the shoulders seconds later, shaking her so frantically that Luz’s teeth rattle. “ You know why we do not go out alone !” Petrified, she grabs Luz by the arm to draw up Luz’s sleeve, searching desperately for unmarked skin. Unappeased, Camila checks the other wrist, too. “Please–tell me–they didn’t– they didn’t–”

Raine holds up their hands placatingly, unable to bear the sound of Camila’s breath puncturing. “N-No such t-thing. Luz r-ran away and h-hid, behind some c-crates, and t-took cover in an a-alley, out of the l-line of fire.”

Luz finds her voice again at last: “They didn’t notice me, Mami. I got away.” She takes Camila’s hands in her own. Lo siento. Lo siento. I’m going to get you better. And then, I’m going, to give you the kind of life Papi always wanted for us. “I was going to wait, until the coast was clear and all the scouts were gone. It took a real long time. So long, I actually fell asleep in my hiding place!” It’s as close as to the truth as she can get, as she sheepishly runs a hand through her hair. “Uh, when I woke up, it was daybreak. Lo siento, Mami! Lo siento, Gus. I won’t do it again.”

“Mija !” Camila squawks in a surge of exasperation as Luz frantically pecks her Mami’s cheek over and over in an attempt to placate. When Luz raises her eyes to Gus, a shadow pattern is working its darkness over Gus’s features.

“And then, L-Luz came to m-my market stall in Little I-India this m-morning; I d-decided the s-safest thing to do w-would be to e-escort her back h-home from t-there,” Raine finishes reassuringly, seconds before they feel their self actively unselving .

Forgetting all propriety, forgetting even what the neighbors will think, Camila staggers forward to fling her bony arms around Raine upon the fire escape. Raine’s diaphragm sharply squeezes in on itself like a contracted accordion, only no sound escapes. Briefly, a note thrills through them with strange delight in a monopoly of a moment–briefly, a glow of reverent rapture akin to devotion. Sniffling, Luz tilts her head, puzzled.

“Gracias, gracias, gracias ,” Camila murmurs, her eyes shot with tears as she gazes up at Raine, from a mere few inches away, and Raine’s voice neatly ties itself into a gordian knot, the ribbons of too many unsaid things looping around their throat like a maypole. “You brought her home again, such a good soul you are, bless you, bless you, bless you. Why are you so kind to us?” She holds her handkerchief to her nose. “No wonder Manny spoke so highly of you, God rest his soul.”

“Uh–Raine, are you well?” Luz dares ask, nonplussed as her hand goes rising.

Spellbound, Raine dares press a glistening, trembling palm against Camila’s now dangerously-prominent spine. Raine’s features fall again as their eyes briefly wander to their bandaged arm. The one thing Raine can possibly do for the Nocedas is continuing down the dark of a road, where Camila could never tread.

“L-L-Let’s…let’s get y-y-you inside, Miss C-Camilla.” Shakily, they take off their vest to wrap around Camila’s bony frame. “It’s still a b-bit too c-chilly, for y-you to l-linger long o-out here. Allow m-me.”

“Gus.” Luz gingerly walks over to the youth as Raine carefully wraps one of Camila’s arms around their shoulders, half-carrying her back inside the Noceda’s tiny nest-in-the-attic of a room. “I’m so sorry again, for all this.” Her voice skirts up two octaves as Gus silently turns away, expression crumpling. “....Gus?”

“I need,” And Gus’s face becomes the fact of a closed door. “...to go home now.”

Gus spins on his heel; Luz nearly trips upon her trailing skirt in her great haste to scurry after him. “Gus?” In a cell of the self, Luz crawls through the window, seizing his arm before Gus can make for the door. “What are you–”

“Nice cover story. Ya even have yer mami fooled.” Gus’s voice emerges so utterly defeated it turns and retreats to curl up inside himself. “The part about you falling asleep ,” Gus crosses his arms as Luz’s face swiftly drains of all color. “I believe at least. That checks out….”

Luz gives her head a little shake. It probably looks like a seizure. “Gus, what do ya–”

Gus’s hands fly to his hips. “Ya seriously think I don’t know ya well enough by now, that if ya really saw someone in trouble, ya wouldn’t go to their aid like a valkyrie, slingshot blazing?” He demands in a whisper, and Luz can say nothing. “Ya really want to tell me ya seriously saw a fight, and ya backed down, and ya didn’ t stick your nose into someone else’s business? Ya seriously want me to believe that you, of all people, asked for help ?” A humorless facsimile of a snort as dry as woodchips. “Gotta say: You were always tellin’ me how smart ya thought I was, Luzy.” Gus’s despondent eyes find his boots. “Didn’t know that changed.”

“Gus–” Luz bleat-whispers, unable to even attempt a working prototype of a smile as her eyes singe themselves upon a blurring seam. “No, never ; I’d never lie about that. You’re the smartest person I know, probably one of the most brilliant people in history . I can–” And here I can sounds a whole lot more like I can’t , because how can Luz ever explain this to Gus? “I can–”

Maimed with self-doubt, Gus merely looks away. “...I’m glad you’re safe.” He pulls his arm away, and Luz forces herself not to fling herself in front of the door. “I am, I really am , I just–” He takes a step away, and Luz helplessly looks on; Gus has already as good as left the room. “Need to be alone right now. Please.”

“Of course.” Luz waters together a tremulous grin. “I–I understand, pal. Look, I’ll be here whenever you want to ta–”

And Gus swiftly takes his leave. “–talk,” says Luz, to the closed door. Faint and inexorable, Luz looks on, swaying on disbelieving feet. The song this soul sings upon its quivers is an answer back to a question.

“S-S-Sweetheart?” Raine’s voice is akin to the grave throb of a violin as they bustle over to check on her. “Are y-you well? I was just a-about, to b-boil some w-water for tea. Come s-sit.”

Luz leans her brow upon the door in lieu of reply, blankly allowing herself to be gently-steered away. Faintly, Luz holds herself together in assonance and woodnotes, trees leafing and unleafing, a voice as strong as old wine, the sound of King’s snores, where a girl named Luz probably cannot be found, but a boy named Dante can.

~o*oOo*o~

Gus closes the Porter’s tenement door, back flopping against it in an exhale, all weary heart and weakened bone as he slumps to the floor, head in his hands. He wants desperately, to sleep after his sleepless night, and already knows he will surely not.

For his part, however, Perry Porter couldn’t look happier as he strides over from his wobbly, three-footed desk to greet his son. “Gus. I have the best news.”

Most dispiritedly, Gus preoccupies himself with slumping upon the protesting shrieks of their little shared mattress. “...Luz is back home. I already know.”

“Not just that.” Gus realizes Perry holds in his hands a now-wrinkled slip of typed paper. “It seems, I’ve been offered a promotion at work.”

Gus’s head flies up; Perry positively twinkles at him. “Our old superintendent is retiring. I was offered the post this morning at his referral. Needless to say, I accepted the post, posthaste.”

“Dad–” Strummed strings on vibrato with excitement as well as sheer gratitude for the welcome respite in his misery, Gus runs to his father at once for an embrace. Perry is grinning ear-to-ear. “Dad, I’m so happy for you! I know you’ve wanted this for years.”

Perry straightens his spectacles. “I informed the landlord: We’ll be packing up by the end of this month. Won’t that be wonderful?”

Gus stares at him for a short spell. And then, a longer one yet, as his strings are now tightened with apprehension. Outside, the sun falls on its knees. “We’ll–”

“But of course!” Perry chirps, bustling over to their tiny stove to thicken a small pot of gruel with a spoon. “My job will have me traveling outside the city. It’ll be an adventure . See, we’ll be living with different student families during different semesters, whom volunteer to room and board them. Won’t this be fun?”

“....uh…I think it’s gonna be something ,” Gus admits, nonplussed as he falls upon his side at the chorus of rusty bedsprings, and clutches at his scraping navel. That Something will probably constitute the likes of a stomach ache , judging by his gut’s unprompted nudging.

Then, Gus thinks of Luz, and dully reasons the aching thing inside of the dip of his chest might have something to do with the matter, too.

~o*oOo*o~

Three Days Later

Outside, the late morning March sky's the runny pale translucence of pond brine, stricken with tiny rivulets and tributaries of liquid ambered gold. The heavy curtains of Eda Clawthorne’s home are all straining shut against the peek of daylight, like a slumbering dragon in the forest. An ancient radiator ticks dutifully away upstairs like a heartbeat. A weathervane featuring the silhouette of an owl in lieu of a rooster spins from atop the spire in the windbreak.

Listlessly, still clad in his night things–although one’s night things and one’s days things tended to look much the same here–King stacks coin after coin in countless neat little stacks upon the Clawthorne parlor’s tiny table, squinting as he counts, counts again in the gloom to be sure. A King’s ransom, as Eda liked to say. Normally cheered by the prospect of las t night’s profi ts –the speakeasy has already brought in far more income than the antique shop surely ever managed–King soberly turns a coin over in his hands, briefly biting down upon the cool of the metal to test it for authenticity, as Eda had shown him. The resulting bitter tang tastes slightly-reminiscent to blood.

“....I’ve been thinkin’.” Briefly, King’s hand settles upon all the pleading stomach of him; he’s not much of a cook, so he’d contented himself with bread and a swipe of jam preserves from the icebox for breakfast once again. One of the cardinal rules in a house with precious few to speak of was not to wake Eda at an unholy hour if one still placed some stock in their neck. “ Suppose –” King gruffly tries on Eda’s unaffected nonchalance like a child solemnly donning on their parent’s pocketbook, hat, and shoes. “–he doesn’t come back?” This damp, drafty, forlorn house certainly has a nasty habit of giving back your own call, smaller than it surely actually was.

Puzzled, auburn head still full of pink curlers, Hooty looks up from his newest penny dreadfulfrom Eda’s ancient desk in a nearby corner, in the midst of counting the scanter earnings of the Owl House antiquary. “But he said he would. He promised . He said he wanted to work with Eda. So, he should be back, any day now.” Hooty pauses to draw back a fading corner of the moth-eaten fleur-de-lis curtains.

“In case ya haven’t noticed by now, birdbrain.” King halfheartedly flips his coin, before shifting it over to the piles. He makes another lonely dash upon the crisp of the page, where someone has absently scribbled and scratched a graphite silhouette of a bony youth in an oversized cap. “ Folks on the merry-go-round of life here, they say a whole mess of things.” Briefly, he lays his cheek upon folded arms. “That don't ever make one lick of it true.”

Hooty for once falls silent, the quiet of the curtain falling free of his fingers as he swivels his pale face down. Sullenly, King almost wishes he’d say something imbecilic again so King could snap at him to shaddap, already . King resists the sudden, savage urge to swipe at the stacks of coins and send them scattering across the floor–he’d only have to start all over.

So, Luz’s departing figure had too been drunk down by a ravenous horizon. Wasn’t the first time King had witnessed such a thing; nor surely was it the last. Clink. You really only risked violating your own rhythm, expecting anything or anyone else in life. Briefly, King is transported back to a silver-tarnished memory of shivering, the trees and lampposts overhead performing snow. A sliver of cold moves down his chest as he moves another coin to the pile. Good riddance. King would forget soon, and Eda sooner.

Never mind if Dante-whom-was-sometimes-Luz had built a swing in the yard, which he then helped King and Hooty clamor upon, advising them to hold on tight before drawing it backward like a sunlit pendulum, laughing. Never mind if Dante stooped and met King at eye level with the soft of their gaze, hazel eyes rendered brown in one slice of light, and green in yet another. Either way, something candletaught, like say a root beer float or praise from Eda, never entirely vacated the premises around those eyes.

King lowers his gaze, hands full, chest cavity holding a curious pocket of air, like a vacated birdcage. What had Eda said, about even loneliness being a sort of time spent with the world?Never mind, if Dante had merely wished the King of Demons good luck with their ambitions of power instead of snigg*ring on the spot.

Never mind if Dante had spoken sleepily of República Dominicana , and seven different colors of the seascape before proceeding to doze off his pathetic swigs of Apple Blood. And so King does not look ou t the window, at the lonely swing dangling outside like a question mark, with dark elderberry wounds for eyes. After all; being unwanted is a language King already is fluent in. King piles yet another coin atop its quivering fellows, wondering if he ought to take up his second-favorite hobby and hurl some rocks outside, as much for a sound as anything else.

Head startling at a rustling sound outside, Hooty at once gravitates to the peephole upon the front door. “Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh boy!”

“What is it?” Disinterested, King sniffs as he returns to tallying his figures upon his notepad; while he doesn’t go to school, Eda had taught him this much. “ Another snoopy intruder whose guts you’re about to disembowel and make into a party hat?”

“Even better!” Skirting shy of near-maniacal glee, insides rendered flusterluster, Hooty at once fumbles for the countless latches installed upon the front door, the rattleclank chains, the bolts. “And I might just say I told ya so, told ya so, told ya so?”

Confounded, King’s brow zigzags into a scowl. “The hell are ya even talki–”

Hooty eagerly flings open the door; shading his eyes, King wonders wordlessly if it’s possible to fall eagerly into your own unspooling at your own wrongness. Disbelieving, King staggers upright, so taken aback he inadvertently sends all his carefully-constructed tiny towers of coins tumbling down in a downpour of tinkling metal. Even so, he can only blankly look on, dumbstruck where he stands.

There, in a raw of morning now split open with sunlight, is Dante Fortunato, grinning buoyantly as he takes off his cap to wave boisterously where he’d come to put flesh on his words. “I’m back! And ready for anything!”

This quickly turns out to be something of a misnomer on Dante’s part, as Hooty gleefully tackles him with the wrecking ball strength of his affectionate delight, proceeding to knock the wind out of the poor youth’s bones seconds later in a grunt. Staggering, eyes watering in Hooty’s ironclad grip, Dante nonetheless hurriedly pats him on the back. Thankfully he has two lungs–or rather had –as he’s fairly certain at least one has surely popped just now. “I missed ya guys.” Dante’s voice, slightly-deeper now with practice, aches with sincerity.

Blinking rapidly, attributing his suddenly-weak eyes to the rush of fresh air now sending sleepy dust particles scattering in the light, King’s tiny hands find his hips. “Hooty, ya no-good gongoozler,” He scolds, gesturing irritably to the fallen pile of money glinting upon the carpet. “ Now look at what ya made me do!”

At last managing to extricate himself from Hooty’s embrace, Dante turns the shape of his smile upon King. It’s something like wings abandoning themselves to clarity. “Missed ya too, pal.”

“Oh, it’s you again .” King giddily slams the door behind Dante on the spot, lest Dante quickly get any second thoughts. “Hooty: I told ya and told ya he was coming back. You should really have more faith.” He furtively s tuffs his notebook in his pocket. “And might I just say I did no t miss you at all?”

Seconds later, Dante wordlessly kneels to tug King into a hug. Rearing at the unexpected touch, face scalding like an iron, King harrumphs and kicks his little feet in the air until Dante gently releases him. “Sorry it took me so long to come back. Mami’s…” And all the joy in Dante’s features quickly exhumes itself. “....well, Mami’s been a little…. hesitant to have me out of her sight just now.” Dante laughs; but it was the sort of laugh that ran away. Mami made such a theater out of Luz straying too far away that Luz’d scarcely left the tenement at all. Briefly, Dante’s lashes stroke his cheekbones. And you’d think Gus had suddenly vacated the building entirely, what with how keen he suddenly is to avoid Luz at all costs. The unintended wound of it smarts.

“Sounds like the understatement of the twentieth century,” King dryly suspects aloud. Dante’s ears darken as he scuffs the ground with his sorry shoe as Hooty hangs up his woebegone cloak upon the nearby wooden stand. King crosses his arms. “Looks like parents aren’t a savvy economic investment in this market.”

“....I uh, actually bribed two neighbors to cover me, the next few days. With a portion of the money Eda gave me when we took that police car to the pawn. One neighbor is sitting with Mami–” Luz can’t bear ask Gus for anything when he won’t even meet her eyes. “–the other told Mami I was volunteering at church this week, in exchange for some food to take home. It was the only way I could possibly get Mami to agree to let me go. I also swore on my Papi’s rosary I would be back home before sundown. So, I absolutely can’t spend the night here just now. Mami would have a stroke. ”

King can’t help but snort. “And which parish are you volunteering at, exactly? Our Lady of Perpetual Drunkenness?”

“Wow!” Hooty cries in astonishment, clasping his forgotten magazine in his hands. “I had no idea Eda had her own church!”

“Speakin’ of which, where is the lady of the hour?” Dante looks around this way and that as a grandfather clock gravely pulses eleven. “I figured she could tutor me in how to brew, I’d get the basics of it by this evening–” He eagerly slams his fist into his open hand. “–and ba-bam, I’m makin’ moonshine for tonight’s crowd at the Owl House! Easy as duck soup.”

“Um,” An easy warning is stunned right out of King as he coughs. “Well, see, Eda don’t usually wake up ‘til noon . She had…yeesh, how many was it again?” He counts upon his fingers. “I estimate somewhere between a lot, and a whole lot, of Apple Bloods during last night’s party.”

“Noon?!” Dante yelps, aghast as his smile fades; the sheer prospect alone of waiting for noon ties a small knot at the base of his spine. “No, no, no! I needed to learn how to make moonshine yesterday!” At once, Dante makes for the kitchen. Hooty is all too happy to bustle along in his wake; King trudges, gripping his forearm for purchase.

“C’mon, fellahs.” At once, Dante flings one window open, and then another. “Oof, it’s stifling in here.” He seizes a frying pan. “Let’s make Eda a little breakfast in bed to help wake her up.”

King is stymied as Hooty claps. “Well, uh…I can make jelly sandwiches…and uh….cereal?” It emerges a question.

Hooty nods solemnly. “King’s cereal game is unparalleled, I tell ya!”

Whistling, Dante fetches a cast-iron skillet from overhead, rinsing it in the sink to wash off the dust of neglect. “Well, I’m definitely no cook like mi Mami, but I can teach ya some basics. We’re all man enough here to know how a few small odds and ends in the kitchen.” He fetches some eggs from the icebox, humming. Soon the arithmetic of bubbling and burning would fill this house with a sizzling of sound.

“Well, it was nice knowing you,” King points out, perplexed as he climbs upon a little stool beside Dante at the counter. “On that note: What sort of necktie, should I wear to your funeral?”

Hooty merrily holds his magazine aloft as Dante cheerfully preoccupies himself with tying an old apron around Hooty. “Paisley’s in this season.”

~o*oOo*o~

Keening with roiling energy, Dante merrily hums as he all but skips up the stairs with his steaming pottage of coffee, eggs, bacon, and toast a la grape jelly , the last contribution compliments of King. He’d even put a little dandelion in a tiny cup upon the tray to sweeten the deal. Eda Clawthorne’s bootlegging apprentice, working in the heart of the Owl House like one of the merry men of Sherwood Forest. It possesses a ring to it, and surely so does Dante’s voice as he sings out: “ Rise and shine!”

It’s not lost on him that King and Hooty skulk behind at a cautious distance, Out-of-Blast-Radius , as Hooty had so thoughtfully coined it. But nothing will daunt Dante’s spirits as he scurries into Eda’s bedroom.

Eda does not move, save to recoil deeper into a warm ball as Dante pulls open the stiff-with-disuse curtains, inviting in a waxing light that enlarges one days. “Wakey, wakey, eggs and ba–” Bewildered, Dante sets the breakfast tray down upon a nearby nightstand, his face quickly wavering over into annoyance. “Eda?” He gestures emphatically out the window at the day like at the appearance of a guest whom had traveled far to come calling. “I’m back, just like I promised! Now I’m yer apprentice, ya can show me everything! Now c’mon, and get outta bed, already!”

Still no reply from Eda’s contented snoring. Already at his wits’ end, Dante huffs, lip slipping into a pout. “....I see. This clearly calls for a more nuanced approach.” And with that, Dante seizes a nearby water pitcher. “ Wake up, ya old lush!”

King’s eyes are in danger of popping out of his head entirely as Dante promptly overturns the cold of the contents in a splash. Eda’s awake in the split-end of a second as she writhes, gargling, fumbling, in a mess of limbs and soaked blankets as she sits bolt upright, panting, drenched. Dante leaps upon the bed seconds later, bouncing upon it. “G’Morning, Eda! I’m so glad you’re finally awake.”

“Ya know,” Something gone wild eventually cools in Eda’s matted eyes as slowly, slowly she narrows in on the beaming youth. Oh, her hangover now has a hangover. “....I ain’t no master in etiquette , but other apprentices might, purely-hypothetically speaking, consider not dumping a bucket of ice water over their mentor’s head. Just a thought.”

“Could’ve been worse; could’ve been a privy bucket!” Dante chirps as he grabs the cup of coffee off the tray, pro-offering a peace-offering. Hissing, looking the stuff of a wet cat, Eda seizes it with a growl. “Kid. Here’s a pro tip: Your bedside manner could use some work.”

“Speakin’ of work, that’s just what I’m here to do.” Dante hurriedly rolls up his sleeves for emphasis, tugging on his suspenders. “And lemme tell you, it’s been tough, findin’ any books on brewing at the library when folks keep pullin’ them off the shelves thanks to the new censorship laws. So, I figured there was no time like the present to learn!”

“Well, then,” Eda stalks out of the room, returning with a mop, which she then thrusts in a bewildered-Dante’s hands. “You’ll be delighted to know your first order of business is to mop down the bar ‘till it sparkles like a drag queen’s ball gown on payday . Then, you’ll hop to polishing all the bar glasses from the night before. I don’t have enough bottles for the Apple Blood that I brew, so we just have to make do with what we got. Then, after lunch, ya can do the drag performers’ laundry, and give Hooty a break in minding the store before dinner.”

“Huh?” At once, the eager set of Dante’s shoulders timbers over. “But–but I thought –” His heart sinks like a stone. “I thought–you and me–I’d be learning stuff like alchemy , like potion-making in my old stories–”

“Part of the gig, sweetheart. Before ya do any of that, clean up this mess here . Could be worse,” Eda winks, trudging off for the bathroom. “Could’ve been an overturned privy bucket. And don’t forget to give Hooty a bath. It’s that time of month.”

“Oh, boy!” Hooty cheers, hurriedly fetching his shower cap and rubber duck for good measure. “Bath time, bath time, bath time!”

King scoffs something that sounds suspiciously close to ‘ Poor unfortunate soul ,’ as Dante resists the urge to lie down upon the floor in a fetal position, doubting, in truth, his ability to get back up again.

~o*oOo*o~

Rolling upwards and away from a roll of birches wisping in the wind, a wavering treeline of cedars inheriting the last of the March evening light–to the glut of privilege of uptown Manhattan, a kerosene lamp burns the windows of a private investigator’s bureau mustard yellow, appearing sulfurous in the distance. An American flag flutters outside wooden balustrades.

A lanky man whom was young, and dressed perhaps younger still, with generously-oiled hair, strands sleeked back with what feasibly resembled the stuff of dark-blue bootpolish, rises to his feet, extinguishing a cigar inside of countless ashtrays, several still smoldering. A pin with reflective glass sits at the base of his throat, like a small handheld mirror. His dewy cornflower eyes are already slightly lidded with mild ennui, cheekbones clean shaven.

The captain smartly raps his knuckles against the polish of a mahogany box for a desk. Everyone poring over documents looks up in the little room, where countless maps speared by little pins and tributaries of red thread cover virtually overtake all the paisley wallpaper.

“Alright, men.” He barks, face warming slightly as he delicately coughs into the hollow of his rounded hand. “And, ah, gentlelady .” A brief pause, followed by a tittering of dry scoffs and snigg*rs around the conference table. The captain sniffs. His silhouette unmatches with the office upholstery. “Yoohoo? Now, let’s call this meeting to order.”

He strolls, this way and that, arms tucked behind his back. “First, and most pressing of all, I know there have been rumors circulating around the department, allegations about my impending retirement .” Impeccably–with all the care of a seamstress, as though Captain Adrian Graye Vernworth’s nails had ever contained within them the dirt of the world – he neatly tugs the immaculate cuff down his long sleeve, his dark blue cardigan. Most of the task force liked to roll up their sleeves in the suffocating heat of the office, but the good captain insisted on always keeping his forearms concealed–a stickler for uniforms. “I should like then, to put those rumors to rest. As I must c onfirm them, it seems.”

Briefly, his hand wavers over the pin upon his lapel, as if about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

“But sir,” protests one of the officers in distress, rising to his feet. “Prohibition was just ratified, and reports have under-the-table consumption of alcohol in this city as already booming out of control! Hell, numbers are showing people are drinking more than they did when the stuff was still legal! What’s gonna happen if we can’t track down and bring to justice those responsible?!”

“Maybe making something sound so amazing it’s illegal isn’t a very good deterrent,” Meekly proposes a coworker with a raise of his hand. “Gosh, I sure hope the government doesn't ever try this piss-poor strategy with a war on drugs, because that’s already doomed to be a catastrophic failure.”

“Washington’s already refusing to give us the resources we need to hunt down these criminals.” Fusses yet another detective, voice clotting with frustration. “Now you’re stepping away, too? Wha t’ll become of us?”

“It can’t be helped.” Adrian soothes, holding up his hands placatingly. The warmth in his address remains stationary; his marble eyes remain glassy and cool, as if a taxidermy double speaks to them now. “My family needs a family man at this time. Lads–ah, and, uh, lady,” he corrects himself, rolling his eyes when someone snorts. “Rest assured that you’re in good hands . You’ll still see little old me dropping by the office periodically to check up on your progress . Besides, fresh new blood in the face of this unparalleled civic crisis of drunken debauchery is critical for our quest. And on that note, I’ll be keen to announce my new successor whom will lead everyone to a new era–”

Adrian seizes his smart walking stick perched against the wall, slapping it against a nearby Most Wanted List of portraits upon the wall, featuring Edalyn Clawthorne’s grinning black-and-white mugshot at the top. ”–in hunting down this wench right here.”

Yet another man with wavy brown hair and bottlebright blue eyes frowns, raising his hand as well. A clerical error had clearly been made with the creation of his name tag pin, for it reads: Steve! With an exclamation point. Steve had evidently seen no need to replace it. “Shouldn’t we be putting our energy into tracking down members of the Ten Elites ?

“See: I’ve been thinkin’.” Steve hurriedly consults his notes. “Clawthorne’s just one person , and reports suggest she operates just one illegal bar at this time.”

Adrian narrows in on him with a narrow grin. “Which is one too many.”

Steve hurriedly backtracks, raising his hands for good measure. “But logically , Captain, she has to have access to considerably-fewer resources and speakeasy customers compared to the likes of a vast criminal organization, with multiple speakeasies active across the city. So, in terms of a tactical standpoint, shouldn’t we prioritize identifying and tracking Agents of the Ten, first?”

“All in good time, my good fellow.” Adrian breezily promises, his hands sinking in the depths of his pocket, crossing gloved fingers. “It’s her who must face justice first, if ever we’re to protect New York City proper from itself. I speak only from experience . Get the most notorious of the lot, and the rest of the kingpins? Go down like bowling pins. Now, where was I…ah, yes. Mademoiselle , will you stand and accept, your oath to protect and serve?”

A pale woman, perhaps in her late thirties, the only female of the task force’s number, eyes startlingly-acid green, sleek long, raven-dark hair tied pristinely behind her, shakily rises. A quick shiver splits through her; her silvery name badge reads Clawthorne in glossy front.

The pinch of an uneasy smile pinches her, as her chair legs scrapescreech upon a polished floor. Steve is the only member of the force whom applauds in the sudden pall and benighted hush befitting a funeral parlor. Seconds later, Lilith wears her infamous thousand yard stare like an autograph as the rest of the force gapes, rendered slack-jawed with indignation.

“Is this a joke?!” Demands a prohibition intelligence agent, voice scraping itself raw with incredulousness. “A woman , in charge of one of this country’s biggest-ever manhunts?”

These are the sorry sort of souls whom might soon feasibly become empty chairs, Lilith bitterly supposes, her own gloved hands squeezing into fists. “I accept. I accept my oath, to protect and serve, as a paragon of virtue, to uphold the absolute extent of the law, so help me, God. Captain Adrian, sir–” She reaches out to clasp Adrian’s limp hand in her own, resis ting the urge to kiss it . “Sir, you are entirely too generous.”

“I am. I really am,” Adrian agrees loftily, with all the celebration he had invariably wanted to give himself. He furtively slips off one of his gloves seconds later with a wrinkle of distaste, rubbing his palm with a monogrammed handkerchief.

Lilith attempts to recall the gleam back from her eyes, the blush threatening to go tell it upon her powdered features. “Rest assured: I won’t let you down, sir.”

Briefly, her own eyes ghost back at her from upon the gleam of Captain Adrian’s curious mirroid badge. Adrian claimed he got it serving in the great war in Europe, although Lilith had heard differently–that he’d in fact, dodged the draft entirely, paying another young man to go in his stead. Mere libel and hearsay, she thinks, as Adrian removes his golden captain’s badge from his front, pinning it to the dark of Lilith’s coat. It gleams like pyrite, like the pulse of assurance. She could clutch at it like a medal, the way a child might a beloved teddy bear, but such childishness is surely beneath her station. And so she holds her head aloft, stands up straighter than any soldier.

“Technically, it’s a woman hunt,” Lilith icily corrects with a wag of her finger. “And you’re not to address your superior in such a way. Is that understood?”

One of the investigators leans in to whisper to another, eyes bright and malevolent like a mocking schoolboy’s: “Why don’t we just hand the office keys over to a secretary and be done with it? I’m sure the Owl Lady will be terrified both of your prowess as a typist and your ability to pour coffee, Lilith.”

Steve tenses, wincing with sympathy. Lilith swells at the sheer audacity, tasting bile. “How dare you–” The threat of a swell to her voice she quickly swallows away.

“Men,” snaps Adrian, pristine boot tapping; he certainly does not take kindly to being ignored. “And, ah, lady. Clawthorne’s worked here for years . Her record of tracking is impeccable.” He slaps a copy of the New York Times upon the table; the blaring headline CLAWTHORNE ONCE MORE EVADES CAPTURE, PROCEEDS TO STEAL POLICE CRUISER AND GARBAGE BISCUITS is written in all caps. Lilith’s pale eyes wordlessly meet Edalyn’s, her own slivering seconds later, blooming with dark.

“Now, the police have cornered Clawthorne again and again, and with nothing to show for their efforts, again and again.” Adrian points out sharply as huffs sound off on all sides.

“Unacceptable. Warden Wrath has already proven he simply isn’t up to snuff; the police rely on brawn instead of brains, thinking over and over again that a mere overpowering amount of force is alone sufficient when attempting an arrest. In short, they make the fatal oversight that Clawthorne is not an ordinary criminal, and should not be regarded as such when revising counter-tactics.” He rounds on Lilith seconds later. “I trust you already know….?”

“Oh,” Lilith utters softly. Her lips are bloodless, scarcely moving; her posture is stretched tight and as pale as a freshly-starched bedsheet. She rips down one of the wanted posters of her sister, folding it to fit inside her pocket. “I’m already well-familiar with her case, sir. I’ll bring her in.” Briefly, her head bows, her long fingertips briefly brush a locket chain tucked underneath her collar. The declaration of her own ruin rests like an ornament upon a thin clavicle. “And perhaps yet, she can be saved from herself.”

“Certainly I believe she can yet provide a lot of invaluable information. ” Adrian takes a long draught from a flask to wet his throat with liquid flames. “Especially pertaining to her infamous Apple Blood formula. Another reason why she must be captured alive.”

All the bonewhite ash of Lilith feverishly clutches at this lifeline the way the statue of a saint might a shackle of rosary beads. “Of course, sir; I just knew you’d see reason . Once I’ve properly rehabilitated her, I can convince her to denounce the other criminals on the underground network of felons running amok in this city. Any judge will have to offer her clemency for all she can yet do. She has to be familiar with more than a few names. Only check the Queen, and the other bootleggers are as good as caught. Well?” She sharply swivels around to dress the room. “What do you say? Are you with me?”

One of the agents leans back in his seat, plopping his loafers upon the conference table. “Well, I say the Owl Lady’s good as a lost cause. Soon she’ll be a household name when she starts exporting around the entire country unchecked. I bet she’ll be vacationing in the Caribbean on her yacht sometime next year. And all ‘cause Lilith probably convinced our good commanding officer to make her captain by taking the oath to protect, upon her knees.”

“Oh, I doubt the likes of a lady would be caught dead speaking with her mouth full ,” Viciously whispers back his cohort, voice greased with innuendo. Distressed, Steve leaps to his feet as the room fills with raucous howls of laughter. “Enough. Enough, all of you! That's no way you speak, to your commanding officer!”

Scandalized, Lilith grinds down her teeth, eyes chips of flint, and chews down around a warning hiss as she clenches a fist in stone fidelity. Her anticipation dissolves like salt in a weakened broth. If she loses it now , doubtlessly her detractors will accuse her of menstruating or female hysteria or worse–so she’ll keep her composure like lockjaw. So she’ll work harder, than the likes of any man.

“I surely won’t fail.” Lili th’s chilling voice cuts through a waxy pallor of an old gas light. All the laughter dies. “ I’ll be the one, whom finally hunts her down. I’ll put the world to rights. More importantly,” Lilith’s eyes flash, arsenic to Edalyn’s arsonic . “I’ll be the one, whom gets her to stop all this.”

Adrian turns then the assembled task force; his disaffected voice nonetheless holds the room hostage. “Whom wishes, then, to partner up with our illustrious new Captain? Doubtlessly she’ll require assistance performing fieldwork.”

Someone produces a dry cough; a mass exodus of gaze. Lilith’s voice might lie on the ground like a stranded thing. Little matter, little matter, never mind . The only whom ever partnered up with her as a school child had always been her own sister.

Then Steve’s hand flies up; his hand rises solitary amongst their number. Lilith tenses, scanning the room as if looking for any potential other takers. “With all due respect , Cap tain , I do not require assistance .”

“He seems keen on his part to offer it,” Adrian points out, disaffectedly turning one of his ice-colored cufflinks as Steve eagerly rises and shuffles over.

Lilith’s shoulders are soon swiftly boxed in on themselves, like hats from a smart department store. “And do I seem,” she hisses waspishly . “In wan t of your help? T he part of a damsel in distress? Do I seem, to require rescue? From the likes of y ou?”

“No, captain, no ma’am.” Steve meekly bleats as he removes his hat, which he squeezes in both hands before standing at salute. “But I–I figured I just might. Need saving, I mean. So, I’d just as soon as team up with the most capable person on the team, captain, ma’am.”

Gradually, the frost in Lilith’s demeanor thaws slightly; the sharp of her slate gaze warily rises up and down the width of Steve’s own eyes, the earnest lifting of them to Lilith’s appraisal. Lilith thinks, not unfavorably so, of her mother’s old co*cker spaniel.

“...very well, then.” She sweeps away, inspecting her nails. “I suppose, for your sake, I will accept this arrangement shall be a tolerable one for the present. Button your lapel, Steve. Look sharp.”

“Hooray!” Steve cheers before hastily obeying; fists merrily shooting up in the air like an uprise of fireworks. “All hail, Captain Lulu!”

Lilith is appalled; already she’s entertaining second thoughts as she whirs on him in a blus ter . “ And what the deuce is with that nickname?!”

“Now, on that note, your firs t order of business involves witness interrogation. ” Adrian’s already reaching for the glossy heft of his leather valise, also monogrammed with his initials. “S omeone answered our newspaper ad and came forward with information , regarding the Owl Lady’s most recent flight. He has news of a potential accomplice. Your best hope for a lead is to interrogate him. He’s sitting in your new office right now, waiting for you.”

Lilith inwardly preens at the news–perhaps soon the door will even have her name mounted upon the window glass like a hunting trophy. But she does not gloat long, in her mounting confusion.

“‘Accomplice?’” Lilith repeats the word haltingly, like a venture into lake water or a foreign language; even the practice of her features balks. “No, no, no. Mere rumors. You’re clearly mistaken. Edalyn is–” Even if she wasn’t always in love with her own solitude. “–I know for a fact that she works alone.”

“That’s not what our witness says.” Adrian’s eyes cast a straitjacket stare as he pulls out his pocket watch from his breast pocket, likewise monogrammed. “And we do have several paper boys whom can attest to the witness’s whereabouts on the afternoon of the incident. I t lines up with the likes of that humiliating police report. And, ah, Cap tain Clawthorne…speaking of humiliating…”

Adrian leans in; his voice dips so low so only Lilith can hear, hot against her ear. His breath tangs dark with coffee grounds. “Take care I don’t regret sticking my neck out for you, won’t you, doll? Why, the smallest misstep could lead to yet another historical first: the first-ever female New York City PI being sacked and publicly disgraced.” His languid-lazy eyes gleam overbright; they strike her shivery as Lilith swallows, pulling her breath in sharply; it sounds corrugated to her own ears.

“My superiors might have taken interest in your services, but I for one would take care not to lose my head over this . Jus t a friendly little stock tip , between captains.” He reaches out to clasp Lili th’s shoulder; Lilith grimaces. “And with that little tip, I wish you good luck and a fond adieu! I so look forward to reading your report, when I next I visit.”

The casual farewell is laced up with the poison of a promise as the dangles of Lilith's strings tighten around herself. Understanding travels across her eyes. “...sir, yes, Captain, sir.”

Adrian sweeps off, his secretary already bustling out with his cane, hat, and smart blue cloak, lined with ermine. Steve hastens to Lilith’s side. “Are you alright?”

“It’s fine.” Lilith briskly replies, from the claustrophobic space of her own prayer. “Of course it’s fine.” She’ll repeat it then, to make it true, to brush truth to air. Hesitantly, she swivels her head toward her office, and yes, that possesses a ring to it. “....I suppose it’s really as good a lead as any, far-fetched as it sounds. We mustn’t neglect even the smallest thread of possibility. Very well.” She turns; Steve keeps his eyes fixed firmly upon the backs of her heels, lagging a half step behind as they head to the back of the building. Lilith is already as wan as if the pale of the nameless anemia of colors of the station has already leeched into her.

~o*oOo*o~

Seated in a glossy leather swivel chair like a throne, posture as impeccable as if it were a marble rendering, Lilith crosses her arms from her desk, already marginally-unimpressed. A youth, riddled hard at his shrinking edges with malnutrition, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, sits in the discomfort of the wooden chair before her as if it’s the electric variety. He’s gangly, pimpled and already ill-at-ease, more slouch than teenage boy in the pseudo-light of the office, amidst ringing telephones and the rhythmic whir-whacking of type-writers, the chemical tingles of ink and coffee co-mingling.

Lilith can’t help but inwardly rankle-slightly. Her quest– quest certainly possesses a pleasing ring to it, too–is nothing short of a historical crusade. One which will be lauded, immortalized in both the history books and the press. The savior of this city–perhaps another title that can fit upon the door–whom will spell the end of a notorious criminal career. Perhaps countless scores of them, once Edalyn cooperated. Yet Lilith expected to speak to the likes of a mere child for her search. Lilith remains wholly-unconvinced she’d ever had much use for the likes of children , particularly when she’d spent much of her own youth reading underneath the dining room table, hiding out from her childhood.

Hesitantly Steve clears his throat, as if to somehow clear the room with it. “So, ‘says here your name is…” He opens the folder the secretary had sent in and inspects it, inspects it more thoroughly to be certain. “.....Mister Matthomule . Boy, that sure is creative!”

“Call me Matt. Matt Tholomule.” Snaps Ma tt, the spike of his voice cooling posthaste with waking dread, remembering once more Where he is. “Uh, please , sir.”

Hesitantly, Steve turns to Lilith. “....so, uh, are we about to do Good cap, Bad cop, here?” He’s so wet behind the ears Lilith resists the urge to blot him with her handkerchief.

"That could only be a game of the likes of Bad Cop, Bad Cop . We're not constables–because we investigators have something valuable to contribute to society,” Lilith corrects without preamble like a schoolteacher, gloved hands folding primly before her. Disconcerted, Matt gives her a confounded look. “...am I really reportin’ what I know to ya , lady?” He snorts; this dame here looks like an unfortunate spinster caricature from one of the comics in the newspapers he sells. “You ain’t even –”

Bad idea; bad idea; Steve frantically and repeatedly draws a line over his throat from behind Lilith in warning. Too late; Matt recoils as snow all but scurries in a coiling wind for the blistering cold of Lilith’s icy contempt–he finds himself frozen before the artillery of a firing squad. Matt’s dropped jaw is an open clot.

“I will not be made mock of. Any other smart little questions , on your part, young man?” Lilith’s haughty words come in a cool precipitous fall, a tinkling of glass. “Or would you like to declare here and now that you're wasting everyone’s precious time?”

“N-No, ma’am.” Matt’s eyes launch to the carpet; he closes his mouth sheepishly. “I’ll…I’ll get, to the meat of the matter, then.” Steve reaches over to squeeze his shoulder as Matt hugs himself without realizing. Christ almighty, it was like walking into a shivering January morning in here.

“....I…I saw the Owl Lady, when she made her escape last week.” He holds his hands over a chest cavity that declares itself its own devastating god. Suddenly, Ma tt does no t believe in his own human clay. Dully, he wonders if he believes in any thing . “The Owl Lady was running away from the fuzz–uh, the constable .”

“Of course she was.” Lilith nods to a newspaper upon her desk. “ Plenty of eyewitnesses have already attested to this.”

“Incidentally, plenty of property owners have called their insurance companies too,” Steve breezily agrees with a wink. Lilith frowns at him.

Matt leans forward. He feels on trial in a cavern of eyes weighing upon him. Suddenly his own insides are upon a wavering set of scales; suddenly he’s his own defendant. He shakes his head frantically–he’s only a witness, to someone else’s crime. “Bu t there was a boy sprinting along with her, uh, about my age–a little shorter. And I know for a fact his name is Dante Fortunato .” A name unfurls like a flag of surrender. “ He helped the Owl Lady get away.” Matt rubs his hands as if to warm himself, or to hopefully rub away the residue of a stranger's life.

Brightening at the prospect of putting his forensic drawing skills to work, Steve produces a nearby sketchpad and pencil, quietly pausing to murmur several yes or no questions to Matt. Lilith stands up, automatically turning for a window, but there’s none to be found in this stifling little room that’s nonetheless her stifling little room–she turns her face to the wall, arms folded neatly behind her back.

“.... Dante Fortunato .” Lilith speaks upon the tremors of an untouched string. “Well, his surname is something of a misnomer if he’s really running amok with the likes of Edalyn.” Fortunate one . Well, he’ll certainly be Lilith’s streak of good luck, if only she can track him down. A child would surely be an easier mark, than Eda herself.

“And I know he’s got an Italian name, but he’s actually probably Puerto Rican or El Salvadorian, judgin’ by his accent,” Matt halfheartedly mutters into his lap in a single breath , as if willing with all his might for the floor to take pity and open up beneath them all.

“What else can you tell me about him?” Lilith’s impeccably-polished shoes pace back and forth upon the diamond-patterned floor. “You and he then are acquainted?”

“...I’ve not seen him, for a few days now.” Matt’s paper route had been all the quieter without Dante; Matt shouted headlines all the louder for it. “...ever since Clawthorne showed up. He was something of a chatterbox, but he didn’t get too mouthy on where he lived.” Matt’s brow draws up like a shade when Steve absently places a piece of candy in his work-worn hands. “...most of us paperboys don’t, really.” It’s enough to survive, when you were desperate enough to do the work of dollars and not even get dimes for your trouble.

“....he worked hard, harder than any of us.” Get the whole wretched thing over with. “And he was stupidly- nice, even when ya told him to can it. He sold all the papers he could carry and then some. Now, all of us on the route need to make a living. But Dante Really wanted, to make some dough.” Incidentally, so does Matt; his fingernails nonetheless are briefly rendered starkly-white as they grip to the sides of the chair, like his own damn spinal cord.

“....and like I said, he never showed up back to work several days ago, when he and Clawthorne ran off from Wrath. So of course he got the sack from our boss Mr. Piniet at the newspaper office.”

“Naturally,” Lilith crisply retorts, swiveling around mid-step. “Go on.”

“....I bet if he really needs money, it ain’t impossible that he teamed up with the likes of the Owl Lady. If ya caught him, wave a few coins in front of him, he’d probably sing like a canary, and lead ya straight to her and her nest.” Suddenly, Matt feels sick with himself as bile swims up his throat. Why had he ever come? Briefly, the starving teeth of his stomach, intent on cannibalizing itself, remind him. Reward Included. “That’s all I know. Them’s the breaks.”

“Well, he’s already in grave trouble for aiding and abetting a felon,” Lilith sighs, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “So this Fortunato character will be identified as a person of interest by the authorities once we radio word over.” She marches up to Matt, her eyes boring into his. “You’ve done quite well, coming and telling us what you know, young man.” Lilith retrieves her pocketbook, unclasping it. “For your trouble.”

Briefly, Matt’s hands part; Lilith allows a silvery clinking windfall, no less than thirty pieces, to clinkchink into Matt’s palms. “Should you happen to remember anything else leading to the capture and detainment of Edalyn Clawthorne–” Matt jolts at once in discomfort at Lilith’s glassy and expressionless coun tenance, looming over him. “...there will be considerably more , where that came from. Do we understand one another, sir?”

Matt glums a nod as he tucks the coins away. A pocket full of rattling silver should’ve been a sheer joy. A miracle. Now, he feels so heavy he doubts he’ll be able to walk straight. If the coins sound like bells, they’re the funerary knell variety. Probably his own.

“Does this look like him?” Steve produces a monochrome portrait of a youth from his notepad; Matt leans forward to squint and inspect. “Your friend, I mean.”

Not my friend. Certainly they wouldn’t be after tonight , anyway. “...yeah. That's him, alright. Except, see, Dante’s eyes, they’re a little bigger, and his cheekbones were a little softer,” he corrects as Steve skims his eraser to edit. “I swear, he was probably fibbin’ when he claimed he was fifteen, because he was, well–” He scratches his head. “–so puny, hairless, and squeaky you’d think he was damn too poor, to afford puberty. Oh, and he always wore a cap and scarf, no matter what kind of weather we had. Along with a set of rosary beads he guarded like the koh-i-noor diamond.” Must be novel, Matt supposes at the fraying edges of him, to have something worthy of protecting, beyond the sorry skin of you, in this lifetime.

“Got it,” Steve promises as he lowers his pencil, blowing slightly at the graying edges. “They’ll have Wanted posters up soon. Thanks again for the help.” Matt grimaces. Sorry, Dante. Nothing personal. Every precious coin was a tossed stepping-stone further away from dying in the ravenous gape of the open sewers, where the poor waited for the occasional warm sigh of the ventilators. Funeral fit for a king.

Matt rises to go, but his woebegone, mismatched boots wind up pausing mid-way out. “...maybe the Owl Lady just sweet-talked Dante into helping her, and ya can just let him go, after ya get yer hands on the crazy booze lady.” Matt uneasily proposes, squeezing his eyes shut as his worst enemy boos him down inwardly. Perhaps he could simply talk Dante free. “Dante’s a harmless, gullible idiot who had a weakness for lost causes. Feedin’ stray cats, giving pennies to beggars–” Being kind and friendly, to the traitorous likes of Matthomule. Only the last error had been the gravest, most fatal of the sorry lot.

Lilith’s voice emerges snaptrap as she simply talks right through him: “Whatever his reasons, if Fortunato doesn’t comply with our line of investigation, he can expect to be punished, by the fullest extent of the law.” She gives her hand the smallest of waves, as if to shoo him. “Now run along, Mr. Matthomule. A good day to you, sir.”

The door keens on its hinges as Matt goes small, the way a bird goes small against the enormity of the sky overhead. There doesn’t even seem enough of him to fill his own bootstep as he silently trudges out. Steve sighs. “Good news is, even if Fortunato doesn’t work his paper route anymore, most paper boys would realistically choose to work locally for a shorter commute for the morning and evening editions.” Steve proposes, carefully-eyeing one of the innumerable maps of New York City’s boroughs pasted upon the walls. “So, if this here is the Boiling Island newspaper office Matt mentioned…” Steve scoops out a nearby red pin, spearing it upon paper. “.. . I’d say this perimeter here is officially our region of inquiry, just North, outside Harlem, Captain, ma’am.”

“Excellent work, Steve.” Lilith praises loftily with an arch hand flip, and Steve flusters a pleased grin before saluting. Lilith’s lip thins as she re-inspects the portrait Steve drew.

“.....Dante Fortunato.” She sinks down in her seat, briefly taking her chin in hand again. “....a child ?” She peers at the youth’s likeness like a message uncorked in a bottle, straining as if attempting to reason morse code into a working language, STOP.

“Whatever game could you be playing at this time , sister dearest?” Still pursing her lips, she offers the sheet to Steve for him to peruse. “Who are you, really?”

Little matter; Lilith, Captain Lilith, would surely play along, never mind how insipid. Eda had waited all by the river the whole of the sorry of her life, waiting to be saved . And Lilith, like a prophet of the river’s creed, Captain Lilith, all the hail and hallelujah of her, would do just that, cross-weaved by an exhilarating sense of sudden height, as if she stands upon the Woolworth Building itself, poised to fly or fall.

~o*oOo*o~

Watching startled several doves taking abreast the wind at his footstep, Matt comes to a pause at a little wooden bridge in Central Park, a welcome respite from the city air proper choked with soot. Rising moonlight lightly skims the melting ice of a pond down below. It smells marshy, of the dung of countless birds whom make this tiny greenery haven their home. Frogs emerging from their long slumber are drowsily gurgle-gargling to one another, as if paying each other compliments of the evening.

Someone in the distance plays an exquisite violin aria; the searing lament strain thrums soft and low in the evening, like a mourning dove calling where are you , benea th the impassive eyes of March stars. Matt’s hair takes to the cooling air. Everyone whom is anyone which is everyone in the likes of a rotting apple for a city is alone, alone, alone.

Thrusting a hand in his pocket, Matt pulls out a handful of his reward money, that sings in his hand a dirge. Gritting his teeth, his hand forms a clenched fist, arm soaring back like a pendulum, before he falls upon his knees, head in his hands before the likes of the rippling water. “What am I even doing …?”

His fist collides into the soft marsh of the rot of the bridge; it’s a wonder he doesn’t punch a hole straight through it. “...Matt, ya absolute f*cking moron. Do ya think, anyone would be cryin’ like a sissy , if it was you…? Would anyone even look hangdog, if ya were history? No; no they wouldn’t.”

He ferociously swipes at his streaming eyes as he looks up. There, amidst the pale, buttercup globes of streetlamps beginning to soften the lavender twilight, several yards away, is one of New York’s infamous flower maidens, back turned to him. Clutching her basket beneath her patched hooded cloak, she pleads with a departing couple dressed to the nine to buy one of her sad little snowdrop flowers in her sad little woven basket of dry grass. The phantom-pale figures might’ve given a fellow ghost more notice. The lady’s ruffed parasol casts a long shadow.

Matt hollows a bark of bitter laughter as his anguish resolves itself to words. “That–right there–is gonna be you . They get paid even less than paperboys do, ya actual moron.” Settling his coins in his pocket–he wraps his arms around himself. “If ya even live that long. So, what gives? Ya finally cut a break, and it still ain’t enough for you. You big, stupid, palooka.” He swipes the burning of his eyes, the snuffling of his nose. He sullenly grabs a rock, and skips it upon the rippling face of the water. He grabs another to chuck for good measure. “What’s it even to ya, if they arrest him? Ain’t everyone already good as all alone, in this stupid-ass world….?”

“....hello, there? Mister?”

He nearly topples over seconds later in shock; the girl in a dark moss cloak has tentatively approached him upon the little bridge, keeping a wary distance, as if half-fearing him to be insane. Matt glimpses fading daisy print upon a bedraggled skirt that looks like it's being actively reclaimed by the earth by the sheer amount of dirt at the torn edges of her dress. Her sandals are clearly much too small, all her nails dark with grit. What little Matt can glimpse of her dark hair beneath her kerchief is so-dusted with pollen you’d be forgiven for thinking you saw ripples of translucent green. She also wears an old face mask–perhaps she still fears strains of the 1918 influenza pandemic lurking about the populace–as well as a thick choker of woven dry flowers positioned carefully at her throat.

Heat rising in his face, Matt hurriedly looks away, another lump rising in his throat–he never quite knew, what to say to the likes of a pretty girl; certainly they were not in the habit of approaching him, even just for a newspaper. To his chagrin, she’s slightly-taller than him, about his age. “Mister, any chance ya wanna buy a flower?” She doesn’t speak with the worn, careless casualty of a seasoned salesperson–she glides her pitch into the resonance of a contralto.

“Ain’t got no time for sissy stuff,” Matt snaps, hopping to his feet, hurriedly wiping his nose. “ Ugh, stupid pollen and stupid allergies makin’ my stupid eyes water. I gotta go save a heroic moron from himself, and warn him before he’s caught.” He smacks his chest with an open palm. “Then, we’re square. Luckily for those two saltine crackers whom are whiter than the idea of Iowa, I know the lay of these streets a whole lot better than ‘em.”

The girl bows her head, gloved hands tightening around her basket handle. Her own olive green eyes sheen on verge of tears. Gritting his teeth, kicking his own ass into the damn sunset, Matt sourly thinks he’d gladly pay every single coin he just earned, to have his beating heart surgically removed from the stupid life of him. Doubtlessly, he’d survive so much longer for his trouble.

“Oh, fine,” he snaps, thrusting over one of his coins. The girl brightens at once like a blooming daisy as she holds up a calloused hand to collect the silver, her bare fingernails also dark with soil. She lifts a flower from her basket to pro-offer, but Matt waves a hand to dismiss. “And ya can keep the flower for another day.” He scuffs his scuff of a shoe. “Not like I got nobody in this world, to give flowers to, no ways.” Matt lowers his voice; curse his heart, and his inability to tell a good-looking dame no . “But ya better not tell anyone. Street rep, and all that.”

The steward of the night flowers beams. “Thank you so–”

But Matt has already turned, and taken off running away. Bewildered, hand rising in a lonely farewell Matt does not see, Willow exhales as she lowers her hand. She tucks her precious coin against the ancient handkerchiefs sewn underneath the neckline of her dress. At least there would be breakfast tomorrow; the mere thought alone is enough to stir even the ache of her battered feet into dancing.

But it’s getting dark; she’d better find her makeshift shelter, preferably-before the constables came out with their twirling bats, preferably-before the night lords of this city emerge like a parade of nightmares. She’ll find the trailing hair of the willows that had even given a runaway shelter, as well as her true name.

But Willow finds herself pausing by a little fountain babbling softly to itself. When the midday’s spillover sunlight fell just so, upon twisted pipes sputtering ice water in a graceful arc, it appeared to send a dazzling volley of light scattering upwards and onwards, in rainbow beams. Sometimes, people made wishes here, judging by the gleam of the coins that scatter the fountain’s bottom. With a heart full of guilt, sometimes Willow plunged her hands for the precious coins on particularly bad sales days. After all, she had a wish, too– not to starve.

Now, Willow retrieves her coin, carefully cupping it in her hands like the glisten of a fallen star. She kneels beside the fountain, clinging onto her wish as the fountain waters careen over her fingertips and silver coin in a rush of liquid moonlight. Wind polishes itself clean with notes of snow. Willow bows her head, swaying trees soft and restless in their leafy garments of a waxing green all around as she lets Matt’s flower fall forward on the water, petals shedding like a drift of fresh snowfall beneath the onlook of March stars.

“...please.”

The falling of a stray tear anoints the algaeic translucence of the March waters in ceaseless ripples, beneath a fumbling green gentleness of treetops.

~o*oOo*o~

The Following Afternoon

A young girl with a heart-shaped face, clad in the glossy silk frock of a black dress uniform, staggers across the magnificent stony courtyard of Saint Agatha’s Academy For Young Society Ladies as the noon bell chimes the twelfth hour. Gargoyles overhead brood over countless pillars, the recessed-doorways of shadow classrooms, marble walkways polished to a dull shine. Busts of Mephopheles and Prométhée overlook the meticulously-maintained green carpet of the grounds.

A Heraldic motto, Morimur unum; unum totum vivimus , is engraved above pillars upon the vaulting arch of a balcony, beside the corbels of diamond-patterned lancet windows.

Several students, whom march to and from classes at the behest of a bell, halt at the sight of the fleeing student. A prefect barks at the disheveled girl for running , her dark brown hair even falling out of its pins, but the young woman does not break stride, nor apologize, even as she races for the dormitories, footfalls echoing in the cavernous gloom. To think of what one of the matrons would do, if they only knew–classmates whom delight in the mundane folly of others turn to whisper among each other in the crowd of dark sheath and tulle dresses, school crests emblazoned upon the blouse lapel.

Cheekbones a blotchy pink, as if she’d been freshly-slapped, and wouldn’t that have been preferable, staggering around the shape of a cataclysmic rupture where her chest cavity once resided, fifteen-year-old Amity Blight races into what had once been her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her so hard it rattles upon its hinges. Privately, Amity would’ve quite liked to slam it again, but she’s feverish with the wish to be alone so she can cry in peace.

Expelled.

She collapses upon her four-poster bed, burying her face in her pillow as she swallows up as much as her own tears to prevent herself from making a single sound for any eavesdroppers, even as she descends into wild, frantic sobs that keen at her insides.

It occurs to her only now that her disappointment seems entirely out of proportion; she’d never much liked the rigorous gloom of St. Agatha’s, and all its countless, austere rules. The impending loss of the little sorority members she surrounded herself with daily is certainly a smoke she can yet swallow; she’d only collected them to say that she could.

With a violent yank, Amity twists off the hateful band upon her right ring finger. No, it was not even the prospect of going home that rearranges her, where at least she can hold Ghost again back in the states. It wasn’t even that her life no longer belonged to her.

It was the mere fact that it had never been hers , to begin with.

Drenched and swollen face saturated with sorrow, Amity savagely rips off the thin white blankets she’d made every day for inspection, wrapping them around herself as she stumbles across the room. Expelled . Not that there was anyone to tell, save for perhaps Ghost, what she’d done to warrant being expelled, and why.

And now her parents are being telegraphed ; and now she is being sent, upon the steamer ship, back home with her trunks to the states. Back to a cold house where venetian mirrors in gilt-edged mirrors showed you more than you were ever looking for in refracting glass, in down brass-and-glass hallways, chambers full of vintage botanical paintings, and nay a real flower in sight; Odalia could be heard scathing about how their pollen ruined countless damask tablecloths trimmed in wispy lace like snowflakes. Only now it’ll be worse than ever before, now with the looming prospect of M̶o̶m̶'̶s̶ Dad’s stupid campaign, where all Amity’s excitement will be performative, and on someone else’s stage besides. She flings her copy of Robin Hood across the room. She could cry for the broken spine of her book, and the broken heart of her.

Mutinous with longing, Amity Blight flings open the window of her dormitory. Outside, pale turrets and cobblestone, where drifting stormclouds froth in all unease at the edges of her vision. Briefly, she considers casting her golden ring out the window, but there’s no telling what her mother will do if she discovers she lost the hateful thing. It might be a noose for her hand. Eyes watering with tears from dusty chambers where her living dwells, Amity flings her eyes upwards at what little she could see of a sky briefly stained with light. “ Please.”

Wild, Amity means to call out for God in the terror-toned pale of daylight, and out instead comes a wound of a sound, a longing for a name, names, any names that will have her, see her, feel her, where she’s beating the inside of her glass casket. Where she’s expected to lie comatose before her interment deep underground, all clad in white.

~o*oOo*o~

Three Days Later

Gusts of laughter travel the usual comforting-configurations of the softly-lambent lights of Owl House. Virtually everyone whom has come to call this evening are already seasoned regulars, well-acquainted with the stirrings of life amidst the twinkling lights of the underground, the synchronized revolutions of old friends greeting one another, relieved for the warm handful of warmth out of the nipping winds. March in New York wavers on the crevice of seasons.

Gilbert, for his part, looks concerned from where he nurses a glass of Apple Blood at his usual tiny table with Harvey. “I’m just saying: Eda doesn’t have to work him quite so hard.” He manages a dumbfounded wave as Dante comes scurrying past with a mop and broom, waving furiously.

Harvey gives his own glass an apprehensive little swish. “Yeah! Either I’ve just seen Dante six places in the last two minutes, or I’ve already had too much Apple Blood….”

“I for one think it’s a standoff between S tudent and Teacher at this point,” Darius drawls loftily as he totters over to greet the couple. It surely isn’t anyone whom can walk in glittering stilettos more heel than shoe, but he struts with the practiced gracefulness of a ballroom instructor nonetheless. “Whom can possibly outlast the other? Speakin’ of people bein’ unnecessarily hard-headed , where the hell’s Eber ?” Darius shades his eyes with a sharp frown and a lavender-gloved hand as he scans the merry clamor of the din; he looks like the part of a fairy princess on a desert expedition. “He’s scheduled to play tonight. Ain’t like him to be late–not when that insufferable little showboat takes every opportunity to show off .”

Privately, Harvey supposes it sort of rich for Darius to complain when the highfaultin popinjay diva takes or makes any opportunity to show off, be it from behind the swing of his office door at the Queens courthouse at day, or with the swooping-glide of his velvet cape and tiara amidst the swing of music at night. “Oh, my God .” Harvey clutches his chest as he swoons; Gilbert swoops in from behind to steady him. “Whom can out-stubborn the other? They’re both gonna plotz.”

“....I just wish Eda realized how lucky she has it,” Gilbert can’t help but sigh as Harvey dolefully meets his eyes. Cobwebs of old grief glint in the light of his voice. “She gets to look after a little one, but from the look of it, she doesn’t even like him.” Gilbert hurriedly lowers his voice as Dante hurries to refill several pails of water stationed around the joint in case one of the countless tapers caught fire. “We should talk to her tonight, and get her to ease up.”

“Yeah. Gil and I thought about filin’ an application for a little bubbeleh of our own from one of the city orphanages, but–see, they want married couples.” Unconvincingly, Harvey attempts to blithely shrug it away; the weight yet settles in-between the draw of his shoulders. In his voice. “And uh, couples they don’t constitute as menaces to society. You know: I’m glad the people aboveground have to go underground every time they want to have a drink without fear for their lives. Let ‘em see how it feels for a change.” Harvey’s glass chinks against Gilbert’s for emphasis before he takes a swig.

Darius's eyes sparkle over the edge of his own glass.“First of all, oh, Eda likes the kid alright, which is probably why she’s doing her damndest to get rid of him,” Darius patiently explains as he pulls out his compact, retouching his rogue. “ Before it’s too late.”

“Because that makes a lick of sense,” Harvey complains with a snort as Gilbert performs a double take. “Um, how many Apple Bloods are you on again, exactly? Are ya sure ya can safely walk that runway tonight?”

“If you only knew Eda as long as I have, you’d see it checks out completely .” Darius neatly allows the little pocket vanity mirror to snap shut, and disappear in his matching purse. “Secondly, for what it's worth, the orphanage directors whom all look like they cut their hair with a knife and fork can all sod off. You’d be excellent parents. As for moi –can ya even imagine me with a child? I’m told children are liable to get covered in jelly .” Darius performs a spectacular shudder, hands finding his hips as a young man races over, grinning ear-to-ear. “About time you decided to grace us with your presence, your highness.”

Eber Wolf, scarcely-courting five feet tall, skin copperplate autumn, Nimiipuu Indigenous American, waves furiously as he hurtles over . His cat-printed bowtie is slightly-askew; a red rose sits in his lapel. “Sorry I’m late, everyone!” Eber trills breathlessly, standing on tiptoe to hug Gilbert and Harvey, teasingly-making kissing noises at Darius, whom seems to be seriously contemplating trampling Eber beneath his stiletto then and there. “A meeting I was at ran late. Now what flavor of tea do we have on the menu tonight , ladies?”

“Taking bets on a war of wits.” Harvey looks on dumbfounded as Dante runs past with a trash bin, then doubles back over to help re-stock the glasses at the bar, before rustling over to break up a brewing quarrel between two queens, whom had both opted to wear Spring tasseled dresses from Macy’s for tonight’s drag ball performance, before re-filling Rainey’s glass, as she had opted, once more, to bring her ex-girlfriend’s break up note to the bar, then breaking up two sapphics at fisticuffs over a translation of Sappho's poetry for a college essay, and then popping over to check in on an older man and woman having a heated debate in whispers, because Their Mutual Ex Would Be At the Party Tonight. “Eda is working Dante all kinds of hard. Dante’s giving as good as he gets, though. He’s not backing down.”

“Ooh, that’s a tough one.” Eber’s forefinger finds its way to his lips with a hum as he muses the matter over. “I’mma say…I’mma put my money on the new kid. See, the shorter you are, the greater potential you have to comfortably fit, rent-free , mind you, within the minds of your enemies, striking fear in them! You psychologically erode them from the inside out. It’s just basic science. Plus, ‘bout time someone gave Eda a run for her money.”

Gilbert gulps. “On that note, I’ll be betting on Dante.”

“Me too,” Harvey bleats, hiding behind his partner. Darius scowls, uneasily side-stepping Eber. “‘ Splains a lot, ya little machiavellian horror.” Darius’s eyes immediately fall upon the tiny red rose upon Eber’s vest lapel; they narrow seconds later. “....ya said ya had a meeting . Don’t tell me you all people actually went on a date.”

“I’m deeply wounded,” Eber snipes back wryly, averting his eyes at once. He makes a weak noncommittal gesture when both Gilbert and Harvey swivel curiously in his direction. “Now, you wouldn’t happen to be projecting your own inability to get a relationship that outlasts your collection of rhinestone tiaras onto me , would you, Dar-bear?”

Harvey whistles. “Say, does this drink double as an antiseptic? Because I think Darius should probably clean that burn.”

Darius rolls his eyes. “ Do not even –rhinestones are a diva’s best friend . Unlike a man, they don’t depreciate over time. Now, what’s really with the rose?” He asks with sudden clarity, aler t penciling his eyebrows. “...if ya ya really had a cute date, ya would be too busy rubbing it in my face. I know you.” A magnificent swish of his hair.

“Look–a fellah can’t dress up for work sometimes?” Eber gripes, storming off to join the other assembling musicians in the tiny orchestra pit nearby, unlocking one of his instrumental cases waiting against the wall to begin setting up shop for the night. “No one gives you any lip about your showing up each night looking like a bridesmaid .” Eber starts tapping out " Here Comes the Bride ” from Wagner's 1850 opera Lohengrin upon his bass drum. “Shouldn’t ya be strewing flowers somewhere?”

“ Bitch, I ain’t no bridesmaid, I’m a whole-ass bride . And your idea of “dressing up” for work means sometimes wearing pants!” Darius cries, swinging his purse for good measure. Eber’s usual smile is eroding in a line, taut as a highwire and just as dangerous. Harvey startles behind them in growing alarm. “Lads, c’mon, now, don’t start–”

“Eber.” Darius feels the bloodrush of a single stride; Eber halts playing the song mid-note. The gates of his face, normally-wide open with laughter, are carefully-closed tonight. Wary. Frightened. Darius’s insides convulse on a faultline. When the hell did Eber ever do fear?

“Every time, every single damn time we even come here, we’re courting a potential raid and arrest .” Darius’s voice does not break; these are merely their shadow facts of the day. “Take it from a seasoned lawyer: Ain’t no defense , ain’t no law, ain’t no justice , for people like us . To the world at large: We’re all guilty, just standin’ here.”

Eber gazes out at the crowd of colors, wordlessly wondering what the whole lot of them resemble from a distance. Just more hues on a tapestry wall, embroidered in a quilt made of the collective threads of their names?

Darius’s voice emerges as a plea bargain: “You know it wouldn’t be the first or last time one of our bars got a little visit by the authorities.” A crazy urge, to rip the red rose off Eber’s front. Darius has heard countless Rumors whispered here in his time; not all of them are mere hearsay . “While most of the police are all too happy to accept bribes and suffer temporary amnesia when they come knocking, ain’t all of ‘em . And the Ten ain’t much better. Those heartless maniacs are circling sharks filled with bloodlust. Our homes, our jobs, our kin, our freedom, our places in society, everything topside we hold dear–” Darius opens the whole of a hand, closes it again amidst its own extinguishment. “All eradicated, in an instant, if we get caught.”

Eber briefly might again be on the subway ride here, among the dead and dreaming topside, amidst ferry whistles, the steel thrums of a passing train, sparring bits of teeth in dark alleyways. He manages a weary grin, but there’s no cheer in it. “You really think,” He twirls his drumsticks in his hands. “I don’t know all that, Dar-bear? I might be small, but I know how to stay safe.”

“So then,” Darius’s heels attempt to close the distance. “It only stands to reason , that we stay in our lane. We stay safe , as a group . The only real hope and protection people like us have, are other people like us .” Hope is such a dry-eyed word for such a sheer stroke of feeling. “We don’t go out of our way, to do anything stupid, to jeopardize everything we’ve spent so long building. We don’t bring our own ruin, to our own damn doorstep.” Briefly, his hand falls upon Eber’s shoulder. Eber bites the inside of his mouth hard. Gilbert and Harvey again exchange flabbergasted looks, completely lost.

“For a great deal of us, this precious place is our second home–the only thing that oils the hinges of our days.” Darius leans in, emerald green eyes imploring. “In other words: We stay alive.”

Briefly, Eber’s hand falls over Darius’s as he exhales; a low, sad sound. “....you’ve made your point. Thanks, old pal.” Eber, manages a wan, apologetic smile as he gently shrugs Darius off. “And now– let’s get this party started! ” He spins around upon his hool, merrily thrumming upon his drumset as the crowds split open into roaring cheers. Eber sweetly waves his hat at him. “Don’t ya have a catwalk to make your bitch?”

“Don’t think this is over,” Darius snaps, a tincture of iron playing in his throat as mos t reluctantly, he storms off. “Imma find up what you’re really up to. Mark my words.”

Umber eyes reflective, Eber offers himself up to the beating heart of his beloved drumset, and fondly supposes that he will hold Darius to it.

~o*oOo*o~

“Ya look beat.” King’s eyes remain fixated on the murk of the glass he’s polishing as Dante flops upon a stool, proceeding to then flop upon his folded arms.

“Nothin’ I can’t handle!” Dante hurriedly chirps reassuredly, though his grin quickly comes apart like the stuff of a puzzle. King automatically pushes a tall, foaming root beer towards Dante’s hands, which Dante accepts with a murmured thanks. “Although, I’m startin’ to wonder if Eda really meant to teach me how to help her distill or sell Apple Blood at all .” He buries his face in his hands. “Four days , and I haven’t learned a thing about brewing. Just boring chores and errands. Doesn’t she…doesn’t she take me seriously at all?”

King looks up at once. “Hold on–she’s payin ’ ya, right? She better be payin’ ya.”

“Yeah,” Dante sighs, taking a long draft of soda. “At the end of each night. And I do get lots more than I did slingin’ newspapers, and meals besides. That part’s nice. It’s just… maintaining this place, getting ingredients for hooch, it ain’t cheap. I was looking at your figures. I’m sure we’d be raking bigger profits if we only made even one big sale, in coven-operated territory.” His hands find his cheeks. “So why shouldn’t I learn how to do brewing straightaway….?”

King shrugs helplessly. “Beats me. I for one don’t have a clue how Apple Blood is made. I sling the stuff at the bar, wash glasses, organize the tabs, and keep track of the profits. Hooty is our hired muscle and helps manage the antique shop front topside– he don’t get to help Eda make the moonshine, either. But I’m guessin’ these things just take time. Hell, I didn’t learn this gig overnight.”

“But I don’t have time.” Dante points out sadly, draining the sweet amber dregs of his glass. And Mami had surely less still of it.

A chestnut-haired young man, a six-foot giant whom positively towers over Dante and King in comparison, face speckled with the beginnings of a beard, comes to sit at the bar beside Dante. The stranger’s forearms are scattered with withery-pale shimmers of scar tissues that glisten beneath the lights like quivering-flame, particularly concentrated upon his left arm. He’s singing in the warm tenor of his voice what sounds like a folk song about raspberries and a garden, though Dante only knows a faint scattering of Russian from immigrant neighbors in the tenements.

King wordlessly pushes a glass full of Apple Blood towards the stranger; when the young man attempts to fumble in his pocket for his wallet, King holds up a hand and shakes his head. Dante is Impressed, particularly when the man takes several gulps of Apple Blood, without writhing on the floor with streaming eyes trachea on fire. "Say, ain't ya going to charge that fella?” He playfully ribs King with a wink. “Aw. That's mighty generous of ya, King. Yer sweet, ya know that?”

"I ain’t any such thing ,” King protests, feathers ruffling as if Dante had personally insulted him. “See, Eda explains Mihail don't ever pay here. At least, well, not with coins, exactly. You'll see soon enough." He refills Dante’s glass, not with root beer, but with ginger ale. " I'd for one make sure your lunch stays where it is , 'cause I’ll have ya know I just cleaned this counter.”

"Well now." Eda saunters over amidst her rotations among the musicians and the drag artists and the customers with a wink. " С приездом . Look who ain't up and bit the dust!”

"Privyet. Eda, you look lovely, this evening," Mihail drawls, raising his glass in a toast. His voice is colored with the hint of a Slavic accent. “Where are my manners?” He fishes out a small handkerchief from his pocket. "Brought you a little present."

"Dante, this here is Mihail. Mihail, Dante. We used to drink out of the same bottle,” Eda introduces with a scattered grin, as Mihail swings off his cap and sweeps into a generous bow. King gives Eda a dubious once-over. “Whaddaya mean, ‘used to?’ You’re still drinking buddies!” Dante eagerly attempts to copy Mihail’s handshake; it feels more convincingly-masculine.

“Oh, goodie, goodie, goodie ," Eda clasps her hands together, eyes positively radiant as she stands over the parcel on the bar. "Gimme, gimme, gimme."

Half-expecting, diamonds, or pearls, or perhaps a pair of smart cufflinks, a wide-eyed Dante leans over to take a look as Milhail slowly unwraps the makeshift parcel. Dante gazes on instead, in mounting disbelief, as he sees a pair of cracked molars , now dark with congealed blood, upon the bar counter. Stomach performing some queasy acrobatics, Dante hurriedly takes a sip of ginger ale to steady the roiling slosh of his stomach. King gives him a Knowing look.

Mihail snorts. "Courtesy of a few scout lackeys whom kindly took it upon themselves to formally welcome me to America this afternoon.” Mihail shadows a soft smile at Dante, whom blushes in response.

"Why, ya really shouldn't have." Eda carefully thumps Mihail upon his right shoulder, avoiding his left side. "I'm just kiddin’. Coven incisors are a girl's best friend. Yer like the tooth fairy, only ya get free booze instead of money for bringin’ teeth.”

"Eh." Mihail does not seem much troubled with his lot, swigging his glass. "Booze is worth its weight in gold anyway, these days. Glad you like your gift, because I very much doubt, you could get store credit in exchange…."

Eda smirks, but her eyes already hold fast within them a little lamp of Knowing. She peers then in her own drinking glass like a looking glass, peering about for moments that don’t flinch in her own memory. "....ya said ya got attacked .” She takes a long draught–now there’s more empty in her glass than Apple Blood. “Now that I'm sufficiently buzzed: Imma dare ask: Why?" She gives her head a shake. “f*ck, now that right there’s the stupidest question of the year. As if those bastards need a reason–”

“Coven scouts!” Dante jolts, as if a static shock had traveled up his hand to his eyes, amidst the swerve and static of growing dread. “Did they hurt ya?”

"Awww. Looks like your house was gifted another sweet little baby from the cabbage patch, Eda," Mihail coos, cheekbones swiftly rosing over as Dante blanches in confusion. " "Будем здоровы! ” His glass glances off Dante’s before Milhal takes a swig. “A toast, to this most momentous occasion."

" Another?! Hey, I’m a workin’ employee!" King squawks in mortification, waving his fist as a flabbergasted Dante peers around in vain for the sight of a newborn in the bar. Deadpan, Eda snorts upwards, sending premature-twilit hair strands fluttering. "Hilarious. Now spill ." She pulls up a stool, all business.

Mihail pauses, fingertip absently dancing along the skim of his glass to produce a note almost too soft to be audible amidst the clinkclankclamor of toasting glasses, of friendly bickerbanter, of the band playing an instrumental of " Das Lila Lied ,” The Lavender Song, in a throb of bodies and a thrill of flirtation. He allows the comforting line of fire to settle in his throat and belly; it’s slightly reminiscent of feeling your heart, taking root in your body. A good and necessary thing for a story, that.

"...I was not harmed.” Not by the Ten , in any case. ”As for what happened, well, for context , I must first explain that the city docks, the harbors, the landing stages–these zones are all becoming increasingly-bound under the burning banner of the нечестивый .” Making a face, Mihail takes another prolonged gulp, as if to rinse his mouth of the taste of the word that briefly-bitters even the lyrical curl of his mother tongue. “It's not surprising, from a strategic standpoint. When you control the maritime ports, you likewise control–"

"–the whopping-ass majority of New York City's import and export freight," Eda finishes darkly a beat later. Her face falls in on itself like a collapsing sandcastle. Briefly, her hands cup her own headache. "Oh, I just bet there's a steep fee involved for any merchants looking to avoid any unfortunate and untimely accidents with their cargo when shipping." It’s enough to set the edges of your brain burning, and Eda’s efforts to douse the fire with a swig only makes the flames climb upwards. “And after controlling what stuff can come in and out, ya just know people are next.”

"No.” Dante’s hand flutters to his rosary in mounting dread. He stumbles off his stool seconds later. “No–they can't be that powerful–"

"The Ten wants absolute domination of this economic foothold," Mihail gloomily agrees, not without a sympathetic nod in Dante’s direction. "It's a miracle their greed alone hasn't bled this city dry." His eyebrows furrow, as if expatiating the point when Eda’s snort comes out sounding suspiciously like: Yet. "Right now, the covens are paving that way upward–or downward, straight to hell , more like–by exporting illegal liquor to potential buyers across the country. Another reason they're so jealously guarding these ports is to dissuade competition from doing the same. Needless to say: By no gentle means.”

Another swig of liquid warmth. "As I said, I work at the docks. Initially? I was in a construction gig. There was some talk, of unionizing and striking among the workers for better pay and working conditions. Especially among us immigrants.” Time tugs heavily upon his jaw. “But the Iron and Steel Warlord certainly was having none of that in his District. He sent some of his men to “discourage” any striking. And so, the sparks were stamped out, before ever they could rise to a living flame. The strikers might’ve attempted throwing a net at the sunrise, for all the fruit of their efforts.”

Eda closes her eyes and swears. “Oh, Mihail. ” A deep swell in Dante’s heart with sympathy. His tone can't even hold itself as his hands fold over the renewed ache of himself. “I’m so sorry.”

Mihail manages another fond smile, albeit one accosted by weariness. "So, I found other work. There were whispers of new opportunities, especially at the harbors. My guess is that rumors of my newfound employment must be making their rounds, because I was accosted at the docks by some friends of the honorable Lord Mason–you could tell by their bolt-and-fist sigils. I decided then and there it would be ill manners not to introduce these fellows to my casual acquaintances, Mr. and Mr. Fist .” He sardonically holds up both fists as if performing a role call. “My babushka taught me the importance of paying hospitality in kind. Here's hoping the illustrious members of the Ten have access to union benefits like a decent dental plan, in order to surgically wire their jaws shut." His eyes swivel to Eda. "I believe they suspected me, of being a runner. Specifically, your runner, as I’m a regular here.”

"Damn you, Mason." For once, Eda can’t solely blame her nausea on bottles that uncork. "Yeesh." Abashed, Eda refills Mihail’s glass herself. "...sorry to hear that. f*cking bastards." She swishes her glass in a quiet frenzy, producing a whirlpool. "I ain't even sellin' non-locally.”

"A….runner?" Dante hesitantly raises a hand. "Are you talkin’ like a marathon runner, here ?"

"A rum runner is someone whom helps sneak alcohol in and out of harbors, in and out of state lines, or even from out of international borders,” Mihail explains with the slightest of winks.

Dante lights like a new candle wick. “You’re a pirate?!” He gushes, unable to conceal his excitement. King makes a perturbed face as Dante wrings his hands together, insides sparkling like a wine that exalts itself to singing. “Like Captain Long John Silver, from Treasure Island?! Do ya have a talking parrot and a peg leg and everything?!”

Mihail is momentarily rendered speechless, as if there is simply too much language in this place to reply. For a moment, as he squints, he seems to be gazing instead at someone else entirely, someone about Dante’s slight and small frame. Then, Mihail rumbles a chuckle. “Not quite, Солнышко ; see, a pirate would steal the goods from the ships. I’m the hired muscle to make sure the product arrives to the buyers undetected.” Dante radiates out embarrassment like a lighthouse as he mutters a spasmed apology; he really ought to have guessed.

“I’m really more of what you’d call a smuggler, a courier of sorts.” Mihail’s grin soon evapora tes . “The trouble is that the majority of the precious few whom dare make bootleg alcohol to sell on the market, are ama teurs whom simply have no clue what they’re actually doing, like Eda, here.” A helpless shrug. “Moonshining is an extremely dangerous gambit in more ways than one–you’re also contending with fac tors like methanol blindness and potential arsenic poisoning, especially because illegal moonshine is hardly being screened by the Food and Drug Administration, here. There have already been reports of people sickening, or even dying from imbibing inferior bootleg products. And the Ten’s moonshining game really isn’t much better, from the sound of it.”

In the sudden submersion of silence, the room seems to shrink a moment. Mihail’s eyes briefly flutter shut. “Eda. You do realize the covens stop at nothing, to have you finally bear a Poziones sigil, Edal…? Death would surely be a kindness in comparison.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know,” Eda deadpans, stroking her temples; she feels like she’s strumming the strings of her own migraine for the trouble. She eagerly grasps her next words as if snatching up magical defensive wards–the distracting sort of banter you fell back upon, in exchange for another kind of silence. "–but never mind all that. Hell, it's got nothing to do with us. Like I said: We operate a local joint only, on the one free space in the center of the bingo board.” A toothy grin. “Far as I’m concerned: The Ten Overlords can go f*ck themselves.”

Dante is aghast. “Eda!”

Eda crosses her legs. “Fine. Please , can the Ten Overlords kindly go f*ck themselves, thank you?” King bursts into applause, Impressed. “Lookit Eda, usin’ manners all classy-like a Park Avenue dame with their pinkie out when they drink stuff.”

“Now, now–whom says it has to be a pinkie ?” Eda’s middle finger playfully flies out as she pantomimes another sip from her glass.

“Nothing to do with –” Dante hurriedly shakes his head, swallowing to steady his voice. “First of all–” Dante swivels to Mihail. “....ah, how do you like it? Being a runner , I mean.”

"It’s a job.” There’s something carved wistfully-tender about Mihail’s face, particularly when regarding Dante and King. “How can it be helped? It’s just too easy, to make a dying; I must somehow then make a living. To look after what remains, of my family.” Briefly, Dante’s eyes flick to the pale geography of a haunted history inscribed upon Mihail’s forearm, before apologetically looking away again. “If life's taught me anything, it's that the party never lasts forever. So, the sooner I save a nest egg, when times are still good , the more likely I can take care of my little sister, even when times are not so forgiving as this.”

“Ya call this –” Now King’s eyes are dilated again in disbelief. He even lowers the glass he’s been cleaning and re-cleaning. “–folks murdering each other on the streets left, right, and center– forgiving?”

" Da .” Briefly, a brief tremble in Mihail’s great hand, as if fevered. “I merely say it as I see it. I wish someday, to send her to nursing school. My sister, she thinks I am a sailor. It is not the truth , but it is not a lie , either. Let it be.” His eyes wander again to Dante. “You look a bit, like her.” He hurriedly polishes off his glass; now it’s his turn to be summarily-embarrassed.

“Eda ,” Dante marvels breathlessly, striding up to the woman with a great inward swell of anticipation. A loosed cog sets all the wheels of his mind spinning, for once, all in the same direction, instead of the usual thousand contradictory configurations looping about in his head like several gramophones playing different songs all at once. He totters as if he yet stands, at the unfolding axis of the entire world, now opening at his feet. “....that’s it. Our problems are officially over.” Luz breathlessly snatches up Eda’s hands in her own. “I’ve got it now. Our prayers have been answered.”

“Say wha?” Eda’s eyes brighten in comprehension seconds later. “Ooh! I know: Ya finally figured out how to keep Hooty from rollin’ around in the mud all day?”

Dante promptly makes a face at the most-unbidden memory of scrubbing down a giggling, fully-clothed Hooty, carpeted head-to-toe in muck in the backyard. “What?! No! Why don’t we just try and sell Apple Blood outside of the city?” Luz’s sheer joy throws her face into a whole new relief of itself in the candlelight. “Why don’t ya ask Mihail here to just run your booze for you, past the limits of Staten Island, for folks to buy? See, the Ten can’t have much authority outside their territory limits. So if ya just sell outside of New York, ya don’t run afoul of selling in occupied territory ! Plus, thanks to the practically-nonexistent bar, if the other moonshine on the black market really is that crummy, your product will really stand out to buyers!” No one died upon imbibing Apple Blood; you just felt like you were perhaps liable to afterwards.

King thinks it over carefully. “Hmm…well, they say money is the root of all evil in this world.” He brightens mere seconds later upon the rising sun of an eager epiphany. “Say no more: An aspiring King of Demons needs more money! Holy weasels, new kid–that’s actually genius .” Dante’s cheekbones pinken with the rare rosing of pride seconds later. King hopefully pivots to Eda. “Whaddaya say, Eda?”

Eda’s jaw drops; distantly aware of a grandfather clock moving in the distance, but no longer sounding. Her mouth closes again in a snap: “‘...whaddaya say?” She echoes back incredulously. “I say that you two are actually nuts. Because even goin’ around the likes of the covens, manufacturing Apple Blood is still tantamount to a declaration of war. With us having in our arsenal, may I remind you , a measly, two-bit bar of unarmed, drunk fairies ? Against the likes of an actual army, with seasoned killers numbering in the thousands ?!” That’s surely the trouble of it, isn’t it; that bullets love any flesh.

Now patrons are turning on all sides to gape at what appears to be two-bit players in a bad play; Eda’s face drains; the air all around goes to pieces, and so does her breathing. King bites his lip hard as he busies himself with serving a foaming draft to another passing customer; he ought to have known this plan was cosmic stupidity bordering on sheer death wish.

But Dante remains in his stance, large brown eyes pleading. Eda dully wonders if perhaps she ought to have specialized in creating wine instead. In vino veritas ; in moonshine, you really only had more and more questions swishing around in your glass.

“Look, kid–I applaud ya thinking for thinking outside the box here.” Eda’s thinking of Dante inside a box, specifically a mahogany one six feet under, and her spine tapers over with a line of ice. “But are ya sure ya haven’t imbibed any sketchy moonshine yourself just now? Because that right there is straight-up crazy talk.” Briefly, Eda’s hand ghosts just over Dante’s shoulder, before hesitantly drawing away. “My exportin’ booze would result in a dip in both the Ten’s profit and their power.” Briefly, her haggard features do Eda a haunting, even in the warm lights of their safe haven. “Do ya have any idea what those sociopathic butchers would do in retalia–”

“Don’t you see, that’s no downside !” Dante protests incredulously, flinging open his hands. “You joining the alcohol trade weakens them , and that’s exactly why they’re so afraid of you!” Now even Darius has sharply turned his head from his usual position hosting the drag ball upon the nearby runway.

In a sudden fit of daring, Dante plows on. Eda wryly thinks it a condition of youth-your own recklessness. “Plus, if people just buy Apple Blood, there’s a less chance they’ll all die horribly from drinkin’ sketchy moonshine! We can all make a profit, and protect people ! In more ways than one!”

“Yeah, well, let the buyer beware ,” Eda grumbles, ashen, holding up the tremor of her hands. When, when, when are you gonna get it through your head I’m the bad guy here ? “ I for one can think of a pretty considerable -downside, kid: The wee fact that, once again, they’d see this place cindered to the ground , and then proceed to make tinsel out of our small intestines to decorate any survivin’ trees in a razed and salted earth. All of which are pretty compellin’ reason for us to stay in our lane .” Her chest plunges; she half-fears choking on herself. "Hell is when people who delude themselves that life is more than it is."

“....no,” Dante’s soft words take the wind from Eda's heart, as his face contorts in disappointment. He doesn’t shout at her, and more’s the pity. “Hell is people who delude themselves that life can’t be all that it can be. Take it from someone whom actually lives there, Eda.”

Now even the band has gone deathly quiet; Eber leans forward to gape, drumsticks lowered. Eda tastes the sharp tang of salt in the crossfire of burning eyes. What did even it matter if she let him down? This was precisely the importance of having a bar so low it could only be found from the ocean floor, in the deepest recesses of the world, in Eda Clawthorne’s own abyss.

“....I’m not tryin,’ to be greedy, here.” Dante’s hands go about fiddling the worn fabric of Papi’s cap. “I’m not asking, for us to risk our necks for a mansion, or a Rolls Royce, or something stupid like that.”

“I for one would,” King pipes up eagerly. Dante shakes his head.

“Like I said, I really don’t need much. But I want, my Mami to have good food every night. Hell, it’s a step up in life if she has food, every nigh . I want her, to have a garden.” Life goes on in a rhythm of waves–the days come in, the days go out, eventually leaving their dirty detritus scattered upon the shore at low tide. But how much more worthwhile would it all be, if Camila Noceda could lift her face to the sun again, breathing untroubled, the luxury of a clean exhale? If she no longer had to live where the very worst of the city relived itself every day in a sordid play of attrition, far, far away from the likes of the covens and their stupid territories?

“Maybe it won’t be like the one back where we came from, but I want her to watch the sunrise, and the sunset.” For Camila’s knees to not be so worn out, from too many stations of the cross, from too many days of her kneeling at someone else’s altar. “I’m so sick and tired, of her being so sick and tired. And Gus…” His name alone tightens both Dante’s throat and her eyes with a dire warning. “...I still want, to protect him. If he wants to go to college, he should ge t the chance .” Dan te’s hands briefly fold over themselves as he dares a s tep closer to a mutinous Eda . “Please, Eda. If they think I’m your accomplice, why not be your accomplice, already? If they’re targetin’ Mihail because they think he works for you, why not, I dunno– let him work for you ?” Just what in the world had happened, to the f*ckless bravado of Edalyn Clawthorne, whom spat in the face of Wrath and declared herself free?

"....to be entirely fair," Mihail hesitantly speaks up, liquor swishing a t the edges of his body. "....they do not seem so keen, on honoring their own terms of the contract, in leaving you alone . What obligation then, have you to honor your end of the bargain?” He drums his fingers upon the counter as if playing a song upon the piano, and flickers a mischievous smile.

Eda’s mind goes adrift in static: Kikimora hums, rocking back and forth. “Your acquaintance might like a nice little sigil, even if you’re not so keen on belonging. Lady Terra loves new toys. She does have this unfortunate, wee little tendency of breaking them. I hope there’s no trouble….?”

“Please, jus t let me help, already. You can’ t tell me you’re really satisfied, just lettin’ those thugs dictate how ya do your business,” Dante coaxes, extending an open hand. King mouths something at him, but Dante can’t stop. “Who wants to just ride out life the best we can? If we’re risking our lives anyway jus t meeting here and having fun , why no t put all our chips on the table?” Eda’s eyes ponder then the pulse of the room, before her eyes meet Dante's. Dan te’s heart seizes. “Whaddaya even wan t , Owl La–?”

“ You, to live .”

Darius merely quirks the slightest, immaculately tweaked eyebrow. Startling, momentarily disarmed, Dante gapes at Eda, thunderstruck. Briefly, in his chest, a giddy lifting up from the water-the sort of thing that refuses telling.

Mortified, Eda whips around seconds later upon her red heel, the better to conceal her red face. “I need to think .” It sounds a whole lot like a code for I need to drink . And it proves accurate enough; King silently pushes over another foaming glass across the bar like a peace offering. Eda seizes it–now in part afraid it might shatter in her hands–before stalking off.

Eyes smarting, heart sinking again just as it was about to go airborne, gulping hard before he can burst into tears, Dante bows his head. Flinching slightly, Mihail rises. “Sorry, Dante. It is a clever idea. Maybe let me talk to her–or see to it she cools down, at least.” He brightens upon seeing Darius part from the stage in silent pursuit. “Perhaps he can yet manage…”

“Fat chance of that, ” King can’t help but mono tone. Mihail hurries off; once more, Dante sinks down at the bar, more defea ted now than ever . The evening record is no longer trapped in place; the tinkling and murmur of the place comes alive once more, resuming i ts place in a song. “....what’s the point of even bein’ an apprentice, if I can’t do anything for anyone?” Once again; he fears disappearing in to his own namelessness. If Luz can’ t fix something, and Dante is just as helpless–uneasily, he turns away, from the sinkhole of his own abyss. Where is he, in the math of things? A little winded sigh, as if beginning–or ending–a sea voyage. “Can’t Eda see, I want her to be happy, as well?” His face vanishes in his hands. “You and Hooty deserve a shot, at happiness, too.”

“Hey, now.” At a loss, King hurriedly fills Dante’s glass with soda; it’s all he knows to do. “Cheer up. Look–Eda is–well, uh–” King flounders like a beached whale, unpracticed, awkward, sheepish-shy. Who just went ahead and said something like that so casually, so earnestly ? “Ya–ah– well–”

But Dante has precious little to dwell upon his plight, not when yet another one slinks up beside him in the shape of a glossy-haired, beige-skinned young man, striped white suit jacket carelessly slung over his shoulder. His smart, pale blue collared shirt is rolled up, revealing the slight-heft of his biceps. He’s perhaps a year or two Dante’s senior. Poor Dante doesn’t realize he’s even spilled his soda down his front, until he faintly hears a drip, drip, dripping , and his ears burn. His thoughts neatly cross themselves out, like a typewriter upon the edit.

“Excuse me.” The young man’s voice flirts at an Austrian accent, among other things. “But can I possibly buy you an Apple Blood? Barkeep, chop-chop.” He claps his hands for good measure, as if calling a dog.

Making a hideous face, King surreptitiously spi ts in the stranger’s glass before all but shoving the sloshing glass over the bar. The strange young man takes up his glass with a flourish and a wink. “I’m Nevareth.” Briefly he holds open his hand. “You?”

Dante’s face doesn't quite know how, to do what it wants. He doesn’t even necessarily know what he wants it to do. Still, upon inspecting Nevareth’s bare arms, and seeing to his relief not even the slightest inkling of a coven sigil, Dante shakily takes Nevareth’s hand, hoping his own isn’t prickling with sweat. “I’m Dante. Nice to meet ya.” Dante performs his best impression of someone whose heart rate didn't just double. King’s eyes narrow as he rankles. “A quarter says this guy has glitter in his pockets.”

“Come around here often?” Carelessly, Nevareth snaps his fingers. “Barkeep, a drink, for my new friend here.”

“Oh, well, um.” Bashful, Dante’s face becomes a living combustible beneath his fingers, heart going a ballistic hammer-and-tongs. A handsome boy appears to be flirting with Dante–clearly regarding him as another boy, even. Pleased, Dante thinks he likes this fact, perhaps more than Nevareth himself. While Dante’s not entirely - blank to the schemes of attraction, being surrounded by Pretty people during his speakeasy shifts, his own uncertainty at once renders his stomach taut with unease. Dante reprimands his own rudeness.

“Of course you don’t–I’m sure I’d remember a lovely face like yours.” Nevare t h answers his own ques tion with a languid hum. “Which begs the question: What’s a pretty lad like you, even was ting away in a miserable hovel like t his? Barkeep, why won’t you serve him a Blood, already?” He slaps down a coin upon the table; King looks loath to even touch it, as if it’s contaminated.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Dante hurriedly waves his hands apologetically as King seethes, mentally debating the merits of shoving Nevareth bodily down into an open sewer. “See, no alcohol for me, thanks. I already learned my lesson the hard way. I just work here.”

King sniffs, tapping his tiny foot. Unimpressed, he thinks Nevareth seems mightily preoccupied, going about the daily applause of himself. “Dante. This guy’s dialing a wrong number, ya follow me, here?”

“So, you’ve been seen skirting around the Owl Lady.” Toxins slowly unfurl into the shape of a smile on Nevareth’s features. “I must say, I wasn’t aware she’d taken on a charitable cause….”

Dante bristles on the spot. “I’m not a charity case! Like I said, I work for her as an apprentice. Or at least,” He lowers his eyes, biting his tongue hard . “I’m s’posed to be...”

Nevareth clicks his tongue. “Poor lad. It’s clear she doesn’t appreciate all your hard work. Don’t you think,” he drawls, toasting his beverage languidly, admiring his reflec tion . “You deserve better, than the likes of this wasteland?”

Dante is speechless. King growls through grit teeth. “And I think,” And he casually stretches his little fingers in such a way as to crack his knuckles. “ Ya should take it on the heel and toe, already. Don’t make me call the homicidal bird man on the premises. I’ll do it.”

“Excuse me,” Dante summons a smile as tight as a zipper, and as liable to come apart. “Guys–”

“Are you trying to say my money’s no good here?” Nevareth’s eyes lid in cruel disdain. “Come now: It certainly isn’t as though it was found in the garbage bin , right? Like you ostensibly were, runt?”

King blanches at what might’ve been a swift backhand slap ; his glass slips from his hands, falling on the floor with a crash, bursting into pieces like scattered bits of ice at his feet. Outraged, Dante jumps again to his feet. “Whoa! That does it– You can’t talk to him that way!”

“Calm down.” Nevareth purrs, leaning back in his seat, even as Dante’s gritted teeth bare. His hand rises up with a placating, dismissive sweep. “You misunderstand; it’s the slow help I insult, not yourself . He’s benea th our notice. We need no t be finished discussing business–”

“Yeah! Ya can’t talk to me that way!” Rallying somewhat, King hurriedly copies Dante, crossing his tiny arms for good measure. At that, Nevareth nearly drops his own glass in disbelief. And the beginnings of something else, something considerably more dangerous.

“Oh, but I think we are. C’mon, King.” Revolted, Dante turns upon his heel, nodding at King from the corner of his eye. “Let’s get the dust out. We don’t need this.”

King is all too eager to oblige as Dante strides away; he hops off his barstool, certain to stick his tongue at Nevareth out as he scurries afterwards. But as the two stride out for the ladder, King’s smugness begins to fade to something like contrition. Once more, he hasn’t a clue, just what to say.

“Uh,” He clamors upwards and outwards after Dante. “...I think that high pillow back there was interes– well, I’d say ya can do a whole lot better , anyway.”

King thinks he hears the sound of Luz smiling as she pushes through the trapdoor, up through the must and the straw of the evening air. Exhaling, Dan te steps into the antique shop’s s torage room , wordlessly tugging King up through the hollow. Briefly, King lowers his coin-colored eyes as his tiny hand remains enclosed in the small of Dante’s, wondering now if Dante wonders now about just Nevareth had accused King of. But if Dante does, he does not ask, and for this, King is profoundly grateful.

“...ya didn’t have to stand up for me, ya realize.” Uneasily, King draws away, wrapping his arms around himself in the damp chill of the barn. “My feelings weren’ t hurt or nothing by that loser . The King of Demons can take care of himself.”

“Of course.” Dante soothes, briefly gazing out the window, the bathe of sunset briefly caressing his silhouette to warmth in a living cobalt. “I have every faith in ya. Figured it was just more fun to do things together.”

Briefly, he looks on as the sun lights upon a procession of dust specks like Milky Way stars, comforted by the stillness of lost things, in lustrous wood that yet glowed underneath cobwebbed grime. King’s chest constricts around itself as Dante grins at him. It’s a tax on King’s pride–he also, inanely, wonders if this sheer ache makes him more of what he is, or less.

“Begging your pardon.” Another voice emerges in the back room, now cold, now roiled with poorly-concealed fury–deadly and terse and all in one breath. King and Dante freeze where they stand, whipping around. “I for one believe I was unfinished.” Shadows fall over his features like a roiling of ink as Nevareth advances. “With speaking to you, Fortunato.”

“Oh, c’mon!” King rounds at him, at his wits’ end as Dante’s face sets, attempting to remember if he’d even told Nevareth his last name or not. King’s little fists are ready to fly. “Can’t ya take a hint already?! Take a hike, into the Hudson!”

Nevareth slowly advances upon them both, eyes zeroing in on Dante. “ She certainly can’t take you all that seriously, if she won’t even teach you the basics.” The dark harp of his shadow takes up nearly the enormity of the Owl House’s little antique shop. Attempting to hide his own wince, Dante wearily supposes if life is indeed a party, perhaps Dante’s invitation had been lost in the mail.

“What do ya even know?!” King barks, f ireflight playing on the inseam of closed eyes . “Like hell i t’s even your business–”

“I couldn’t help but overhear your argument with the Owl Woman earlier. I can help you achieve your dreams, you realize.” Nevareth picks up a little toy soldier from the shop display, turning the rust of the drummer over in his hands. He turns a rusty key in its back, and the scarlet soldier’s limbs begin to flail in a mechanical squeak of gears.

“All you have to do, for your share of the favor.” Nevareth sets the little soldier down; it mechanically sets itself to marching across the floor. “Is get close enough to the Owl Woman to snatch her recipe. Why,” And he greeds, like a closing fist. “You’ll be wealthier than the wealthiest in this city. There’s nothing in this life you cannot have. You need only be brave enough to take your own advice. Well?” His hand rises at the ready. “What do you say? Are we in business ?”

Appalled, a hot, shameful surge of dread overturning itself upon him, King’s mouth opens to retort, but Dante once again is faster:

“I ain’t selling out Eda, or the Owl House!” Dante snaps fiercely, eyes brimming with the telltale nettle sting of humiliation. “Even if I had the formula, I wouldn’t trade it to the likes of ya for a million dollars! Maybe she doesn’t think I’m real apprentice material–” At that, the sheer hurt in her eyes and the hurt in Luz’s throat converge to the shrapnelsharp grief beneath her chest. “–but I won’t step or cheat on anyone to get ahead!”

“What a pity,” Nevareth sighs, lowering his outstretched hand with a light hum of contempt. His hand slips into his pocket; the blade of a knife emerges beneath the lantern like a cold star.

“So it’s a fight ya want.” King holds up his nails, keen to rake them upside flesh as he gives the marching soldier toy a savage kick, sending the tinny toy spinning across the room. “Then it’s a fight you’ll get! Ha! The King of Demons is unmat–”

And King’s taunt dies upon arrival; Dante plucks out his slingshot, hurriedly side-stepping in front of King. “Like you said: this is between you and me.” Dante plucks a nearby old harmonica from the shelves for ammo, launching it between the band at the ready. “Go. I can take him. You get to safety!”

“Are ya crazy?!” King’s voice splinters in his own throat; there’s chaos abound in his gnarled heart, alive and humming like an elec tric fence . A key scrapes, a t the congealing rust of a lock. “Ya can’t jus t bring a slingshot to a knife fight! Eda’s right– ya really are bonkers!”

Frantically, Dante gives King a push towards the barn doors; Nevareth looms forward. His cold eyes glitter with malicious anticipation. “How touching. I suppose your freshly-carved hearts , will be sufficient recompen–”

WHACK.

Seconds later, Nevareth staggers back, his brow now glistening liberally as the dark gape of an armed revolver savagely glocks him across the face, sending him crumpling to the ground.

Eyes dilating, soaking himself out of sheer terror, Nevareth’s boneless hands quiver upwards as his blade falls free from a limpening grasp, the weapon spinning around and around on the floor like a top. Shakily, King approaches–his shadow is damnably small–and scrambles to pick up the fallen dagger.

Dante pockets the harmonica with a cry of his own: “ Eda!”

King shivers, and shivers, and cannot stop shivering–as in the growing darkness, Eda is rendered a near-stranger for the unholy terror of her. In the shadow of an instant, her laughing features have been rendered sharp and cold as wintrybriar. Her eyes could've broken glass, for all her leonine grace and bared teeth. No hearty laughter rasps dry and warm like kindling–no citrus and sage, just burning. “Get behind me.” Eda’s voice allows for no argument. “Both of ya. Now.”

Needing no prompting, King zooms over to Edalyn, still clutching the knife in unpracticed hands at the ready–he mimes at a particularly-bored expression, for Dante’s sake. “Ya migh t wanna whack him upside the kisser again, ‘case the first six times didn’t take.”

Spooked, Dante at once retreats behind Eda, now too frightened even to protest. “Are either of ya hurt?” Eda does not look up; her voice is gruff and gnarled as an old fishermen’s net as her eyes fly over them. Fleetingly, Eda’'s world is touched until is world enough.

“....n-no.” Dante’s voice has been rendered into a hysterical babble. “We’re safe. Please don’t shoot him–it’s not worth it.”

“You heard him–listen to the boy,” Hisses Nevare t h, now-bloodshot eyes trained at the gun trained upon his throbbing temples, each pulse in-between his eyes a reminder he s till yet draws from his well of living a shallow brea th . “You think they hunt you now, Owl Woman? The law won’t rest until you’re ascending the gallows if you add murder to your list of charges–”

“Shaddap, before yer brains make for some fetchin’ new fertilizer,” Eda snarls, giving Nevare t h another vicious uppercut jab with the gun for good measure, sending blood specks scattering dark on the floor like ink. “ The idea has merits , ‘cause Hooty’s been nagging me for some petunias.”

Dante squeezes her arm as he buries his face in her sleeve, his heart stumbling like a lame mare out to pasture. “I don’t want the police, to hurt ya, Eda. I won’t let ‘em. Please.”

Eda’s molten honey eyes briefly return to the children clutching at her from behind. With a dry snort, stygian demeanor softening, Eda helplessly wonders when she’d fallen out of love with her own pain, exactly. Perhaps they mutually decided to see other people. She can just hear Darius’s bitch-I-told-ya-so echoing back in the distance like Morse Code. At last, Eda caves.

“.....verdict reached. Consider yerself permanently- banned from the premises.” Her voice conjures all the salt of the earth as at last, Eda lowers her gun. Dante’s wet eyelashes briefly skim his cheekbones as he swipes his messy face with his handkerchief, exhaling so hard he buckles beneath it. “As a li ttle incentive to heed yer ban… Hooty!” She cups her hands over her mouth ; Hooty peeks his head from outside the barn doors . “Brought ya a new playmate : Sir Creeperton. Call me crazy, but ain’ t it roughly tea time o’clock?”

With a boyish-giddy gush of anticipation, as if Eda has announced that Christmas has come early, Hooty flings his polish rag aside. “Oh, boy !” Words trill off his tongue like a song.

“Take ‘em out back, to the f*ckin’ woodshed.” Eda orders, making a singsong out of her swearing. “I don’t need any customers vomitin’ before they’ve even had a drink. Against company policy, that.”

“Teatime?” Jeers Nevareth, face contorting with malevolent amusem*nt even as a humming Hooty tucks him beneath his enormous arm like a child’s new sled. “What are you going to do, bore me to death over a darjeeling blend?”

“Oh, Hooty’s a real peach, alright,” King’s eyes are hailhard, merciless as he inspec ts his cuticles . I t was much easier to feel comfortably-big again in his household’s shadows. “Mind ya, it’s a little less Vogue and a little more your organs getting sliced out and rearranged. Hope that ain’t a problem. Bye, now!”

Whistling, Hooty drags Adeghast off. Lungs gradually working towards repair, Dante’s shaking hands find his knees for purpose. King hurriedly pockets the knife, whistling over the telltale screams of: “̴̙̩̽I̴̼̓́ͅ ̵̤̋̕c̵͚̚a̴͖̮͒̈́n̵͈̓ ̴̖̚f̴̬̃ë̵̼́͜e̴͖͉͝͝l̶̡̮͑ ̶̦͕̓m̴̛͇̯y̴͍̬̐͠ ̵̧̳̇͂s̷͚̭̄o̸̺̭̿͗u̴̫̲͊͂l̵͈͌ ̵͎͕͘b̶̙͇̿e̴̮̻̍͗i̷͓̽n̶̫̎͜g̶̳̾ ̴̯̾t̶̰̎o̵͖̘͂ŗ̸̭͐̀n̶͖̿ ̵͕͆̉͜ö̵͕́ṵ̷͒̓ť̴̖̾ ̸̥͇͑o̷̠̿̅ͅf̸̯̬̿ ̶͇̾̎m̴̗̊̉y̵̱̐͒ ̴̤̈́̌e̴̫̔y̴̫̆͝”esechoing in the near-distance.

“Eda.” Dante’s violently-trembling hands remove his cap, desperate for purchase, skin desperate to hold, to be held. “I’m sorry. I thought the fellah was safe to talk to, because he didn’t have a coven sigil.” Heat vehemently flares Dante's cheekbones as he bows his head. “Uh–how much did ya overhear just–”

“Ain’t just the Belosian elites ya gotta watch out for, in this biz.” Eda’s brisk reply once again has more bark than bite as she strides off across the now-deserted courtyard between the shop and the house. “King–go ahead and take yer dinner break, ‘fore ya mind the bar again. There’s jelly in the pantry. I gotta talk to Dante.”

King sullens a nod, shrugging off Dante’s hand as the latter attempts to affectionately grip King’s shoulder. “Once again: I had everything under control. Ya really need to quit throwin’ yourself away like that for a change. Or one day, it’s gonna come back to bite us both in the rear. Mark my words.”

And he stalks off for Eda’s house with his nose in the air and a harumph. Dante blanches, wondering what he’d done wrong; Eda shakes her head, nonplussed. “I’d give him a sec to cool off, if I were ya. He really is a sweet kid, albeit a moody and mercurial one, like a teeny-tiny teenager. Can’t imagine where he gets it from. Now–”

Dante looks on with eyes swollen wide as Eda sweeps off. He scurries along afterwards, keen to keep Eda’s shadow safely underfoot.

Eyes darting furtively around all sides, Eda leaves the musty-with-antiquity shop, coming to a halt beside an enormous, thorny overgrowth of briars behind the main house. Dark, thick coils of thorny vines spilling in all directions might be a gorgon’s serpentine hair. Certainly they succeed in getting Dante to halt in his tracks in his upswing of apprehension. Silvery catches of cobweb billow in a breeze like highways of highwire, that parly all thought.

A second later, Eda’s kneeling, tugging aside the creeping vine like barbed wire, exposing at last a pair of immemorial flaking wooden doors, so greened with pollen the fading paint is more of a memory of color. Eda grasps hold of one of the rust-besieged handles, looped shut upon a creeping vine.

“Into the root cellar with me.” She prizes open one of the doors; a fascinated Dante gazes on as scattered dustmust catches the runny-yolk rays around an enormous gaping hollow that reminds him of the volcano Snæfellsjökull from A Journey at the Center of the Earth . “And no, that ain’t a coy euphemism for anything. This place ain’t exactly for the Owl House clientele, if ya catch my drift.”

Dante blinks; Eda’s already descending a mossy carpet of stairs plunging downwards, until only the fair of her hair glints ahead in the darkness. Dante feebly presses his hands against the ajar of his jaw, the butterfly-overflow of fluttering wings in his stomach. Fatigue now quite forgotten, Dante apprehensively-peers into the varnished-metal gloom, as several disturbed insects scuttle-clicking past his boots.

Beyond the rotting stairwell and turned-over earth scabbered over it, there’s a curiously prickling, peppery-and-vinegary scent that already has Dante’s senses tingling. It’s a far cry from the oasis of candle wax and twinkling lights that mark the way to Owl House. Dante already misses the warmth and light and raucous laughter of the speakeasy, as well as Eda’s redbrick fireplace where Dante devours two or three bowls of hot pottage during his shift breaks.

Swallowing hard , he sinks into what might be a mausoleum, closing the rustrustle chain of the door shut behind them. Fumbling in the sudden muffled chill–no sound of violins here–he blindly trudges after Eda into the damp chill of the passageway, for once glad his footfalls are so small in the immediate close of premature nightfall. It really is a root cellar in every sense of the word, as Dante’s hand brushes against the sprout of tubers and the tangling of roots bursting through cracked, murky stone walls.

“Can we–” Dante coughs; there’s no use fumbling for his handkerchief when he can’t even see his own hand inches above his face. “–can we please light a match down here? I can’t see a thing!”

A deep rumbling vibrato that at once keens the urgency of earthquake in Dante’s senses. Seconds later, he understands it’s just the sound of Eda chuckling. “Never, unless yer in the market for a tomb. You’ll see why in just a sec.” Eda comes to a stop, Dante accidentally bumping into her from behind. Eda’s practiced-eyes sheen in the great down-below as they turn around to regard him. “Now, the last flight of stairs are gone now–hell, they’ve been out of order since the Taft administration. I’m gonna have to help ya down, so ya don’t hurt yourself.” Eda’s next words might be riding the transmission of a poor radio feed. “...do ya trust me?”

“....it’s gotten me this far, hasn’t it?” Dante observes gently. He wonders what Eda’s expression looks like just now. “I’m…” I’m not scared withers an undignified death upon his lips like the lie it is , so he tries again: “I trust ya, Eda. I really do.” Gingerly, the shaking small of Luz’s outstretched hands rise up in the ambered gloom. For a parenthesis of a moment, Luz might be a toddler climbing up the tenement fire escape playing pirate ship with Gus, on the lookout for Papi on his way home from work.

In lieu of a reply, the darkness carefully wraps warmth over her like one of the quilts Abuela had sent with her love when the Nocedas fled for North America years ago. Eda carefully shifts Luz over the strong of her shoulder, bracing herself to jump into what appears to Luz’s eyes like a void, one that might be watching back .

Tensing–huddling to the comfort of a heartbeat that yet can be felt, if not seen–Luz holds her breath as if submerging underwater. She’s surely not in the habit of trust falls, but she trusts Eda if she falls, which surely isn’t nothing, where the stairs topple backwards in on themselves, into the very depths of the world.

~o*oOo*o~

“Here.” Eda plucks something off the wall upon landing, thrusting a dark and cool cylinder into a bemused Dante’s hands. “ At this point, I don’t need no light to see by comin’ up or down, but I take it ya will. My kingdom for a f*cking lightbulb down here, but it’s just too risky, hirin’ an electrician who might not exactly have majored in the school of Keeping Your Yap Shut.”

Fumbling with the metal apparatus, Dante is all too relieved to warm a pale light into the shadows seconds later as he swivels the flashlight around. The pale egg-ray pauses upon a telltale glint of metal–a cistern of some kind? His insides bubb;e like soda water.

Eda is already at work lighting several other flashlights dangling from nearby ropes to better-illuminate the damp, earthy chamber. Dante hurries to help bring metallic-ambered lights on, gazing on in awe as the enormous cavern slowly brings itself into focus in the glowing procession. His flashlight rays over glinting pipes, an enormous, misshapen contraption surrounded by metal bins that resemble laundry day and washing barrels. “Whaddaya think?” Eda drawls, spinning on her heel beside a nearby workbench.

“Whoa.” A strike of a match in Dante’s eyes teems glittering illumination. His voice echoes. “ It’s incredible!” Seconds la ter, his handkerchief falls over his stinging senses; the sour odor of fermenting apple is reminiscent to passing by the boot polish factory. “Oh, the smell’s so strong .” Eda would’ve liked a lightbulb; Dante would’ve perhaps more liked an open window. But for what sunlight, and for what breeze?

“I know,” Eda replies proudly, as if Dante had complimented a lavish masterpiece fresco of her own design. “Which should give ya yer first clue on why ya should never, ever, ever light a match down here, kiddo. It’s just too easy for ya to drop it in such a dark and enclosed space. And yer a smart kid, so I take it you’re familiar with the equation of open flame + pure alcohol…?”

Dante’s admiration is soon tempered with apprehension. “Um, greater or equal to a very, very big boom?”

Eda nods solemnly; all the dangling lit flashlights give her a more haggard look surrounded by countless jars, as well as a thump keg. Perhaps it’s a trick of the pendulum shadows, but her features seem to be an oscillating pattern of consternation and joy. “A very, very, very big boom. Hell, you’d likely blow yourself straight to Kingdom Come, like a struck flame in a shack full of mustard gas. Needless to say, we take this secret to our graves. The evidence in this room alone will send ya up the river, with a detour up sh*t’s creek. Do ya understand?”

“I promise! Ya have my word!” Dante bounces upon his heels, waylaid with eagerness. “So, are we finally gonna–”

But Eda holds up a hand, and merely gestures to two lonely little wooden chairs in the corner, along with some overturned crates, covered with playing cards. Crestfallen, Dante wonders just how many lonely games of solitaire have taken place down here. He sinks down upon a chair, waiting.

“So, kid.” Eda grabs a splintery old seat. “Before we get started, I need to know .” She turns the chair around to wrap her arms against the chair head, leaning forward. Dante had often longed to sit in such a way at school, and had received a good scolding for his trouble. “What do ya know,” Briefly, Eda’s voice drops, though Dante very much doubts anyone else can possibly overhear, where Eda has been for so long the sole curator and visitor of such a lonely place. “About the Ten Misfortunes?”

“Wait a sec,” Dante holds up a hand, completely lost. “Back up–what does this have to do with the distillery?”

“Everything , in this case.” Eda’s gleaming eyes allow for no argumen t. “Now, tha t yahoo bein’ treated to a complimentary nephrectomy, courtesy of Hooty?” She irritably flicks a middle finger upwards. “Now, it’s entirely possible he’s a lone wolf, actin’ for his own self-interest. It’s also entirely possible he was actin’ as a spy , an informant of the Ten, here. I wouldn’t put it past them to involve folks without coven sigils to slither past the Owl House ban I’ve got against servin’ official coven scouts.” Eda’s hand wanders to the inseam of her pocket, grudgingly lowering it again. What she wouldn’t give, for a smoke. “Sneaky little bastards...”

Dante’s skin rises off itself with gooseflesh. Eda busies herself with piling up the cards, shuffling them in the restless kinetic energy of her hands.

“I think it’s obvious that you’ve demonstrated just how serious ya really are about all this. Which is good , cause I don’t need no kids thinkin’ this is a rompin’ good game of Sherwood Forest wi th all the risk involved .” Her cards clack, clack, clack, against wood. “ Before this goes any further, I just need to know where your head’s at, here. Just tell me what ya know. Please. That’s all I ask.”

Hesitantly, Dante turns his warming flashlight over in his hands for comfort. “Well….

“.....when I was six, a tenement neighbor–back then, he was as old as I am now–was showing off his new coven sigil outside on the rooftop.” Dante’s hands close over the swift uptick of his heart at the memory of an orange hatching egg upon a reedy forearm, the fresh wound held aloft like a decorative medal of valor. Luz and Gus had clutched each other’s hands as they gaped on. Luz was beginning to suspect the Ten Abominations were merely another dark fairytale to scare the children into returning home before dark. But there it really was: One of the Crests of the Devotees.

One of the tenement children stumbled back, her attempt to look particularly-bored and noncommittal already bleeding. It was fascinating in a morbid way, like looking at a comminuted fracture after a spooked horse ran someone down in the street, leaving them crushed on the pavement below. So that’s what it looks like, when it’s been shattered. When what was never meant to be exposed was held aloft, to the human eye. “What kind of initiation test,” Shaking hands quickly slipped in her pockets. “What kind of test–”

“I hear, you have to swear an oath offering up the lives of everyone in your family as collateral if ya ever turn on the Misfortunes!” Cried a little boy, whom quickly hid behind a laundry line. “And your contract is written in the blood of an expectant bride.”

“Well, I heard ya offer a dark prayer and offer up your soul if ya can’t take the heat,” Piped up another little boy, whom looked on the verge of sickening. “And ya write your eternal fealty penned in the blood of an infant.”

“I hear ya have to break the law on purpose, get put in a big holding cell, and write your pact with every drop of your cellmate’s blood upon the walls!” Cried another child, dashing off for the fire escape the very next instant.

Gus had grabbed her arm, shaking his best friend hard. “Luz,” He whimpered, his eyes taut with a nightmare. “I’m scared. I don’t like this–”

The newly-minted coven scout, like any storyteller worth their salt, debunked none of this. He lazily raised a finger to point across the street, at a great, cindered hollow. “What do ya see over there? Or, what do you not see , over there?”

Luz had turned around to squint. “Well, that’s the hospital. Or that was the hospital, after it got bombed last–”

~o*oOo*o~

“Dante?” Eda waves a hand over Dante’s face seconds later, her features clouding. “Ya were sayin’, about your neighbor?” She rises to produce the stem of a ladle from a nearby barrel, sloshing amber-colored contents into a waiting tin cup. “Here: this one’s root beer.”

Shock thawing at the edges, a fissure opens in Dante’s vision. “ Gracias. ” With shaking hands, he accepts the cup, twisting his rosary beads. “ Papi came up the stairs, then. He was real upset.” Certainly Papi had been weary or sad plenty of times, but seldom truly angry as he’d been that day. “He took Gus and me by the hands, and marched us right down the stairs.” All but dragged away, Luz had looked up at her father’s face. But Manuel Noceda’s features had been dismantled with fear , as if by a stranger’s forgery.

“...Papi sat Gus and me down, and explained that the Ten all but have this city’s deed in their back pocket.” Dante’s rippling reflection gazes back on a waver in his cup. “And that something happened that helped the Ten Misfortunes rise to power, long before my family made the ocean voyage here.” Luz’s neighbors treated the reality of the Misfortunes as invert as Newtonic laws of Gravity: Do not attempt to avoid these laws, for they refuse to be avoided. Whatever deity you answered to, the Book of Common Prayer always subsisted on the virtues of silence.

“...I don’t really know the specifics of why, though. Adults back home avoid talking about the Ten at all if they can help it.” Luz’s guess was that because coven members could be found from New York’s penthouses to the poorhouses, the truth was that one never knew whom might ostensibly be an informant hidden in sheep’s clothing. The police, the authorities, were trusted least of all. Virtually no one was safe–not even your own household was exempt.

“Papi didn’t say how the Ten became overlords, even when I begged him to tell me. He just insisted that me and Gus stay away from them if at all possible.” Dan te consoles himself that he has technically not broken his promise, as Eda is not technically affiliated with the Ten of Swords.

Eda nods, helping herself to her flask of moonshine. “Your Papi sounds like a wise man.” It’s not lost on her, the telltale seismic ripples in Dante’s cup all but reading his fortune as the child’s shoulders box in on themselves. Eda remembers a beat later that Raine had spoken of Luz’s father passing away. Eda curses herself, at a loss. “...uh, sorry, kiddo. As ya can probably guess , I also don’t mind breakin’ the law to get my bread. But I don’t find it particularly-peachy keen to hurt innocent people, insofar as there are innocent people in this lifetime.” If there is one to be found, Eda supposes it might be the child sitting before her now. “Ain’t my style; Owl House is just meant to be a place to just experience yourself.”

Dante looks up; Eda props her feet upon a nearby empty barrel, restless hands still playing with the deck of cards. “As for the Ten, how to explain, how to explain…any chance you’ve ever heard of a monopoly?”

“Is that like when a small fish gets eaten by a medium fish, and then the medium fish gets eaten by the huge fish in the ecosystem?” Dante asks hopefully, raising a hand before his face burnbrights with a hot blush. “Agh, that’s the food chain –”

“Actually, that metaphor works just fine , for what I’m about to tell ya.” Eda busies herself with carefully folding two cards together, like a miniature tent. “If ya have a hope in hell of stayin alive in this biz, ya need to know just what you’re dealin’ with, here.” Briefly, she lifts her eyes, low and of a lazy cinder smoking. Dante holds her gaze without flinching.

Heart pounding such a jagged rhythm it seems a flight-risk, Dante leans forward, lips pressed into an unyielding line. “Hit me.”

~o*oOo*o~

Eda turns the two of clubs over in her hands, as if consulting a fortune. “Just a few decades ago, New York was filled with rival gangs and crime syndicates chompin’ at each other’s throats to become top dog. After all, this is America’s biggest territory, with near-endless turf and a huge populace to reap profit from. People used to say if ya could somehow get a foothold in the streets of New York, why, ya could build one anywhere. Grow a bad seed into something so much worse , so much more insidious, where its roots are bad, all the way down. In the wrong hands, the empire city really is just that: An empire , in and of itself.”

“But it shouldn’t be this way,” Dante blurts out in distress, hand squeezing into a fist over the ache of his birdlike chest. The city, as friendless as he’d so often found it, was nonetheless his home.

Eda chuckles without a whet of humor or heart in a shadowy shake of sound. “I ain’t tellin’ ya, how things ought to be. I am tellin’ ya, how they are. Or at least, how they came to be that way. Now, where was I?” She resumes work on building her house of cards. Dante downs a cheerless gulp of soda.

“So, anyone old enough to reach for a gun ‘steada their mother’s skirts was keen on takin’ the biggest damn bite of the big apple as possible. Now, there were lotsa lousy, amateur players who never rose very far in the game, considerin’ it’s a dangerous one at that. Plenty of poor dumb bastards pulled a Snow White and died reachin’ for their slice of apple pie. But there were some heavy hitters on the playing board. We’re talkin’ the likes of the Russian Bratva , the Japanese Yakuza , the Paddy Irish Marginals, the Yiddish Black Hand, and the Italian mafioso– among others here. All of them wanted the same thing: Control of New York City, which was considered the crown jewel in amassing a global syndicate of power that knew no borders. But what could’ve changed the dynamic? How did we get from there, to here?”

Mind whirring, Dante puzzles over it carefully; it feels like a teacher is urging him to show his work for a geometry problem. “All these groups you mentioned…I noticed none of them are named the Ten Covens. Maybe a gang war? The Ten came along to New York City one day, and challenged all the other gangs to fight?”

“Well, yer certainly right on the war part.” Eda hums, inspecting her handiwork on the growing tower. Dante helps hold it steady as Eda props two more cards together, with a third to hold the base. “It’s a helluva safe bet of an answer, when it comes to human nature. And things got messy there for a moment, lemme tell ya that. I remember as a kid when it wasn’t safe to leave yer own damn house, even during the day. You’d think it were the mean streets of Chicago. If this happened in another country, the papers would call it barbaric . As it so happens, it takes place in our backyard, so it's treated like a basic tenet of life. But where do you think the Covens themselves originally come from?”

Dante wonders why this particularly matters. “Well, from all over the place, right? They don’t seem to discriminate on who they let wear a sigil. As long as they, as they–” His voice threatens to turn itself inside out. “– pass an initiation, first. I’ve heard there are even some active female coven scouts in their ranks, whom serve the Ten Warlords.”

“That sure does seem to be the case.” Eda urges, leaning forwards. A conspiratorial glint in her eyes takes her to luster. “And why do you think that is?”

“Hey, wait a sec .” Dante starts; he has to grab the swaying makeshift growing tower keep it from capsizing. “If there was a war.” He gets up to start pacing around the little place; it helps him think. “And all the old organized crime syndicates wound up losing to the Ten Covens for domination of New York….” He comes to a halt, his desire to know more now duking it out with his gag reflex. “What…what happened, to the old crime families?”

Dante wonders at Eda looking so pleased , like a rooster strutting a courtyard. “Oh, they didn’t go nowheres. At least, the ones who lived to tell the sordid tale. As a matter of fact, they’re still in action.”

It’s a good long moment before Dante can speak again; the working cogs of his voice appear to have been discontinued. “.....the Kingpin, of the Ten Annihilations, let them go free ?” Il Signore del Undicesima calamità was renowned for a great many things; mercy was surely not one of them.

“Never.” Eda’s harsh voice spears itself upon the word free , chasing the smile off her face out into the cold. “Once he gets his claws in something and decides it belongs to him , that’s all, folks.” She downs several gulps from her flask, as if hoping the fire in her throat will chase away the memory of burning spires, the bells tolling the hour in dark decretum.

“When he decides something is his , the only way ya can ever file for appeal is with your own death warrant. It ain’t enough, for him to have an army. Everyone has to be marked in his name, so they don’t ever get to forget their real master’s clutch on ‘em. Promise me if ya ever find yerself facing a scout down, you’ll make for the hills.”

“Wait! ” Dante yelps, dropping his root beer as it barrels into him. “The Covens– they’re built up of a multinational unit.” His hands shoot to his temples. “Yer tryin’ to tell me all the Ten Covens are all just the–”

“Yep.” Eda starts clapping then and there. “Bingo. Ya got it, toots–the old organized crime factions! They all certainly have different banners now, mind ya, with each of the Ten Warlords in charge of different tasks in addition to running their territories. But rest assured, this is what they are. Or once were , in any case.” Her applause fades. “Like I said, they all bow to the White King, now. And announcing an attempt to break free would be akin to penning one’s suicide note.”

“So, the rival gangs…they really just all got together one day, and decided to just team up? Ditch the war, and just work together?” Dante finds himself asking slowly. As strange as it is–the Ten are massacring maniacs–his voice is rendered with hope.

Eda stops in the midst of stacking a new tier upon the house of cards, and simply looks at him. The sympathy in her eyes is all the reply Dante needs. “Oh, it was a little less nice than that, kiddo. See, most of the overlords didn’t exactly had much choice in the matter.” The Ace of Hearts appears to be freshly bleeding in Eda’s hand.

The maws of splintered doors bursting upon their hinges, wailing babies in fleeing parents’ arms, a purgative cacophony release of screams playing like a pianist’s hands crushed by the piano lid, marching devotees with their sigils thrust to the moonless sky, held aloft like the receipts of themselves, snapping and fraying cable live wires showering electric torrents from overhead, rendered arteries of the streets filled with rotting bodies, all glistening like a sick thing, in that unholy land, where only the likes of the Heartless Angel dared to tread, towards a throne wrought of mirroid glass, path borne upon tributaries of scarlet ink–

Clutching a stuffed bear, hand-in-hand with her sister, the two still in their nightgowns, seven-year-old Eda drops her bear upon the pavement and rushes back to fetch him. Ten-year-old Lilith is aghast as she whips around. “Edalyn! LEAVE IT! There’s just no time!”

Upon retrieving her bear, Eda tenderly nuzzles him, turns around to rejoin her family, but the hysteria thickens the soot-choked air into a roiling miasma–no one has any reservations about sending a small child toppling in the great, mindless dash for escape. Eda goes falling to the ground, momentarily knocked windless. She flings her arms over herself to avoid being trampled.

“Eda!” Lilith’s wails are lost as the young girl is swept down the streets in the ensuing stampedes shrilling like a distressed violin en vibrato carrying her further and further away down the streets of a human battery of combatants, of civilians attempting to get out of the line of gunfire resounding like percussion instruments.

Eyes watering, Eda had looked up, to the sight of a silhouette pausing over. Firelight plays over glasses; the August winds had taken up dark hair. For a moment Eda believes it is Lilith come to save her, but the youth is even smaller than Eda, scarcely big enough to cast a shadow. “C-C-C’mon.” A shaking little hand, beautiful and brown, rises out to grasp her own. “W-We need to get o-out of h-here! Now!”

Face flustering, Eda had silently taken the child’s hand and fled, hot hand in hot hand, dashing through the shallows of the raging riptide of people. Briefly, the youth clad in a long skirt had swiveled around to gaze at her, even amidst the snow-in-summer ashes, of what sounded like a gunfire canon in an orchestra. Beyond those glasses, a shared strand of torment. Despi te herself, Eda’s heart was briefly an upwards burs t of wings, even a t the end of the world–

“Eda?” Luz’s voice swells an octave with worry . “Eda, are ya good?”

Eda might be a tree cut open, watermarks revealing the warped loop of years. And Eda aches, aches, aches, for the sweetness of fiction, a sweet world where she tells Luz a sweet fairy tale, in lieu of a horror story penned in the blood of martyrs. Another quelling glug. “Ya better believe if it was a wedding of power, it was a shotgun wedding. A red wedding.”

~o*oOo*o~

“So, the New York Italian outfit was actually once-near the bottom of the pecking order in terms of the power struggle, almost twenty years ago. The family’s original head passed away by lead poisoning , and by lead poisonin’ , I mean he was shot by a rival in a territory dispute.

"So, his eldest son inherited the position of kingpin from his father after he passed, but here’s where a lotta people in power go wrong , makin’ these positions hereditary like a monarchy. Any fool can be born with a title and a silver spoon in hand, if ya win–or in this case lose–a genetic lottery. But not just anyone in this lifetime is born with the capacity to wield power.”

Eda’s head briefly swells, as if of its own accord, with the brutal night symphony of gunfire. Dante’s hands fold themselves over his own pounding heart, holding the song of his life in his hands.

“Anyway, unlike his trigger-happy compatriots in the battle for New York, the eldest son of the Italian outfit didn’t exactly relish the violence, or his fancy new title. I don’t actually know his birth name; plenty of fellow members in the outfit were pressured into gettin’ English aliases upon settling here in the states.” Eda squints. “...think it was Caleb , or something like that.” Dante’s shoulders rise; it’s never a good sign, to hear a name rendered in past tense.

“Anyhoodle, Caleb was the acting heir apparent as elder brother, but he really didn’t feel good about extorting a community he’d come to think of his own kin–people from around the world, folks from all walks of life. Rumor has it he wanted to make peace, pay out everyone to retire, surrender his territory, and become an artist, if ya can believe it. His little brother was steamed, putting it mildly. I’ve heard there were plenty of fights going on between the two sons–I don’t know, the little brother’s name, but I know enough, what he became….

“According to the press, the sheer stress of having to choose eventually got to Caleb, and he got wind up succumbing to an influenza outbreak just a few seasons into the gig.” Eda sniffs. “If ya ask me, seems far more plausible that someone else just got sick of him being alive, but whaddaya know?”

“But,” Dante’s voice does not seem to belong to himself, nor Luz. “But–that was his brother.”

“You’d expect any less,” Eda gazes at a reaper’s sickle upon a card as she builds a new layer. “From the Tenth and the First Lord? Now, this is just a theory, mind ya–I’ll have ya know mine usually tend to be correct–but Caleb did have one child at the time of his death–one a son, a baby. An heir who was way too young to succeed him and take the reins in the outfit, so Caleb’s little brother wound up stepping up as the new heir apparent for the mafia. And, sufficient to say, the job suited him just fine, considerin’ any unlucky bastard whom touches that thing’s life is doomed to terror. Soon he’d get christened with innumerable nicknames, but he’s best known as–”

Eda shivers, deep beneath a repository of unlived things. Dante’s mouth feels like the dry dust of an ashtray. Little wonder Papi said that true evil began not as a boot at your door in the dead of night, but in language itself.

“.....Belos.”

Pale hands nearly knock aside the entirety of the little tower. “Yeah, Belos knew his position coming in as the new honcho was pretty precarious. After all, the Italian faction wasn’t faring too well in the organized war struggle to become New York’s new big daddy. It was a bloody stalemate of casualties on all sides.” Eda’s eyes briefly mist over, and Dante already wonders how fractured his sleep will be tonight. If sleep even comes at all.

“Luckily–again, if yer name’s Belos, anyhoo, woe betide anyone else–was said to be pretty damn magnetic and charismatic a figurehead. While he likes to present himself as a pious, devout Catholic and family man–” Eda sticks a finger at her mouth and mimes retching. “–he had some pretty radical approaches that wound up

“First of all, he modernized his outfit with access to machine gun weaponry, and wound up shocking traditionalists by outsourcing people not only from his home country, but from all over the globe. He paid for their steerage to America, and these guys joined in on the fight. I imagine the extorted neighborhoods he plundered wound up footing the bill for both.

Unlike his competitors, whom were much more selective on whom they allowed to join their organizations–usually other men, just like them–Belos didn’t have a reputation for turnin’ away people. Hell, he even enlisted one of his officers–” Eda’s expression visibly chills. “–a charming, power-hungry, sadomasoch*st by the name of Terra Snapdragon, to enlist members of her, well….any chance ya know what District Six is primarily in charge of?”

Dante erupts into a hot blush. Does he have to say it? “...um. The…. adult entertainment …District?” It emerges in a squeak. “My Mami actually forbade me from ever going there, especially at night. People go missin’ there all the time.”

“Exactly.” Eda retorts sagely. “Back during the struggle for New York, Snapdragon was in charge of a series of brothels that ran in the-then Italian territory, before it came to be known as Territory Ten. Terra was, and is, basically a pimp. She actually wound up teachin’ her workers how to shoot, and enlisted them in the cause for the mafia–needless to say, she’s incredibly loyal to Belos, insofar as the Warlords nowadays give a f*ck about each other in a big circle jerk of big jerks . And folks thought that was pretty hilarious at first–an army of prostitutes! Admittedly, folks might’ve found it slightly- less hilarious when Snapdragon’s forces wound up successfully massacring an entire Japanese stronghold, and raided a stockpile of weapons from several warehouses. Word of the victory spread, and escorts started flocking to work for Snapdragon from all over the city, wantin’ better pay and protection from abusive pimps and johns. I can’t claim New York didn’t reap what it had sown, the way they treat sex workers like fourth-class citizens. Let it never be said that Snapdragon ain’t a savvy businesswoman.

“A lot of Belos’ inner circle were scandalized at all these organizational drastic changes–utterly without precedent– but they couldn’t complain much when their ranks started to swell. Didn’t hurt Belos’ rise to power that a lot of his detractors went from clutchin’ their pearls to clutchin’ their broken necks. Belos is just as brutal to his kindred as he is to his foes. I for one think Caleb’s lead poisoning might’ve been contagious,along with death by terminal velocity."

“....I almost like the part, where they don’t turn away anyone.” Dante’s confession feels shameful as his cheekbones darken. “Is that…is that a horrible thing, to even think about?”

He bows his head; Eda’s gaze is understanding. “Admittedly, it don’t exactly speak glowingly to our charmin’ society when a deranged killing machine has a more diverse hiring policy than most employers.”

Eda’s gaze flickers. “The sad reality with all this is that countless new, often young and foolhardy recruits, were basically being reduced to expendable cannon fodder, human sacrifices, to simply wear down their opponents in the field. I seriously doubt Belos lost any sleep over a poor, fool, fallen fourteen-year-old, thinking he was givin’ his family a better life. Not when two more soldiers would simply step forward in his place. And Snapdragon’s not much better ; she claims to give her workers better working conditions, but she’s got no trouble giving out-of-combat workers opium, gettin’ them hooked , and deterring ‘em from ever leaving their happy little family. I don’t take issue with consensual escort work, but I sure as hell take issue with her recruitment tactics. Ya give District Six a wide berth, ya understand?”

Horrified, Dante’s hands helplessly convulse. “But that’s not fair –these poor people had nowhere else to turn–and they’re just usin’ them! They trusted ‘em! It's human trafficking!"

“Me? I personally think Belos favors the truly desperate and destitute, those whom have nothing in their lives but their sigil and banner, those whom have nothing left to lose, those whom have fallen prey to a crisis of belonging, those whom can so easily become rabid dogs and machine gun fodder.” Eda shrugs off her jacket to place around a surprised Dante’s shoulders. “And like I said, Belos could afford heavy casualties and exhaust his enemies. He wasn’t out to run some two-bit outfit. He wanted a kingdom . It was a dark time, in NYC. It was a dark time, to be anywhere….

“And so, one by one, the other organized group syndicates were targeted by the mafioso. Let it not be said that Belos, for being a brute, wasn’t also a brilliant tactician.” Eda looks drawn and worn. “Instead of taking them all one at once, they took them out one by one. Innumerable people were killed, or left in the remains of razed homes to die. Survivors of the defeated crime syndicates with skills that Belos wanted were told to either join their integration in a new family, or join their kin whose bodies are now rotting at the bottom of the harbor. Needless to say, most didn’t check the seafood option for dinner, got the new sigils marked upon their arm, and wound up uniting under Belos’s banner.” Eda’s hair falls over her face like a veil. “By the time the other units wised up to what he was really doin’, it was too late. They had already fallen, and so had New York. Sky already begun, its fallin’.”

Luz is apoplectic with distress. “How could they just–side with the people who killed their comrades? Hey: I just killed your families! Why not work for me? If–” Briefly, Luz’s brown eyes rendered tremulous, like rain nourishing a mango tree back in the República Dominicana. “Someone took me away from the Owl House–when I’ve finally found a place that knows my names–I’d–I’d rather die, Eda.”

Briefly–flooded, overcome, rain in a rainless place–Eda can’t speak for a long moment. “Ain’t no one gonna take ya, ya hear me?” She snaps, hurriedly looking away as Luz wipes her eyes. “And ya ain’t dying, neither. Hell, only reason you’re down here is because I need to give you a fighting chance at stayin’ alive.

“...like I said.” Eda completes her tower of cards. “Belos’ most dangerous, most effective weapon ain’t his glock, it’s his talk. Reason 1234# to avoid him at all costs, though it’s not likely you or I will ever see him personally, thank Christ. Belos is a recluse in his fancy estate in his territory. Where he remains, after reintegrating Ten different families into his own. Each one, as ya probably already know, has their own region of New York, along with their own overseeing Warlord and specialties.”

“Isn’t that a really precarious way of doing things, though?” Dante’s brow is a skeptic’s arc. “Don’t get me wrong: I’d just as soon as get rid of my enemies by makin’ friends with them, but building an empire to the top, on the backs of your own enemies? It all feels like…” His eyes flick to the center of the table. “...well, a house of cards.”

“Ya got good insight.” Eda hazards a grin. “One of the reasons why Belos keeps ‘em carefully divided under his thumb is to keep ‘em from gettin’ any ideas ‘bout overthrowing him. One of the reasons why a new member welcomed into the ranks gets a sigil is to encourage them to stay within their own boss’s territory. And poor suckers get punished for floutin’ those rules. Living is scarcely their own occupation.”

“Ya mentioned that this poor Caleb fellow had a baby.” A sudden stitch of pain in Luz’s eyes; briefly a pang curiously yanks itself along the tributary of her ribs. Faintly, she hears someone whistling , though it is not Eda. “Whatever happened …to that poor little baby?”

“Belos took his nephew on.” Eda shrugs as she knocks the cards aside, allowing them to come sailing down like London Bridge. “If ya ask me, Belos is an old man who can't look in the mirror anymore, so naturally, he sends the young out in the streets to die. And nowadays, the kid–maybe sixteen now? Hell if I know–goes by the title of Guardia d'Oro , or Golden Guard. Steer clear of that murder canaryat all costs–I have no doubt that vicious fighting marionette is no better than his uncle. Belos junior, or whatever the f*ck his name is, probably thinks he’s an ace.”

Eda carelessly takes another steadying glug of moonshine. “In reality? Belos probably uses him as an ashtray, and the doomed kid’s just the biggest joker of them all. The cards are playing him. I for one take great consolation in the fact the elites don’t tend to make it to old age. Occupational hazard and all that.”

Despite herself, Luz finds her heart swelling with pity. Eda clicks her tongue. “See what ya have to look forward to? Getting involved in all this?” “In the end, I claim I do it, ‘cause you’ll and your Mami will die if ya can’t make a living. But I ain’t much better.

Dante is briefly stunned speechless. “Eda Clawthorne.” Incredulous, he rises to his feet. “Ya didn't exactly have to lure me into the back of a car with candy , ya know. I followed you . I'm here 'cause I wanna be.” He manages a faint spectre of a smile as Eda slowly turns towards him, expressionless. “...thank you, for tellin’ me all this. I know it couldn’t have been easy.” And Dante means it. “Even so. I want, to work with you, Eda.”

Eda almost smiles. “A card-carryin’ graduate of the school of hard knocks?” She sputters in dismay when Dante joyfully flings his arms around her seconds later. Eda flails. “Ugh–ya don’t have to – I have half a mind to hug ya right back, and see how the hell you like it!

“Well, that sure as hell backfired quickly,” Eda gripes, eyes flick back to the ceiling as Dante cheers. But Eda draws back, stooping to one knee to meet him at eye-level.

“‘Fore we start: I need ya to swear something. It goes without sayin’ that what ya hear in this room, stays in this room .” Briefly, Eda’s hands spasm on Dante’s shoulders. “Don’t ever, ever let it be known to a soul outside Owl House that ya know a damn thing about my moonshine recipe. I can’t promise I can protect you if Belos ever finds out that a soul beside me knows.” Briefly, Eda remembers Kiki Mora’s cryptic taunts, and is eclipsed in cold. She takes a summoning breath. “They will declare open season, on all our lives. And somethin’ tells me you’re not lookin’ to sport a Potions sigil anytime soon. Ya hear me?”

“I–” Dante’s pinkie hesitantly loops around Eda’s. Despite himself, Dante beams at her. “I promise–no matter what happens: I’m always on your side, Eda Clawthorne. Never forget that.”

Eda tugs back, briefly betraying a smile with all the world. She holds aloft a little jar, swishing around its contents. “Do you know what this here is? Ain’t moonshine, so much as it is bottled time.”

Dante starts in surprise. Eda offers the little jar for him to inspect. "The problem– well, one of the infinite problems with the Ten is that they just have no patience for what's supposed to be an art form, here. While ya can technically add all the yeast pitching ya want to say your beer to accelerate the fermentation process, and put your wine in oak barrels to mature it, there's just no organic substitute, for the sheer poetry and chemistry of time.”

Eda’s eyes surf on the gleaming backs of countless shelved jars, her smile descending into brooding as she plucks up another mason jar, turning it over with a critical eye. As if she were a child, examining bell glass mason jars filled with the ambient orange glow of fireflies. “When ya want to be closer to someone. When ya want to paint a half-decent picture, create a story that sings in your hands, grow a tree, or bottle the stars–these all require time to achieve.”

Dante is taken aback. “Eda, that’s surprisingly poetic of ya.”

“Whaddaya mean surprising?” Eda gripes, and Dante suppresses a giggle. Harrumphing, Eda shakes her head. " Before Prohibition, the Ten didn't value this science, or the laborers behind the process. Hell, they still don’t appreciate it–only the money that stands to be made.” Eda snorts, not even attempting to conceal her disgust. “So, they try hiring every halfwit with a half-functioning distillery and wine in their bathtubs to try and mimic my success. And so it always bites them in the ass , because pro tip: You're more likely to have returnin’ customers if ya don't poison 'em.” She proudly raps her knuckles upon a brassy-bright distillery. "This beaut here is copper. Never lead solder, ya hear? One day, history will vindicate us….”

~o*oOo*o~

“You’re…” White breath leaving her for the cool March air the following morning; Luz’s eyes dilate where the two of them sit on a solitary lonely park bench in the tenement courtyard. The spring showers have tapered over into a graying morning mist. “...you and Mister Perry….” From an impossible distance away, she attempts to coax her limbs into functioning. “You’re moving?” Her voice rasps. “You’re....really moving… away?”

“....yeah.” Gus averts his gaze from beside her on the bench, from a distance spanning an incomprehensible void. “By the end of this month. My Dad got a new job a few days ago, as superintendent. So, he’s gonna be traveling a lot now. He wants me to go with him. What can I do?”

When were you going to tell me nearly unpieces itself from Luz then and there. By the tense of his shoulders, and his Girl Do Not Even side-eye, he anticipates just that. She cringes at her own hypocrisy. “Gus.” Luz croaks. Her voice is sore, both from a sleep chased with nightmares, and her own mounting disbelief. “Oh, Gus.”

“...I’m sorry.” Is he? Gus and Luz could surely be friends, in any universe. But were they even still friends, in this one? Face rippling with shame, Gus rises to leave. Horrified, Luz grabs at his sleeve. “Gus. Don’t just–-not after–please–I-I’ve been trying, to give ya time, but–you’ve been avoiding me–” He wouldn’t even be sitting with Luz, had she not taken him unawares sitting alone at this bench.

“Like you ain’t been avoidin’ me and my questions about where you’ve been disappearing all this time, like a landlord out for rent,” Gus snaps, unable to conceal a warning glaze of tears as he turns to go. But Luz leaps in front of him. “Wait. I want–” Please. What was it Raine had said, about how helping a voice begin was a sacred act? “–to tell you everything.” Her voice flings itself down before she can stop her mounting desperation. We can help each other learn, just how to say each other’s names. Please. Please. “I wanna come clean-"

“I knew it.” Gus looks like he’s resisting punching a nearby telegram poll with all his might; he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Girl, I done been knew ya were keepin’ something from me. I might be a style icon, I might be adorable, but one thing I'm notwas born yesterday.”

“I’m so sorry.” Perhaps theirs isn't a love story, but love was attempting so desperately to break in, fists banging wildly upon the window like a soon-to-be-statistic. If Eda were here, she'd probably say something to the effect of being unsure if Love would greet them like a bridegroom or executioner, or both. “But I need to tell you the truth.” For Gus to leave , only for him to never learn the truth– it’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too much–

“Please.” Breath hitching, Gus imploringly grabs her by the hands, and they might again by seven years old, when both were as close and embroidered as latticework kissing the back of bread, when they both simply swiveled to gaze ahead in the same direction. Gus's beautiful fawn-dark eyes are wild and gentle alike. “That's all I want. I swear.” Clumsily, his hand cups her cheek, the gesture surprising them both. Gus's face is resolute. “More than anything. I've had no clue what to think, all this time." He bites down on the admission that Gus had considered tailing Luz more than once. "Anything you couldn’t tell me couldn’t be good. Or safe. Luz. I’ve beenscared.” And I’ve been alone, alone, alone, alone. Amaw of absence whistles through him.

Luz is unspeaking, yet her gravity holds Gus. At last, she admits, a slightest concession from cracked lips: “...me too. But first–” And Luz holds up her pinkie finger, eyes swiveling for any eavesdroppers. “You need to promise, on every last thing you hold dear in this lifetime, you won’t ever say a word of what you're about to find out, to anyone.” Briefly, she buries her face, and her next words, in the thin of his shoulder. Her pulse a lullaby rendered in soft syllables, and Gus wonders if he can possibly hold himself to the goods of her own life“What I need to show you.”

“Can’t ya just tell me?" Gus is bewildered. "I’m right here, ya–”

“Please.”

Re-tasting a stinging warning from his breakfast, Gus falls silent. An ashen Luz meets his gaze, clutching his cloak. Luz, whom was the class clown for so much of their lives, largely-fixated on Gus's next laugh, is now rendered the portrait of a haunting amidst the clearing like a purgatoried ghost, like something out of Hamlet. And a chill trills itself through Gus like one long warning whistle blast; sweat gleaming cold upon his brow.“Swear. Swear on everything. Ya won't tell anyone.Not your pastor. Not even Uncle Perry. Not even your arguably-impressive collection of newspaper clippings featuring escape artists and fancy shoes ads.” Luz will settle for nothing less than words of oath.

Gus attempts to mime his father's quiet stability of an unshakable pillar. “They’re Louis Vuttons, and I get the picture, Lu–”

“Promise me again.”

“Luz.” Gus can’t hide his increasing concern. Another warning crackles under his hands, pressure and thaw splitting ice from ice. “You’re–you’re scaring me, here.” He's about to tease, Ya gonna make me sign a contract written in my own blood? Gus immediately swallows back the joke, because he doesn't care to give Luz any ideas here.

Good. “Gus.” Luz slowly steps back, like a visitation, upon a cold morning interlopedwith white yarrow. “Please. You mean to really swear it. And your word on this one is not something you can ever take back. Lives will be at stake. I can’t tell Mami, and it ain’t something I can take up the Confession at church, if I don't want to lie.” Or die .“I can’t tell no one ‘round here, not even God, but I can tell you.” Her voice takes these things for the currency of survival. “Because you’re my best friend, and if I can’t be honest with you–” It felt like nothing short of a desecration against the scheme of life itself.

“....yeah.” Unsettled, Gus nonetheless raises his right hand, feeling like a Boy Scout taking a pledge of honor. “I–I ah, swear, upon my life, that I won’t tell anyone, whatever it is ya have to show me.”

At last, at long last, Luz exhales into a staying breath. “....thanks, Gus. Come to this place, at five o’clock tonight.” She fishes out a business card from her pocket. Gentleness will simply be Luz’s own act of revolution.

“An antique shop?” Gus yelps as he turns over the card, Luz at once raising her hands for him to lower his voice. “Girl, ya had me all worked up and terrified, my heart speeding along like a freight train, over a damn antique shop?!”

Luz quietly wanders off past the whooping cough of the old pump, to the spidery dark of the old staircase. “...I’m gonna go, get Mami’s porridge ready. Tonight, you’ll know it’s me, when I come fetch you at this address."

“Uh,” Gus can’t help but scoff incredulously. “I’ve known you all my life?" A question mark emerges. "I should hope I’d recognize ya by now.”

Pausing upon the tenement staircase, Luz certainly hopes so.

~o*oOo*o~

“....ya really sure this is a good idea?” King's small feet pad to a halt behind Dante; Dante for his part is busy in front of a tri-fold looking glass of Eda's,combing back his short hair to fit underneath his cap. King's hands find his spindrift-from-wavecrests tummy.“.....ya talk about this kidall the time-"His voice sticks in rueful contemplation. "-so I figure he’s fun, but...does he have any idea, who ya really are?”

“Nah, but I figure neither do I,” Dante says this like a reassurance; King does not, on the whole, feel especially-reassured. Lowering his comb, briefly bouncing on his heels, Dante shyly lingers over his own form; his eyes go adrift like foaming tides brimming with sunlight. A glittering tide, like that of the beach where Manuel once taught his child where to swim, loops through him giddily.

Dante skips down to the kitchen, where Eda’s preoccupied with her paper and coffee, and Hooty with jarring preserves at the counter.“I promise, I didn’t tell him about the moonshine. But I do want Gus to know about me.” Dante’s hands play at one another. “I don’t want him to keep worrying .” Perhaps if Gus could only take it well, there was yet hope that Dante could one day show himself before Mami. “Hooty: We’ve got a new guest coming tonight. Make sure ya don’t put him in the Iron Maiden in the basem*nt!"

“Kay!” Hooty calls without looking up from his work; Dante hesitantly looks over Hooty’s shoulder. “Um, what’s that?”

Hooty protectively flings himself over his dubious-looking jar, and what appears to be an eye eerily adrift inside embalming fluid. “Not a human eyeball, boy, I’ll tell ya that much!”

Beating a wary retreat, Dante sidles up to Eda. “I love Gus like my baby brother. D’ya have, any brothers or sisters…?”

“I have a headache, which I find is more or less the same thing.” Eda replies stoutly in lieu of a reply, busying herself with the funnies section. It’s by far easier admitting to, than the likes of a heartache.

~o*oOo*o~

“I can’t believe this,” Gus fusses, neither for the first nor last time that hour, as he deboards the streetcar, waving farewell as the driver flicks his reins, and drives off. Gus shakes his head upon turning his eyes to the skirl of sparrows overhead in the slinking orange of duskfall. “I must actually be insane , to agree to all this….”

He once again dubiously checks his pocket map, consoling himself that the venture at least seems the sort of wild goose chase Sherlock Holmes would undertake in one of his misadventures. Albeit one with his trusty sidekick in tow. Gus bites the inside of his mouth hard as he tightens his hands around his worn backpack straps as an owl–where were there even owls in New York–lets out a lonely soft call. Why hadn’t Luz simply come along to show him where this place–this not place, even was ? Only took Gus two streetcars and a considerable long-walk to get here.

The lightposts are gradually being overtaken more and more by trees; he must be on the outskirts of the city proper. “....took me long enough. All those folks whom said this business and address didn’t even, and I quote, exist….” If this is all an elaborate prank of Luz’s, Gus decides then and there he’s gonna snitch to Auntie Camila about the lemonade and Juneteenth incident when they were eleven.

“....if I had to guess, I’d say that Luz has been running a secret shelter for alley cats in one of these rundown empty houses that definitely aren’t haunted AF.” Gus sucks in a deep breath; it’s an excuse that makes him roll his eyes, but also makes him smile, for the harmlessness of it, for the sheer Luzness of it. “And she’s been scared all this time I’m gonna find out, and rat that she’s technically been breakin’ and enterin’.” Gus’s tongue darts out to wet his tongue. “But where is she actually getting, the food and money she’s been bringin’ home?” Surely not from her sewing gig , which was still more dubious a prospect than one of the Ten finding honest wor–

And then Gus’s too-big shoes come to a halt , heart buckling with the timed collapse of a sawn-down tree.

There, standing shin-deep in overgrown swishing grass, like a spectre in a sainted grove, is a young boy, hands thrust in his pocket, admiring the horizon. He wordlessly turns, and there’s a moment where neither of them breathes. Straining, squinting, Gus attempts then to utter her on dry lips and fails, because that’s a slender boy in suspenders and briefs standing in the grass, with his best friend’s rosary and Manuel Noceda’s cap, face paler than usual, wrenched with sweet hope.

And if in my book of hours I can't find your name, can I even stand a chance of knowing mine?

~o*oOo*o~

“Ya made it,” Dante breathes as he approaches, long grass swishing with each step. His brown eyes are positively heraldic in the evening weaving of shadowgreen. “Ya really made it.” He eagerly flings his arms around a frozen Gus. “I was hoping and hoping, you’d show.”

“Luz.” Gus’s clipped voice emerges in a bleat; he’s rendered glassy-eyed. “Nice–nice going.” He wonders wildly if he caught some small death when out sleepwalking. “G-g-goood one. Ya even had me fooled.”

Gus wonders at the almost imperceptible-wince of pain that flits across the other’s youth face, quickly submerged, as if he yet fears hurting Gus with his own hurt. Even now attempting to shield Gus from the whole truth on sheer reflex. “I ain’t prankin’ nobody, Gus. I’m just tryin’ to live. That’s all. That's all.” Briefly, his hands fold over his chest.

“Just trying to–” Gus's voice emerges faint, if it indeed comes calling at all. He places a glistening hand on Dante’s brow, searching for a telltale flare of a fever. “I knew it. Ya finally pushed yourself too hard looking after Auntie Cammie, and now you’re–”

“Don’t say it,” Dante begs, voice tearing as he grabs Gus’s shoulders, shaking him desperately. “I ain’t sick in the head.” He does feel sick in the heart, just now, though-

Gus gapes at him helplessly. “...I don’t think you’re crazy , but ya know ya could be arrested , for this getup, alone?” Gus wills his the thrash of his throat not to crescendo into caterwauls. "Unless you’re here to tell me that ya joined a theater troupe, and this is just a costume?” Again, his voice emerges in a plea. “Otherwise, it’s illegal. Ya could get a one-way ticket to a mental institution."

Dante almost smiles. “Nah.” Slowly, he leans upon the trunk of a tree for purchase. “It’s no costume. I’m not in a play.” What Dante wouldn’t give for some kind of script for this situation, an understudy for a scene he’s terrified of playing out more than any fight. “I could be arrested, for a whole lot of things.”

At a loss, Gus’s eyes fall with great trepidation to Dante’s forearms, as if expecting in part to find a wound. “....you haven’t joined the–”

“What?! No!” Dante squawks, affronted as he whirs around. Gus at least has the decency to look a little contrite. “Never. Gus, I’m still me inside.” Again, his voice breaks off with sincerity. “...I just feel better, dressing like this. I just like, to be called Dante, sometimes.” Please. Say my name. Say my–

“......Dante?” Gus repeats, slowly, incredulously. Hectic brass peals resound a frantic vigor in the distance. “But…that’s a fellah’s name. Like the guy inThe Inferno.”

“I know.” A ghost of a smile. A man called out to put out a house fire with a single bucket at his disposal. “That’s actually where I got the idea.” I want to be the kind of person whom can find their way even through purgatory. I want to be, the sort of person whom can have a name settle on me. I want to be, the kind of person whom somehow makes it back to you.

“Do ya think…” Gus’s breath whistles faintly over the pounding of the blood in his ears. They’d spent the better part of each other’s lives breathing each other’s breaths; Gus is not certain either of them recognize one another for the trouble. “Are ya…ya tellin’ me, you’re really a boy?”

“...I don’t know. It’s kind of a work-in progress.” Dante is slow to make the shape of words as he sheepishly draws a hand through his hair. “Kind of like me….”

Gus is aghast. “How can ya possibly not know? It’s gotta be one or the other!”

“It’s more complicated than that!” Dante’s hands fly up. “I don't yet have some kind of shorthand, for what I'm s'posed to be. I know that goes against everything we’ve done been told, our entire lives, but it’s true!” He gently tugs Gus away from a nearby tree as Gus begins bonking his head upon a tree trunk, overwhelmed.

“For people like us, it’s considered a luxury, just to make do all our lives. I don’t know, a whole lot of who or what I really am.” The boys’ shadows teem out underneath them in the growing darkness. “For too long, it’s been just enough to keep my head down, and survive.” Dante’s hand closes over air, as if grasping at a single chord. “I am not here because I want to die. My name is not Luz’s death sentence. C’mon, pal–how would you like, to be treated as a walkin’ cemetery…?”

Gus’s eyes glass over. “....when you say it’s been enough to survive, until it wasn’t anymore.” He wonders if one of these trees might topple over him right now for how pitiful and pathetic he sounds to his own ears. “...am I not e-enough…?” Dully, Gus supposes he might’ve guessed, he would’ve somehow driven anyone to this extreme; little wonder he only has one friend to his name. “Is t-this why–”

“Gus,” Dante snaps, at his wits’ end as he swipes his burning eyes upon his sleeves. He Will Not Cry. “I love ya to pieces, but my— being –is not a personal vendetta on you. This isn’t meant to be a punishment–” Or about you, but that doesn’t sound kind. “You were invited here, because I want you here, in my life. This place–” Dante helplessly gestures to the barn and enormous house on the grounds behind him “Is my best chance to figure it out.” His voice takes off with sheer longing, like the gulls abreast the wind overhead. “It’s my best shot, for a whole lotta things. Like…bein’ able to take care, of you and Mami.”

At a loss, Gus squints at the ancient sign from where it hangs upon the rusted chain, swaying slightly, creaking. “....an antique shop? But…how does that help ya know who ya are?”

“During the day, maybe.” Dante winks; he looks as cheerful and bright as if just returning from a church revival. “But as ya noticed, it’s almost nightfall.” Slowly, his hand falls open. “Come with me?” His playful bravado slips as it devolves into a question. “Please. I just want to tell ya the truth–as much of it as I’ve figured out, anyway.”

Gus hesitates. He can already hear his pastor, whom preaches a gospel with love in his heart and knives in his mouth, warning from his pulpit. Desperately, Gus slaps his hands over his ears as if to drown out the burning testimonial of apocalyptic hymns. Lord, if ever ya were to make me better, or braver, now’s the time. “Oh,” His neck prickles cold as he tremors a nod. “I already know I’m gonna regret this.” Looked like some things didn’t change. A bubbling hysterical chuckle breaks free.

Overjoyed, Dante grabs Gus to sweep him around. Flustering, Gus coughs and kicks his dangling feet, now suddenly shy. “Ah–Lu–” He coughs, face hot, feet as slippery underneath him as if rendered ice. “Does this mean, that ya like…” He almost swallows his voice. He’d wondered, for so long, what would render something the likes of a secret Luz could not tell him or Camila. Gus wonders no longer. “.... dames? Or fellahs?” He holds up a hand. “Let me guess, ya–”

“Don’t know,” Dante patiently explains as he leads the way to the barn, Gus tottering along afterward, in a fire-blown, wind-heaved nightfall, where sounds become a white hum, where there’s no math for that which can only be experienced.

~o*oOo*o~

Gus stares.

He stares as if in an awestruck trance at the lights, the melodic clammer, the hum of a bass, people sporting beards and ballgowns, the glasses that rise up to drink toasts to good fortune, or to whatever came next, in any case. Dante eagerly drags him around the room introducing him to regulars, and Gus can scarcely reply.

“Whaddaya think?” Dante asks breathlessly. Gus gives his head a faint start, as if in a stupor.“I keep waiting, and waiting, to wake up.” He pinches his arm, hazards a wince. “Ow. Well, that answers that…”

“Lu–” Gus halts abruptly. “All of this–” He gestures feebly at the masquerade–it reminds Gus of the gala of The Cask of Amontillado, before Fortunato was sealed up alive in the catacombs down below. “– anyone gets caught, for breakin’ a trillion and a half laws? Iit’s gonna be ten thousand years in the clink.” Gus buries his face in his hand. “Do you have any idea, what you’re risking? What your Mami and Papi–”

“Please.” Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it– Dante’s voice nearly tears itself asunder. “Look.” He swivels Gus’s head around. “Just look. This is where people come to be happy. This is where we celebrate each other.”

“....I will say, that…” Gus’s eyes drift upon Darius on the little stage, and his eyes briefly light up. “Um...fellah? Over there can really strut. Like a peaco*ck.” Shy, Gus’s eyes follow Darius like a fashion photographer’s upon a runway. He’s reminded again that part of the reason he loves illusionists and magicians is the pageantry of the performers, the sequinned brilliance of a spectacle. You could get away with wearing just about anything, if you only claimed it was all performance-based. “...talk about a style icon . He looks like he ought to be a runway model in Vogue.”

“Doesn’t he?” Dante urges, weak with relief when Gus manages a faint, timid smile at him. There’s hope, there’s hope, there’s hope. Dante does not notice King somberly looking on from the nearby bar, curiously subdued tonight. “That’s Darius. He acts like Marie Antoinette, but he’s real nice, once ya get talkin’ with him, some. I hear everyone has fun makin’ costumes, especially for theme nights like Halloween!”

Dazed, Gus hums in reply, attempting to sound wholly disinterested and fooling Dante not in the least. “Are those… Louis Vuitton heels…?”

“Probably! And ya know,” Dante urges. Why not go ahead and simply put his heart upon the table, too, after tonight? Gus. Ya don’t have to hide anything from me. “If this–if the Owl House feels like a place where ya can feel safe, too, then nothing would make me happier then if ya–”

Gus freezes , hearing a record stutter upon the tear of a needle, staggering back. Dante’s voice dies. “I’m not–” Gus gulps in vain for a breath; lungs rendered dilapidated as he stumbles away, eyes huge with terror. King wonders if Gus is that petrified because Dante was wrong–or because he’s right. “I can’t–I can’t–”

"...Gus." The enormity of your own smallness-these things enter you like both the door, and what invariably comes out through it. " Please." Dante's pleading voice hangs onto hope, like one last hallelujah.

"....I swore I wouldn't tell." Gus's hands spasm into shaking fists. "Anyone. Ever. And I meant it. But I'm sorry." His tormented eyes are burnt, as Dante waits, waits, waits for Gus to be better and braver than what he is, and isn’t, isn’t, isn’t. "I can't."

And he can't, and nor can Dante. Gus flees. He spills, upwards and outwards, beneath rapid clouds dashing by in a sky in cold colors, the moon a hole torn in the sky in a hemorrhaging twilight. A strong wind flutters up the silvery undersides of leaves as they begin to fall in a particularly cold gust.

Out of the two of them, Gus wretchedly wonders which one of them is the survivor of them–in other words, the real loser, in the end.

~o*oOo*o~

From the bottom of a well, Dante stumbles back in the underground, doubled over the shape of his own implosion, eyes wide open, pupils pinpricks. He might’ve been strangled by life, disowned by his own shadow. King can't help but gape at Dante like a word he knows, without ever having heard it aloud prior. Amidst the chaotic press of people, people, people, King finds his little hands quaking with ill-restrained fury, heart swelling with protectiveness, he helplessly turns to the one of the prime pillars the foundation of his entire world rests upon. “Eda…?” A palpable catch in his voice; he’s trying and failing to keep it together. Snow. He again hears snowfall, his own toddling little steps through it.

Gaunt–a familiar emptiness of such magnitude the world would have to suffice in fulling it waxing inside like a dark inkstain– Eda nonetheless forces herself to stand at full-mast as King huddles beside her. For the shivering static of a single moment out of time, ​​a tiny wisp of a girl is again fleeing for the train station, clad in a white bridal shroud like a human sacrifice. She migh t again be tripping and collapsing upon her own train, mouth ajar in an unsounded whimper. Ain’t no one ever came, to help her up. Nothing and no one had been there to catch her before she fell. Briefly, her eyes glaze over, Dante’s swimming silhouette hovering at the outskirts of her awareness.

Dante’s shoes quietly give in on themselves as he collapses–tensing, Eda flings someone bodily out of the way to stagger forward upon the lurch of her heels. Keen to help, King flings open his arms to help catch Dante before he can crumple to the ground. Dante’s eyes are screwed shut; his ears have succumbed to the heaving static and the noise of the world; it tapers into a sort of gentle easing away from it as he’s partially-carried, unresisting as a newborn or newly-dead to their rest.

“–c’mon, now, easy now, kid.” Eda growls, gravelly throat on the dilapidated axis of an uneven lilt. “You’re gonna be fine, ya hear?” Heart buckling in sympathy, Masha hurriedly steers over a chair for Eda and King to steer Dante into.

“I’ll get some water,” Desperate to be of help, King stumbles for the bar. Vision telescoping, compacting into darkness at the edges–so many pained sounds murmur the air–is that him? Dignity, have some dignity, damn you –but every staccato heave batters his lungs where his heart isn’t so much broken as it’s taken a leave of absence, vacated from his chest entirely.

"....you were right." Dan te is scarcely coherent, as if he’s re hearsing lines from a half-forgotten play haloed in bits of broken mirror glass. "Eda.” At the end of him, his trembling hands fall over her sleeve for purchase. She doesn’t shove him aside; his eyes swell over hot with grief. “The worst thing is people who delude themselves that life is more than it is." A razed din too wild to belong to a human; Dante realizes too late the peals of bitter laughter are rattling from his own chest. "I guess that makes me–"

"Don't–” Eda–or the shimmer rippling at the edge of his vision–snaps. “Ya dare even say it. That ain't it." Falteringly, fumblingly, her hand squeezes his own. " Ya ain't the worst. You hear me? Now listen well, you: I have on authority from a certain wiseguy: The worst thing in life isn't people who dare try and let their true selves see the sunlight. It's cowardly assholes whom refuse to allow life to be all it can be."

Gradually, her words unblur and resolve themselves from graininess, a radio tuned to better frequency. Dante dares swivel his face to her, breathing faint. "And whatever his problem is? You feelin' your very worst don't mean you're the very worst. We clear on that?”

“We’ve all been there,” Eber soothes, tucking his arms behind his head as he moseys on over. “If he’s not in a place in his journey where he can accept the reality of this place–of a whole lotta stuff–well, it’s his loss. You’re still a manuscript of a divine letter, far as we’re concerned, kiddo.”

“Journey?” Dante asks weakly, blood still pounding in his ears as King races over with a glass of water, sloshing it in his great haste. Dante wraps his hands around it for purchase; it all but turns to ice for the cold of him.

“Kid recognized a Louis Vuitton shoe. That telegram was composed inside the house,” Darius snarks as he strides over, before the bite of him becomes unusually subdued. “....take it easy, now.”

“Can I take your hand?” To Dante’s surprise, Viney shuffles up in the crowds, too. “You’re gonna be safe here, understand?” Her hand twists in his own clammy, feverish one. “ All of us–we’ve all been left behind, in this life.” Dante wonders softly, wordlessly if again Viney’s thinking of the mystery girl whom kissed the paper of her last farewell, smudging it with her lipstick.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Masha encourages, squeezing Viney’s shoulder as Viney’s lower lip slips out in a pout. “See: this is where the lost things and ne’er-do-wells end up. You still have a place here, with us. You can still sit, at our table.”

“I know this feels like the end of the world.” Darius folds his arms and quietly lowers his gaze, as if he stands not in the heart of a speakeasy, but again in the heart of New Orleans. “Lemme tell ya it ain’t, it really ain’t. If you’re a mi te as stubborn as Eda, and I’m bettin’ ya are, considering the gay stork probably brought ya to her, you’ll walk the runway again.”

Eber raises his hand. “Say: Is the gay stork just a flamingo?”

“Hey,” Eda snaps at her oldest friend, sticking her tongue out at his smirk. “Quit the bettin’ talk; Owl House ain’t a casino, ya realize.” Suddenly, she brightens. “Yet. King, look into that, will ya?”

“The King of Demons can eat anyone who makes ya sad if you want,” King volunteers earnestly, raising his hand as he hesitantly approaches, suddenly skittish, suddenly shy. Lowering Luz into a chair suddenly feels akin to lowering her down in King’s life for the long haul. King, who hasn't so much as dared let anyone near his age approach the foundations of his own life, isn’t entirely certain what to do with this information.

Another sputter as Dante draws his bony knees to his chest. King’s eyes, completely wide and earnest with his impossible offer, makes Dante laugh-weep; the hysterical bursts are all but interchangeable noises from his chest as he leans into a hand that draws itself to his hair.

With a pang as poignant as it is pained, Dante understands this place isn’t just a bar, where people came to get sloshed. It was a sanctuary , where people also incidentally came to get sloshed. Even when Dante wanted nothing more than to fall over the shape of his own worthlessness–he’d been caught, in the midst of his Icarian plunge, before he could be entirely swallowed up by the ravenousness of an endless sea. His eyelashes skim his cheekbones. He hiccups, skin around his eyes swollen and puffy.

A freckling of warm shivers. To his own surprise, it matters , that he not be consumed by raw despair. It matters , even to his own bemusem*nt, that he live, even when he doesn’t quite know, the How of it from here. His eyes burn with a fresh resurgence of tears. He’d have to do everything in his power to protect the hearthfire glow haven–a knight taking up a sword in a pledge of honor.

And to forever keep Camila Noceda at arms length from this world below, a universe’s distance away from the likes of Owl House altogether. Because if Gus’s loss reduces Dante to a whimpering hollow at the mercy of a rise of lifting hands, Mami’s turned shoulder would actually undo both Dante and Luz altogether. Neither would survive such a revelation.

Snuffling, wiping his face upon his sleeve, Dante attempts to force his legs upright. “What about the custom–”

“Me, Hooty and King’ll manage tonight,” Eda says shortly. “Speakin’ of which–” She steps back as just Hooty steps forward, unbidden, his large tawny-brown eyes unblinking in his paler-than-normal features. For all his pep and peep, Hooty is curiously-quiet, mind skirting away from a hard, pale light, in a pale, locked ward. Dante’s heartsick eyes meander again on a constellation of starkly scar tissue upon Hooty’s head, dully wondering again if his own devastated insides resemble something similar.

“Let’s get ya someplace quiet to rest. Ya can’t go home like this. Raine’ll actually have my head.” Eda dully supposes it’s still preferable to letting Raine have another piece of her, slightly further down the channel of her, to her chest.

“I can walk,” Dan te attempts to fuss fain tly , kicking his dangling fee t –for God’s sake, he’s too big to be carried. But Hooty takes no such notice, slowly and tenderly scooping him up like Dante’s all of a ragdoll. Dante turns so red he practically glows before burying his face in Hooty’s shoulder. Masha and Viney rise to follow. “Let’s get you some tea.”

“So he’ll have to stay here ?” King hopefully proposes, hand flying up. “For tonight? Or a day? Several days, you say?” He snaps his fingers, attempting, and failing, to look properly contrite. “Geez, whiz, well, nothin’ to it I s’po–”

“Let the kid get his bearings some. I can drive him home afterward tonight,” Darius volunteers, Eber positively beaming at him. King sheepishly lowers his hand again, lip jutting out ever-so-slightly.

Just as Hooty turns to go, Eda places a hand upon Dante’s back. "It's not the weak who are desperate to clock out early. It's people who are desperate to go home. That's all." She looks away. "Even if home ain' home no more. Even if it never was."

And Dante’s ribs unhinge a soundless torrent of great, heaving sobs. Eda briefly looks to the ceiling and summons a prayer. "...you're about to do the vertical arm thing whether I like it or not, huh? Fine–knock yerself out, I s’pose, Dante.” Eda wrapped Dante's name right around him.

Dante flings his arms around the failsafe of Eda’s bones. With a quiet chaos of affection, Eda wonders if the lump beneath a cage of bone isn’t a feeling so much as it is a matter of seeing.

"If it makes you feel any better," She says briskly, quietly extracting herself a moment later. "Ya and I have a shipment to get started on tomorrow. I decided we'd take a buyer's request, even if it’s in coven territory."

Dante’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. “Eda–”

"It’s a little order, mind ya, but ya done and twisted my arm. We’ll do it together.” Eda manages a toothy grin as she ruffles his hair. “Ya done twisted my arm. Happy now?"

“....I won’t let you down,” Dante promises faintly before Hooty carries him off. One of the patrons, an old man whose sweater is covered with golden stars, awhite-tearedfellow by the name of Adeghast, quietly doodles from his table. He appears to be playing hangman with himself, judging by the gallows he idly scribbles upon his notepad, whistling to himself.

~o*oOo*o~

Beneath arched windows, intricately-carved walnut furnishings, a backdrop of champagne-colored linen, garnet-colored curtains, tapestries and chairs upholstered in velvet, Adeghast admires not for the first time, nor the last, the furnishings of those whom made a religion upon the altar of suffering; specifically that of your own. Adeghast bows, hastily grabbing his son Nevareth, now sporting an eye patch, by the scruff of his neck to make Nevereth bow alongside him. In the ill-light of the hearth fire, father and son are trembling before the pale machinery of skeletons.

“I’m entirely certain of my findings, Lord Vitimir. It’s official: they’re going to sell outside in coven-operated territory. And, as I haven’t been formally banned from the premises like my foolhardy son here–” He gives Nevareth a reprimanding prod with his staff, making the latter wince. “–I’m certain I can yet the meeting’s details, so you yet have time to run interference.”

A canary tweets from the nearby cold sheen of a dangling gilded cage. A wizened old man with his back turned to them hums like an untuned piano from his winged armchair. A wrinkled silhouette, clad in a somber black pilgrim hat, a mourner's cloak whose dark fabric is filigreed in gold thread, as well as the padded soft down of a smoking jacket rendered a dust jacket upon his reedy form-Vitimirlanguidly turning to a pale young girl whom sits upon in the nearby windowseat. She's kicking her dangling legs back and forth, humming tunelessly to herself, black dress velvet doublet and quilted cotehardie, dagged edges at the elbow-length sleeves.“Boscha. Are you in the mood to play, my pet? It’s been so very long.”

Hopping off the loveseat, a golden vial whose sigil is carved like a love note upon the inside of her arm, Boscha’s coral pink-lips quirk upwards as she sweeps into a bow in gray eyes rendered ravenous dry timber as they reflect the firelight, an ashen promise of a smoldering aftermath.

Chapter 7: One of Gus, Part III of III

Chapter Text

~o*oOo*o~

It's not the shade, we should be past it

It's the light, and it's the obstacle that casts it

It's the heat that drives the light

It's the fire it ignites-

~o*oOo*o~

The gentle of Darius’s mahogany hand gripping her/his/??? shoulder is a ballast. Between being and not being, floodwater and ebb, salt and mineral, all in a dry drowning. Luz allows herself to be safely-steered out of Darius’s car, to the dandelions sprouting amidst the fissures of decorative tiles cracked and missing. A smashed Coca-Cola bottle glints like sea glass in dirty drain water beneath the tepid light of a solitary streetlamp.

Overhead the moon is vacant in bourbon ripples of starless night. Luz wades as if sun-dazed. The world is tottery, damp and hollowed-under her boots, as if she descends a splintering gangplank. Darius is clad now in a smart indigo pinstripe suit, and Luz in her patched skirt. Have they discarded their costumes, or have they merely put them on again? Luz nearly trips over a discarded automobile tire lying upon its side. Doubtlessly, the tenement children will be fighting over their new plaything tomorrow, a love note composed in diesel fuel.

Darius does not drive off immediately; he waits, and watches, patiently from across the street, for Luz to make it back to her room. Her trachea could collapse beneath its own weight with the wordless kindness behind such a gesture.

Luz wonders if Gus has already made it safely home. In the never-ending dark lurch of corridors teeming with life and death, she almost pauses by the door and the number she knows as well as her own. But Gus’s name simply has no home to claim in her throat anymore. Her voice unhinges at a crossroad of names.

With a labored shifting from the makeshift bedroll, Mami wanly swivels to greet Luz as the latter silently sheds her peeling boots at the door. Mami’s smile swiftly vanishes the moment her eyes fall on the sheer aftermath of Luz’s face. Luz pauses at the threshold, an onlooker outside of herself. Mami’s syntax is eroded with saltwater. Gravity forms a hollow country in Luz’s heart as she tries and fails to light a candle, simply pocketing the matchbox as she stumbles to Mami’s side.

Mottled cold hands tremble as they reach for a nearby wooden bucket. Wheezing, Camila clumsily wrings the same graying rag Luz had used only earlier that morning to wipe her mother’s perspiring face with murky water. Murmuring something that swishes cool and silvery like a Mahi Mahi’s scaly underbelly–hopefully not an obituary of slipped tongues–Camila tugs Luz down beside her. She blots her child’s gaunt, still-wet cheekbones with a damp cloth, kissing her on the brow as Mami tucks trembling skin and bone underneath trembling skin and bone. Mami might be a dilapidated house actively being torn up by its floorboards, still attempting to shelter a child.

Luz is unresistant, faintly-surprised not to be properly mortified at such helplessness on her part. Perhaps there are really only so many ways you can paraphrase your mother's heartbeat. Before Luz can peruse the matter further, she’s already dreaming of a Dominican house that had long ago fallen in love with its own floodwaters. It had a purple door.

~o*oOo*o~

When Luz was even smaller, and Papi’s cloche cap still smelled both of him and his vanilla tobacco, sometimes she’d wake in the middle of the night, to the sight of Manuel Noceda gazing out at the flinted sky and New York’s collective soundtrack from the tenement fire escape. Barefoot, she would pad to him in her nightgown. He’d take her in the strong of his arms, the same ones that built irrigation canals in República Dominicana , and skyscrapers in America. For all Manuel had done to help build two nations, Luz thought neither of them felt country enough to be home to her.

When Luz would ask about the land of their birth in rupture and song, sometimes Manuel would tell, voice hazed with nostalgia like a relic, or faded ink, of the thousand colors of Carribean water. The indigenous birds, whose plumages were colors put to flight, rendered in searingly-exquisite detail. If you were lucky enough to find their feathers on the ground, it was like setting your hands to color, with softness you could turn over in your hands.

Manuel would tell her of his boyhood growing up in a fisherman’s family, of greeting his Papi and Abuelo returning with nets bright and bursting with snappers, groupers, Rainbow Runner, Bonito. Wanting, wanting, wanting, as his Mami combed his hair, only to finally be big enough to join the boats with the other boys, the other men.

But then Manuel’s face would inevitably fall–like an eventuality, like a roof caving in on itself after a battering storm. Then, invariably, falteringly, like the words of a hated passage you were nonetheless forced to recite daily at school, he would speak too, of the civil unrest, the secret police, crackdowns on a free press, the military dictatorships, corrupt politicians, sham elections, a war with neighboring Haiti, governments that turned-over with greater frequency than bedsheets.

So, the United States, the Land of Liberty, took it upon themselves to occupy a land they insisted could not take care of itself. And so we left, mi amor, and so you and I and your Mami are here.

Luz remembers her cheek pressed against Papi’s nightshirt, the warm and safe purchase of it when the night had become unstable as their voices. Are we Dominican? Are we American?

We are both , Manuel replied firmly, like an assurance. Privately, Luz thought it rang like a sentence, even in the f ar backward reaches of time. This is better, Manuel would insist, as if he didn't quite believe himself either.

Looming and out of fitful dreams, when Luz turns to the vacancy of the closed tenement window, the dark horizon outside seems so far away that it seems to exist in hypothesis only. Her chest is an organ with vast chambers haunted by their own empty as she fumbles for the same tattered volume Gus once lent her. The Inferno’s spine dangles from threads, as if from its own dilapidated heartstrings. In a pale scar of moonlight, Luz makes out this passage:

“To course across more kindly waters now

my talent's little vessel lifts her sails,

leaving behind herself a sea so cruel;

and what I sing will be that second kingdom,

in which the human soul is cleansed of sin,

becoming worthy of ascension to Heaven.”

It isn’t long before brown eyes are filmed with moisture, tears blotting a ruined page as Luz flings her hands over her mouth, Mami’s breathing continues its raspy, shallow tempo from beside her. One of the reasons she’d picked Dante as an alias was that the titular character of Dante’s Inferno was never alone. But Luz now strains against loneliness the way her mother’s form wracks and wrestles with sickness, breath whistling.

If you can only remember your homeland, a plundered birthright, in your Mami’s songs and your Papi’s memory of secondhand colors, and you don’t quite know, how to survive in the same country you must accept occupied the land of your birth, how you’re supposed to want to survive without your first and best friend, if you’re even a boy or a girl or some thing else –then what the hell even are you supposed to be, but a mockery of a makery?

A metaphor, for drowning?

~o*oOo*o~

From the back roads, as if even the city has exhausted itself, Dante, clad again in Papi’s cloche cap and tattered breeches, wanders back to the lonely house under the trees in the weep of morning, a vacancy he makes of his own flesh, or that it has made of him. As he approaches, there’s a stirring at one of Eda’s fading curtains as King anxiously peers out. King swivels back, probably pretending that he certainly hadn’t done any such thing. Dante pauses at the threshold, attempting to summon his usual flair and gusto for the morning’s work ahead. But even this sanctuary’s air flings itself down heavy; not with greater substance, but with nothing left to breathe.

When Eda silently opens the front door at his approach, as if she had been lying in wait, she does not ask him if he’s fine ; and for this, Dante is grateful. He turns automatically for the underground distillery in the back, but Eda grabs his shoulder. “Alright, kid, alright.” Her eyes cling upon a curlicue vine beginning to carry itself upon one of the house’s cracked pillars. The apparatus is rendered dry as dust with flaking paint the house is shedding. “Ya go up to bed now. That’s your task for this mornin’.”

Dante turns. Eda harrumphs. “....the moonshine mash ya made needs more time to ferment, so ya can leave it for now. You’re carryin’ so many baggage under those eyes that ya look like a golf caddy, and ya ain’t no golf caddy.” Eda is not troubled because she does not recognize him; she is troubled because Dante bears too much resemblance to a gaunt girl in white. “Because, unlike most terrible people in this world, ya don’t play golf.” She rounds on Hooty, whom appears to be attempting to peck at a nearby oak for grubs. “Yer assignment is to get some shut-eye. Hooty, ya help him up the stairs, ya hear?”

Skulking behind Eda, King attempts to conceal his disappointment; Dante’s quivering legs look liable to shatter underneath him at any given moment, among other things. There was no question of any Hide and Seek or Robin Hood after chores today. A second later, a hot stab of guilt. Maybe if King wasn’t so childish, Dante wouldn’t have told King to run and hide when Nevareth cornered them in the shop. King rankles as he bites the inside of his mouth too hard, scowling in the peevish throbbing of a beginning-headache.

Hooty salutes with as much solemnity as if to his commanding general. He crouches to scoop up Dante, whom clings to Hooty’s broad shoulder for dear life. On the sea, the day floats upon a quivering vessel. “Fair not, fair maiden–or fair gentleman–we’ll have a slumber party to cheer ya up again!” Hooty vows, even as King uneasily side-eyes him. “I’ll do yer hair, we’ll play records, and I’ll read ya a story, and everything!” He leans in, as if to confide in Dante his deepest, darkest secret. “I have an extensive collection of romance novelas , I’ll have ya know.”

King is aghast. “You fool! You’re s’posed to be helpin’ him feel better , not worse!”

Briefly, Dante exhales into Hooty’s shoulder as he’s carried inside; the front door slams behind them. King and Hooty start heartily bickering as Eda gripes at them to knock it off. The clatter and ruckus of it all is a touchstone of comfort, especially compared to the sharply-worded silence of the Porter’s closed door this morning.

Hooty carries Dante up the rattling music of the old staircase; Dante muses that for someone whom almost relished intruders as an opportunity to reenact the Trojan War, Hooty’s surprisingly-gentle when he wants to be. The same huge hands that can break bone perform a ritual of small mercies right now, especially Dante can’t even lift his head for the broken heart of him.

A feather comforter drifts over Dante in bed, and Hooty eagerly goes for a sizable stack of volumes in a lonely corner. Dante drifts, to the meter of something-something-something about a girl underneath the willows. A star-studded swirl between sleeping and waking, a boat that inexplicably takes to open air instead of open waters. Then, he is gone.

~o*oOo*o~

A serene transit of an hour hand. A symphony of asynchronous clocks. Someone sits him up and spoons something vaguely sweet like thickly-honeyed porridge that sticks to the roof of his mouth. He doesn’t quite know how to explain that the real hunger is to make a name; or a name to make them. A soft vibrato of sitar strings take themselves up to an old song. But Dante can’t imagine ever glimpsing the likes of a sitar at Eda’s, so perhaps he’s still dreaming.

When Dante briefly resurfaces, it’s to the overhead shadowplay of late afternoon, and Eda tottering across the room. Her breath alone is a guilty verdict. “...hey, kid.” She’s been day-drinking. “...thought I’d–I’d come in and–” Heavily day-drinking, at that. “Check in on ya, ‘fore I headed over, ‘fore my shift.” She flings up a hand when Dante attempts to sit up on wobbling elbows beneath countless old quilts piled upon him. “No. Darius will take ya home ‘fore it gets too dark. Already called him.

“f*cking awful.” She sullenly kicks at a travel trunk, cursing as a bolt looses itself upon her foot through her stupor. “I thought about sendin’ Hooty out with the ax. Works like a charm, for mos t of my troubles.” Eda shrugs as she leans against the wall, sliding straight down, back to the wall. “ But then I thought–I don’t want–I don’t want–to make ya cry. I don’t.”

Luz shifts from her place on the bed. Go home Eda, you’re drunk. Excep t Eda is at home, though she looks like a lost child at a department store. “Just figures, don’t it.” Eda con tinues ranting at the intersection of salt and fury. “Jus t f*cking figures. Oh, they tell ya they love ya, alright, and they do love ya, until yer different, difficult, and doomed .” She’s sporting a clenched jawline, as Luz has the distinct impression that she’s witnessing something sober-Eda would never acquiesce her to. “Hell, the same sanctuary my parents tried to make me and my sis almost killed me. Ain't that funny?” Eda peers into the contents of her bottle, looking for God at the bottom of a bottomless bottle. “Ain’t ya gonna laugh?”

“.....Eda.” Unsteadily, Luz attempts to make the ground believe in itself. It’s so immaterial that she crawls over on all fours. “....ya should get some water, and some food, before your shift.”

“I can–I can take care of myself.” Eda’s teeth cavity away with excuses. “Why won’t– anyone just believe –I can take—ah, screw it. Point is,” She says stoutly, as if there had indeed been a point all along. “ There are two types of folks in this life: Those who wish to go forward, and those who wish to go back. Who are you? Or rather?” And Eda’s profile turns from the window to gaze, briefly sobered with something that didn't know its own name, either . “Which of those two do ya wanna be, kid?” Briefly, Eda bows her head. “I take it back; i f ya do cry, ya can cry as long and as hard as ya like. Spare a few tears for me? My eyes don't cry no more.”

Luz’s eyes swell up as she huddles beside Eda. Eda does not chase her away. A radiator hums to itself. What a fine pair the two of them really are, a drunkard and a lost soul, both crumpled against the wall, afflicted with longing, incapable of forming anything remotely durable in terms of attachments. Luz lacks even a body to choke on, in this house of ill repute.

Still, no one attempts to collision a lost child toward perfection, and that’s not nothing. Luz leans against the wall to huddle right beside Eda, soon nodding off, where the sea again becomes sleep.

When Darius wakes her to return her back home, Luz’s back in bed, and Eda’s taken her leave. But Eda has left a taper quietly burning in her stead.

~o*oOo*o~

"Hey...Dante?" King’s knuckle taps at the door two days later. The boom of the King of Demon’s voice remains curiously-subdued. Once again, Dante is curled up in bed, having a staring match with the wall. He waits to feel ashamed for being so exposed, like the ribs of the starving cats Luz attempted to keep alive.

King enters, shaggy dark hair fanning messily over his face, hand briefly wandering to the hairline fracture scar upon his brow. He’s carrying in a tray with a slice of bread and grape jelly. "Eda told us to leave you alone. But I brought ya some food just the same.” His voice lilts up an octave with hope. “Hooty even made some tea. Heck, it’s not even poisoned. You’d think this was the Ritz-Carlton or something.”

Dante remains unresponsive. King’s face falls. He rubs at the goosebump rise at the nape of his neck, carefully placing the tray upon the night stand. “Um, about. Uh. About–” King understands far too well as a barkeeper regrets can absolutely have names. "Hooty and I were thinking. Well, I was thinkin’, anyway, cause Hooty don’t have no brain to think with, exactly. I have to help him a lot with thinking so he don’t hurt himself, see. But…ya don't have to go back, ya know. No one’s making you.”

At that, Dante slowly turns to him. “Not ever. We wouldn’t throw you out like yesterday’s garbage.” King encourages, wincing seconds later at the answering avalanche in Dante’s face. King’s no son of Edalyn Clawthorne, but he has the heirloom of Eda’s letter-opener tongue just the same. “Uh–motion to strike the previous statement. Ya could just run away from home, and be Dante all the time–or–or be Luz all the time–and just stay with us."

Briefly, King remembers again an alleyway of ruined brick, a gloomy backdrop of for gloomy vagrants mothered merely by thin air. Their wandering bones sprawled every which way before at last winding itself around this house, now haunted by its occupants.

King lowers his eyes. " All of us here are runaways, from something . Don’t tell King and Eda I said that–trust me: they don’t like talkin’ about it. But ya could join the club. Just a thought. Just a thought.” He gives his head a shake; he’d left his mouth running like a faucet and he’d have to foot the bill if he didn’t stop now. “What am I even sayin ’?” King clamors upon a nearby stool, his swinging feet dangling. “If ya ain’t gonna eat, ya go back to sleep now.”

Dante does not smile, but his eyes mist warmth in the stifled curtains of the room. He curls upon his side, inhaling the quiet, companionable intimacy of sitting in the dark and breathing together. A prow breaking a path in water. What does it mean, to go the limits of your own longing?

His lungs send him back underneath with King watching over him. Outside, a breeze recedes into a lullaby.

~o*oOo*o~

In the light battering itself, against the window of the third day, Dante’s eyes flutter open. Vacillating bars of sunlight advance upon the carpeting in escaped shreds. His brown eyes briefly lift out the window, where oak-shaped shadows timber between the shop and the house. A mug of chamomile tea still sits upon the bedside table. It is still hot. Sitting up in bed, Dante cradles the clay in his hands. It’s then he thinks tea is able to keep you company in a way that Apple Blood simply isn’t, although perhaps that was because tea as he knows it is taken warm. He devours a waiting jelly sandwich King doubtlessly made.

Beside a solitary purple hyacinth that sits in a jelly jar of water, someone has left a few Get-Well cards upon the dusty little bedside table. King’s atrocious penmanship has to be held up to the wan, dusty sunlight to be made out: Git whel NOW . It’s more of a ransom note. The corners of Luz’s mouth twitch as she rises, before gravity can coerce her back down. Pausing to drape on a trailing shawl over her shoulders, willing the tattered sail of her broken heart up and outward, she opens in the window to invite in a breeze, and pads out to the bathroom for a wash. Her hair is flat and matted; she does not loiter in front of the mirror, lest it tell on her.

Sweeping out in the bracing comfort of clean steam, Luz pauses in the hallway to brace a hand against a soft, faded dark green tapestry that glows with a woven Celtic Knot. Briefly, she imagines the house itself holding her like a fledgling fallen from its nest.

Luz wanders to the staircase, pausing when she hears muffled voices playing over contented murmurs of hearth logs, Tchaikovsky’s 1812 over ture playing on the gramophone. Eda had once explained you knew someone was queerer than a fair day of Spring when they insisted on having cannons play orchestral accompaniment for the sheer fanfare of it all. “...I know I said I’d do a deal–” Eda’s voice ebbs in and ou t of the heart murmurs of the house . “Bu t I’m not so sure, about this racket flop.* Some thing ain’t right, here.”

“Then pick someone else.” King’s chair scrapes back; he sits upon a makeshift pile of phonebooks in a kitchen that smells of peppercorn. “I betcha an Owl House regular ya actually know is a safer bet for a big sale. That Tibbles fellah leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth, like I just inhaled Eda’s cooking.”

Eda snorts. “First of all, Owl House regulars ain’t making any mass orders. Partially since most of ‘em can’t afford it, and partially-cause they don’t want to get caught with the stuff in their homes by Prohibition agents. They order their drink at the bar, and then call it a night. And secondly, my cookin’ ain’t that bad. Hooty, back me up, here.”

Hooty attempts and fails to hide beneath the table, bumping his head against the wood. “Ow! I’m real glad the stomach pump was already invented.”

“Traitors,” Eda sniffs, rising from her chair. “One of us needs to go check on the ki–” She whirs around, nearly bumping into Dante for her trouble. Jolting, poor Hooty bumps his head against the kitchen table, managing a “Ow-hoot!” before tumbling over. King’s eyes are wide as

Eda wills her staggering heart to slow. She manages a smile, though her eyes are cautious. “Stupid question: Are ya alright?”

“Morning,” Dante rasps, drawing up another mismatched chair to sit at the table. Eda can’t remember the last time it was so full–they certainly aren’t in the habit of sitting together at the same time. Dante cracks a weary smile, wrapping the shawl more tightly around himself. “Stupid answer: I’m fine. Takes more…takes more than that.” He can’t finish his sentence, lest the sentence finish him.

“Attaboy.” No-small part relieved , Eda gleams a toothy smile as Hooty crawls out from under the table, rubbing his sore head dolefully. “I know you’re gonna be just dandy, when ya start sassin’ me again.”

“What’s the matter?” Dante sidles King a smile as King hurriedly scrapes his chair closer to him. “Who’s Tibbles? What order are you talking about, here?”

King’s eager face eclipses with doubt. “...well, if Eda says this guy isn’t hitting on all eight*, better just to wait for another offer to come along, right?”

But Dante leans in, troubled. "...ya said ya felt dicey about this Tibbles fellah.” His name alone is positively delightful; Dante only wondered what the trouble could possibly be. “ You're not hesitating to do business with him ‘cause of his race or religion, are ya?”

Eda shakes her head as she fills herself a mug of coffee, retrieving an already-opened envelope sitting upon the counter. "Nah. In part, it’s because he's a Wall Street inves tor .” Making a face, Eda sips her coffee, thrusting the envelope across the countertop for a nonplussed Dante to take up.

Luz blinks. "Oh. Well, screw that guy, then ." The daring little dart of obscenity is liberating, particularly when Mami is not here to jam a cake of soap in her mouth. Unable to resist peeking, Luz pulls out the ivory calling card: Tibblet-Tibblie Grimm Hammer III is smart and crisply printed in twisting font. Slowly, she pulls open a tri-folded typewritten letter, along with a footnote to immediately destroy the documents upon reading. Luz’s eyes fall upon the order details. She reads. Rereads. King waves a hand over her glazing eyes. Slowly, slowly, hands crumpling themselves into the paper, Luz turns to Eda, rendered speechless.

Eda leans against the counter. “I know. I know. That offer right there is all honey.” Eda worries her lower lip. “He upped his asking price again. He’s been makin’ offers for large orders for some time, ever since Prohibition was passed and the word got out about Apple Blood. I had to keep tellin’ him that I just don’t sell outside of Owl House. Still, he’s been persistent. Someone with Tibbles’ moolah can probably afford a space to safely conceal a stockpile of bootleg booze to impress his banker friends, as well as ladies that are outta of his league.” Eda savages a wicked grin in red. “Meanin’ all women, if I’m bein’ honest…”

“But something feels shifty, here.” Eda paces, as if piecing her reasoning together. “I can’t shake this feeling in my funny bone something ain’t kosher. An offer this high, to meet at a factory after hours, owned in coven-occupied territory?”

“Can’t they just come here to pick up their order?” Dante points out slowly. He’s unable, unwilling, to surrender his death grip upon the paper. A lifeline. So much money. Even after being divided into shares among them. A doctor’s visit. He’s lightheaded. Not having to rely on Raine’s generosity for food. Not having to worry about the whopping majority of his paycheck going straight to rent, and driving out the chill. All it would take, was the courage of one night, holding your nose during the briefest of encounters. And how much more like a human being would Dante only feel, if only he could do this much, if only he had a cause, a distraction, a reminder there was still Mami to fight for, even if Gus wanted nothing to do with him? Perhaps then Dante would be less of a punishment for himself.

Dante allows his fingers to wheedle at one another. “I mean, we technically aren’t selling out of your territory if the buyer just so happens to come over here, and they just so happen to buy Apple Blood, and they just so happen to take it away….? I bet he’s got a fancy car to pick it up with and everything.”

“I could eat him after the sale,” Hooty offers. King’s eyes light up; his fists go flying against the tabletop. “Eat the rich! Eat the rich!”

Eda gazes at Dante with increasing frankness, though her eyes are kind. “Ya still got 25/20 vision when it comes to spottin’ loopholes, kid. But that’s the thing: Tibbles doesn't want to do that. I’ve told piggers again and again he’s more than welcome to just come to the Owl House and enjoy a drink here. But he just won’t do it.” Eda’s eyes roll back into her head. “Probably too man to risk being seen in the likes of a queer dive. And that’s just yet another reason I ain’t about this. It ain’t acceptable for him to take risks, but it’s just dandy for my employees and I to put our necks on the line? Nuh-uh, no sir.” She swishes her hands apart for emphasis. “He’s got the curse on us.*”

“...well, have ya thought more about my other idea, then?” Dante proposes hesitantly, pocketing the letter. “Exporting Apple Blood across state lines with a boat?”

Eda grips his shoulder, and Dante already knows the answer. “Kid– if we do this, we start small . We avoid coven detection at all costs. We avoid unnecessary risks.” Eda bites the inside of her cheek as Dante looks down. “Especially when you’re just gettin’ back on your feet.” Eda’s hand cups Dante’s cheek before she can even think about it. “Don’t worry. We’ll get another offer letter before ya know it, and you’ll get to do your big shipment. We just need to vet a deal something preferably-less shady, is all.” She strides for the door, clapping her hands. “Now, let’s get a head-start on these glasses for tonight. Customers are coming in before ya know it. Let’s hop to it, fellahs.”

Dante tremulously presses a smile. “Ya got it; I’ll throw the letter out.” He’ll simply avoid outright stating when .

“Ya coming, Dante?” King calls over his shoulder. Dante pains a grin. “You know it, pal!”

Everyone bustles outside for the barn across the sprawling acreage now beginning to gorge itself upon spring clover. Cars are already beginning to pool in the back for tonight’s fun. As Eda and King scurry for the shop trapdoor, and Hooty wanders off to his usual post at the shop door to screen the guests, Dante takes a moment to tiptoe to the antiquary’s secondhand candlestick telephone upon the corner desk, gleaming brassily in a corner.

Plucking out the business card from his pocket, Dante picks up both the weighty receiver and mouthpiece in the tremor of unpracticed hands. The rotary whirs around and around again with each dialed digit. At last, a voice breaks through the idling hum of the dial tone. Dante’s nails accidentally sink into the soft of his left forearm. “...hello, operator? Can ya please direct my call…? Thanks.

“....hello?” Dante says softly, eyes furtively darting around the shop as Hooty beckons in an old bearded man leaning heavily upon his cane, a pair of women holding hands. “Regarding your…your offer …” Don’t say anything incriminating on the telephone, you putz. “I…I can meet tonight, at Trappola Glassworks and Factory, with your shipment .” His hands grip his rosary beads. Forgive me. Forgive me. “Yes, yes, our shop vendor had a change of heart, regarding your uh…. offer for an applewood desk , yes. But uh…” Stymied, Dante retrieves the crumpled letter. “...regarding…the, uh, pickup site …how do I…I see. I…I can do that. It’s settled.” He closes his eyes, brow glistening. “Thanks for calling the Owl House antique shop– hope ya have a great day!”

And with that, Dante hangs up the phone, which clatters noisily with a clang. Trembling, a fish with punctured gills leans against the barn walls, clutching at the spike of his heart. Yo siento. I’m sorry. But how much longer could poor Mami be asked to hold on? What if Eda threw away Luz next for being a burden? All this precious time Dante squandered in a helpless stupor of an exploded darkness, hiding in sleep. He swipes at burning eyes. He’d take history in his hands tonight. He’d already lost Gus–what more could possibly be done to him? At least it would be a little less money away from the likes of the rich, and a lot more in the hands of the poor. Dante’s breathing eases some. Not so different from Robin Hood after all.

He launches himself across the desk to seize a writing pad and pencil: Going to fill the order. I don’t want any of you to get hurt. I’ll handle this by myself. I’ll make the deal, and make you all proud of me. Don’t worry. I promise I won’t let you down. See you soon. –Dante

Impatiently, he tears off the first draft, rolling it up in a ball because it has tears on it. Rewriting his message, Dante props it underneath the telephone before making for the door. But this time, it’s his turn to startle back a step as two familiar silhouettes approach from the barn doors. “Oh–Darius! Eber! I was–” Dante’s voice is an ouroboros devouring itself; his spine might be a cracked rosary. “Just about to run an errand for Eda! We….we ran out of ice.” Not according to the deep freeze orbiting his chest like a glacial star just now, they aren’t.

“Not dressed like that , you’re not.” Darius sniffs, stubbing his cigar upon a nearby ashtray. Sharp green eyes warily look him up and down; Dante still looks dead on his feet, but he’s not catatonic, so that can only be a net positive. “You’re lucky your fairy godmother ’s on the case.”

“What Darius means to say is, we figured ya could use some cheering up, so we made ya a little something-something.” Eber translates with a wink, standing on tiptoe to tug Darius on the ear. He’s clutching a box nearly as big as himself tied with a royal blue ribbon. Seconds later, he giddily thrusts the huge box into Dante’s arms. “Open it! Open it!”

Lacking all mythos for words, hands shaking so badly he can scarcely prize open the ribbon–gentle, gentle, the box alone is already too pretty–Dante lifts the lid with shaking fingers. His eyes already seem to have deserted their marching orders against his tears as his throat trills a vibrato like a twilit cello.

Not believing to dare, Dante slowly lifts a smartly-collared crisp white shirt, a s triped -collared vest, suspenders, a new pair of gray breeches. Black ankle boo ts with not a single hole to them. The garmen t buttons are all present, sleek and glossy and smooth. New. Not something second or third-hand, scarcely held together by uneven stitches. A plum-colored tie. A cunning charcoal fedora. Eyes brimming as Eber and Darius’s faces blur, Dante presses the soft of his new tie against his cheek. “Did–did ya really make these yourself?”

“Well, of course.” Pleased as a ca t that got the cream , Darius gloa ts as Dante radiates ; at last a wick taking on a tentative shine amongst the lost things. “Who else could’ve possibly–” Seconds la ter, Darius grunts, face pulled tight in a grimace as Dante dives a t him, flinging his little arms around him in a burs t of sheer joy . Darius huffs. “Yeah, yeah. Ya be tter not wrinkle this vest; it’s silk. Ah, damn, I knew you were the hugging type. Woe betide Eda. She’s doomed.”

“There’s a bandeau included in there if you need it.” Eber discreetly whispers in Dante’s ear as the latter stoops to give Eber a bear hug. “Hopefully we got the measurements right. Whaddaya waiting for? Go try it on!”

Dante doesn’t need to be told twice; he stumbles off for the nearby water closet. Eber positively beams, playing with the red rose upon his lapel. “Aw, what a sweetie. Ya know Darius, I’ve been thinkin’. You and I should really get on the shortlist for a baby.” Eber says casually, as if he proposed growing tomato plants, or installing a veranda. “I mean, Harvey and Gilbert have been putting their heads together trying to figure it out. Maybe we should get in on that.”

Darius looks revolted. “If you and I didn’t arrive together, I’d accuse you of breaking open the Apple Blood early. One should get “in on” Chanel handbags , not children. I’d almos t rather conduct syphilis.”

Eber exhales upwards, bang fringe rippling like a curtain in an open window. “Didn’t exactly stop ya from helping Dante get a new look…”

“ That outfit he always wore here was an eyesore . I didn’t want to have to look at it anymore,” Darius makes his gloved hand dance in a wave. “And it’s hardly like I need an excuse, to shop or craft during my downtime.”

“No wonder ya and Eda are peas in a pod. How’s Chronic-Deniers Anonymous treating ya?” Eber scoffs right back, seconds later before Dante softly and shyly creeps back into the room. Eber’s eyes positively lights up with glee. “Yes, bitch, slay! It fits perfectly!”

Blushing darkly beneath Papi’s cloche cap–he’d been unable to part with it, or the rosary– insides the palette of summer holidays, Dante relishes the watery feel of fabric swishing softness upon his skin. He smiles lopsidedly; a faint and tremulous thing. Briefly, miraculously, he feels less the fragments of an unclaimed biography. Darius gives the slightest of pleased nods, which from him is one the greatest of the gestures. “It’ll work both for you and a spring wardrobe. It will do very well.”

“Now, you’re dressed to the nine, ya can go commit crimes with your head held high!” Eber cheers, fists rising up for good measure. “Ready to go show off down below? Everyone’s gonna be so excited!”

Dante’s heart leaps up exaltant. “.....thank you both. So much.” It’s closer to the bone than anything else that could be said. His hands fold over his beads. “I got a quick errand to run first, but I’ll take ya up on that soon. Promise.”

Darius withstands a sigh. “Now, now. We ain’t about to do something stupid, are we?”

“Nope!” Dante chimes, promptly spinning on his heel to avoid looking Darius in the eye. “Just a quick errand for the bar, is all. See ya both soon!”

And he rushes for the door; Hooty performs a double-take past as Dante winces in apology. The latter cups his hands over his mouth. “Be back soon, I promise! Tell ‘em not to worry. I’ll be back before ya know it!” Dante briefly presses his finger over his lip. “Can ya keep a secret?”

B̵r̵i̷e̸f̶l̶y̷,̴ ̷H̷o̶o̸t̸y̷ ̸g̴o̸e̸s̷ ̸r̶i̶g̵i̷d̸,̶ ̸a̷s̸ ̵i̵f̶ ̴w̵i̶t̵h̸ ̴a̷ ̴d̴a̶r̴k̵ ̸m̶e̵m̴o̷r̶y̷,̸ ̸m̴o̴o̴n̷l̴i̶k̸e̶ ̷f̵a̶c̶e̸ ̷b̴r̴i̸e̷f̸l̸y̷ ̸b̵o̴r̸n̴e̷ ̵i̵n̷ ̵a̸n̷ ̵i̷n̶s̴t̸a̸n̴t̷ ̸o̷f̷ ̵s̴t̴a̶r̴k̶ ̵t̴e̶r̴r̴o̶r̶.̸ ̷H̵i̷s̵ ̴m̵i̸n̸d̷ ̸m̷u̵r̵d̸e̴r̷i̴n̸g̴ ̷t̴h̴e̴ ̴w̶o̷r̷d̴s̵ ̸i̶n̷ ̸a̶n̷ ̵e̵l̴l̵i̷p̶s̶i̸s̶ ̷"̷̯̅C̴̺͛̔a̶̮̚͝ņ̸̈́͛͠ ̶̝̓͘y̷̪̒ͅo̸̞̗͆̾͝ủ̶͔͕̹̓ ̴̩͒͘k̵̢͌̃̃ė̸̜͉̈́e̴̱͇̊̈́p̴̠̑͌͜ ̵̯̈̈́ȁ̸͉͗͗ ̸̹̰̻̽̒s̷͎̤̑̍̑ę̴̱͑͛́c̵͚͚̫̾̆r̶͕͆̀͐ē̴͎̤̩̿̔t̶̫͚͕̾̍͠?̷̗̒̚"̸̫̱̒h̴o̸w̸l̸.̷

When Hooty can think to move again, his broom lies on the ground; an ajar-door is already fluttering in the coming dusk, beneath wayward flickering branches. Hooty’s stomach plummets into a cold cellar.

~o*oOo*o~

Silhouettes, whom for all the world might be shifting shadow puppets to Gus for all the depth they contain, are walking at a brisk, rhythmic clip around. A rectangle chugs heavily upon the track, as the world begins to shift and eddy. The familiar tempos and meters are now a song strange to him, a motion yet untried by time, a blinking pulse between stillness and change.

Briefly, Gus allows the static in his vision to transfigure the darkening trajectory of his city into the likes of a snow day, where fallen snow made things larger and cleaner than they really were. Luz running to the door to rap her knuckles to eagerly bid him to come play , their little entwined cold hands commingling into warmth as the other children came spilling out the tenement, winds heavy with howling, snowballs flinging everywhere. Briefly, Gus comes to a stop, faintly bemused as someone grips his shoulder. “Gus. Gus? Oh, for–”

It’s a moment before the figure can make itself known to him, when Gus scarcely recognizes himself. But the world briefly shakes the snow off itself like a dog. Once more, it is six o’clock; once more, it is March, once more, he is walking the streets of Harlem for church with his father. “Dad?” Gus blinks in bemusem*nt as Perry steers him off their usual, safely-congregated and well-lit route for a nearby corner in the opposite direction. Gus gives his head another shake. “But this–this isn’t the way to church. Wait. Is it?”

Perry sucks his teeth beneath his Sunday fedora, and Gus’s shoulders rise in an unvoiced Uh-Oh. Perry firmly steers Gus off the sidewalk, towards a nearby bench by a sewing shop. A familiar nearby lunatic upon a street corner, frothing at the jowls, announces the coming of end times. For once, Gus wonders if he might in fact, be onto something.

Train of thought unraveling into loose syllables of prayer, Gus wraps his cloak more tightly around himself, willing to drown in the too-big fabric. “Uh. Ain’t we about to be late for…your going-away party?” Gus relishes the idea of attending a celebration just now the same way he would eating Sister Johnson’s chitlins, or boiled pig intestines stuffed with mincemeat, at a church potluck. Still, it has to be preferable to the weight of his father’s gaze on him. Gus is picked at, by a picking anxiety.

“...take a seat.” Perry points at the bench, and Gus slumps upon it as if bracing for a sentencing. “We should have some time, before nightfall comes.” It isn’t nightfall they need fear, and they both know it. Perry’s gaze is unwavering behind his glasses. “I need to speak with you.

“ You already know,” He se ttles in quietly beside Gus. “Wha t I’m about to say.” Gus neither confirms, nor denies it. “I can see it in your eyes. And yet, it clearly has to be said aloud: This has gone on for too long. It’s simply not healthy, for either of you. You’re in hell.”

Gus wraps his arms too tightly around himself. Grief feels ingrained in him like knots in wood. “Sir, I don’t know, what you’re–”

“Augustus Porter.” Gus’s Uh-Oh dials up to a Category Catastrophic. “I’ll beg you not to act more fool-headed than you are.” Perry snaps; he is a man of few pe t peeves, but that one sets him waspish. Gus’s face screws up;. Shoulders softening, Perry inhales, exhales, allowing the breath to touch the bottom of his lungs before re-attempting: “We both know better.”

“I’m not,” Gus protests, scrubbing furiously at his eyes in tremors of retreating sunlight. “I’m really, really not–”

One gentle, unyielding look stills Gus’s voice. “Of course you are. You really won’t even consider, just attempting to talk to her? Time’s running out, son. It’ll be April before you know it. We’ll be out of here in a matter of mere days now.” Perry sighs; a low, doleful sound as Gus doubles around himself. “I spoke with your Auntie Camila this morning–”

“What,” Gus rasps. He migh t be doubled over a hilt growing inside like malignancies, conversing a transverse fracture in his af termath. “What did she say….?”

“You know she’s in too grave health to say much.” Perry reminds, as if either of them needed any reminder. “Luz…has also taken poorly, as of late. I spotted her returning home yesterday from her seamstress job.” Gus bites down on the ugly of his tongue. Seamstress job . Bu t he had promised not to tell, for whatever a promise from the likes of him really meant anything.

“She took one look at me, and fled for the stairs. In tears. Gus. I’ve never known her to act this way. Even after Manuel died, God bless his soul. Camila for her part has been worried sick. And I think for my part I can guess what’s happened, between you two.”

“Can you?” Gus swallows his own words like broken teeth. “Can you, Dad…?” It almost sounds like a dare on his part.

Perry’s brow knits itself into the fine contours of a frown. “Of course I can. You’re moving away soon, so you two picked a petty squabble with one another to make your inevitable parting just a little less painful. But is it really worth , not even saying farewell to someone you know you love desperately?”

Falling leaves bleed into a watercolor wind. Gus’s clammy features wring; at least his father does not call his hollow false witness, but now it might actually take to teeth , take to devouring him from the inside out. “ Dad .” Gus’s heart might actually burst from the strain. “...I messed up.” He buries his face in his hands. “You have no idea how bad . I can’t ever face the Nocedas ever again. I was scared–I am scared, of me–” A lit fuse of a word; his frame is racked with deep sobs. He is too frightened, even to speak, less his words come out with a lavender streak*, and tell all.

To his surprise, Perry tugs a sniffling Gus into a hug. Perry smooths his hair. “Only a real man, would be able to own up to this feeling.”

Gus peers up, red-eyed and streaming. Perry’s eyes lid quietly as they take to the sunset. “....it’s a frightening passage in your lives. You’re both attempting to find your way in this world, and you know as well as I that endeavor can be like treading deep water in the best of seasons.” Briefly, his hand wanders above his pocketbook, where a picture of Patricia Porter can still be found.

“Even the very best of us are trying so desperately , just to live, and to be found . And it’s pe trifying.” Perry tucks Gus’s head beneath his chin. “And the best of intentions are not always enough. Your best hope in a life raft, comes not in becoming new, but in becoming what you always were.”

Gus attempts to look away. Perry squeezes his hand. “Now, not all the relationships you have will follow you life long. That’s the nature, of life and its seasons. People can outgrow one another, and it can be for everyone’s best interest if you only have the courage to set each other free.” Perry manages a wink as Gus wipes his eyes. “What can also be true is that sometimes, just sometimes, you’ll both encounter a connection that helps you be more of yourselves. Something and someone that’s worth growing with.”

For what feels like the first time in days, amidst a treatise of affliction and cruel vicissitudes, a smile tries Gus on. “....yeah.”

Perry smiles, but it doesn’t last long as Gus spasms seconds later over the shape of a cry, chaotic tensors firing off in his roiling skin, enough to rile up his blood. Alarmed , Perry jumps to his feet as Gus wildly gazes up at him like an apparition. “Gus? What's wrong?” Every single blit and blot of punctuation are replaced by question marks.

Gus’s shaking hand finds the lurch of his stomach, even as he wills his shaking voice to find its courage. “Dad. I need to go. Now. I’m so sorry, I know it’s a party in your honor, but–”

“Say no more; I’m sure they’ll understand,” Perry coaxes, face falling in a relieved smile. He manages a wink; Gus experiences an inward eruption of ambrosia blooming beneath the exit wounds. I love you, I love you. “Sister Johnson will doubtlessly send you home a plate of chitlins.”

“Yuck,” Gus gripes a second later as Perry affectionately pecks his brow. “Be back home before dark . Take great care. Set your good mind to use.”

“Promise, Pop,” Gus promises fervently as he races off, waving furiously. Bewildered pestrians

“Oh, boy.” Gus puts a sweat-shiny hand to his head. “Ain’t no mistaking my Someone’s-About-to-Make-My-Best-Friend dead bone.” It’s something of a misnomer, considering his entire skeleton sings a dire warning. Gus furtively rakes his thoughts. “Now, where was that phony antique shop again…?” So deep in thought he is, he fails to notice an approaching silhouette until it’s too late. Gus goes sailing for the concrete with a grunt, winded. “Ouch! Agh, sorry, sorry, quite sorry–” He scoops up a fallen piece of paper. “My fault–”

“I’ll say it is!” Snaps the youth, hopping to his feet with a huff. “And I’ll take that , thank you very much.” He snatches the piece of paper, featuring some kind of portrait, before Gus can take a proper look at it. “Why dontcha watch where the hell you’re going, ya underfed little pipsqueak? These streets ain’t no place for a fairy princess talkin’ like the Queen of Engaldn.”

Gus’s esteem chafes; he blinks away tears and another apology. “Who ya callin’ underfed, you–you tiny weasel impersonator?! For your information: I’ll have ya know I’m on a search and rescue mission !”

At that, the strange boy briefly turns around him to regard him out of the corner of walnut eyes. “Oh, yeah? Well, mine’s more important . And I’d look good and hard in a mirror ‘fore calling anyone puny, pretty boy.”

Gus’s last straw swiftly has him. “I’d suggest the same to ya, but a mirror would probably break the second you looked into it! Yeah, ya better run!” He yelps as the strange boy sticks out his tongue and sprints off. Gus grumbles underneath his breath, rankling. “ Smarmy, self-important, pointy-nosed little troll. Looks like he should be making princesses guess his real name, or he’ll steal their firstborn.”

Brow unweaving, Gus takes off running again. How can one ever be unwritten from each other's gospels when you can’t possibly spell your name without their lettering?

~o*oOo*o~

Wagon wheels squeak and squeal upon cobblestone sidewalks underneath the wagon’s enormous tarp in cover of nightfall. A horseshoe of moon is perched above Dante’s shoulder like a watchful raven. Passerby in the licked slate of the damp streets are becoming fewer and farther in-between as everyone lengthens their stride, hurrying to go home before the real lords of this street come nightcrawling out of every shadowed crevice.

The sound of blood pulsing in his ears is a beat that pushes him on in the solitary cool of darkness. His intermittent breathing keeps fogging the March evening air with frosty tufts as he keeps himself all but folded underneath his hat, doing his best to maintain a surefoot and steady hand so as not to seem suspicious. His cloak wages little effort against the cold. Think. Think of what all you stand to gain. Even if Dante's dreams are oversized, and he undersized.

Instead, Dante ruminates on all that he’s already lost . The thought of his last encounter with Gus makes him come to a halt in the roads, voice catching the thread of all his sorrows. Briefly, he wonders whether or not to lie prostrate on the streets. Overhead, sorrow bruises the horizon into the ache of day, and smears the streets into running streaks of light. It’s all he can keep doing to resume moving in mingling dark shadows that cross and uncross themselves, past buildings with shutters drawn like eyes shut.

A sense of trepidation looms like the acrid smell of smelt emanating from the enormous glassworks, a deserted canyon of steel and glass. Dante passes by the painted emblem of a nearby pale blue looking glass in the yawning gape of an open alley, amidst graffitied declarations of initials. In the remaining stroke of streetlamp, he squints at the address frantically fluttering in his hands like a loosed live wire.

Surrounded by solid walls of poured concrete, the looming gates of territory four’s enormous mirror factory draw near like stormclouds. The factory looks like a cathedral of steel and glass, fiiltered through frosted windows, composed in monotones. “Welp, this is the place.” Dante squints down again at the instructions. “First fire exit to the right will be left ajar….”

He creeps across a granite courtyard that hummed with the memory of work, attempting, in vain, to quiet the wagon’s incessant creak-creak-creaking , but the wheels continue singing like a mocking song. Body humming with leaden anticipation, Dante’s eyes shimmer where phantom worker sweat stained the air humid, leaving behind a sour tang of salt. He’s half-surprised, when the fire escape does open, the squeal of the hinges nearly making him jump. He steps into her stride, attempting not to panic.

In he steps, tugging along the borrowed wagon, the clinking bottles in their crates, to a cavernous, graygone chamber that seems greater than the world outside. Only one solitary light, more stark than everything else, is left on. His footsteps are near deafening echoes in this breathless vault of silence, surrounded by enormous machinery that look the part of sleeping iron-and-steel Titans. Mirrors still dangle ominously from a conveyor belt after conveyor belt of looking glass upon looking glass upon looking glass. Overhead, a set of stairs ascends to what looks like a foreman’s dais to oversee the workers, made up of grated iron.

Brown eyes flitting this way and that, Dante is half tempted to call out, but the prospect of his own echo strikes terror into him. Finding himself alone, he stoops to one knee, pressing his hands together. “Dear Maria: I’m really, really startin’ to think ya can’t even be bothered to pay lip service at this point.” He can’t quite conceal the accusation as tears threaten his practiced-tenor, face wet with disappointment. “But please – let me just save Mami. And keep Gus safe for me, ‘cause I don’t think he’ll let me look after him anymore.” A silvery rush of tears streak down upon his new shoes. “And let Eda know she wasn’t wrong, to bet on me. Amen.”

“Amen,” Answers a cloyingly-sweet voice behind him. Thunderstruck, on the verge of crying out, Dante whips around, eyes dilating. At first, he sees no one at all, but someone changes their Amen to an Ahem . “Down here, if you’d please…?”

Bewildered, Dante looks down. At last, he sees a pale figure rendered so small he might ostensibly stand eye-to-eye level with King. Balding, bespectacled beady eyes glittering, immaculately-dressed in a sweater vest, nose remarkably snoutlike, you’d be forgiven for assuming the figure were perhaps an illustration of a pig from a Mother Goose poem. At last, Dante exhales, bones buckling with the intensity of his relief. “Sorry–ya took me by surprise. I take it you’re Mister Tibbles?” Wishing to be friendly, Dante extends his hand.

“I am, indeed.” Tibbles pleasantly concedes with a stiff nod. He does not take Dante’s proffered hand; Dante sheepishly lowers it. “I must say, I expected the Owl Lady would be present here tonight, young man. Looks like she sent a scrawny owlet in her place.”

Unimpressed, Dante privately thinks the banker’s appetites for wealth did indeed shrink the man. For the sake of the deal, he holds his tongue. “Does it really even matter, as long as I brought the stuff?”

“Young lad, don’t look so apprehensive .” Tibbles cheerfully pooh-poohs with a blustering wave of his hand. “Why, I am an honorable merchant, a man of business, after all. Why, people would gladly give their right arm for the chance to deal with me. ” Dante wonders if the sacrifice would probably involve a more private portion of your anatomy.

“Hold on.” Dante hurriedly raises a hand as Tibbles plucks off the tarp away from the wagon Dante borrowed from the Owl House to tote the crates here. “First, um–” Why was his voice balling up? “Ah–”

But Tibbles snatches a bottle from the boxes, inspecting the contents with a guarded eye. “You’ll forgive me if I sample this before my transaction, young sir. One cannot be too careful nowadays.” He takes a long, greedy gulp; seconds later, he coughs and sputters as if he's been drugged, sloshing his Apple Blood, hacking for dear life, wheezing like a pig. Distressed, Dante helplessly shuffles over to help, at a loss. “Are you–um. Is it that bad?” His face heats in a blush. “Sorry, I’m still–”

“Nope.” Tibbles presses his lips into a grimace of appreciation. “ That's what we in the industry calls good sh*t.” He straightens his suit jacket by the shoulders. “It’s Clawthorne’s recipe, t’o be certain.” He shakes his head slowly as he slowly looks Dante over again, expression unfathomable. He reaches for a nearby suitcase upon the ground. “As agreed.” He presses the valise into Dante’s hands. “Your pay.”

“Ahem.” Sweetly beckons a voice from aloft the overseer’s platform. Her silhouette is blinded by the stark spotlight spilling down overhead in the chill of the glassworks. “Sorry, folks. Looks like we have an unauthorized transaction afoot just now.”

Tibbles’ bottle falls a limpening hand from the ground, where it promptly bursts into pieces. Somewhere, a boiler thumps like an unsteady heart.

Face blanche and slack, Dante whips around upwards towards the source in the metal labyrinth of this place. Pale lights bleach the color of all submerged in its tepid illumination. Like a bird of prey hiding in the rafters, or a princess waving upon a balcony, she steps forward, footsteps echoing.. Tibbles curses as he stumbles back, now drenched with sweat. “Drat–they really don’t waste a single second–” His bowels all but turn to water as his eyes narrow.

Dante shades his eyes. There, overlooking the entirety of the factory, lightly leaping to balance upon the railing, stands a pale young girl, knee-length dress rippled by magenta petticoats. Her brown hair is bound by a magenta jeweled netting, clad in an ebony stomacher and elaborate crisscross blackwork. Gray eyes gleaming with malice at the bony youth down below, she sizes up his lack of device or ornament, save for an ancient rosary around his neck, and titters into a gloved hand. Upon her forearm is a golden vial sigil. Dante might have a mouthful of cinders, mind vacating itself with sheer fear.

Tibbles takes advantage of Dante’s paralysis by shoving him bodily from behind, making Dante stumble to the ground. Tibbles proceeds to snatch the handle of the nearby wagon. “He coerced me into it! I knew nothing! Finish him!”

Panting, Tibbles lifts his hat. “Well, I certainly regret I could say it’s been pleasant making your remarkably-brief acquaintance, child. Pity you and I will not get the opportunity again. As you can see: I must be off.”

And he rushes out the ground floor fire exit, wagon of Apple Blood in tow. A stray bottle falls upon the ground, swaying. Stupefied, knees throbbing, Dante attempts to chase after, butTibbles bolts the door behind him. Dropping the suitcase, Dante pounds wildly on the door, over and over again, bruising his knuckles in the process. “No! NO!”

He whips around. “H-Hiya there.” There might be lead in his shoes for the sheer terror of him. “N-Nice to meet y-you–I’m D-Dante. Dante Fortunato.”

“Hello there, Dante. I’m Boscha.” A mocking, singsong grate to her voice . Her magenta mouth slashes her own face; she does herself injury. “I’ll be sure to carve your name in nice block lettering over your tomb. ” You could almost mistake her for the likes of a massacre. “Ya were clearly dropped when you were a young child, weren’ t ya? Shame your mother couldn’t have done it just a wee bit harder. I’ll be sure to rectify that now.”

A violence dressed and danced, Boscha draws her semi-automatic rifle up at the ready, aiming the barrel directly over Dante. Feral with longing for bloodlust, an inquisitor whom cornered prey with the wrong God on his breath, she opens a sputtering fire of bolting bursts down upon the factory ground floor below.

~o*oOo*o~

Panting, brow soaked in perspiration, Gus increases his pace, clutching at the gnawing stitch in his side as he hurtles past the pharmacies not-so-surreptitiously claimed with golden vial sigils, past the cinemas now emblazoned with leering blue mirrors. A chained guard dog yelps at him from a junkyard fence, yellowing teeth snapping. Gus continues propelling himself forward in the misting veil of gloom, threads pulling themselves into taut snarls in his chest. It’s a smog of sewage and factory smoke; the evening wafts like damp kindling in deep snow as he races down an alley, screeching to a halt upon hearing voices. Not coven scouts!

“–well, which factory is it, even, King?!” A pale, gangly woman with long, straggly white hair growls, hands flinging out in exasperation. Alarmed, Gus peeks out from behind a nearby coal bin, drawing a sharp breath between his teeth. “We’re runnin’ out of time.”

“I dunno!” Yelps her compatriot, a wary-looking, Grecian youth with what appeared to be the trickling scar of a hairline fracture. King’s so short, he scarcely seems knee-length compared to his companion. He has to mop his drenched brow. “Luz musta taken Tibbles’ letter with the details. I only remember–something, something, glass? Agh, you just know there has to be some kind of trap involved. Told ya we should’ve brought Hooty with us.”

“Told ya it’s too dangerous if Hooty loses control and suffers another episode.” Eda whirs on her heel as Gus startles backwards on sheer reflex, hand plunging into her belt satchel. Hissing, King’s hands curl themselves into ready-to-rake laws. “Who’s there?!”

Gus stumbles back upon an alley brick wall as they advance. “Wait!” His cries echoes like that of a frightened player’s upon an empty stage. “I’m not here to fight, please –I’m just looking for… .o h …” Gus fal ters as he squints, a profile delineating into a familiar outline. “...you’re…the Owl Lady , aren’t ya?”

“And just whom the hell wants to know?” Eda barks, her hand at least gravitating away from her belt. Face glistening with sweat, Gus allows himself to breathe slightly.

“Hey look!” King appears to be flipping through blank pages in the tome of memory. “It’s the same meaniecaboodle who messed Dante up real good.” He casually cracks his tiny knuckles, cutting Gus with his eyes. “I’d make myself scarce if I were ya, kid.”

Helpless in the hollow, Gus lowers his eyes, having no faith in his own language. “....I know.” He meekly manages at last. “I didn’t react well, I didn’t mean to hurt nobody, I–” He wildly looks around. “She..ah…. he’s …not with you, t hen? I just–I just wanted to talk–”

“Hurry along home, kid.” Eda’s voice softens to a grudging respite as she turns away. “Unless ya got some deets on where he is, and I’ll clearly say ya by the looks of things ya don’t, so make yourself scarce. I ain’t about to go explainin’ to your Mama why her kid got turned inside out by the foot soldiers patrolling coven-territory. C’mon, King.”

Gus’s face falls. A gutting, a taxidermy of fear. “Bu–”

But Eda is already strolling off, King hesitantly sidling over to her. “Where the hell is he? Don’t he realize this is damn suicide, comin’ out here by himself?”

Eda winces as Gus makes a s trangled noise, a soft, animal noise, touched with soft, animal terror. He places his hands over his mouth, cringing an apology. Seconds later, the sound of gunfire popping like Juneteenth fireworks in the distance starts everyone.

Eyes swollen with ready-to-shed tears, Gus gapes at the rise of a thin plume of cautious smoke rising in the near-distance. From the crevices of loosening masonry sound off the turgid throats of engines. “....it’s too late and too early for anyone to be workin’ yet. Dante isn’t in the glassworks, is he?!” Gus grits his teeth as the sound of automated gunfire bursts, sending roosting nearby pigeons scattering up in panicking droves of white father fall. Gus lifts his head.

“Welp, that answers that. Simple rules of reasoning: We follow the source of chaos, and Luz will be there.” Gus almost hazards a fond smile kissing the edges of sheer hysteria. “Sorry, I gotta go. He’s a stupid best friend, but he’s my stupid best friend!”

And Gus bolts off. Eda is apoplectic. “Kid, get back here, it ain’t safe!” Eda squawks in unmitigated horror, waving her fis t . “This ain’t no playground! This is a battleground , ya hear me?!”

But Gus pays no mind, the little shape of him already threatening to be swallowed in the distance. Eda curses a bluish-bruise streak. “Damn, he’s fast! Looks like he and Dante have the same caliber of listenin’ skills anyway.”

“Whoa! How noble.” King scrambles up Eda’s back. “Can we please, please, please pickpocket him after his imminent doom?”

~o*oOo*o~

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bPyUjuv4em4

~o*oOo*o~

Dante’s pupils are pooling voids. Mental curtains of sheer dread plunge like a guillotine, almost swallowing Dante into the night's mouth entire, an erasure of himself. Only sheer reflex saves him from being immediately struck down as he tears like a frightened hare from a frothing-chops wolf, across the graying assembling workfloor.

Streaks of bullets like white light lazily sail after him in a percussion of pops, bullets glancing off the floor, off railings, off equipment. Dante helplessly flings himself upon his knees to skid across the rattling tin of the filthy floor, scraping his knees upon the uneven terrain as he skids across to an enormous cold furnace, scrambling to take brief cover. The bursts of gunfire continue all around, piercing a conveyor belt, sending bursts of shrapnel falling in a riot of metal teeth.

Boscha’s eyes hood languidly with near-maniacal joy. The distinction between holy and heresy is always a question of fire; the distinction between saint and heathen is simply whom burns for it.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Boscha sings, lazily drawing up her automatic. The clanging echoes of steel against steel briefly subside, ears still ringing as if she stands within the whirring cogs of a clocktower instead. The reptilian bulge and roll of her eyes sharpen themselves in rapt anticipation of devil’s due. Her smile draws back to her ears from the overseer’s mantle as her own voice faintly echoes back from the steep cavernous walls, the acapella of an echo.

From behind the shape of a rumbling boiler, Dante clutches the shape of his thrashing heart, fevering as it ricochets against his ribs, straining to crack once more. Sweat running down his brow brings his eyes to a squint, where he is submerged in the wordless-windlessness of himself. With all the patient rot of winter, he wordlessly knows he is going to die here . The sound Dante does not hear could lift the gulls off the water. He drives the first syllable of Mami's name into wails. Get it over with. He should really just let her get it over with.

And yet.

Blood crescendoing a song of adrenaline in his ears, Dante rolls out as Boscha pauses to reload, plucking out his slingshot–a slingshot, a stupid slingshot , he might as well have brought a peashooter before a firing squad for all the good it’ll do him now. There is no stripping the altar of this sacrifice , and yet, he won’t meekly lay his head upon the quartering block. For however much this biology, and all its painful topographies, are the most oppressive inheritance one could ask for in this life, he will fight, so long as he keeps drawing air.

It is not a fight he can hope to win; it is, nonetheless, the fight that insists upon itself.

Chest heaving, colored in sweat and momentum, Dante sends a counterassault of pocketed stones launching for the bend of Boscha's knees, briefly staggering her in the leaning edge of a counterattack. Grimacing, sniffing, Boscha’s response is to simply open fire once more, but Dante is already up and running past the countless crisscross of motionless belts of mirrors for cover. Boscha puckers her lower lip in a pout, soon wiped away with a narrow smirk. She resumes shooting again, only to miss, a mirror explodes into silvery dust upon impact. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall–you’re only delaying, your own inevitable fall!

“Just figures ya’d show up with a slingshot to a gunfight!” Boscha brays, and Dante rolls his tiny frame beneath the dark behemoth of sleeping machinery. “Come out, come out, wherever you are! Oh, but this is like shooting fish in a barrel. I’d expect more difficulties out of target practice. I promise I’ll make your death quick and painless if ya lick my boots clean first.” Boscha makes a face. “Actually–ew–never mind. Who knows what kind of venerable diseases demons like you have?”

The echoing sound of a quickening footstep; Boscha whips her head up in triumph. “Caught ya! Your main course today is a healthy dosage of lead .” Her machine gun sings a dreadful hymn of sound and fury as a blinding light pops off in the gloom. “Hahahahahahahahahaha!”

Bullet fire bursts, and an ancient overcoat, now-so utterly decimated as to be the mere afterthought of one, goes tumbling upon the ground floor, strewn with the confetti aftermath of destroyed fabric. Boscha balks in bewilderment as her head whips warily around. “What the–”

“Now you see me, now you don’t.”

Boscha stiffens as a little dark hand grasps one of the hilts of a mounted power switchboard, thrumming the cords in an electric whir and whine. A heaving conveyor belt begins once more to unfurl itself, click-clacking, click-clacking. Countless looking glasses go sailing around and around the factory premises, as if a house of mirrors has adopted the rotating circulations of a merry-go-round. It’s elliptical dancing, glass after glass reflecting one another–that appears to go on for eternity. Wincing as the beaming pale of the factory lights catch upon the glass, Boscha growls as she shields her eyes from the torrent.

A dark silhouette ghosts a nearby looking glass swaying upon the assembly belt of countless fellows. Nose wrinkling as her expression spoils, Boscha has no pithy comment at the ready as her automatic rises to shoot. She only splits open the glass as the figure darts away, becoming not one nor two, but dozens of identical shadows through the bottom row of spinning mirrors waiting to be plucked off and packed by phantom workers. The mirrors, they around and around and around. And in all the mirrors, a silhouette twirls, unharmed. Feeling the cold iron of the foreman’s perch ghosting a sudden chill down her back, Boscha grits her bared teeth. A cute little optical illusion, and nothing more .

“Now ya see me, now ya don’t.”

“Very amusing!” She fires at one mirror, but the silhouette remains upright in all the others, a pair of hands finding a pair of ears as they stick out their tongue at her. Snarling, Boscha wildly shoots at every single mirror in an orchestral of exploding mirroid glass, howling. “Where are you, where are you, where are you?! Your voice–”

Gnashing her teeth, Boscha hails down what appears to be a ragnarok frenzy of bullets into the next mirror, spiderwebbing, shattering like a ruined ice sculpture, raining down exploded and ruptured pieces of splintering light. “That’s seven years bad look for ya! Make that fourteen…twenty-one. Wow! Looks like your math is about as good as yer aim!”

Drenched in a cold sweat, still crumpled beside the dormant machine, Dante quickly parses the sound in growing disbelief where he still lies in a heap upon his stomach . It can’t be. Disbelief journeys along the raw voltage of his spine.

“Lu–” Gus gives his head a shake as he cups his mouth with all the tender gravity of kindness. “Dante?” His foot soles aware of abyss and chasm, of the sheer vastness groping out underneath you, he calls out again: “Dante!”

“Welly-well, well!” Boscha reloads her gun, a coil of rage unspooling in her belly as she searches blindly for flesh. “I say, who needs to see ya to shoot ya, loud mouth?!”

“For my next trick,” Gus’s heart threatens to dislocate itself as he calls up to the dais. Run. Get out of here . Ain’t no life, without you anyway. “I’m getting my best friend out of here.”

Dante's ribs squeeze from underneath the roiling clicking of the chaos. Suddenly breathing escapes easy as laughter, tears zigzagging down his face. He could almost laugh at the edge of weeping. Gus, dear Gus, had come back for him . Gus, whom had never pressed assurances like their neighbors that Luz would be pretty one day, once her features settled, that was, Gus whom feared his own shadow, warier of change and probably even warier of Dante, was now facing off with a coven scout head-on.

Not entirely certain he can survive his own life, Gus bolts behind mirror after mirror–years of evading bullies made his feet quicknimble and frantic as he hurries to duck over yet another approaching frame. Scoured eyes narrowing to scalded slits, Boscha stops to reload, mastered by her own dark matter. Dante’s newfound elation is quickly torn open by sheer dread–not even Gus can hope to keep dodging Boscha forever.

Suddenly Dante spots a fallen bottle of Apple Blood on the ground, cap still on. Slowly, as if indeed he meant to all along, he rolls out to uncork the bubbling amber. The lid slices away from the bottle with a yeasty hiss.

Apple Blood trickles down the neck bottle as Dante stuffs the bottle with one end of his handkerchief. He fumbles next in his pocket for a box of matches. Yes. Yes. He can’t strike it to a living flame soon enough; his hands are shaking so badly he nearly drops the match. “Gus! Incoming! Ya go tta get out of the way!”

Gus dances back to avoid incoming fire making a beeline for his throat. “Go ahead and call me crazy, but I think it’s been dangerous! I can’t let up now, or she’ll kill us both! Get outta here!”

“As if! Ya have to get back, ‘fore it’s too late! Just trust me on this!” Luz’s voice punctures itself upon a cry. “Please!”

Gulping, Gus hurls across the assembly line floor, briefly vanishing from the line of mirrors. Eyes shining for the kill, Boscha stops to reload. Dante lights one end of the bottled handkerchief, which soon greedily drinks up the match flame. Gus dashes behind Dante, his eyes huge with apprehension as they lock in on the makeshift projectile.

Luz rounds on the overseer platform, glistening brow knit fiercely as she grips the bottleneck. Perhaps Luz Noceda wasn’t someone whom was born so much as she was burst into flame. Her eyes are traveling from tinder to fire. “Well, if ya coven snobs wanna have a drink of ours so badly, why don’t ya try an Apple Blood flambée , on the house?!”

Iron and fire fills her mouth as she hurls the projectile through the air in a fluid strike of motion. The Apple Blood bottle flows upwards up in snarling, smoldering flames as Boscha whips around, spittle flecking the corners of her mouth, pupils dilating with a zeroing-in flames–

BANG.

~o*oOo*o~

Gus and Dante both hit the cold cement of the factory floor as the bottle bursts open upon the overseer railing, like a celebratory crushed bottle of champagne upon a luxury vessel’s maiden voyage. Countless nearby looking glasses wind up shattering from impact in their beautiful frames, a guttural melody of unbecoming . Fragments refracted in crystalline pieces soon catch the fiery light in midair, briefly rendered luminous and radiant, like suncaught-snowflakes sweetly adrift, free-falling in ash-choked air, rippling with the sear of rising flames from the upper platform.

A million glowing particles coalesce upon a collapsing timescale. Electricity dances with demented rhythm from sputtering severed coils of severed wires, that thrash upon the floor like headless electric eels.

Ears ringing, tasting and smelling the tang of rust, of smoldering flames rising upon the upper platform, Gus peeps up from shaking hands to marvel at the backfired apocalypse raging on above. “W-What was even in that bottle, nitroglycerin?!” He chokes, rubbing at watering eyes in a winded upheaval, shaking madly.

“Apple Blood!” Dante sings merrilly, panting, splayed on the ground beside him. Shock makes elated mayhem of his skin as he shakily sits up. He wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if his hair now stands on end. “ With an alcoholic content so high it makes vanilla extract look like chewing gum . Eda’s special homemade recipe.” He manages the shadow of a wink as Gus swivels to gape at him. “ I guess ya could call that a Luz-and-Gus co*cktail? An Apple… Bomb?”

Gus sniffs as Dante helps him to his feet, their glistening hands slip-sliding in one another’s. “Ya should really take up writin’ advertisem*nts. Remind me to stick to nice egg cream sodas. The non -explodey kind.”

“I’ll buy ya three just as soon as we get out of here,” Dante promises fervently, before his voice unhinges. “Oh, Gus.” Seconds later, he yanks Gus forward into an embrace, his features quickly collapsing in on themselves. “Gus, Gus, Gus. I’m so sorry, so sorry, so sorry.”

“....Dante?” Gus asks hesitantly. For a brief moment, there’s simply too much of themselves to bear, as Dante bursts into a heaving frenzy of tears. With all the tender gravity of kindness, Gus at last crinkles a real smile. “If ya really wanna make it up to me, you’ll stop taking my lines.” His sleeved hands, now gray with cindered ash, rise up to steady Dante as his legs tremor violently on themselves. “If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”

Gus’s face wrings itself, cold snatching at his spine. “I’ll be the first to admit I don’t have a clue what’s going on, or what you’re going through.” Gus’s eyes briefly go adrift, as if shying away from telling on themselves. “....maybe that’s not entirely true, and that scares the hell out of me.” His eyes are timid, but they hold to Dante’s. “Maybe we can, figure it out together. How to live. How to live?”

Breathless and stellar, wrought with sobs, Luz buries her crumbling face in Gus’s shoulder. For so long, the desperate of her silhouette has been another name for pyre ; she’s been a wicker girl, somehow attempting not to burn. Now, her insides are transcending radiance, and perhaps she is burning, but so is Gus , in this place of raging perdition. Somehow, even this is a comfort. Luz remembers Manuel Noceda’s conviction that his child was born for the stars, and not the mere dust of them left behind.

“Maybe we are soulmates,” She manages at last, hiccuping, drawing back to wipe eyes now red with tears and smolder. Maybe there wasn’t ever not a bridge from Gus’s chest cavity to hers. “Like Robin Hood and Little John.”

“We-eell, I think the metaphor works , but I also think soulmates are stupid.” Gus drawls playfully as Luz blanches in surprise. Because I knit the threads of fate until they spelled your name . “ I care abou t you on purpose." ​​

The two startle apart at a cry resounding like a wound. Gus huffs. “Excuse you– we’re having a beautiful moment here !” He crosses his arms. “ Rude .”

Boscha screams from overhead; the ghastly sound speaks itself into a funeral keen, eliciting a cold slice of dread at Gus and Dante’s necks. Clutching her left leg, now impaled with glass pieces dark with blood, Boscha writhes where she has fallen, in an ember topography of burning, like a beetle unable to right itself again. Dante’s hands fall over his mouth. “She’s hurt.”

“And good riddance , too!” Gus cries, at his wits’ end. “Don’t think I didn’t see that sigil on her arm! That maniac was tryin’ to off the two of–really, now?” His voice belts the telltale chord of hysteria as Dante races up the wildly shaking metal stairwell, ringing footfalls. “ Really?!” Gus sends up a skyward hurl of a plea.

“I’ll be just a sec!” Dante cries over his shoulder. in a crumbling concrete partition. “I can’t just leave her here!”

Gus scoffs. “Sir: This is America. Ain’t anything s’posed to be possible?”

Dante tosses Boscha over his shoulder; she wails and thrashes; it’s all he can do not to drop her as she rages like a wounded animal. “Put me down, ya stupid brute!” Boscha howls, wildly kicking back and forth. “Put me down! I don’t need your help. I can get out of here myself!”

“Oh, well, if ya gotta twist our legs ,” Gus snaps, kiln-fired demeanor cooling somewhat as Dante flinches in apology, hastening down the stairs again. “She can’t even run like this! I can’t just stand around, and do nothing,”

“‘Course ya can.” Dear Gus says stoutly, with a look of insurmountable relief that is chased by welcome recognition. Face warming with shame–although the flames rapidly submerging the place might have something to do with it–he hesitantly gives Dante a once, then twice-over in their new clothes. There still, despite everything, is the sight of his best friend, where they always were. “ Ya always have a choice to back down. In fact, it’s what everyone prefers outta ya.” Playfully, he elbows Dante in the ribs, and Dante can feel them swelling upon impact, threatening to break where they fold over the surge of his gratitude. “Ya just never do, is all .”

Dante wanders over to Tibbles’ fallen suitcase where it lies gleaming on the floor. His brown eyes are lost to reverie, reflecting the firelight. “....thanks, pal. maybe I am officially involved now in the bootleggin’ biz, but I’m no crook. And I’m not gonna take Boscha’s advice for how I go about my business.” Dante bows his head, and Gus at a loss takes his shoulder. “...there’s…there’s gonna be consequences, for all this.” Dante stoops to shakily scoop up the suitcase upon the floor, handle hot to the touch. “I just sealed my first bootleg deal here. I’ve…as good as kicked the hornet’s nest.”

Gus scratches his head. “Um, congratulations? I feel America really ought to have greeting cards for your first-ever drug deal. But so what if there are repercussions, and lots of them?” He gestures cheerfully at the burning factory all around them with his free hand. “Has that ever stopped ya from bein’ the noble idiot I know and love?”

Love. Dante could sing, even as the countless broken mirror shards reflect the ruptured factory, defusing all around the pieces of them with the gloom of reflected light, smoke and mirrors. “I love you, too.”

“Ewww,” Boscha gripes from Dante’s back, making a revolted yakking noise, like a cat with a bone stuck in its throat. “ Get a room, you two!”

Seconds later, the two startle back as an ax goes sailing through a nearby window, sending even more shards falling in a glass waterfall. Eda Clawthorne grins as she clamors in from the second floor, King at her heels, knife in hand. With a cry of sheer joy, Luz jumps up and down, waving and beaming; Gus gulps. “It just figures you and the axe-wielding maniac would be besties.”

“Kid.” A whetstone doggedly sharpens the steel of Eda’s voice into a vice , particularly as she lifts pale eyes to a sullen Boscha still flung over Luz’s shoulder. Those eyes drill into the Potion bottle sigil still bared on Boscha’s singed arm like teeth. “I’d ask what the hell what ya were actually thinkin’, ‘specially when murder is only a net positive for the likes of the Ten, but that’s clearly moot, seein’ as ya clearly weren’t thinkin’ at–”

With the rising chorus of a cheer in his chest, Dante eagerly flings himself into her arms. Boscha closes her eyes, as if sickened. “Eda, lookit! We did it! We really did it!” Dante breathlessly thrusts the suitcase of cash in a confounded Eda’s hands. “Our first sale, in coven-occupied territory!” His teeth are chattering; his voice an octave sharper. “Granted, I’m sure this place is gonna burn down soon , and we got shot at, a whole lot, and–and–”

“Welp, I’m gonna take off some points for the signal flare ,” Eda dryly points out, sharp as white pine needles as Dante blushes. A sly vivaciousness takes hold of Eda’s eyes. “But I say ya win some back, and then some more, for style.”

“Yeah, well, I came to save ya and helped break down the window , but no one’s talkin’ about that,” King points out with a huff, tapping his little foot expectantly. “Need I point out?”

Gus coughs into his fist, unimpressed. “No, you needn’t, but that don’t seem to be stopping you any.”

Luz stoops, pressing a placating kiss on King’s cheek just as King rounds on Gus. Face molten, King nearly topples over in surprise as Luz beams. “Ya did great, too, pal. Ya really saved us all!”

King preens. “Yes, well, someone clearly has to.”

A ghost of a smile flickers upon Eda's face. After a cursory peek in the suitcase, she closes the valise with a neat snap, stooping slightly on one knee to meet Dante at eye-level. “Two things can be true: Ya cleaned up real nice by still havin’ all four limbs attached. And also I need to warn ya to never, ever do anything of the like ever again. Not without some muscle to back ya up. Ya hear?”

Dante rosily salutes, heart springing open like a child's music box. Slowly, Eda turns to Gus. “...thank ya, for goin’ in after–”

Seconds later, Eda’s eyes are watering as a gust of wind from the now-shattered window stokes the flames. King sputters, swiping at his eyes, assaulted by a haze of smoke, a belch of smolder with hushed hisses. Gus flings an arm over his face, whimpering at the assault on his senses.

For his part, Dante smiles and smiles, and in truth, cannot stop smiling–briefly, a radiance suffuses even the sea fog that had permeated him for so many wretched days, like the restoral of a lighthouse beam.

“Let’s get outta here, before the fire trucks show up,” Eda calls out, making a beeline for the ruptured windows. No one has to be told twice as they begin scrambling out to start scaling the emergency fire escape. The coolness of the night air is a shivering benediction upon Dante’s sweat-drenched skin–with all the sweet gaiety of an open window.

“Boy, I sure hope this place has fire insurance …” Gus gingerly steps out of the crunchy, powdery, ruined glass to avoid cutting himself on pieces that tinkletwinkle firelight from inside, and moonlight out. “I feel guilty.”

“See that sigil? Whole place is coven-owned and operated.” Eda’s heart's grown brutal from the fire as she jerks a thumb at the sigil upon the side of the building. “Does that little tidbit do anythin’ to appease thy conscience?”

“By jove,” Gus cries, eyes glimmering as Eda holds a hand to help him scale down the ricket-rattle ladder. “It really does!”

“Um, whaddaya do with her ?” Dante asks nervously as he descends the fire escape. Boscha has gone curiously silent and still where she’s still flung over his back–Dante wouldn’t be surprised if she’d passed out from shock, smoke inhalation, or both. Despite himself, he attempts not to jostle her too much as he lights down upon the cracked cement, beneath several hard white sheets of moonlight from clotheslines overhead.

King eagerly raises a hand from where he’s curled up like a koala on Eda’s shoulders, as if they’ve just passed a candy store. Eda grouses a sigh. “No, King, we ain’t gonna eat her, and we ain’t gonna let Hooty have a tea party with her.” Begrudgingly, King lowers his hand.

“I’d for one just set her down somewhere nearby where the fire department can take care of her.” Gus offers, innocently lifting the lid of a nearby dumpster. “Maybe somewhere in here?”

Eda shakes her head. “Of course ya can’t. No need to pollute a perfectly good dumpster’s pickings with a coven scout. What did the local rats and hobos ever do to you?”

“Ow!” Dante cries, eyes watering as Boscha elbows him in the ribs. Briefly winded, Boscha wastes no time hooking her magenta-painted claws against his arm in a raking slash; a tottering Dante drops her. Eda’s hand coils around the ax handle on sheer reflex as Gus hastens to Dante’s side, grabbing his arm and scowling heartily at Boscha, whom is now tottering upon bleeding legs. It’s a slow ballet, a glass shard makes beneath skin; she might be a beheaded ballerina from inside a broken music box, dancing to tink-tinkering upon bleeding soles.

“This isn’t over.” Boscha’s cracked lips pantomime a ghastly smile under gritty ashen teartracks of spoilt mascara . “I’m going to tell la familia everything. My master. Just what you’ve done.”

“Something tells me you’ll conveniently omit the part where the kid saved your life,” Eda drawls without a lick of humor. "I'd tell ya to tell Lord Vitimir to go f*ck himself, but I'd hate to put his mother out of a job."

In the maniacal bulge of Boscha's glassy eyes, the mounting flames of burning glass fervently dance, as smoke erupts from fiery tongues, lapping at cindered horizon. “And they will hunt,” Swaying, Boscha crosses herself. “Down everyone and everything you love.” Her language is chiseled out of frost as she points a spasming finger, heat blisters scattered upon her skin, at him. “ All you hold dearly in this lifetime, will burn, Fortunato.”

King hisses. Gus’s face is set. Eda’s face is a mask as the fiery air caresses her hair. Eyes struck with firelight, Dante’s stomach abruptly plunges to ice ; he had known the prophet’s prediction, even upon saving Bosha, and it still spirals him down the silent devastation of a Pompeian aftermath. Boscha turns, and staggers off into the billowing dark curtain of sulfur-choked smoke, soon disappearing from view in a matter of seconds.

Teeth grit, army of fire ants now colonizing the inside of his skull, Gus dashes forward to give chase, but Eda grasps him by the shoulder to stay him, shaking her head. “Ain’t no use. We ain’t catchin’ her amidst all these mess. ​Make good of your bones, already.” She jerks her head to the emergency vehicles now spilling up the street; from amidst the numbness, Luz can now hear dogs barking, the clamor of people stirring from nearby shacks. “Unless you kiddies would care to explain yourselves to the fuzz?”

Stomachs lurching, Gus and Dante swivel silently in each other’s direction. Gus seeks Dante’s gaze with eyes aching from more than just smoke. “Hard pass.” Slowly, he reaches for Dante’s hand. “Dante?” He asks softly–and what more can you possibly do , when someone is your North, and you are the quivering needle on a compass? “Let’s go.” Gus’s beautiful dark features are soon taken to tears. “Ya lead. I’ll follow.”

“Let’s go-go, before the po-po show-show, ya goddamned do-dos,” King complains testily, cupping his little hands over his mouth for good measure.

Despite Boscha’s threat of a sentence, and all that surely will come with it, Luz’s beating heart feels like a Knight's steed underneath her as she and Gus take after Eda down past the dipping alcoves of shops. Soon a light rain is pattering; making everything underneath it fresh and new. ​​Far from the clouds lowering a ceiling on a rightful sky, Dante feels exhilarated, even as his we t clo thes soon plaster against his skin. He is a witness at a religious ceremony, where the entire point is beholding, something sacred like something sought. He had fought, and won, to protect the Dante of him, and the Luz of her.

Insides burnished with illumination, the way light devours seawater, trembling on the edge of being, throat in treble octaves, elated heart barefooting cartwheels, Dante cannot speak as Gus briefly turns around in the rain to smile at him. Even when Dante’s body held the shape of an imposter Luz forgot on purpose to love, Gus still reached for their best friend’s hand.

To that end, Dante’s hand merely squeezes back as they furtively take flight, the twilight hidden behind an alibi of sepia ink in their wake.

~o*oOo*o~

The following evening, when all the colors come out, every single taper wick in the Underground has been lit to a collective constellation of warm twinkling. Every brassy lamp is switched on–the little chandelier sparkles overhead, chasing all the shadows to the skirting chill outside. Strumming fingertips callus themselves on bass strings. Owl House is now filled with the rhythmic hums of occupancy, a brimming cup, held to your lips.

All the evening’s patrons’ eyes glow in the light of levity, countless glasses held aloft. Dante’s eyes are moist. Then again, this is perhaps attributable to the fact that the scent of spirits is so positively eye-watering, one might feasibly get drunk off the air alone. Mantles of foam form in the lips of glasses as they rise higher in a toast.

At the bar counter, Eda raises her own glass, pleased as a crow with a nest newly-filled with salvaged shiny bric-a-brac. “Three cheers to our newest patrons.” She lifts up Dante and Gus’s arms like triumphant bullfighters exiting the arena. “Next round’s on the house.” Her smile is soon chased by a look of warning as everyone cheers. “Take my advice and don’t get used to it. Don’t grift a grifter, folks.”

The underground cavern erupts into applause as Eda fiddles with the briefcase behind the bar. “Here.” Most unceremoniously, she plucks out several of the thick cash wads, held fast together with rubber bands. “As ya and I agreed, kiddo.” Her moments sway both with drink and joie de vivre. “Here’s your cut.”

“Wow.” A wide-eyed Gus whistles beside Dante upon his bar stool beside him, unable to conceal his awe. He’d begged off a glass of Apple Blood in favor of an egg cream, claiming it smelled like industrial cleaner. “I can’t pretend that isn’t the most money I’ve ever seen at one time.” He blanches seconds later as Dante promptly places a wad of bank notes in his hands. “Oh–” Gus’s face rises in a frantic blush. “I can’t.” Weakly, he attempts to push the cash back into Dante’s hands. “....I know you said ya were in this, for your Mami.”

“I was always in this for ya too.” Dante urges, eyes soft and warm, and Gus’s lip briefly wavers. “I want ya to have a future, outside the tenements. Hell, I want ya to have a present . I just want ya to be happy.”

“...thanks.” At last, Gus pockets the money, swiping smarting eyes with his sleeve. The two watch a drag show in progress upon the glitterglam of the makeshift stage. Gus leans forward, his eyes catching the sequined sparkle of the spectacle. “It’d be nice, for my Dad to have something to retire on. His pension is a complete joke, if it only had a punchline .” Gus leans forward.. “Ya know, I have to say, those boas are really en pointe.” His voice is shy and soft with his own admission.

“Aren’t they, though?” Dante’s voice lives on the honey of hope as he kicks his dangling feet from his stool, turning on Gus a little vindicated smile. Gus smiles back, but it soon becomes tinged-tentative by his eyes. “Yeah. that lady…um, fellah…? Can really walk, though I’d personally trade out those stilettos with slippers, ‘cause those boots were not made for walking.”

Dante laughs boisterously on his soda, words pushing ahead of each in line, only to fall off the cliffsides.

“You’re really not gonna tell…. ? ” Gus asks softly, just audible over the thrumming pulse of a musician gleefully plucking their chords. “Ever?”

Hurriedly, Dante downs his egg cream, leaving a milky mustache. “No. ” Gus does not elaborate, nor does he need to, even as his face maims itself with sorrow seconds later.

“Never.” Dante orders another egg cream from behind the bar. “I broke down and told ya because I knew in my heart that you’re more open-minded then she is.”

“Am I though?” Gus lowers his glass. “I couldn’t even hear ya out before. Some friend I–”

“You’re here , aren’t you?” Dante counters fiercely, grabbing Gus by the shoulders. “That’s all that matters. Life has broken Mami’s heart more than enough. I won’ t be responsible for stepping on the pieces. Ya ain’ t exactly a Catholic from the old country, set in her ways. You’ll change your mind; Mami never will.”

Gus’s eyes are icy bluestone peaks as he forlornly muses it over. “.....I wish I could tell you not to worry, that everything would be fine, even if she knew. And,” His hand finds Dante’s back as Dante’s face screws up. “I can’t really do that.” He bi tes his mouth hard. “Ya know how Miss Camila is.

“All I can do,” He raises his own egg cream. “Is promise,” Gus turns to applaud Darius’s stroll upon the stage. “Even if every other light gets snuffed out, and you’re at the end of your rope.”

The words at the end of your rope conjure no good in his mind, he uneasily scrambles past them. “I’ll still be there, even at the end of the world.”

Shivering becomes a necessity as Dante’s throat aches with something the polar opposite of

ruinruptured, and yet feels something akin to it in nature. Gus smiles, skimming the sheer surface of light.

Briefly, Eda looks up at the two of them roosting in each other's joy. Her smile is genuine; it also genuinely takes itself to injury. Briefly, a buckling threatens to fold her spine as she preoccupies herself with shining a glass behind the bar. Eda’s in the liquor business, not in the business of taxing your life with forethought of grief.

Gus frowns as he glances at a nearby notepad. “Hey, hang on just a sec.” He scoops it up. “These figures here are totally off.”

“Whaddaya mean?” King puffs out his tiny chest behind the bar; his heart jumps and sputters. “I’ll have you know I personally ran those figures myself, new kid.”

Gus crosses his legs. “Which might explain why your notes of twenty dollars plus six dollars apparently equal a picture of a giant You with horns, storming through Tokyo.” Gus turns around the notepad, revealing a child’s drawing of an enormous monster breathing fire amidst several skyscrapers. “King!” Eda scolds.

King bristles. “I’ll have you know that is not a picture of the King of Demons stampeding through Tokyo! I’m affronted, sir, at the very idea. It’s very-obviously New York!” King’s eyes are radiant as he point out several key features. “See? That’s the Chrysler Building he’s eating. Oh, I drew Luz over there, waving from a roof…and that’s Hooty, over in the harbor, getting eaten by sharks!”

“Aw, this is so creative!” Luz coos, hands on her cheekbones as King basks. “I love it.”

“Yes, well, ya realize creative isn’t always going to help you when you’re counting profits. Underground or not, this is still a business here,” Gus can’t help but point out, not noticing King positively wilting at him. Gus takes up notepad again, pencil scribbling furiously as it flies across the page. “And bein’ aware of your numbers, the pa tterns behind them, will give ya a better idea of how to reap a bigger ne t worth . For example, mos t people around these parts get paid on Thursdays by Ford. So, if ya do drink specials on Thursday nights, people are more likely to buy more, and increase your profits.”

“Whoa, kid.” Eda can’t hide being quite impressed as she looks over Gus’s calculations. “Ya got a good head for numbers.”

“Gus was the best in our class!” Luz gushes eagerly, flinging an arm around her shoulder. Gus smiles lopsidedly as King rolls his eyes. Seconds later, Gus’s smile fades slightly into a more pensive-rendering. “....Eda? Any chance….I could talk with ya in private real fast?”

~o*oOo*o~

With the skittish lightfootedness of a loon water-walking, Gus softly scrapes his rust-heavy key through the rattling grind of lock that threatens, as always, to bite off the key’s head, and break the key in twain. Nonetheless, the hinges squeak their rebuke as he unlocks the door, and emerges in the tenement quarters that will always smell of oil and cooking, the sulfuric odor of the nextdoor neighbors’ boiled cabbage. Gus hesitates, his hand tensing, lingering over the too-loose doorknob, a tooth that aches to come out, and doesn’t.

Briefly, his eyes are curiously overbright with muted nostalgia in the orange glow of the solitary tiny lamp sitting on an old crate repurposed into a side table. Unexpected visitors could be a terrifying prospect for any tenement resident, lest it be the emergence of the landlord only slightly-less dreaded than the prospect of one the Holy Ten. So, six-year-old Luz cleverly developed a special knock-knock-knock-knock –pause– knock-knock , that let the Porters know she had once again come to ask Gus to play. Sometimes, Gus liked to lean against the trembling door and initially remain quite still, just to listen to Luz knock again, calling his name for good measure: Gus, I know yer in there . “Dad? I’m home.”

His father waves him in, still bent over a trunk that Perry once explained had been a farewell gift from Gus’s gogo . The trunk sits at the foot of a lumpy mattress upon a skeletal frame that still wails like a bereft widower whenever you shifted your weight upon it. Perry’s little briefcase sits in its usual corner in a space more corners than room. Yellowing article clippings of famous magicians still hang from Gus’s side like shedding scales.

On the whole, the portrait of their lives appear smaller than they are, in the omnipresent thick of cling-clouding, grime-glooming walls, so close to one another they practically dare the other to kiss. The bed alone is nearly wide enough to touch both walls, beside the washing bowl, a three-legged table, the tinny cookstove with one functioning burner, a little homemade hatstand, the one photograph of the Porters together. Patricia’s beautiful face, unravaged by disease, looms in and out of monochrome. Gus’s hands briefly fall over the unsteady of his stomach as he breathes in, out. “....can we uh, talk, please, Dad?”

“Of course.” Perry readily turns from his packing–Gus doubts it will take long; they scarcely have enough to fill even two or three trunks. For the first time in what feels like years, the man seems bright with expectation in the work clothes he ironed meticulously before school and church. “ You certainly look much happier lately.” He comes over to affectionately tousle Gus’s hair as Gus hangs his cap upon the stand. “I take it you and Luz patched things up?”

“Yeah.” Gus braces himself as he sinks upon the answering cacophony of broken springs. “We finally talked it over. It was all a huge, huge misunderstanding. We’re still friends.”

Perry gusts a pleased sigh, his answering smile smarting bittersweet. “I know, you’re going to miss her.” His next sigh lingers a little longer, a little deeper in the abdomen, skirting less of a smile in its shape. “I will, too.” His eyes briefly become distant. “It seems like just yesterday you both were hiding under the bed after Mrs. Ivanov told you scary stories of Baba Yaga .”

Gus coughs pointedly, ears suddenly warm. “We were not hiding. We were standing watch. Under the bed. It was an important job, and someone had to do it.” His voice breaks itself off on the high note as he looks away. Perry’s brow furrows as Gus’s eyes fall upon the one window, where the sun caroms through a fervid void. What might a voyage into your own hands be like, specifically hands that cupped the weight of their own fate? Gus’s hand tightens over the ancient key in his pocket.

“....I can’t tell ya, how proud I am of you.” His eyes slowly rise to hold his father’s in his own. “And I hope that you’ll still be proud of me when I say, Pa–I don’t want to leave the city right now. Or my friends.” Perry performs a particular spasm, and Gus realizes belatedly he’s never once referred to the F word in the plural for himself. “The thing is, I’ve found an afterschool job offer. Room and board comes with it.” His adolescent voice is chasing after itself. “I want to accept it. While you go on to take the superintendent post.”

“Gus.” Perry crosses the distance between them in a stride and a half, this man whom has to remove his hat well before he enters his own home, lest the low-ceiling bump into it. Briefly, his own tone threatens to make a skin casket of itself as his hands find Gus’s shoulders.

“Please. Don’ t drop out of school. I don’t want you to give up on your dreams. You’re still so young.” His grip doubles. “You have all the potential in the world . Where is this even coming from? Have I failed–?”

Gus’s hand moves over Perry’s to keep it over his shoulder. “But that’s just it–I am focusing on my dreams, Dad.” He manages a wan smile; Perry by no means seems assured by it. “Ya haven’t failed me at all . And I’m not dropping out of school.” He crosses his heart. “The job’s nearby. An antique shop. Just a quiet, before-and-after school gig to keep me out of trouble.” He manages a wink. “Honestly? It might be on the dull side because it’s owned by a fussy old lady who acts more cantankerous than she really is, but it pays well.” Briefly, his eyes mist wistful. “I want to start saving up, too. Of course I want to win a scholarship when I graduate, but it’s good to be prepared. Ya taught me that much.”

Perry squeezes his eyes shut and holds up a hand. “Gus–”

“Please. Just hear me out.”

Perry looks at him long and hard. Gus tastes rust on his tongue before he realizes he’s biting the inside of his mouth. Perry sighs, crossing his arms. “Continue.”

Gus sucks in a soldier-steadying breath. “I want to stay, for lots of reasons. Not just because my best friend is here–I’ve only just started to make some more. And so many people wind up working for–” In lieu of saying the world aloud, Gus holds up all ten fingers. “–because there’s almost never any viable way upward in this life.” He bows his head. “For most of us, it’s enough to run in place, until the big sleep.But I want more, for both of us. So, if there isn’t a way forward, I’ll pave the way there. You know I–”

Seconds later, Gus yelps as Perry drags him forward. Soon, Gus’s face is wet, but not with his own tears. “When exactly did you grow up?” Perry hurriedly tugs him beneath his chin, eyes struck with tears. “Pat would be so proud of you. I’ll visit, as often as I can.”

~o*oOo*o~

When Gus excuses himself to return to the ghostly tenement hallway, lit by one solitary bulb carpeted in the little fatal fling of dead insects, he knows Luz is waiting, even without her trademark knock. Sure enough, Luz is pacing back and forth in her usual raggedly-patched skirt, arms tucked behind her back. Upon seeing him, she scampers over to Gus’s side. “How’d it go?” She asks at once, her gaze at once alighting to Gus’s puffy-with-tears eyes. “Oh, Gus.”

“Just fine,” he assures, gratefully accepting her new-proffered handkerchief, blotting at his face. “Dad was proud, when I told him. As much of the truth as I possibly could, anyway. He gave me his blessing to go my own way for the time being. Both of us are gonna do everything in our power to support each other.”

“....I see.” A sad smile tugs its marching orders onto Luz’s face, and now it’s Gus’s turn to squirm under the stoking flame of guilt. “Good old Mr. Porter.” She turns and resumes her pacing, a rhythm of wounded feet, a wounded Something Else. “You and he were always close, and ya got even closer when poor Mrs. Porter passed.” Camila and Luz were always chasing after themselves, only to never catch up “.....you’re lucky.”

“...I know.” Gus does not contest this as Luz’s fingers knead a concentric dance through her hair. “Girl, ya keep cluchin’ at yer roots like that, and soon you won’t even have no hair to hold onto.” He offers his hand, which Luz gratefully takes in her own palms, clammy with sweat. Gus’s face locks on Luz’s features, curtains drawn tight with fatigue; she’d clearly slept fitfully, knowing what was to come today. “Okay, next outing to–” Gus flaps his arms, before his hands pantomime the slant of a roof, the vertical walls of a house. “– you’re takin’ a fat nap, before any new brewing goes down.” He braces himself. “So, uh…has Doctor Bo–”

The telltale shutting of a nearby door; Gus and Luz look up at once. A young woman, whom scarcely seems much older than they, with almond-shaped brown eyes, freckles skimming her nose, clutching the heft of a medical bag, a stethoscope necklacing her clavicle over her dark overcoat and long blue dress, gracefully descends the adjacent staircase. Dr. Bo Riegel. An Owl House patron, recommended by Masha. Luz might’ve been awed in any other circ*mstance where the dark did not stand still–there are only a few mere thousand women doctors in the entire country. Luz does not doubt the sum is even smaller when you accounted for women of color doctors.

“Well?!” Luz begs, squeezing Gus’s hand so it might be a lightning rod. “How is she, how is she?!”

Dr. Bo holds up her hand. “Ma’am, please .” She readily meets Luz’s matted eyes with her cool and composed ones. “Now, I’ve prescribed some medication to help ease some of your mother’s discomfort.” She opens her valise, fetching a pencil and paper. “This is to be taken with some broth once with her morning repast–” She dutifully begins scribbling “–and then again at nightfall, for two weeks. Keep her upright, and under no circ*mstances is she to exert herself. Bed rest. Trips outside are manageable, provided it’s not too chilly and she has assistance.”

“But ya haven’t even told me how she is,” Luz begs, and her voice threatens to split down its middle, as if the lightning has struck twice in her direction. Gus grips her back hard. “So, will she get better, if I just keep giving her the medicine?”

“As I said before, she seemed to respond well enough to the medicine, which eased both her fever and discomfort,” Dr. Bo dutifully recites, and while Luz didn’t go to medical school, she has a doctorate in Knowing When Adults Are Studiously Avoiding Your Questioning. “But in truth?” Bo lowers her notepad, and her veneer is not entirely unsympathetic.

“One can really expect so much, in terms of real hope, in a living environment such as this .” She points to the crumbling asbestos of the dank hall walls, the cracks in a nearby window inviting in a shivering draft, the mouse droppings scattered in a nearby corner, the dark sludge steadily drip-drip-driping from a nearby leak. “You have the same odds of saving anyone’s life here, as you would in a morgue.”

A single note falls out of Luz, only the sound that escapes Luz is anything but a song. “But–”

“The very few patients that do recover from tuberculosis are usually from wealthy families, ones whom can afford to send their sick patients away to excellent sanatoriums, away from the city’s contaminants.” Dr. Bo writes in a footnote in the margins. “Fresh air in and of itself will work miracles, where our medications can really only lessen her suffering, and stave off her inevitable decline. With the assistance of the medication, my prognosis is that I should expect her to live no longer than two months.”

Inevitable.

Gus hurries to fling his arms around her to keep Luz upright. Camila’s bed was merely a waiting casket, where the wastage of her will become all the more evident day by day. Luz’s stomach lurches a violent warning as her lips part with pre-formulated protest.

“We get it, we get it already!” Gus snaps through his dewing tears, clutching Luz back like a pair of drowners out at deep sea. “Ya don’t have to be so cruel about it! That's my auntie you’re talking about here! That's her mother!”

Bo sighs as she handles Luz the prescription paper; with unsteady hands, Luz takes it. “You really want to give your mother a real fighting chance at survival here? You will remove her from these filthy premises immediately, and find lodgings elsewhere. A healthy environment, with fresh air, regulated temperatures, a better diet, to combat her malnutrition.”

Briefly, her face fills with sympathy at the look on Luz’s face. “Forgive me my harshness. I do not wish to delude my patients with false hope. I included my personal card with her prescription, should you need to contact me again. A very good day to you both.”

Tearing off the piece of paper, Bo thrusts the papers into Luz’s clammy-cold hands.

“Hmph.” Gus snaps, the moment Bo’s echoing footfalls fall silent from the splintery stairwell, and he’s certain they won’t be overheard. “Good riddance. I wish there were some public domain where I could rank her 1 out 5 stars. She clearly needs to work on her bedside manner. Would not refer again.”

“But she’s right.” Luz sags in his arms, and Gus tenderly lowers her to the ground before her violently-quivering knees can betray her. Luz’s own eyes are feverishly-glassy. “But this–this finally explains it! Why no matter how hard I try to heal her, nothing ever works!” Despairingly, she gestures to the tenement rot with shaking hands. Gus’s brow scrunches with trouble. “Um….how much did ya have to pay upfront for that housecall just now?”

“Don’t ask,” Luz flatlines, burying her face in her hands. To his credit, Gus does not ask again as he grips Luz’s shoulders. “Stupid American healthcare. I take solace that they’ll surely have it fixed a hundred years from now.”

“...I have to move Mami out of this awful place.” Luz dares peep out of her now-wet hands, flushed. Her mounting desperation is uncanny in its vivid intensity. “Bo’s right . Mami can’t breathe. This place– It–it already killed my Papi–” For weeks, Luz has chased the distant dream of finally having enough money for a doctor, in truth to have always been a nightmare. “A sanatorium…?”

Gus gnaws the inside of his mouth before replying: “Luz, even if ya could afford to send ya Mami away to a good sanatorium–and I don’t know if even Eda even has that kind of generational moolah–I’d bet my first paycheck those sanitariums have all gotta be whiter than a country club.” With an aching heart, Gus muses it’s precious little wonder the word wealth means ‘nothing left elsewhere.’ “.....I’ll bet my bottom dollar that colored women are only allowed to work as caretakers and cooks on the premises, and never, ever be entitled to that same caliber of care. No matter how evil it is.”

Briefly, Luz’s brow kisses her knees. Helplessly, Gus clutches onto her. Then, Luz scrambles upright so fast she nearly sends Gus flying; she grabs him by the shoulders. “...I have an idea! A perfect idea!”

“And I already have a deep sense of foreboding,” Gus snaps, the nape of his neck rising with gooseflesh at those all-too familiar words. “I already don’t like where this is going.”

Luz winks and elbows him. “C’mon! Have I ever steered ya wrong?”

“Yes, but who’s counting?” Gus plucks out a woebegone notepad from his pocket, licking the tip of his pencil. “Wait a sec–I did. 481 times. Is this gonna be like that time ya faked my death to get a sympathy slice of pie outta the neighbor lady?”

“We got the pie, didn’t we?” Luz breathlessly tugs Gus up the stairs with her.

“Along with cease and desist forms nailed to both our doorways, yes.”

~o*oOo*o~

Mami’s eyes are still glassy, but the flush seems to have wavered somewhat in her still-beautiful face. Luz rushes over to kneel beside her, taking Mami’s hand in her own. The Noceda’s hands are soon glistening like their faces. “Mi ciela. My sky.” Camila’s voice is now slurred as Luz kisses her cheek. “ Hola, Gusito .” Mami does not even up; she teases: “I know, your footstep is her echo.”

Gus helplessly removes his cap in the presence of a grown woman. The wasting disease plucked, and plucked, and plucked away all the color of a flower before they were only thorns left upon the plundered stalk. “Top of the mornin’, Missus Noceda. Ew, what’s in this stuff, anyway?” Gus complains, taking an apprehensive whiff of the medication bottle Dr. Bo had left. Bemused, he turns the bottle around to read aloud aloud its contents: “‘ Cannabis, chloroform, and morphine.*’” Slowly, very slowly he lowers the bottle again, as if he half-expects it to explode like another explosive co*cktail. “Uh, well, I’m guessin’ i t’ll cure your cough alright, ‘cause you’ll be too busy bein’ in a coma to cough. Hey, uh, how did this not get banned along with booze?”

Camila tries to smile, but it’s wavering beneath her drowsiness, brow knit with concern. “How…however did you afford a doctor visit, mi princessa ? Dios mio , what a fortune.”

“Mami.” Briefly, Luz’s throat fills, with far too much to tell. “There's something I’ve been wanting to tell you.” But the key is cut by the lock, and Luz can say nothing for a pregnant pause, tying them up with the truth. “I didn’t want to tell you, in case you didn’t approve.”

Camila cannot sit up, disoriented as if in a drugged sleep, but she rolls onto her side. “Go on, mi princessa.”

Helplessly, Luz looks to Gus, whom nods his encouragement. “Remember that uh, sewing gig I told you about? We-ell, I actually got a new job, working at an antique shop!” Why is it so much easier for Luz to talk to Camila with Gus as a buffer in-between them? Had that been Papi’s job, their common conduit? Perhaps that was yet another reason Papi’s loss had been all the more devastating; it was the loss of more than one relationship.

“Antigüedades?” Camila is so taken aback she attempts to sit up again; Gus and Luz each take a forearm to lower her back down again upon her faded bedroll. “But…what do you even do, with antiques?”

“Well, nothing , as far as I can tell,” Luz admits, running a hand through her hair again. “Rich whi te people with too much time on their hands, will apparently pay a lot, for nothing. And–” I’m a boy, or I migh t be, please don’t hate me, please don’ t hate me, don’t hate me. Don’t be the failure, stuck in her mother's throat.

Luz grabs on the first straw her mind can take purchase of: “–the lady there was adamant that we both move in with her in the house next to the shop! Did I mention she’s a completely respectable, wealthy benefactress with good societal standing?” She at once whips over to Gus. “Gus, back me up here.” She speaks in monotone, with the accent of grit teeth.

Petrified at the prospect of being in the spotlight, and little wonder, when the light all but reveals every molecule of the fine sweat now beading on his brow, Gus manages a labored nod. “Oh, absolutely!” His eye water; he might speak with all the forced joviality of a man actively attempting to swallow hardtack. “Uh–uh–uh—yes! Uh, a society lady, of…impeccable manners and etiquette. Very proper and bougie, I’ll have you know.”

“Mami, why aren’t ya happy?” Luz squeezes Camila’s hands when Camila lowers her head, no t forthwithcoming with a reply. “This here is the answer to our prayers!” She ges tures frantically at a makeshift shrine to the Lady of Altagracia, whose feet are strewn with paper flowers. “We’re going to get you out of this place. We’re going to get you better.”

“Luz….” Camila’s face clouds over again. That more than anything else hurts Luz, even without Camila meaning to, and so Luz recoils back, even without meaning to. “...I’m very happy for you, but…” Camila voice is becoming deeper with the labor of speaking; Luz hurriedly pours her a cup of water from a nearby pail. “I’d want to meet this patron of yours before we did anything of the sort. Who is to say they’re legitimate? Young, hopeful girls your age in this city, they get scammed with predatory contracts all the time that sound too good to be true, because they are. I won’t allow, anyone take advantage of you.”

“Which is exac tly why my new boss specifically reques ted to meet you for tea nex t Sunday, to put your fears at rest !” Luz cries ou t on the spot. Gus turns towards the nearby window as if contemplating the merits of tossing himself outside. “We can borrow a wheelchair to take ya. The doctor said earlier some outings would be okay, so long as ya got some fresh air and didn’t strain yourself.”

Luz nearly slaps a hand over her mouth in abject mortification. Too late; the words have already spilled out, broken open underneath her bare feet. Now she’ll have to dance upon her own words.

“How exciting!” Camila cries, eyes lighting up with renewed vigor as she clasps her hands. Luz tries and fails to remember the last time Camila’s eyes struck stardust so. “Dios mio, I’ve been cooped up in here, so long…” Her face waxes apologetic. “I don’t know how much I can eat that isn’t soft, but I can’t remember, last time I went out, visiting. Ah–can you help me do my hair beforehand, help me dress, in my sabbath dress? I’m sick, and old, and there’s no need para mi to put on airs, but es importante to be polite.”

“You’re still plenty pretty, Auntie Camila,” Gus assures solemnly. “You’ll knock ‘em dead.”

“I think,” Camila says thoughtfully, eyes cooling slightly. “I might knock this boss of yours dead, mija, if they turn out to be skeevy. I might be sick, but I’m no invalida.”

Gus attempts not to whimper. Luz might have to pluck her molars into the shape of a smile before all the pained labor of it. “ Si, Mami. I’ll help you get ready on Sunday.” Luz rises to the little cookstove. “You need to rest now, Mami. Let’s get some food in you first.”

“I’ll help,” Gus volunteers at once, sidling over. Camila wearily points at the nearby table, and three large brown bags sitting upon it. “Ah–Raine brought by some produce earlier. Such a sweet young man.” Briefly, Camilla’s fond glaze is parsed with confusion. “Huh. I wonder why he doesn’t have a wife or girlfriend? At least, he never speaks of one…” Her eyes twinkle again seconds later. “Ah, perhaps he is merely too shy, to speak of her. How lucky she must be.”

“Smooth.” Gus hisses in Luz’s ear as she gets to work dicing bananas for avena dominicana, the two sneaking fractional glances at each other. “Ya won’t tell her what ya are, or what ya actually do, but you’ll maybe have her live there, in the room where it happens. Because that clearly makes all the sense in the world.”

“I’m sorry, but we’ve just got no other options at this point!” Luz hisses back, though her features are wrung with an apologetic wince. “I have to save Mami’s life. Look: this can work. She can live topside Owl House, in the attic. Just until I save up some dough, and move us someplace else. She’s bedridden. She doesn’t ever need to go to the barn. Or the distillery.” Luz’s eyes are scalded. “She doesn’t have to know, about any of it. Ever.”

“If Camila doesn’ t immediately see through all the holes in Eda’s supposed fancypants and bean Eda upside the jaw first. Have ya considered becoming a telephone operator for all that smooth operatin’ I saw just now?” Gus rolls his eyes as Luz jabs him in the side. “Nice job, Mister Negotiator. A flask of moonshine and a shoplifted bag of cookies do not a dainty hostess make. I can’t wait to see you run all this by Eda.”

Nor, incidentally, can Luz, shrugging helplessly as she rushes out the door to the tenement water pump down below.

~o*oOo*o~

Chapter 8: My Fair Lady

Chapter Text

~o*oOo*o~

I think I'll take my whiskey neat

My coffee black, and my bed at three.

You're too sweet for me

You're too sweet for me–

I aim true, and the ground's where I go

I work late, where I'm free from the phone

And the job gets done

But you worry some, I know.

~o*oOo*o~

Luz’s dreams, a strange dance of color and motion, initially drift someplace banal; Mami had instructed her to go buy thread from one of Harlem’s haberdasheries. A silbery-sage spool soon perches like a fabergé Easter egg in Luz’s wicker basket. Now Luz is hurrying back to the tenement, mica chips glinting in the sidewalk beneath her in the sunrise.

But the spool tumbles out of her basket, rolling off and away, down the sidewalk. Luz thinks nothing of giving chase after the little skein that unravels and unravels without cease, as if the labradorite thread weaves into an infinite loop. Still, dream-Luz can think of precious else but of simply chasing the runaway cylinder, even as the world changes, dawn making lamps of the first lilies.

Leaves soon rustle softly in the light breeze, shifting the sunbeams that dapple Luz's sepia-skin. A dense forest soon rises out of stone-and-brick masonry like a pop-up book, cedars, oaks, pines, willows, willows, willows, growing in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Flowering vines and creeping ivy embroider themselves around trunks, and the ground underneath is soon muffled-soft with a cool burst of field buttercup under Luz’s running feet. Still, the little bobbin merely rolls along, amidst the roots and thickets, rolling at last into a clearing.

Squinting where rays honeycomb the sweet briar, it takes Luz a moment to notice the rusted iron cauldron in the meadow’s heart. The little pot is overgrown with foliage that seems to have amicably-embraced the cauldron as its own. With the help of a varnishing of reaching-ivy and moss, the iron shell has blossomed into a living flower pot, having forgotten whatever miserable existence it had known before it and the green settled into one another. The spool of thread at last rolls to a stop at the feet of the cauldron, threads rendered sparklingly-ethereal, like a line of light.

Atop the thin lip of the cauldron, a baby serpent sleeps soundly, violet scales glinting. Atop its head is a small yellow dot, which Luz soon realizes is in fact, a pollen-fuzzy honeybee, resting just as deeply as its cold-blooded companion. Slowing footfalls now hesitant, like a shy devotee’s at the sacred site of a holy relic, Luz nonetheless can’t suppress a fond smile.

Beneath the weaving shadow-patterns of a willow spilling down its curtain of tresses overhead, an eruption of butterflies in her stomach, Luz stoops, reaching hesitantly for the waiting spool of thread. Comforting warmth weaves itself up her hands, and she presses the little spool against her chest, eyes briefly fluttering shut. Longing is a lyre plaintively thrumming in her senses, a searing exquisite singularity.

A smell of applewood smoke, the lingering taste of maple sap, the sensation of strong arms, holding her close. Bangs fluttering, Luz briefly lifts her head to the leaftrilled sky. A thousand small hopes take to the air in a dandelion uprising, in a place trying to be spring.

The twinkling thread hums with a soft, unfamiliar voice, a lyrical summons, and Luz's skin tingles again with the fleeting, warm specter of a hug. Dumbfounded, yearning, Luz slowly attempts to peer inside the cauldron, like a diviner consulting a crystal ball–only to perform a double-take when the sweet dream is soon commandeered by terror: “ Luz!”

That voice is all too familiar; Dante’s insides don't appear to belong to him anymore, even as he whips around in the same new clothing that made no apologies for any inch of him, the garments invoking a shiver of self-possession. Mami stands in the now-darkening clearing, her face rendered taut with accusation, her liquid-warm eyes now crackling slivers of ice . “You– you–damn you–”

Dante can’t even plea for her to listen as his voice dies. His own name loses all meaning in a swiftly withering valley that smells of decay, the way any word proper will dismantle itself when you gaze at it a millisecond too long. Now, the Nocedas can do nothing but See one another.

In a contortion of flesh, Camila’s seams come loose as the woman goes to pieces. Dante gapes helplessly on as Camila Noceda bursts apart, silhouette imploding into a thousand live moths. Legions of papery, graying wings, beating like hearts, emerge out of falling clothes, scattering to the cataclysmic howl of cruel, cold winds. Only then does Dante find his feet, despairingly lurching forward after the exodus of wings–

On the verge of plummeting through a collapsing and crumbling Eden, clinging to the iridescent loop of a lifeline in his palms to keep from plummeting down to certain doom, Dante cries out–he can’t help it: “Mami, Mami, Mami–”

“Mija?” Concerned, Camila Noceda urgently nudges Luz from beside her upon their pallet. “Mija, wake up.”

Briefly, Luz’s fist closes over empty air as her eyelashes fly open. Luz stumbles awake beside Camila, now drenched in sweat, breathing unstitched.

A thimbleful of pale light spills across the familiar dank bungalow. Familiar rhythms of a city stirring to its feet play out much as they always have, a church bell ringing the sixth hour of the morning. Ferries are plying the water on the Hudson. Neighbors are already heading down rattletrap stairs with their tin lunch pails to work. Panting, Luz’s head sinks back against her lopsided pillow, attempting to curl into a muscle memory of warmth, and of being held tightly.

Camila clucks her tongue sympathetically as her hand shifts up and down a trembling Luz’s back. “ Dios mio . What a dream, you must’ve had.” Briefly, her voice is hijacked with a strong cough, and she fumbles for her handkerchief as Luz blearily reaches for her mother’s medication vial. Camila smiles; a soaring in her chest. “Look at it this way–we only have three days more, until I meet your high-society boss lady . Isn’t that amazing?”

Luz tries a smile. Judging by Camila’s demeanor re-clouding with worry, it admittedly resembles more of a stroke just now.

~o*oOo*o~

April creeps in light-footed, as to catch one unawares, in-and-out of teeming cloudbursts, and achingly-bright expanses of blue sky. The last residue of hardened filthy New York City snow, so clotted with soot as to only resemble dirty ice, turns itself over and exhales itself into raw, cool open air. Exhaling is in and of itself, a sort of consolation.

Glistening night rain still clings to towering copper beeches in New York’s few remaining acreages one blustering April afternoon, the meandering, timid green sheltering crocuses in rustle-rising damp grass. Amidst the pale tire indentations of the back road weaving to the outskirts of the Owl House antiquary, wild penstemon buds slowly open amidst boulders, setting their tongues to wagging in the weaving wind.

However, Gus notices precious little of this where he’s behind Eda’s house, ruefully-beating Kashan rugs strung over the laundry lines with an old broom. Every furious strike only ever produces a thicker cloud of dirt; Poor Gus wonders if he perhaps ought to take up paleontology instead of magic for a hobby, considering he’s effectively-looking upon the dust of ages. “When was these carpe ts last even cleaned?” Gus despairs as he coughs into his sleeve. “The Revolutionary War?”

“Don’t be silly , kid. It wasn’t the Revolutionary War. It was the Civil War,” Eda dully corrects from behind the ajar kitchen window. Unse ttled, Gus slowly backs away from the floorcloths, as if half-fearing their sentience . Eda’s red lips are parsed in a scowl as she sullenly polishes the murky sulfide of tarnished silver at the sink. The acrid chemical swim of polish waters her eyes. Most of the cutlery, she’d already pawned long ago in leaner times–and if Eda had any sense, she would’ve sold all the silverware and settled for eating with her hands.

Kneeling behind her, wearing a polka-dot kerchief tied in his tawny hair, Hooty stops to wipe his brow upon the hem of his pinafore apron. It’s been a vigorous morning of sweeping, scrubbing, and now- waxing oak floors, attempting to coax timeworn timber into remembering i ts color. “Hey, the floor’s so shiny, I can see–” Recoiling upon seeing the shadowy visage of a s trange young man looming before him, Hooty hisses ferociously, back arching when the intruder merely copies him, snapping his jaws like a snapping turtle.

Heart paling with effort, clutching an overflowing rubbish bin under one arm, and a sloshing bucket of suds in the other, Luz bustles down from the steep oak attic steps, patched skirt now-covered in a clear-inch of grime. “It’s just a reflection, Hooty,” she soothes, briefly lowering her load, gently tugging a mutinous Hooty away by the forearm from the shiny stretch of floorboards. Hooty slackens with relief at the sight of her, preening when the intruder vanishes from view, doubtlessly-frightened away into the shadowed outskirts of another day.

Luz plucks a lemonade pitcher from the ice box. No one needs any prompting to hurry over for a cup. Eda’s forehead pinches together as she wills the lemon and water in her glass into transfiguring into a whiskey sour, eleven o’clock in the morning be damned. As expected, no such miracle is forthcoming. “Why why why–” Without having even drank the night before, it now feels like she’s stumbling from some famed outpost of debauchery. Akin to coming to, with her own half-a-self, exhausted like holiday decorations come January. Inconveniently surrounded, by all the bizarre relics of a night of drinking. Eda gapes at the small children scampering around her house, like that pale morning she’d come to with the shopping cart full of live, liberated hens in the driveway. “–why am I even agreeing to all–”

“ Please .” Luz’s voice is fraught and high wi th panic , like her eyes . “Mami’s not getting better. We told ya what Dr. Bo said. Trust me: I don’t like this either, but it can work.” Briefly, Luz leans against the cool hum of the icebox, arms tightly winding around herself. This time, it’s Hooty’s turn to comfort her as he timidly squeezes her shoulder with his large hand.

“It has to work.” Eda wonders if Luz is now effectively talking to herself . “Just for a little while. Enough for her to get stable , at least. Ya can deduct Mami’s food and rent from my pay. Promise.”

“....and ya really couldn’t take your ma to the hospital.” It isn’t truly a question on Eda’s part as she briefly skirts her eyes away, hurrying along the last words. Briefly, she meets Hooty’s gaze across the kitchen, struck with a flickering, bitter memory that no amount of a lemonade more-sugar-than-water can possibly assuage.

“Eda.” Gus is incredulous as he hurries into the kitchen, scooping up his own lemonade. “For us , what we can afford, the hospital isn’t sanitary or safe for long- term healing . Our local hospital? Looks like it needs a hospital. It’s just where people go to die.”

“I’ll do i t, I’ll do it already!” Eda squawks, arms flapping in dis tress as Luz’s eyes spring with tears, doubtlessly meant to invoke Camila, Luz’s albatross. “Like I said: We can clean ou t the old attic for her to sleep in. Ain’t been a fireplace in that grate since President McKinley’s assassination, but it should still work. And qui t lookin’ a t me like that,” Eda huffs, as Luz’s tears dissolve into something more dangerous , the watery-vestiges of a trembling smile as Gus hurriedly-proffers his handkerchief to Luz.

“Still, your Mami might not wanna stay here.” King points out grumpily, straining against a heaving shoulder as he drags his own slopping-suds bucket in to the kitchen. Grunting, he slumps against the doorway. “...the King….the King of…Demons… needs sugar to live.”

“Why,” Luz is taken aback as she pours a glass of lemonade for King, whom swiftly downs its contents with both hands. “What makes ya say that, King?” She eagerly spreads her arms, performing a little twirl. “Who wouldn’t want to stay here? This place is fulla magic and beauty!”

Gus and King’s eyes dubiously flick to one another’s. Above them, chipped, colorless walls rattle with antiquated plumbing beneath, as if this old house is muttering last rites. The kitchen wallpaper is fraying, peeling at its edges. Once-fine paneling is now ramshackle-rickety. The sputtering flicker and snap of a solitary electric bulb in the kitchen is liable to go out in a single sigh of wind outside, easier to extinguish than a solitary birthday candle. “...well, I think it sure has a lot of character,” Gus offers carefully, desperate to say something reassuring.

King scoffs. “And by character, he probably means the character of Jacob Marley from A Christmas Carol. I mean, place beats the mean streets of New York City, but it’s still kind of a fixer-upper. And…” He hesitantly casts to Luz. “...if your Mami finds out, the fact that we fibbed, decor’s gonna be the least of our problems, le–”

“We are not lying, to anyone !” Luz cries, immedia tely derailing King’s sen tence as she grabs him by the shoulders , her synapses firing at all speeds. “There really is, an antique shop I help run in the backyard! I really do , have a job helping to mind it!” And Luz really is , willing to do everything and anything, to keep Dante’s carefully-constructed life from splintering, and her Mami above ground. Inanely, Luz remembers, the old riddle of the fox, chicken and bag of grain in the rowboat. There has to be a way, with a little ingenuity, to get all safely across to the other shore.

King ruefully rubs his shoulder, half-fearing his rotator cuff will soon be torn. “Right. With an illegal queer bar right down below the barn, and an illegal distillery in the old cellar to boot. Boy, i t’s a good thing Eda boasts to anyone who’ll listen that yer all aces a chemist student, ‘cause you’d make a lousy real estate agent.”

“King,” Eda scolds, cheekbones rosy. Luz cups a befuddled King’s face in her hands. “And we’re just gonna omit those happy little details, during Sunday tea.” She tugs King into an iron hug, rocking back and forth upon her heels. “I mean, if Mami just so happens to ask: Say, Mija, is there a secret passage leading to the criminal underground in the backyard, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” A tiny muscle spasms an irregularity in Luz’s right eyelid like an SOS. “Except we won’t ever have to cross that bridge, because I’m gonna personally dynamite it, and the bridge’s remains, before that can ever, ever happen.” Quivering with ideas, internal roiling energy cycling, Luz paces the kitchen, Gus now crossing his arms. “Girl, your crazy eye is showing.”

“....why don’t we take a quick break for nosh?” Eda wisely advises as an unsettled King slowly edges away from Luz backwards, warily not taking his eyes off her. “C’mon, everyone. Let’s take ten.” Preferably ten years. Fingers cramping with fatigue from polishing, Eda goes to the cupboards to retrieve a sweep of b read and cheese and honey cakes. Luz and Gus wa tch, spellbound–it still seems like the stuff of a magic trick, to simply waltz into a pantry, and to trust that your larders would somehow simply be full– that you could eat your fill, and then seconds .

It’s an eager dragging of mismatched chairs to the table as everyone tucks in. Briefly, in-between bites of bread, King’s face softens–there’s something in the unfamiliar arrangement that satisfies a child's hunger for ritual. Then, he catches up with himself. “...none of this charade bit sits right by me.” He gestures incredulously at Eda beside him, whom has propped both feet upon the table at an easy recline, chewing a hunk of bread. “How come Eda gets to be the respectable aristocrat, and Hooty and I get stuck playin’ measly butlers?” King’s tiny hand clenches. “I’m the Lord of All Horrors . If anyone deserves minions at their infernal beck and call–”

“Butler 2#! It’s the role I was born to play !” Hooty eagerly squeals, hopping to his feet, clasping his hands together. His large eyes are veritable beacons. “I promise, I’ll make ya proud!”

“You have no shame ,” King accuses darkly. Hooty sticks out his tongue, undaunted.

“You’re jus t jealous ‘cause my acting skills are unparalleled. ” Hooty boasts, scooping up an orange from the bowl at the center of the table. He swoons and quails beneath an imaginary spotlight, holding up the fruit aloft with a flourish like a skull for the perusal of a breathless audience bearing down for a moving soliloquy: “To Hoot, or not to hoot– that is the question–”

“King, you’re way too little to pretend to be a shop owner !” Gus snaps, lowering his lemonade. “And Hooty–well…uh….” Gus’s hands fret at one another, as he attempts to phrase this as diplomatically as he might. “Making him pretend to run everything kinda seems like a big ask , if ya ask me. That…” He turns to Eda, looking gaunt. “...that…um, leaves Eda.” He says this with the same, irreproachable grim tone that the doctor had used when diagnosing Camila with two months left to live.

“Seems to me like you’re awfully puny to have such a big mouth ,” King snippily retorts. Gus kicks him underneath the table.

“Fellas, be nice, ” Luz admonishes firmly, before the dam breaks, and her big brown eyes are awash with worry. “ King.” She reaches for his hand; he does not push hers away. “I know this is a big ask, for all of ya .” Her free hand picks at her rosary beads, gripping them for purchase. “But my Mami and I need a safe place where she can heal. A hotel room isn’t much better than a hospital, and it’s way too expensive. And we just don’t have anywhere else to go right now.” Luz’s eyes squeeze shut, and King’s bones set themselves to a toothache. “Please. It’s really important to me.”

“If ya do it, kid gets to stay here too, ya realize,” Eda points out with a wink, plucking up her fork to comb her hair. Tremors wrack King’s little form as he heaves a sigh. “...fine. The King of Demons will humor thy puny request and play along.” For you, and not for her , is what he wants to say as Luz opens her eyes and beams at him. But those big words will only reinforce his own smallness. “Ain’t like I got anything better to do on Sunday, anyways. But isn’t this your special place to express yourself as Dante ? Isn’t that really important to you?”

“Easy! The Speakeasy!” Luz chirps, not at all put out as she cheerfully gestures outside the window to the shadow of the barn. “You’ll all just have to address me as Luz in this house, when Mami’s in earshot. Just as long as you never, ever have a slip of the tongue, and irreparably ruin everyone’s lives , everything’s just–” Luz rounds on Eda as if just noticing her. “Eda! Feet off the table! And what the fork are ya doing?!”

“I ain’t supposed to have tidy hair for teatime?” Eda grouses, lowering her feet and utensil as a knowing gleam enters her eye. “Don’t worry–I polished the silver beforehand. I think I know a thing or two about etish*t.”

“Etiquette,” Luz snaps back, while Gus lowers his own spoon with a deeply-perturbed look. “So, um, we eat off this table?” Gus’s first letter to Perry is admittedly going to be in some need of careful revisem*nt.

Luz presses the inside corners of her brows, where a headache is threatening to burst free from her skin. “Rule One: No swearing around Mami.”

“I think that’s f*cking cruel and unusual punishment.” Eda retorts flatly, crossing her arms behind her head. “I am a lady, albeit one with the vocabulary of a well-educated sailor.”

Gus slips on a pair of rubber gloves to tentatively drop Eda’s fork in the sink. “I think every time you swear during teatime, you have to pay King and Hooty a penny.” Gus fetches a freshly washed jelly jar from the counter. “I think you’re gonna need something bigger,” Hooty pleasantly points out, diving under the table at the sight of a spider. “The barn still has an old trough in the back!”

King’s heart is an exaltation of wings. “I think we’re gonna be rich!”

Luz fumbles for a nearby dog-eared volume on table manners fished from the antiquary display. “Alright, Eda. I’ll quiz ya! Repeat after me: How do you do?”

“How do ya screw?” Eda deadpans right back. Suppressing a whimper, Luz considers lying her face atop her book, and curling up into the smallest ball she can make of her bones. Gus buries his face in his palms. “Speakin’ of being screwed –agh, look, I’m no master in etiquette , but I’m pretty certain that combing your hair with a fork at your tea table counts as a faux pas.”

“Duly noted.” Eda stifles a belch. “ Ducking fantastic.”

Luz thinks she’s going to be sick.

~o*oOo*o~

“I don’t know what stupefies me more : My even considering to lend you my new car, or the fact that you’re even considering playing along this little charade,” Darius confesses, holding the jingle of his keys aloft in the driveway later that afternoon.

“C’mon, Dar–it’s just for a day trip to the city.” Eda coaxes, attempting to dive for the keyring. Darius easily sidesteps her. “Oh, to hell with you. Gimme the keys , already. I’ll have ya know I haven’t day-drank once today. Even when I wanted to. Especially when I wanted to.”

Darius gapes at her. Eda’s feathers are already ruffling. “Look. We could take the streetcar. Hypothetically. But I might, hypothetically, have some difficulties playin’ nice, harmless society lady if the conductor tells the kids to go sit in back , and I get jailed for shattering a racist’s teeth. ” Her own teeth baring, Eda gives her head a little shake. “I guess ya could fling a doily over his bleeding craw afterwards? Where was I…anyhoodle, Gus doesn’t have a coat anymore, Dante looks like he’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and I think King just needs, to get out of the house. There’s been a whole lick of change happening real fast around here, and it’s been a lot for him to keep up with.” Catching up with herself, something in her eyes retreats . “Oh, God.”

“What,” Darius asks, and he sounds truly alarmed now. “Is happening to you, woman?”

“I don’t even know.” Eda rants miserably, sinking down to the ground with her knees to her chest. “I take it back: Children happened, Darius. Why, children keep happening, to me. Children walked into my home, decided, hey, we live here now. And I didn’t even know what else to say but kay, thanks.” Eda’s hands disappear in her hair. “I’ve lost all control over my life.”

“A cautionary tale, if ever there were one.” Darius agrees solemnly, kneeling down beside her.

Eda wonders when over the years it had happened, exactly–their inadvertently becoming alert, to the rhythms of one another. Darius’s pinstripe suit, him huddling on the ground beside her in an almos–that’s really as good as an I Love You . “Oh, darling.” His breathing escapes in an exasperated, fond huff. “There, there, now. You surely can’t lose control , of what you never had .”

“Ya talking about control, ” With no drink in hand, Eda finds herself curiously taking the temperature of her own sadness. Dangerous habit, that. “Or a life? ”

“Speaking of control–” Darius’s voice spells a dire warning as at last, the keys tinkle into Eda’s palms. “– my vehicle better be returned in exactly the same spo tless, immaculate shape in which it departed , so help you, God.”

~o*oOo*o~

Hooty gaily waves farewell from the Owl House’s front steps as Eda cackles, strapping on an ancient pair of bronze-colored goggles and a riding jacket before seizing the stick shift. King is soon joyfully leaning out the speeding vehicle like a dog, eyes watering in the wind. Beside him in the backseat, Gus and Dante are clinging to one another for dear life as the car slip-slides to-and-fro in a free-for-all upon the road. Dante’s holding onto his purple cloche hat; poor Gus is simply attempting to hold onto his lunch.

It isn’t long before wheels splash fetid water from New York City’s gutters, a city constantly in the making and unmaking, enormous and far-too-small for the likes of itself. “Shouldn’t we be practicing?” Dan te cries, wincing as Darius’s glossy-grille swiftly decapitates a fire hydrant, sending up a bolt of water bursting from the ground like a geyser. “I t’s almost Sunday !”

“I am practicing!” Eda sings back, car lurching just like the contents of Gus’s poor stomach. “Lookit me, not even running down that old lady down in the street back there. Hell, I’m so classy, ya’d think I was the First Lady.”

“YOU’RE GONNA BE THE LAST LADY IF YA DON’T WATCH WHERE YER GOING!” Gus wails, burying his face in Dante’s cloak.

After departing from the fishmonger’s with a ringing doorbell, Dante is stumbling under more newsprint-wrapped parcels of seafood than even Eda’s household strictly warrants for the week. The mystery is soon solved as Dante heads to the red brick columns swelling from the earth of a nearby alleyway. Soon, countless eyes of stray cats fixed hopefully upon his familiar form. It isn’t long before the four are completely surrounded by a crush of starving felines filling the alley, Dante plucking out bundle after bundle to share, smiling broadly. Soon the air smells of fish. Gus retches again–he can’t stand fish. “Do we really have to stop and feed all these strays?” Gus attempts to balance on one leg as more and more cats come herding in, famished. “I’m pretty certain more than one of these guys is rabid and feral, just like Hooty!”

“Rise , my unholy minions of the night, rise!” King demands upon the dark tenor of a maniacal chuckle, thrusting out his tiny arms imperiously as several cats surrounding him watch in abject fascination. “Cast off your shackles of oppression, rise, and join me ! The world shall weep at our feet!”

“Eh. Worse things in life, to spend your hardwon-moolah on.” Eda winks where she now sits atop a barrel, stroking an enormous calico under the chin. “Cats, as it turns out, don’t like the police, and so we like cats!”

“Do I even wanna know?” Gus faintly asks the horizon. Dante eagerly stoops to caress a familiar, now-bedraggled white feline as she bounds over. “Oh, it’s Ghost again!” He scoops her up in his arms as she purrs a rumbling purr, nuzzling him. “Hiya, girl! Such a pretty kitty.” Briefly, his countenance creases as he looks more closely. “Oh, no, she’s got flea dirt !” He bites the inside out of his mouth as Ghost drops to the ground, tracing infinity symbols at Dante's ankles.

Sighing, Dante acquiesces, retrieving a packet of salmon, which Ghost all but pounces on when he lowers it to the ground. Dante’s smile is rendered bittersweet. “And she’s so famished. Poor thing. Gosh, I sure wish your owners would take better care of ya, ‘specially if they could afford to get ya this pretty collar.”

“It was pretty once,” Gus points out with a frown, partnering Dante’s movement by bending. Gus carefully examines the now-fraying, fading leather band at Ghost’s neck. “I can’t even read the address engraved on the ID tag no more, so no telling where she comes from.” He squints as he tugs the tag up to the light– Bright something ? “She looks like one of those rare cat breeds at the shows at Madison Square Garden.” Albeit one reduced to foraging for food in the alleys with countless other strays. Gus shrugs helplessly. “Maybe her owner was a fussy old lady who passed away, and now poor Ghost is on her own?”

“Well, you still have a tag, so let’s try and fix it.” Dante hums, producing a small violet hair ribbon from his pocket. Gently prizing off the ruined leather of the collar, he carefully loops the ID tag around the ribbon, tying the ribbon into a little bow. “Aw, I think it looks sweet.” Perking up, Dante turns to Eda. “Say–”

“Nope.” Eda pops the p, and looks at a pleading Dante with gentle fatigue, reminiscent to King with a glass of milk before bed. “Don’t even think about bringing in a colony of cats.”

“Just one?” Dante implores, clasping his hands together. “Mami’s real good with anima–”

But Eda shakes her head. “Oh, it always starts out with just one, don’t it?” She gestures emphatically to King, whom looks positively beleaguered as his tiny shoulders square against the weight of his indignity: “Are ya comparing me to a cat right now?!” King hisses, miming scratching the air for good measure.

“Look, kid. I gotta draw a line somewhere. ‘Sides, Hooty has a mortal fear of cats. One of ‘em would probably burn the other in their bed.” Already Eda’s performing math for next week’s groceries–the expense surely adds up, especially when Gus and Dante's stomachs have been cratered with hunger for the longest time.

“....so long, Ghost.” Dante wistfully concedes, waving as the cat takes off again. “Until next time. Be safe.” He can’t resist casting Gus a defeated look. “One day, once I get enough money to take care of Mami and I’s futures, I’m gonna figure out some way to help all these cats. New York’s stray problem is getting really bad. And I read in the paper some folks are leavin’ out poisonous meat for these poor animals, and calling it a day!”

“I know you’ll figure something out. Ya always do,” Gus soothes, tugging on Dante’s arm as they turn to go. Eda’s heels click upon concrete. “Now, we’re going to the tailor’s. You kids need some more new threads.”

Dante tightens; he struggles to get control of his face as his heart lurches against his ribs. “A tailor? But–”

“Owl House regular. I phoned her a few days ago to let her know we needed some new clothes. She’s familiar with the situation, Dante, so ain’t nobody gonna bother us, whatever it is ya want to wear.” Eda reassures gruffly. Dante’s panic softly molts into an exhale. “Granted, Tinella’s a bit of a headcase–” It seems kinder than saying nosecase. “–but she also operates out of her home, so she don’t have any damned Whites Only or Colored Only signs for us to deal with. ‘Sides, I prefer visiting Owl House patrons whenever I can. Important to support your local pansies and fairies, that.”

Gus crosses his arms. “Doesn’t exactly hurt that your money in their hands incidentally becomes your money all over again when the customers spend it on joy juice.”

“And that’s why you’re my accountant,” Eda agrees jauntily, not in the least put-out. King, on the other hand, most certainly is as he sniffs. “ Math. I’ve decided such work is menial for the likes of the King of Demons.”

“Sirs?”

Dante turns; a horse jostles its belled, jingling harness as it passes with an ice truck outside a tea parlor. Past the rumble and rattle of the cart, a hooded silhouette is soon revealed behind it. A young, dark-haired woman, slightly-taller than he, tattered clothes perhaps constituting more moss than fabric, looks around warily, as if to assure herself of a potential escape route before approaching. Uneasily, she picks her way forward with a basket full of blossoms, brambles in the tired split-ends of her braids. Dante’s chin lifts , as if by a string. Oh.

“D’ya wanna buy a flower?” Her voice emerges in a hushed, spasmodic whisper. “One, for a penny?” Briefly, her gaze falls upon Dante’s shiny new shoes. The Flower Girl is quick and careful to make the bruise of her eyes blank as a desert, so a potential predator has nothing to latch to.

“Y-Yes, please, miss.” Crinkling his eyes, Dante points to a blushing camellia in the girl’s basket–a brilliant color that accosts the eyes. “Just like her name. Mami’ll be happy. One, please.”

“.....thank you, sir.” Ribbons of muscle in the girl’s back quiver in relief as the Flower Girl reaches inside the basket, pausing as her fingertips briefly skim the warmth of the strange boy’s in passing. His fingertips are work-calloused, brown eyes gentle. Wanly, she thinks she prefers this, over other leering menfolk customers with untouched hands, and hard eyes. Then, she looks at her palm. A fortune is found there.

“Oh–” The flower girl blinks, and blinks again, attempting in vain to dispel the image of the two-dollar Lincoln note that now sits upon the grit of her palm. “Sir? ....you’ve–you’ve overpaid .” It surely isn’t often, that someone pays 200% for the likes of a tattered little bloom . A dread-dull thud in the puncture of her heart.

“And–and I’ve not any change, to offer you in kind.” Her voice spirals upwards, which would be pleasing in her ears if she weren’t now pale as a peeled apple with panic . Her stomach shudders and heaves as she braces herself to drop the money and run . A trap, a trap, a trap by District Six poachers, what else can it be–her eyes dilate like a deer bracing to flee– what do you want, what do you want, what do you really wa–

“Well, then, ya can keep it, ma’am,” Dante coaxes warmly, the sun casting designs upon his face. “Ya can give out some flowers to anyone you pass by today whom looks like they could use a smile. How’s that?”

The apple blossom tree above them might be pushed deeper into bloom. The girl gazes at him as horns blare and fade like passing geese. All the ordinary gestures of life, are briefly set to music, when the ordinary and extraordinary can yet be seen. “ “....a smile?” Her voice emerges in a hush amidst the endless thrum of footsteps.

“Yeah! Ya don’t have to smile right now, if ya don’t feel like it, ma’am.” He’s quick to cauterize a wound with honey. “But promise, you’ll keep one flower in the basket for yourself, Miss?” He fumbles for his hat sheepishly–you were supposed to tip your hat to women, weren’t you? “Agh–where are my manners? I’m Dante , by the way, ma’am.” If Dante is strictly-aware that interaction peaks at bare civility for the likes of a New York flower girl, he certainly doesn’t show it.

Under her sternum, the fist of her heart releases, opening up its palm. A bud of thread holds itself tight in her chest. “....Willow.” Perplexed, her brows draw together. “....I’m–I’m Willow , sir.”

“Willow,” Dante smiles even in to the sigh of her name. Something shifts in the air, like the settling of a floor. Willow’s tangling insides might be a sprawling overgrowth of a wild, unruly garden, slowly climbing and claiming a solitary statue, carefully knitting marble with an insulation of ivy. “Your name’s the cat’s pajamas !” And isn’t it just a fine thing as anything, Willow wordlessly supposes, for your first name somehow not to be rendered an accusation.

Attempting to recover somewhat, Willow at last pockets the money in her satchel. “.....come to Central Park sometime.” Shivers root into her spine. “ That’s where I usually sell. And–and I’ll have more flowers, then, sir .” Desperate not to be misunderstood , Willow’s eyes hesitantly meet the warm autumn of Dante’s eyes with her springshy ones. “Goodbye, mi– Dante.”

Briefly, Willow feels a near-alien hunger, for eyes to fill her up with their gaze. It’s a staggering realization, considering how discomfited she usually is, amidst the thrum of buildings that gleam vertical in mirroid glass. For once, it’s a pleasant thing, to be seen.

“Ya can just call me Dante, Miss Willow. And sounds good–I’ll have to take you up on that sometime!” Dante tips his hat again as he turns to leave. “Top of the morning to ya.” He suddenly comes again to a halt. “Hey, ma’am, do ya need a ride somewh–”

Dante performs an abrupt double-take as his head whirs this way and that–but no Willow in sight. “She’s fast !” Slightly crestfallen, he wanders back over to his friends at a streetcorner. “Gosh, I hope I didn’t offend her just now.” His brow creases as King merely leans back against the grill of Darius’s parked car beside Gus. For as much as Gus and King love giving each other the business, they certainly are exchanging smug looks just now. Dante is perplexed, pocketing the pretty camilla. “What? What?”

Eda lets out a low, long whistle, clapping as she climbs into the front seat of the car. “Gotta say, I’m impressed . Didn’t know ya had that kind of game in you, Fortunato. ”

“....uh, thanks?” Dante balks, wondering if you can possibly be good at a game whose name and rules remain a blank sail of walls to you.

“Maybe it’s only a blessin’ he’s clueless. New York might actually fall to its knees otherwise . And that’s my job.” King whispers furtively to Gus, whom cracks up as they scurry for the backseat. Dante’s lip soon protrudes in a pout as he clamors in. “Eda! The fellahs are teasin’ me!”

“And within good reason,” Eda retorts, making for the accelerator as they speed off. A flower girl watches them go from the boughs of a flowering tree, one of her daisies Dante had said to keep for herself resting on her sternum, between her and herself, where a muscle contracts, at the overflow.

~o*oOo*o~

Tinella Nosa cheerfully beckons them up to her studio like a warm rush of wind, gaelic accent peppered with rhotacism. She’s a petite, bustling woman with long, fiery orange hair, watery-blue eyes, and a beaky nose so prominent she looks positively birdlike as she flaps around the redbrick of her fine apartment to fetch them all cups of tea. Dante turns around in fascination.

Her scattering, magpie’s nest of a workshop is covered in dummies, every object of furniture home to rainbow bolts of fabrics flung over them. Looms and sewing machines, innumerable boxes of buttons, a crate filled with the shivering teeth of needles. Dante approaches a small basket of bolts of thread. “Why, wouldn't ya know it, I had a dream about a thread last night!”

Tinella brightens at once as beady eyes adopt a new gleam. “How lovely ! Thewe awe powehful supawstitions about the binding powaw of thwead, you wealize.”

“‘Nella,” Eda looks like she is trying to refrain from rolling her eyes with all her might as she blocks King from eagerly clamoring upon a nearby sewing machine. “With all due respect, let’s skip the old wives’ tales and dream analysis. I already know ya subscribe to Freudism theories on the latter.”

Tinella sighs, snapping her fingers. “Yewh loss. Ya nevah wewe a womantic at heawt, Eda. No wondah you’ll die an old maid.”

“I find that preferable to dying a young, nosy maid with crochet needles lodged through your chest cavity ,” Eda snaps, making a face when Dante wrestles the telltale appendages out of her hands with a warning look. Tinella then rounds on Gus, whom nearly backs upon a nearby ironing board. “Now, this must be one of the children you whom needs outfitted…?”

Gus gulps. Tinella beckons him upon a nearby stool so she can whip out a measuring tape, consulting a notepad. “A belted Mackinaw jacket while it’s still chilly out will look just wight smawt on you, deawie. Maybe some nice powder blue knitweah, dawk blue bweeches, a pink hat, and some white lace-up boots?”

“As long as the getup’s not plastered in bullet holes, I’ll at least try it.” Gus fervently promises. Dante’s spine is soon commandeered by sheer ice at the most-unprompted memory of Boscha opening fire on them, Gus’s decimated old cloak falling to the ground like a corpse.

Tinella goes for a nearby closet. “Luckily, I think I should have just the thing, with a few altewations hewe and thewe…I’ve got a folding scween if you need to change in priwate.”

“Gus, ya look amazing! ” Dante cheers as Gus shyly emerges seconds later in his new garb, cheeks hot underneath a new, salmon-colored cap. Seconds later, Dante’s smile wavers. “Oh. I almost forgot. Ah, ma’am, can I please get fitted, with a new dress, for Sunday?”

“But ya don’t like wearin’ dresses,” King points out suspiciously as he attempts in vain to work the pedals of the sewing machine. Eda again tugs him back. “King, I don’t have a problem with your wanting to sew. But I’m gonna have a big one if ya lose all yer fingers before medicine figures out how to reattach severed body parts.”

“No.” Dante says softly, attempting a smile. A not-admitting of a wound. “But Mami will be happy.”

“No pwoblem!” Tinella dashes over for a nearby clothing rack just as Gus opens his mouth, looking slightly crestfallen. “We’ve some beawtiful sheath dwesses that have a nice spwing pwint. Vewy pwetty, west assuwed.” Tinella plucks free a lavender-colored dress with pansies from its fellows. “This should be yowh size. Would ya like, to twy it on?”

“Thanks, but I’ll take your word that’ll fit!”

Listless, King wanders over to a lonely little cabinet in the corner of the room covered by a display sheet. A golden padlock is just visible underneath. King draws off the tarp, causing all heads in the room to turn at what manifests beneath it. Gus is awestruck. “ Wow .” A diaphanous whi te gown benea th, glittering as if sequinned with frost, the trail adrift with an ethereal slightness. Gus admires the lacework. “I t looks like something out of Cosmopolitan!”

“Pwease pwetend you didn’t see that .” Tinella reprimands, rushing over to ensure the golden display lock holds. The gown is bloodless, in the way only things displayed underneath glass can possibly be. “I’m hoping the pwess will get lots and lots of photos at the weception, so I’ll get lots and lots of publicity and new customahs.” She gives the gown a look both haggard and fond, like that of an expectant mother regarding their bump. “Pwobably the most extwavagant commission I’ve ever taken on. The mothah-of-the bwide was so specific with the white wose bwocade. White’s simply become fashionable evah since Queen Victowia was mawwied in a white dress, see.”

“Hmph.” Eda turns on her heel. “Forgive me if I ain’t taking fashion advice from a colonizing, genocidal old bitch.” Cringing at herself, Eda holds up a hand. “Your handiwork is lovely, Nella. It is, it just–” Her lashes skim her cheekbones. “...just seems kind of morbid, why anyone would want to look like a haunt on their own wedding day, if ya ask me.”

“Eda?” King tugs at her hem as Dante and Gus shuffle over. King’s amber eyes are anxious. “Ya alright? Yer whiter than usual, which is sayin’ something.”

As it so happens, Eda’s really not of a mind , to confront the darkest part of her psyche today. “Peachy.” She goes for her wallet. “Dante, pick out a dress if that’s what ya want; Gus, ya can go ahead and wear your new clothes home. And I wanna go ahead and place an order for some new overalls for King.”

King brightens. “The King of Demons requests also a flowing mantle sewn from the lost, penitent souls of vanquished foes. And a lollipop.”

Eda almost smiles as she goes for her wallet. “Lemme know what I owe ya, ‘Nells. Let’s get goin’, fellas.” She’s clearly in no mood to linger as she makes for the stairwell. Briefly, new garment box soon in tow, Dante looks back; the tinted glass case briefly superimposes his reflection over a lonely white dress. Shivering, he hurries to join the others outside.

But the road outside Tinella’s apartment is now positively choked with crowds, voices colliding, rippling with the rising-gaiety of a sporting event. Gus is flabbergasted. “What’s all the fuss about? Just look at all these people! But it’s not Shrove Tuesday* till next week.”

“Is there a street fair?” King eagerly whirs around for the sight of vendors, for the telltale, oily-snap of popcorn and frying dough. “Maybe more suffragettes?” Dante pipes up, eyes aglow. “We should pitch in and march with ‘em again if there’s another rally! Show ‘em our support.”

But Eda’s already-sour mood positively curdles beneath a partially-clouding and gunmetal sky, a brutal wind scouring in from the Hudson, fluttering at their cloaks. “Don’t look like we’re as lucky as any of the above. Ugh, I was ‘fraid of this.” Eda’s eyes fall upon the elegantly-brocaded B s of the uniformed lapels of stiffly-assembled guards, flanking the crowd’s perimeter in strategic assortments. “ Figures they’d be giving their speech right on the steps of City Hall. ” She shades her features to glare across the cheering throngs, spilling across the street to the golden dome of New York’s civic center. “Those bastards must be really confident.”

“I can’t see,” King gripes beneath a towering sea of hats, cheering slightly as Dante gently scoops him up, settling him upon his shoulders. Dante squints, in vain, to properly make out the features of the figures upon the distant marbled staircase of the cavernous, marbled building. A young man is speaking haltingly into a megaphone, but Dante can really only catch snippets of jargon from this distance: “ A new future–away from the scourge of organized crime–hand-in-hand–”

King yawns. Gus stands on tiptoe beside them. “Oh, I’ve heard about this in class! New York’s gubernatorial campaigns are this year. The governor’s seat’s up for grabs. Must be a stump speech by one of the candidates.”

“And surprise, surprise–one of the richest families in New York is vying for the Republican nominee. How damn reassuring, that money can buy basic competence.” Eda’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline with alarm as Dante abruptly takes off running into the crowds, King still dangling from his shoulders. “Dante? Where ya going , kid?!”

Perched upon a nearby lamppost, Eber and Raine soberly gaze on. The adjacent crowd almost swallows their diminishing forms from view entirely. Briefly grateful for all the clamor and chaos curtaining them, a scowling Eber leans forward, eyes deadset upon the speaker’s podium. “...you’re entirely sure about this?”

Alador Blight carries a dark walking stick of marbled wood with a silver tip. His smile couldn’t bear water as he bumbles throughout the fervent falterings of a speech in the pinch of his suit. His wife beside him wears a cap with a feathered plume, and a matching, fur-lined dress. She makes up a proprietary shine, as if newly minted in plastic. A red folded handkerchief is perched in her breast pocket like the particularly-bright warning colors of something particularly-venomous. The three Blight children flock their parents from behind the podium.

“There can b-be no d-doubt.” Raine’s delicate features are dominated both by their spectacles, and their pensive frown. “Y-You know KAD would never l-let us d-down. We’ve until N-November the f-fifth t-to act.” Raine fishes ou t a wad of newspaper from their breast pocket that flutters in the wind, squinting at this morning’s society column. Eber lowers his eyes, hair flu ttering. “November the fifth…in England, that’s actually a holiday known as Bonfire Night , or Guy Fawkes Day.” He dully reci tes: “ Remember, remember, the fifth of November/The gunpowder treason and plot–”

“B-But I j-just don’t–” Features crumpling with woe, Raine’s strain soon pockmocks their eyes.“I know w-what’s at s-stake h-here. I do. But t-there must b-be a-another way f-forward.”

Eber bears a look of somber understanding. “Having second thoughts? I promised I wouldn’t hold it against you, ya know.”

“I a-already s-said I’m w-willing, to give my l-life to this c-cause.” Helplessly looking at the gaggle assembled behind Alador, Raine miserably wonders if there could possibly be a path, where laying down your life for freedom didn’t mean paving the way forward with someone else’s bones. “If I c-could j-just g-get, even the b-briefest window, at the likes of that demagogue –” Raine darkly supposes that at the very least, it would not be squandered.

Eber helps himself to some chewing gum to steady his nerves. “....don’t s’pose that Alador Blight meeting with an untimely forecast of Chicago Thunder would be enough dissuasion for the Blights from entering the governor’s race? Among other things?”

Raine’s face is rendered ominous underneath the skewed, chiaroscuro light as their hand performs a death-grip upon the handle of their violin case. “....security too tight, and weather not ideal conditions for sniping.” Raine refrains from mentioning they are not afraid of whom they’ll unsuccessfully strike down–their eyes fleck to the young Blight heirs–but whom they will.

Eber gusts a sigh. “...yeah. I ain’t exactly too keen , myself. I don’t have, any good answers here. I will say, if the Blights win this election, if the wedding goes through–” Eber blows a bubble, pops it again. “–I’d say that New York would become an unmitigated living nightmare. But that’s a misnomer, because it’d imply that there’d be a New York after its fall.”

Briefly, darkness descends like a suffocating mog of static, a lacerating duality of indecision. Raine bows their head, dangerously on the verge of howling on all fours å̸͜s̸̛̘ ̴̡̾á̴̩ ̴̣̽c̴̓ͅȓ̴̡ű̶̩ṡ̶͔h̵̬͆ ̶̫̚o̷͊ͅf̵̧̔ ̸̻͝f̸͚̓â̵ͅt̸̘̄i̸̛̝g̵͛ͅụ̸͋e̵̮͠ ̴̤́c̶̡̑r̶̢͛a̷̅ͅw̵̠̾l̶̪͑s̴͍̈́ ̵̢͐o̵̹͑v̴̳̈́e̵̼͠r̴̟͑.̵͚̐ ̵̪͝I̴͕͌n̷͎̓ẻ̸͕x̸̖͊c̸̽͜ủ̷̱s̵͇̈́a̸͈͋b̶͑ͅl̶̺̔e̵̪͐,̶͇́ ̶͕̍ṳ̷̿n̷̨͝ṗ̸͖á̷̙r̴̬͑d̴̡͐o̴̘̔n̵̩̽ä̸̹́b̶̼̒l̷̘͂e̶̟͆,̸̧̕ ̷̨̉t̷͈̎ó̴̹ ̵̺̔e̶̼͐v̶̯̑e̵̘͋r̵͎̊ ̸͚̉e̸͙̋v̶͓̎ẽ̶͔r̴͔̅ ̶̅ͅe̷̿ͅv̶̍ͅȩ̶͒r̵̰̈́ ̸̝̚h̵͚͠ą̸̅r̵͙̈́m̵̮̓ ̸͕͑ȁ̶̺ ̴͔͘c̴͕͐ḣ̸̝i̴͍̚ľ̴͖ḓ̴͒.̴̫̈́ ̷̲̈́A̸̝̅ṉ̶͆d̵̲̿ ̸̲̈ḫ̵̐o̶̯̿w̵̳͠ ̵̢͌m̸̘̚ă̸̹ṉ̶̆y̴̦͒ ̸̦͗m̶̫͝o̸͎̽r̶̭͐e̷̞͑,̷̮͌ ̴̖̋R̸̍͜ã̶͙i̵̳̅ň̷̫e̵̡͑’̷̲̅s̴̗͘ ̴͉̈́m̵̨̃î̶̧n̴͎̑d̸̦́ ̴̨̈r̷͎͝a̶̠͐n̵̼̚t̸̡͒s̵̹̄ ̸̛̺l̶̥̋i̸̹͘k̵̐ͅe̶̱̕ ̶̡̕t̵͕̕ḧ̸̯́e̸̻͊ ̸͓̈́c̶͛ͅr̸͖̽u̴͕̇e̴͈͗l̵͎̑-̶̤̉s̸͈̉i̵̛̬c̴͉̑k̴̈́ͅ ̷̮̕t̸͇͂h̴̤͝i̴̤̽n̶̻͊g̴̮̅ ̴͕̅t̸̲͋h̶̯̑a̴̫̓t̸͕͠ ̷̧͗i̶̼͠t̷͕͋ ̴͎̿į̶͋s̸̢̆,̷́ͅ ̸̺̍ẘ̸͍i̶͎͑l̴̤̏l̷̲͝ ̵̻̐w̵̡̉a̴̮̚t̵̠̉ć̴͔h̸̝͗ ̴̤̇t̸̋͜ḧ̴̻́e̵̘̍ỉ̶̢r̴̔ͅ ̷̙͝h̷̳̔ǫ̴͝m̵̪̊ȇ̴͙ṣ̷̿ ̷̖̋b̸̼͘u̴̼͊ŕ̶̻n̸͈͝,̴̮̊ ̵̭͑ỉ̷̭f̴́ͅ ̵̢͐n̵͉͠o̵͍̎ ̸͖̾o̴͊ͅn̷̥̏è̴͕ ̷̼̅ṣ̷̓t̵̬̂ȓ̶̠i̸̮̾k̵͚̓e̴̳͌s̶̾ͅ ̵̪̔Ã̴̼l̵̞͌a̴̰̚d̶͎̚o̸̪͋r̶͇̄ ̴̗͝d̷̮͒o̵̞̍ẇ̶̻n̴͈̉ ̷͉̑ņ̵̉o̵̤̽w̷̬̎,̶̢͘ ̶̮͂s̷̡͌t̷͓̕o̸͖͠p̶̲͐s̸̩͑ ̴͈̈́ț̴̆h̵̤͆ḯ̷̮s̷̾ͅ ̷͕͛u̷̧͘n̷̰̒h̴̩́ö̸̬́l̸͙͒ẙ̴̠ ̴̭̄s̶̪̓h̶̨̾ǎ̵̲ṁ̶̼ ̴̧̋o̵̭͝f̴̹̉ ̸̧̓a̸͠ͅ ̴̻̉ư̴̹n̷͉̊ĭ̶̟o̵̘͝n̴̨̔–̶͎̚

“Raine! Eber!” Dante cups his hands over his mouth as he gaily calls out, dashing gleefully to the flickering street lamp. “I thought, and I hoped, it was ya! Hello, hello! I didn’t know ya two were friends!”

The streetlamp bulb light shivers, and then steadies, holds. Shoving his hand in his pocket, Eber nearly topples off in mounting alarm; Raine catches him by the scruff of his shirt to keep him from sailing backwards to the pavement. Blessedly, the scourge of static in Raine’s head briefly lifts, as if in the presence of a strong, clean wind. With alert celerity, Raine whips around, heart easing at the sight of Dante waving furiously down below, a wide-eyed King clutching piggyback atop his shoulders.

“Aw, it’s just Eda’s crew, is all .” Faintly, Eber flops back upon the streetlamp head, near-boneless with relief as he slowly pulls his hands back from his pockets. Wan, his hand falls to his shivering sternum. His heart’s still crescendoing a million miles per minute, brow prickling in a fine sweat.

The gnawing furor of rage gives way to an unexpected swell of tenderness. Now smiling, Raine drops elegantly to the ground, violin case in tow; Dante wastes no time flinging their arms around them. “How d-do you a-always find me a-again?” Raine lilts in genuine wonder, affectionately drawing Dante’s head beneath their chin.

“I have Raine-dar! ” Dante cheerfully proclaims as he pops back, grinning ear-to-ear. “Say, what were ya guys even doing way up there–watchin’ the speech?”

“Oh, in a manner of speaking.” Eber graciously spares Raine from replying. All smiles, he slides down the metal of the lamppost like a firefighter descending a poll before he and Dante hug.

Distracted, Raine gazes, stricken as Edalyn Clawthorne silently approaches, unmistakable among the hordes, like a devotee of a far-off goddess. King co*cks his head from Dante’s back. “Oh, it’s ya again. You’re the one who gave a rose to Eda, the one she kept on her bedside table for weeks on end. Even when it shriveled up and died.”

Eda coughs. Raine’s too thunderstruck to reply, though stray embers of sensation glow inwardly. “She did?” Eber asks coyly with renewed interest. Raine pokes him.

Gus hastens to join them–Raine performs a double-take. “It’s alright–Gus knows now!” Dante chimes breathlessly, pulling back to squeeze Gus’s hand in his own. “So much has happened! Ya wouldn’t believe it! I did my first deal! And, well, granted, things kinda went south when the Ten sent an agent and attempted to kill us all–”

At that, poor Raine’s heart stutters just as badly as their voice. “Why don’t ya just tell the whole damn neighborhood , kid?” Eda snaps reproachfully, regaining her voice. Eyes split with panic, Raine draws Dante back to look for wounds. Dante’s hands fly up. “I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe!”

A matted kind of pleading in his gaze, Raine grits their teeth. “ Sweetheart. Y-You have no i-idea, what y-you’ve just–”

“Wow!” Eber whistles, strategically ignoring the positively- dangerous vibes slicing off Raine just now in his direction. “Lookit you, all breathing and un-slaughtered, little fellah! Why, I just knew those threads would come in handy. Uncle Eber sure is proud of ya!”

Gus is gazing at the nearby lamppost, the touch of disquiet crinkling his demeanor.

“....um. Dare I ask why the heck ya brought your violin case all the way up there ?” Gus asks Raine with a hesitant frown. Gus’s slate dark eyes suspiciously flicker over to city hall. “...a better view of some silly speech isn’t worth your instrument potentially getting damaged.”

Hand lifting to the spin of their profusely-sweating head, Raine presses a smile. “J-Just with m-me in case of a contingency.”

“Contingency.” Eda replies softly, eyes already flashing with a challenge. Raine inwardly flails–trusting Eda not to tell all seems just as reasonable as putting your heart in one's teeth, and bidding them kindly, if you please, not to bite down. Eda sniffs. “Ya bein’ ready for contingencies has me wonderin’ if you’re also ready for any number of foolhardy stunts.”

Raine tights a smile, rendered tender again–this time, tender like a bruise. “But as it so happens, I s-seem to recall p-promising a certain s-someone I’d avoid taking u-unnecessary r-risks if I could help it.”

Air quite-ostensibly now on fire, Eda’s scalding face retracts into her coat at the memory. “Good.” She mumble-murmurs, looking away. “Sorry. I just get so pissed when I hear those misbegotten Blights, I just boil over, is all.”

Slowly, with a guarded precision of expression, Eber looks at Eda, and then to Raine, quipping an eyebrow. “....take it you’re not a fan of the Blights, Eda?”

“Putting it mildly .” Eda’s teeth are set. “Wouldn’t ya know it, I almost owe them a favor; after all, they paid a considerable amount of money in favor of prohibition.” She shakes her head in disgust. “But I ain’t about to go shaking their hands, ‘specially considering all the blood they have on theirs. Ain’t lost on me how many workers have been mangled in those sweatshops.”

She rounds on Gus, Dante, and King. “Fellahs, this goes without saying, but I’d give these evil despots a wide berth if I were ya. And when I say a distance, think of the Grand Canyon, but preferably wider. The Blights’ guard ain’t the type to shoot first and ask questions later, so much as they’re liable to simply shoot, no questions asked at all.”

“I’m bored,” King gripes again, but the way his hands quickly fall over his ears suggests he’s something else entirely. “And on that note,” Gus shakily thrusts a hand in the air. “I for one propose we raise a vote right now: All in favor of dodging the plot and getting some pie?”

“Aye,” Eda grimly agrees as King merrily waves both hands in the air. Eda turns to Dante. “What say you, kid? Kid? Wha now?”

Breathless, peeking up from hus rim of their cap, roars of the crowd muffled to a distant hum in his ears, Dante feels the lurch of his whole body toward the mausoleum of a building. An invisible strain of a thread, an adagio play-plucking on heartstrings, is tugging taut, and desperate, beneath his ribcage, bidding him sweetly forward .

Looking downright alarmed, King snaps his fingers in front of Dante’s face. “Um, so, in case ya didn’t hear just now, ding-dong , imminent death is straight ahead , and pie is thattaway.” Gus races over to block Dante. “Not really sure how ya mix those two up! Snap outta it, pal!”

Panicking, Raine grasps hold of Dante’s arm, just as Eda protectively clasps the youth’s opposite shoulder, halting him in his tracks. Above their common conduit, Eda and Raine gaze at one another. Raine coughs. “ C’-C’-C’mon , s-sweetheart.” Casting one last filthy look at the capital behind them, Raine and Eda warily shepherd the little gaggle away. Dazed, Dante gives his head a little shake. “Eber? Aren’t ya joining us?”

“Well, I’d sure hate to interrupt something.” Eber’s telltale wink surely isn’t lost on Eda and Raine, as they now look Anywhere But At Each Other. “How’s about I catch up to ya later, Raine? There’s still something I wanna do here, anyhow.”

Merrily, Eber waves the party off, waving even as they disappear from view. Hand lowering, his smile soon fades as he watches the looming footsteps of an office dragging a girl back from City Hall by her long brown hair toward a waiting cruiser. Eber’s face is rendered sharp with disgust, hand briefly falling over his red rose to conceal it from view.

“Leggo of me , you actual pig– ” Viney shrieks, thrashing like a trapped silkworm. “I just wanted,” Dark streaks now trace her cheekbones as she flings her head back. “Wanted just a second, just a second –” In the cheers of the crowd, her cry of despair goes almost unheard. “She never would’ve written that letter, you don’t understand– someone made her–!”

Eber gives his head the slightest of jerks. Seconds later, a trash can lid goes hurtling upside the Good Warden Wrath’s head, sending Wrath buckling to the ground.

Pulling free from her loosening restraints, unable to believe her good luck, features flush with tears, Viney turns to gape at Wrath’s motionless bulk. She swivels around, sharps eyes squinting. Three youth are tentatively approaching her from a nearby alleyway, all wearing red roses on their lapels. Eber races over to join the impromptu party. At least something yet, can be salvaged from today.

~o*oOo*o~

The adoring crowd’s applause is like the discordant climb of shattering music in The Rite of Spring. It topples like a pile of plates, at the cold, catacomb recesses of the magnificent building reverberating behind the Blights in amphitheater echoes. Amidst heavy draperies of gold-painted balconies, flanked with archangel statues, marble busts, furious, blinding bursts of press cameras sending powder and lights flying with each photograph, Amity Blight’s gloved hand lifts, as of its own accord. It stops, mid-sternum. Her little, grasping hand, appears, even to her own eye, so perfectly feeble. A concession of longing, when Amity couldn’t tell you what for.

C̶̲̑̿o̷̦͎̥͑̕m̷̨̢̝͋ë̵̜̖͈́̐̌ ̶̻́̔ͅt̴̪͐͜ͅo̸̥͔̥̔ ̵̙̝͊́̌m̷̳̈́͛͝e̴͍̐̄.̸̲̌͛̑͜͜ ̸̳͐̎͝Ç̷̱̳̑o̵̧̠̭̊̽m̴̦͆ȇ̶̪̬̫ ̵̰̞̙̎̀ţ̵̠̂̀̍ǫ̷͌ ̵̨̻́m̷͖̹̦̐̈́͘e̴̠̼̿̾̄.̷̥̮̔́̔ ̸̡̛͎̈́̇

Hair freshly-curled into glossy ringlets, satin wallowing round her shoulders, her chest aches, aches, aches, upon a quivering and receding line, going further and further away, where skyscrapers lift like monoliths, and red brick columns part like canyon rock. Soon her heart-shaped elfin face is cold and drawn. Coolly, she resumes waving, because It Is What Is Done.

The populace whipping off their hats and cheering, pooling at the stairs–they consist of a thousand faces, a hundred thousand faces , like a thundering proscenium full of adoring onlookers. They gape at her now like a prima ballerina instead of a paradigm of failure. And all those faces are strangers, locked in frozen smiles . It brings Ami ty fever, but no delight. She lowers her eyes to her father’s white rose in his lapel, a pale imitation of better men. But wha t are you even supposed to say, to the likes of a family bond by its own mythology?

“Smile, my girl smile. ” Icily-polite, Odalia’s waving hand massages the air, as if a conductor in rhythm to a Chopin waltz. Mother’s eyes hum like oil under display glass. “Emira, what’s the matter with you?” A precision of a smile as Odalia raps her knuckles upon her firs tborn twin’s shoulders from behind . “ Wave.”

“I thought–” Emira bleats, her usual mischievous smile splitting at the ends. Edric takes her by the forearm. Amity quietly turns to her. Emira looks not unlike an unfortunate ballerina Amity once witnessed on the stage during a performance of La Sylphide , merely carted off in a puddle of tulle by her peers, limp arms still splayed an approximation of arabesque. “I thought I heard–someone screa–”

“He’s not here, is he?” Amity asks, sharp as a drawn breath. Her father manages his stone-upon a ledge smile; Odalia‘s face, which briefly betrays the business end of a hot poker, remembers itself.

“Sadly, no. Such a pitiable, missed publicity opportunity.” ​​ The scrape of Odalia’s eyes is a un-voiced warning. “His household sends regrets ; work is keeping him preoccupied.” Work. A fine thing to call it, when one only has a body for violence. Amity’s performance of a nod is labored.

“They sent along a very tasteful necklace in honor of your homecoming.” Odalia tuts as they make for the Royce rolling to the foot of the grand building’s stairs. “ They so look forward to your formal baptism, Amity.” The back doors part, with the deferential bow of a smartly-capped chauffeur in glimmering uniform.

Edric frowns. “About that….um, didn't you and Dad pass a referendum to have anyone whom wasn't Protestant banned from the local country club?”

“Quite right. That was until our li ttle Amity’s being Catholic simply paid better.” Odalia is all smiles as she briefly sculpts a motion with her hands in the plush, sleek interior . Amity wonders from a thousand miles away about the sheer violence of a single human feeling, the songs for the sake of it. Odalia affec tionately pats herself on the bosom. “I took the liberty of composing a very tasteful thank-you note on your behalf.” Odalia frowns seconds la ter when thanks do not emerge. “You’re welcome.”

Her stomach rises to meet Amity’s mouth; her mind treads water, where eddies pull. Soon she’s rushing out the car, past the white wooden chairs of the Blight’s veranda, maids rearranging the white cushions. Amity dashes off, past the parlor, the foyer, stairs with a wrought iron-banister, the paraquettes. “Mittens, can’t we talk?” Edric begs, racing to keep up with her upon the marbled tiled floors.

“Clearly my walking away from you is telling you the contrary .” Amity snaps, keeping her gaze firmly fixated-ahead. “Now, where’s my cat?”

“What cat?” Emira asks blankly, hurriedly backtracking when Amiy whips around in a fury, tendons of her neck going rigid as she fixes an accusa tory look. Edric already looks defeated. “Mittens, please . Ever since our parents got on the campaign trail, we’ve been away more days then we’ve been home–”

“My cat? My Ghost?” Amity’s voice crescendos off the reaching walls. “I specifically asked you to take care of her before I was sent away! When do I ever bother, asking either of you, for any thing?!” Already the word Why, instead of When, is stuck like shrapnel in Amity’s vocal cords.

“Mittens: She’s a cat. I’m sure wherever she is, she’s fine.” Edric holds up his hands. “What did you really do, to get expelled?”

“Hark who’s talking.” Amity sasses, hands flying to her hips. Her relationship with the twins is akin to having knots upon a fancy necklace you attempted in vain to tease out. Until you had the common sense, to toss it back in your jewelry box, and slam the lid shut. “Didn’t exactly stop you both from getting expelled from your schools!”

“Yeah, ‘cause we’re problem children! But Mom told us it was because you cheated on an exam, and to never, ever tell a soul, lest we hope to see the light of day ever again.” Edric protests. “But that just doesn’t make any sense.”

At Amity’s old boarding school, where even the sun fell in disciplined stripes from the dormitory window, one of the girls had been from Russia. She’d had a matryoshka doll, revealing another smaller woman inside her laid bare, and another, even smaller woman laid bare, and another, even tinier woman laid bare, upon a table, for all to see.

“Yeah! You’re a bookworm and an overachiever.” Emira sounds off an agreement. “You get full marks, on your own merit. So, you can’t really have cheated, and I know better to think a telltale like you would’ve seriously flouted the sartorial rules. So–”

Amiy flees, to her quarters, doors accented with pewter as they slam behind her, safely buttressed away. Edric’s cry of “You can’t hide the truth forever, Mittens!” is soon lost in the stifle of this house, which is all one can feasibly hope for in the likes of this stifle of a house.

She stumbles forward. Her trunks from boarding school have already been carried up from the steamer. For all the familiarity of this room, rendered hard in the cooling daylight, these objects are placed together with no coherency. Amity anxiously searches under the bed, in her marbled bathroom, in her closet, longing to curl up under the countless gowns that hang there, as if from a gallows. “ Ghost?”

She strains her eyes against the shapes of a stranger's wallpaper, an antique brocaded mirror. Her eyes fill; the world recedes like chips of colored glass in a kaleidoscope. Her own voice is a tired toy, sick of its own tune. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” She flings open the window. “Ghost? Ghost, where are you?!”

A telltale meow. Leaping from the branch of a nearby tree, Ghost alights upon Ami ty’s windowsill, blue eyes bright. Briefly, even Ami ty is rendered bri ght with rapture. “ There you are!”

Gleeful with relief, Amity cradles the purring cat in her arms, drawing her safely inside. It isn’t long before her features fall. Ghost’s coat is matted, and covered with burrs. “Hasn’t… anyone been taking care of you?” Ami ty blanks as she looks closer at Ghost’s fur. “Oh, you need a ba th!”

She tucks Ghost under her chin. Of course no one at this house could simply be bothered. The one thing Amity had asked for, before being sent away to school. Ghost would’ve been safer had Amity stowed her away in her trunk. How did Ghost possibly survive all this time? “Clever, kitty, you must’ve found some mice when I was away.” Briefly, Amity’s eyes are flecked with surprise. “Say, who put a ribbon on your neck?” Slowly, Amity’s fingertips wander at the little bow at the nape of Ghost’s throat. She almost smiles, but it's beleaguered with sorrow. “I’ll take care of you again.” Amity’s eyes flicker. “...you’re all I have left in the world. Please don’t run off again.” Despondently, her lips twitch when Ghost licks her cheek. “Do you understand me?”

Amity makes for her bathroom, perversely pleased for the prospect of giving a cat a bath. Anything is better, than the prospect of an impending kiss that must resemble smothering a bird. The specter of the greater good looming over the house, like a more unsavory ghost.

Outside Amity’s room, Emira lowers her fist. Amity will doubtlessly not resurface until summoned again by their mother for the next campaign event, this one at the ballet, where the purpose is not to see, so much as it will be to be seen. “.....I thought maybe it’d be different this time, when she came home again.” Dully, Emira wonders, when exactly she’d gotten in the habit, of believing in things that were never going to happen. A girl’s solitary opera glove, still in her writing desk.

“At least we finally have something in common .” Edric agrees solemnly. “But it’s always–” He gestures helplessly to the closed door. “ All over again. You know she wasn’t dying to come home, either.”

“Well, neither were we, exactly .” Emira points out ruefully as Edric buries her face in her shoulder. “But you’re all I have.”

Elbow of shadow rests upon the floor, in dimly-lit antechambers, where the day has turned sallow. Perhaps it always was. Insides freshly flayed and carted, the twins slide down together–it's a kind of sinking, really–in the hallway. From their father’s bedroom, the record playing the final ensemble of the Marriage of Figaro slips into Tortured Stravinsky.

From within her own quarters, there’s the steady peck of a typewriter as Odalia composes a new speech, from her unimpeachable mahogany desk. A soul like God, in the sense that she called the violence of a torn limb holy.

“Maybe it’s not so bad, if life’s a game.” Edric mumbles, his hand so hopelessly reaching for his twin’s. At least games have rules. At least you yet had two choices afforded you: Become either a player, or a toy.

~o*oOo*o~

“....and then, the Coven lunabitch–she had a Potions sigil crest upon her arm–ran off into the night.” Eda attempts with a weak bark of dry laughter. It’s an internal sunburn of guilt as Raine quie tly lays their head upon their folded arms beside her. Eda’s no stranger to disappointing people–but disappointing Raine sharpens itself into a fine edge, inside the stilted silence that pursues them now.

The two are sitting upon the tiny old porch in back of Eda’s home, beneath a sky colored sherbert with dusk. The porch technically once had a name like veranda or some sh*t, but Eda scathingly eschewed such pomposity, considering she isn’t a member of the landed gentry. A pale, creeping trellis of grapevine is shyly working itself up a splintery old beam beside them.

When Raine’s done attempting to drown themselves within their coffee, their hands slowly curl over their cup. “...t-they r eally haven’t r-retaliated? A successful s-sale in their t-territory, the i-injury of one of t-their guardsmen, the destruction of t-their f-factory, and you’ve h-heard n-nothing since?” The Dark Heraldic are lacking in functioning souls, perhaps, but certainly not in brutish creativity.

Eda shakes her head; it’s not lost on her that Raine looks more unsettled for this, not less. “Ain’t heard a peep from the likes of ‘em. Believe you me, I ain’t complaining. About that, anyway. What I am complain’ about is that they found Dante way too quickly for it to have been mere happenstance. I gotta get Hooty to vet the Owl House customers more carefully.” Eda’s eyes lif t themselves to a burning catalyst. “ Might be a traitor in our midst…”

“Perhaps t-this Boscha’s injuries were t-too s-severe from the b-blast, and she s-simply never made it b-back to D-District Seven to r-report the i-incident.” Raine reasons slowly, removing their spectacles, attempting to parse an explanation. A soft constellation of crinkles graze beside Raine’s eyes when deep in thought. Eda represses the crazy urge to press her hand to them. Can you forgive hands, for being hands? “You and I wish.” Eda surely doesn't traffic in bullsh*t.

“He saved t-that awful s-soldier.” Fainly, Raine takes a draft of coffee. They allow the fatigue to slip in their features, and somehow, this feels like an offering on Raine’s part. “Of c-course he d-did.” Pride and sorrow intersect at a stringpiece of light. “He’s t-too tenderhearted, for all t-this.”

“You and I know .” Eda replies with solemn ceremony, with the relish of once again declaring You and I, like gospel. Their mugs glance off each other’s in a toast, as if they drink to a cure. “And what the actual hell can you possibly do?” Her eyes are flecked with fondness. “ These kids are jus t trying to live in a world that’ll only throw ‘em back their own bones. In retrospect, ain’t no wonder why Luz put all her eggs in one casket.”

The last word nearly produces blueberry-dark bruises on the inseam of Raine’s ear canals. “As f-for C-Camila….oh.” It’s a sheer shudder of a sound, rattling the marrow of Raine’s bones. “I c-c-could tell, when I was d-dropping off f-food, she was g-getting w-worse. But–” Raine’s voice plucks the long vibrating string of want. Fumbling for their handkerchief, Raine Looks at Eda. Shivering, Eda for her part wishes that if Raine really is going to hurt her one way or another, that they at least could do it with the consolation of their mouth. “Why are ya lookin’ at me like that?” She’s incredulous at the waste of sorry salt in Raine’s eyes. Emerging night stars appear to have increased their receptivity to gravity above them.

Raine wipes streaming eyes and smiles . “Because I am glad of you.”

Eda stares . That ridiculous, that inane, that dumb, sweet, watery smile, where everything must surely conspire to benediction, might yet be Luz’s . Raine looks over the peeling, flowery veranda, where the two of them might be people praying to one another to unwitting passerby. Raine meets Eda’s eyes. “L-Looking af ter these k-kids, looking a-after C-Camila….you’re a g-good person.”

A sharp retraction in Eda’s ribs. “And that was your first mistake.” Eda warns, attempting to fumble for a cigarette from her bag. Her hand upon her lighter gives up–too easy to burn down the entire house like the box of dry timber it is, like the timber Eda feels in her bones. “....why are you still lookin’ at me like that?”

“Because I b-believe in y-you.” Raine’s gaze mild, but penetrating.

“Welp.” An almost imperceptible wince on Eda’s part as she briefly lights her lighter with a quiver of sparks and flame, playing with fire. “I do believe that was your second .” Nonetheless, the carriage of her torso warms.

Raine leans in, and Eda labors to make communicable sense of anything. “And please b-believe me w-when I s-say: You don’ t have to worry, for S-Sunday. Y-You’re going to do brilliantly .”

“Who’s worried?” Eda snaps ferociously, hurriedly extinguishing her lighter and pocketing it with a sniff. “Ya realize this could also wind up with Luz living here full-time. Weren’t ya pretty insistent not long ago that the kid get the f*ck out of dodge while she still could?”

“That ship has a-already s-sailed,” Raine says sadly, features falling. Foolishly, Eda briefly wonders if Raine’s speaking of more than one kind of ship just now. “There c-can be n-no going back, n-now. It’s safer to have L-Luz and her f-friends where w-we can safely w-watch over them.” We sure implies a lot of things, most of them damnable. “And if the t-tenements t-themselves are m-making Camila worsen, i t m-might only be a matter of time b-before–” Raine canno t continue, nor does Eda press them to. Briefly, Eda takes her temples in hand, and this is a sort of gesture to Raine, in turn. “....I ain’ t no good, at pretending I’m anything but the mess I truly am.”

“Which is why,” Raine murmurs, and Eda dares a look. “I w-would sugges t that you o-only be y-yourself. Real hospitality can’t be b-bought. It can only be g-gently o-offered , Eda.” Raine confers a sort of playful sensuality to her name. It briefly salves the burn in her chest. Then–

“I’ve been thinkin’. Maybe we can just ask Darius to pretend to really own the an tique shop, and have tea with Camila .” Gus suggests falteringly from the next room over as he, Hooty, King, and Luz are gathered around a game of The Landlord’s Game* a t the kitchen table wi th plates of pie . The original rule sheet lost, they opt to simply over throw the bank and redistribute the toy cash to the character pieces. Gus forgets to keep his voice down beside the open window. “ I bet it’d be easy for him, especially when he walks and talks like a visiting duch*ess. Your Mami would be plenty impressed, Luz.”

“See? Ain’t nothing new.” Eda briskly retorts to Raine. She can exonerate yourself a thousand times, and never believe it. No one is going to be impressed by Eda, or, perhaps more accurately, no one thinks her better than she really is. “Even the tots know I can’t do thi–”

Luz lowers her toy money as Hooty and King tousle over the cash. “Eda can pull it off. Doesn’t she always? You’ll see. She’ll dazzle everyone.”

The air ripples melodic when Raine smiles. Eda opts to say nothing, perhaps something old of her yet made new. For a split register of a second, she inwardly glows like a fire pit lit by a survivor. Eda isn’t seeing herself simply through Luz’s eyes, but also through her lighting.

~o*oOo*o~

Far, far too soon, Sunday bursts itself open in a blossoming fit. Luz all but startles awake as if by an operatic blast of horns, in a flailing spasm of limbs, accidentally kicking poor Mami awake in her trouble.

Still, Camila for her part already seems much improved, even giddy as a girl as Luz carefully brushes Mami’s auburn hair to a fine gloss an hour later. Perhaps Camila’s vibrating with excitement is attributable to the fact that there are liberal traces of cannabis in Mami’s coughing medication. Or perhaps it is simply because Camila has had so precious little to look forward to, ever since she’d first taken ill.

Pinning Camila’s hair into a bun, bobby pins in her mouth, Luz inwardly wilts with shame. Even knowing full-well all those staggering, all those limping hours, were all for Mami, how had Camila possibly spent, day after lonely day? Waiting for a child to stumble up the stairs at dusk, spoonfeed her mother some gruel, and then proceed to pass out, sleeping in a sprawl–like someone whom has already fallen off a building? Like asking a dark room if anyone is there.

Sighing, wrapping her own hair up in a scarf, Luz fetches the pretty box from the dressmaker. It isn’t long before the cool of the purple sheath dress goes over her head, along with a pair of white kid gloves. At least the outfit is soft as silk on her skin, and patterned in pansies , a declaration hidden in plain sight. It’s a consolation of sorts, when Luz shifts her bare arms, unsure as a doll.

Camila, on the other hand, is beside herself with joy. A shooting star gleams in her eyes. “Look at you, look at you, mi beautiful princessa !” Camila’s smile fades as Luz opts to play with her rosary instead. “ You never get, anything nice for you. Don’t you feel lovely?”

“Si, Mami.” Compression in her chest works its way to Luz’s eyelids. “Raine’s going to escort us there, today, Mami. Actually, it was Raine whom first introduced me to Miss Clawthorne.” A lie flies out of Luz so fast that it physically rocks her slight stature. This is already making Luz’s cover story more of what it is. Luz wishes she could eat the evidence of such a thought.

“Oh, si ?” Camila lifts, and Luz hopefully narrows again on that anticipation shimmering in her . “Ah, so that’s how you got the job, at the antique shop!” Camila’s smile fixes a warning. “Jury’s s till out, though, until I meet her for myself.”

Luz gulps.

Soon, Camila’s dressed in her Sunday best, a lovely Wob Dwiyet , a ruffled Dominican dress. Luz can’t recall the last time she’d seen it worn. Camila had borrowed one of the neighborhood’s widow dresses after Papi’s death, and then took near-perpetually to her sickbed night dress. Now Camila’s favorite dress takes again its bright yellow, white, and purple patterns upon Camila’s pretty ash-tree skin. It was the same article that Camila had actually been married in years ago. Exaltant on a lift of hope, Luz helps pin Abuela’s old gold broach to pin the matching foulard scarf around Mami. The broach is one of two pieces of jewelry Camila owns in the world, save for her wedding band.

Camila shyly meets her eyes in the Noceda’s old shard of mirror, carefully donning an old ribboned straw hat to finish the look. Radiant, Luz clasps her hands together. “Ya look so happy , Mami!” Gently, she straightens a corner of Camila’s hem.

Flustering, Camila laughs from her bed, waving aside her hand. “Oh, I think you speak only of yourself, mija . I’m just an old widow.”

“Mami, you are thirty-one–”

“But you are very sweet, say such things! Maybe someday, you’ll wear it, too?” Camila hopefully muses, pinprick star eyes briefly misting as she plays with her scarf. “I know our measurements will probably be different come your wedding day, but a dress can always be altered.”

Luz pretends not to have heard as she dashes for the knock at the door. She can barely fling it open fast enough.

~o*oOo*o~

Grimly, Eda trims the lantern upon her dress table; low amber light emanates, as she gives her appearance a critical once-over in her boudoir mirror, adjusting her pendulous earrings, trailing and tear-drop shaped. Her heart beats to the quick march of panic as she looks at her prematurely-stricken hair. Perhaps she ought to have dyed it. Is it harder to outlive your own potential, or to simply come short of it? She dully wonders when exactly the word potential had even entered her waking vocabulary; the way potential must surely haunts Lilith’s lexicon.

Exhaling, Eda retrieves a long ribbon of costume pearls to show off the slope of her neck.

Raine was clearly infatuated with Camila. There, Eda said it. Or if it couldn’t be uttered , or thought, it could be felt . She reaches for the glass of Apple Blood, lipsicking the rim in her wake. Perhaps it couldn’t be that, either.

Still–and call it a morbid curiosity on Eda’s part–she lingers in the memory of glitter, in Luz’s eyes, in Raine’s eyes, and even Gus’s eyes, when they’d all spoken, so fondly, of her . A woman whom has been a sheer concept these past few weeks, someone whom Luz always had to return to, while King would watch her go from the curtain, sunken eyes heartsick. Eda just wonders, t he same way you simply intuitively test yourself for pain after an injury, even poking, provoking, screening for a wound’s echo. Who was that anyway, once put to skin?

Gus knocks at the door. “Showtime, Eda! I can see ‘em approaching from outside.” He turns to King and Hooty beside him in the hall, both of whom wear identical collared shirts and ties. “Remember You aren’t the King of Demons–” He jerks his head to a most-unimpressed King. “–and no hunting the tea guests down with a machete in the woods for sport, Hooty. We’re not looking to reenact The Most Dangerous Game, here.”

Hooty makes a cooing sound in the back of his throat. “I make no promises!”

“Pray tell, preferably-before I suffer another lapse of sanity: Why am I agreeing to this facade ?” King snarks, leaning against the freshly-painted walls.

Gus merely side-eyes him. “I’ve told you and told you: So you don’t have to keep losing Luz every night. I don’t think it’s an accident ya keep getting all mopey at night, right around the time she returns home to Harlem.”

Nose in air, King turns and stalks off a few paces. “....getting warmer.”

Gus already wants a cup of peppermint tea to steady his migraine. “I’ll give you and Hooty all the scones you can eat at the end if you pull this off.” He drives his fist against his hand. “Let’s get into places, everybody!”

King perks up at once. “Sold.”

Taking another gulp of Apple Blood to steady herself– just fake it till you make it, it’s gotten ya this far –Eda pulls on her elbow-length dark gloves. Admittedly, she’s dressed more for the likes of a drag ball than afternoon tea, but it’s reassuring being in the velvet of her hostess clothes just the same, where she radiates in the spotlight. Zipping up her slinky, dark red number that twinkles like wine taken to candlelight, Eda gives her long cigar one last puff. Hesitantly, she slips on her heels.

The doorbell rings. Hooty is so eager he dashes across the threshold even as King trudges, as if to his public execution. Forgetting his strength, Hooty flings open the door with such intensity a pane of decorative glass in the frame swiftly cracks. “Welcome, welcome, to Clawthorne Manor!”

“Oh, my.” Beneath the brim of her hat, Camila raises her hand to her mouth from where sits in her wheelchair, clasping a ribboned parcel upon her lap. Behind her, Luz and Raine watch on wide-eyed as Hooty courtesies, batting his eyelashes. “What a lovely fellow you are. And, what’s your name, young man?”

Clasping Camila’s hand in his own, stooping somberly like a knight swearing fealty to a lady, Hooty’s pale face s woops in a blur mere seconds later until he and a stricken Camila are nearly nose-to-near. “ Definitely not the King of Demons .”

“Hooty!” Luz cries in a mortified stupor, attempting to keep Camila from accidentally falling over in her seat. “If you’ll e-excuse us.” Raine mutters testily, not looking in the least bit amused as they carefully pivot Camila’s wheelchair back from behind. Hooty for his part neither breaks his smile, nor his gaze, pupils shrinking until they threaten to be swallowed whole by his irises. Luz is quick to pacify her mother: “That’s just Hooty , one of the, um, butlers on site. He just takes his job greeting people really seriously.”

Preoccupied with hanging up everyone’s hats and cloaks at the hatstand, Hooty also takes it upon himself to break into song: “I see you when you’re sleeping. And know when you’re awake…”

“And King not seriously enough , it seems,” Gus points out irritably as he hastens outside, casting a silent, sulking King a reproachful look before bending down to hug Camila. “Hola, auntie. So glad you could all make it.”

Straightening her lopsided glasses, heartstrings still trembling, Camila nonetheless kisses Gus on the cheek in greeting. She positively beams as King suspiciously ducks behind Luz. “Hola, chico guapo. How handsome you look, in your little bowtie!”

“The Marquis of Demons has some reservations about there being a stranger in the house.” King warns, ignoring Luz’s pacifying hand through his hair. Gus doubts very much whether poor Luz will have any hair of her own before this is all over.

Undaunted, Camila gestures to the wrapped parcel she carries. “We stopped by a Dominican bakery for some dulce de coco to share with tea . I hope that’s fine by you…?”

King’s eyes shimmer with wonder. “The Marquis of Demons is over his reservations. Get in this house.” He catches the telltale drill of Luz’s stare and huffs. “...please.” He stands by to allow everyone in, slamming the door behind them so hard the brass handles quiver violently, and more shivering fractures appear in the glass above the doorway.

Camila’s eyes are wide with wonder as they take in the freshly-painted pale yellow walls, the warm embroidered rugs and tapestries that now positively pulse their violet patterns upon glimmering lacquered wood. It smells of lemon and beeswax just adrift of dust, fresh ink and old books. Green zinnias sitting upon a side table. The record player plays Für Elise. Poor Raine appears to have noticed none of this, however, eyes dilating behind their glasses as they gape at the stairwell.

Luz could weep with relief. Everyone had come through. A curl of elation sharpens under her ribs. “See, Mami! I told ya this was a good–” She and Gus lean in at the same time, possibly to inhale the same breath of air, to exclaim the same word: “ Whoa!”

Edalyn Clawthorne descends the staircase, a hush descending. Unruly hair has been coaxed into a sleek, sophisticated bun that holds the light. She wears a wine-red dress that hugs her curves, over fishnet stockings. Raine’s features are soon searingly-rendered with a blush. Slowly, Raine looks at the beautiful woman sitting in the wheelchair, to the other beautiful woman descending a staircase. “Are ya alright, Raine?” Gus dubiously poses as Raine takes hold of the nearby banister to steady themselves.

“Hahahaha.” It emerges like a plea on Raine’s part. “O-Oh, I-I’m i–i-in d-d-d-danger.”

“ Hello !” Camila Noceda’s voice trills a vibrato of exalted, expelled emotion from her wheelchair as she waves furiously. “Why, Miss Clawhorne, jus t l ook a t you! How beautiful you look!”

…..Oh.

Pausing, Eda Looks at her, and wonders no longer. Well. Briefly, Eda catches herself upon a now-gleaming banister, palms underneath her gloves prickling furiously. Briefly, her head falls forward, golden eyes put to flight. Her body refuses quite, to unkink. Raine laughs a ripple of laughter of laughter, to the rhythm of coming apart. That sounds about right.

Camila–there can be no mistaking her–is flustered warm with sheer joy, something supple in the soft shape of her remaining even in her condition. And to think, Eda consoled herself beforehand that she could at least rant to Darius later that Camila wasn’t even that pretty, or Raine only likes her because she’s pretty. One of those two. But at the foot of the stairs, Luz’s candle flame of iridescent light looks pretty damn hereditary. This is so unfair, Eda ought to simply fling the etiquette book at Camila here and now.

Blinking, Camila co*cks her head. “Miss Clawthorne. Are you well?”

Eda looks at her. An internal twist makes such a science, upon the movements of living. She descends the stairs to take Camila’s hand in her own. Eda’s face grows softer, fumbles. Luz is beaming with pride, Gus’s mouth is wide with disbelief, because Eda Clawthorne looks like an arriving debutante, a true lady.

And then, Eda opens her mouth.

~o*oOo*o~

“It’s so nice to finally meet you.” Camila is all smiles as they shake hands. “Why, I’ve heard so many things about you, Miss Clawthorne.”

“You take that back,” Eda accuses automatically, whipping away her hand to wave her fist. “I’ll have you know all those near-death experiences were character-building exercises.” Camila blanches.

“Eda, I’m s-sure Miss C-Camila’s h-heard nothing b-but the b-best.” Raine reproves, quipping an eyebrow as Eda deflates somewhat. Camila tries again: “My, but you have a lovely home.”

“Speaking of lovely,” Eda grins and brandishes a pair of finger guns. “I'd like to take you to the movies, but they don't let you bring your own snacks in.”

“It’s just what you’d expect, from a house that’s comfortably-boring to its very foundations,” Luz hastily barrels in, surreptitiously stepping on Eda’s foot. Gus hurriedly steps in: “Yep. I’ll have ya know the most exciting thing ‘around here is watching paint dry!”

Raine resists the urge to bury their face in their hands. “W-why don’t we s-sit, f-for tea?”

Eda needs no prompting to lead them to the little set table. “ This is the parlor.” Eda makes one of those grandiose sweeping hand gestures that she’d seen Hollywood starlets do in talkies, or Darius upon the stage. To Gus’s credit, he’d set the table beautifully with the old china set he and Hooty found whilst cleaning out the attic. Gus cradles a freshly-polished teacup in his hand. Eda had been so evasive, when he asked about the history of this house. Gus wonders briefly if the house doesn’t want it known, either.

“Now, what’s ya poison?” Eda turns expectantly to Camila. “Can my butlers get ya an Apple Blood? Good for what ails and pales you.”

Luz is apoplectic as Camila co*cks her head in confusion. “Why, what’s that?”

“Pretty sure Eda just meant Apple Cider .” They’ve only just sat down, and Luz’s brow is already drenched with sweat . “But we’ll just have tea , thank you.” While Camila is busy exclaiming over a nearby grandfather clock in the corner, and Raine preoccupying themselves with pouring the tea, Luz hisses in Eda’s ear: “Edalyn Clawthorne, ya can’t offer my Mami liquor!”

Eda quips a freshly-penciled brow. “How else are we gonna get through this meal? Why, it seems like the ladylike thing to do.”

Camila has taken notice of Hooty now standing in the corner with a dish towel flung over his arm, as rigid as a drill sergeant. King is gazing at the scones and finger sandwiches upon the table with the saddest of eyes. “Hooty. ..my, what a curious name, young man. Is it Russian?”

“Why, I know Russian!” Eda eagerly pipes in at once. A learned lady of letters, albeit of strictly-bad ones, is sure to impress. “ Хуй, mудак, Гавно–”

“My, my, well done,” Camila coos as Luz picks up a nearby tea strainer, as if considering strangling herself with it. Raine briefly stoops out of sight, as if determined to hide their tremors of laughter beneath the ivory lace of the table cloth. “Say, Miss Clawthorne, what does that mean?”

“Eda!” Gus yelps, giving Eda a jab in the ribs. “Auntie Cammie’s a practicing Catholic!”