Lizabekt Jones was a woman full of regret and hope in equal measure.

The former, shr found, came in many forms. Just as a wise man had once told her that grief is just love with nowhere to go, so too was regret. For Lizabekt, regret was simply love with nowhere to go.

She carried it all with her in ways that she could manage, in ways that made the memory real, despite the lies. Like telling her lover that her brother had died of consumption, and claiming orphanage at age 12, and skill in handicraft from roadside cons, not churchgirl embroidery.

What she hadn’t expected was that Maple had stories of her own. Lies in some measure, or simply just lighter truths. Some were about herself: yes, I am sober. No, I have never been arrested. Yes, I still observe druidry. Others were, like Lizabekt’s, about others. Her sister. Her mother. Her stepmother.

Liz, however, had thought the past could never catch up to her. Not here. Not now.

She was wrong.

The first signs had come, thankfully, when Maple was away. She was close, too close, to discovering the truth, having been away with her party. Jemmett had already been killed. She did not remember him. He must have come after she had left.

It had been a busy night, the crew all spread across Etterdatch, at Lipkins, or on field patrol. Alice was out, attending to a particularly nasty riot on the south-side of the city, thank Kos, and Liz had been sent back to the house for supplies. The air was cooler here, quieter as she shut the door behind her, climbing the stairs to her room. She thought then, of Maple, and the nights they spent in the attic, Maple scaling the walls like a spider. When she rounded the corner into her side-room, the door was already half open. The shutters here were flimsy, she told herself. It must've been the wind.

As she shut the door behind her, cool air rushed in from the open window. The lit a lamp and began to sift through the piles of clutter everywhere. She'd always told herself she would clean up. That was before things got messy. She kicked aside a pile of old leaflets, trying to find her medical bag, old bandages left beside dried-up lip rouge and open bottles of perfume. A stale piece of bread sat on a plate covered in what used to be jam. It was now covered in a fine, greenish-white fur, as if hosting a small planet.

Maple would've loved this.

Lizabekt, however, did not.

She balanced the plate in her elbow carefully, arms bundled with scrap fabric for slings, and bandages, all cushioning the delicate jars of poultices and pain-killers that Maple had taught her to make. As she reached the last step, a smell hit her. It was acrid, and harsh, and horrifyingly recognisable. She dropped the fabric and ran to the kitchen sink, plate still in hand.

And there, in the basin, lay a smouldering garment, smoke rising off of it in lazy tendrils. Upon lay a small piece of card, gilded and thick, bearing the mark of the Kofanarch. The seventh shawl. The slovenly sister.

They had found her.

She did not sleep well that evening. Sound drummed into her skull like discordant organsong. She considered, very briefly, reaching for the blissfire she had confiscated from Maple weeks ago. She didn't -- at least she thinks she didn't -- she fell in and out of fitful sleep, envisioning her hand, her own hand, separated from herself, thin fingers crawling across the bedsheets like a pale spider, falling into the drawer at her bedside and re-emerging holding the vial on its back, liquid swirling in purple-pink waves. The bottle, laid on its side amongst the pillows uncorked, and the hand, with its bitten down nails, and calloused fingers, pushed her mouth into the stream of blissfire, pooling around her teeth like blood.

That was the kindest of the night-terrors.

She opened her eyes to a forest, dark and cold, where a horse whinnied behind her. She was in her robes, blue pinafore fitting her as if she was still in the body of a child. Her hand flew to her neck, where the cord sat, twisted and heavy against her collarbone. Then came Maple's face, then Alice, and Ellis, and Jules, all twisting into shapes, colours, sounds that she swore she had forgotten. She looked up, and there hanging was Jared, fourteen, with soft grey hair the colour of goosedown. Lizabekt tried to reach out, but her throat was smokestung, eyes watering. The rope creaked, and Jared looked up, at her, eyes pebble-dark and gleaming.

His voice was Clemmie's.

He--or she--may have tried to speak, but all sound was rushing blood in Lizabekt's ears. The rope creaked again, and Jared let out one last strangled sound, before being wound up the bough of the tree, like a needle on the end of a thread being wound up again.

"Agnes."

The branches twisted and curled, head emerging from the night-dark leaves, fingers emerging, wrapping up the rope Jared hung from in a neat little bow. A figure stepped out of the shadows, bathed in smoke that formed a singular hand. And as its acrid fingers cupped her face, she understood before the voice even came from the thing in front of her.

"Come home, our little light."

Her father had come back for her.

When morning finally pried its way through the shutters, Lizabekt felt as though she had been scraped thin. Her tongue was dry, her jaw ached, and her hands--both of them, attached, obedient-- trembled with the memory of movement they had not made. She sat up slowly. The room smelled faintly of smoke, though she had checked the house twice in the night, lamp in hand, searching for embers that weren’t there. Her mind kept returning to the shawl, the card, the way the smoke had curled like a beckoning finger.

She had not seen his face years, not since she’d fled the cloisters with her hair bundled into her brother's cap and her throat raw from screaming. She had thought the Order would forget her, that Clemmie's sacrifice would not be in vain. They had so many girls, after all. So many sisters to break. But not her, Agnes Goodfaith, Templar's daughter, the disobedient child. The seventh shawl. The slovenly sister. the Kofanarch did not forget. They knew now, that it was not her that they had burned.

Liz swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet touched the cold floorboards, grounding her. She breathed in, slow, steady, the way Maple had taught her: in through the nose, out through the teeth, like cooling metal.

Maple.

The thought of her was a knife and a balm. Maple, who climbed walls like a spider and kissed like she was trying to rewrite Liz’s bones. Maple, who would be home soon. Maple, who could not know. Liz dressed quickly, fingers fumbling with the buttons of her shirt. She needed to think. She needed to plan. She needed--

A sound downstairs.

Lizabekt froze, breath caught in her throat. Her heart thudded once, twice, then began to race, each beat a hammer against her ribs. She reached instinctively for the drawer beside her bed, not for the blissfire, but for the small knife she kept tucked beneath a folded handkerchief.

Her fingers brushed the handle.

She crept toward the stairs, each movement careful, silent. The morning light pooled weakly across the landing, illuminating dust motes that drifted like ash. She descended one step, then another, the wood groaning faintly beneath her weight.

At the bottom of the stairs, she paused.

A figure stood in the kitchen doorway.

"Lizabekt?" Their voice was high and melodic. No, Liz thought. That can't be right. He should be calling me Agnes, he should--

"Liz? Where did you go last night? We needed you, South-side was a nightmare." Alice Gray stepped into the light, haloed by her bob of greying blonde hair, chatelaine chiming gently against her hip, patchwork skirt soaked in blood and Gods knew what else. "Liz--hey!"

Lizabekt had already barrelled into the arms of her closest living friend.

"Liz, hey, what's--" Alice stiffened in her arms, feeling the thing clutched in Lizabekt's hands at her back. "Hey," she said, voice firm now, as she gently grasped Liz's wrist and extracted it from around her own self, to where a hard object sat, wrapped in muslin cloth. She scarcely had to breathe before the corner fell away, and the blade beneath it glinted in the weak orange sunrise.

The silence settled around them like a dropped stone.

"Lizabekt? What happened?"

Liz couldn't find the words to reply, everything tangling in her throat and hardening there like spun sugar. So, she settled on the only topic that seemed right.

"How many did we lose last night?"

Alice sighed. "Two. A brother and sister."

Alice had scarcely set the kettle on the stove before the tapping began, a soft, insistent tik-tik-tik against the kitchen windowpane. Lizabekt flinched so hard the knife on the table rattled. Alice, elbow-deep in washing the blood from her hands, didn’t look up at first.

“Probably a branch,” she muttered, voice thick with exhaustion. “Storm last night knocked half the gutters loose.”

Another tik-tik-tik, sharper this time. Liz’s stomach dropped. She knew that rhythm: Maple had taught it to her, tapping it against Liz’s knee during long nights in the attic, laughing when Liz pretended not to care.

Alice finally turned. “That’s not a branch.”

Liz forced her shoulders down from around her ears. “It’s nothing,” she said too quickly, crossing the kitchen, each step deliberate, as if she could choreograph herself into normalcy. Her hands still trembled, so she curled them into fists before reaching for the latch. The window swung open, and a small pigeon, sleek, soot-grey, with a single white feather tucked behind its left wing, hopped onto the sill. Its eyes were far too knowing for Liz’s comfort.

Her throat tightened. It was Poppy, Maple' familiar, or pet, or whatever she had called it. Loyal travelling companion: the gentle lilt of Maple's accent drifted across Liz's mind like a feather, catching in her throat. She swallowed it down.

“Hello, darling,” she whispered, as if greeting a stray. “What’ve you brought?”

The pigeon cooed once, then extended its leg. A tiny scroll was tied there with green thread. Maple’s colour.

Behind her, Alice dried her hands on her skirt. “Maple’s bird?” she asked, voice gentler now. “She must be close.”

Liz’s pulse stuttered as she untied the scroll with careful fingers, pretending her heart wasn’t trying to claw its way out of her chest. The pigeon hopped onto her shoulder, nuzzling her cheek with a familiarity that made Alice smile.

“You two,” Alice said, shaking her head. “Honestly. Maple spoils that thing rotten.”

Liz forced a laugh. It sounded like something cracking.

She unrolled the message.

The handwriting was Maple’s—sharp, looping, impatient.

My darling robin—

We’re a day ahead of schedule. Should be home by nightfall.

Tell Alice to stop stealing my tea.

—Your sparrow

A small doodle of a spider dangled from the signature.

Liz folded the note quickly, too quickly, and tucked it into her pocket before Alice could read the worry in her face.

“Good news,” she said brightly. “They’re coming home.”

Alice’s smile softened into something warm and relieved. “Thank the Gods. South-side’s been hell without her.”

Liz nodded, though the room felt suddenly too small, too bright, too loud. Maple was coming home. Maple, who could read her like a ledger. Maple, who would see the fear in her eyes and know something was wrong.

She turned back to the counter, picking up the knife she’d dropped earlier. “We should eat before the others get back,” she said, trying to sound casual. “You look half-dead.”

Alice snorted. “I feel half-dead.”

The pigeon fluttered down to the table, pecking at a breadcrumb with dainty precision. Liz stroked its head, her movements steady, practiced. Normal.

She could do normal.

She had lied her way through childhood, through the cloisters, through the Order’s fire and her father’s sermons. She could lie now. She had to.

Alice leaned against the counter, watching her with that quiet, perceptive gaze Liz had always found unsettling. “You sure you’re alright? You were shaking earlier.”

Liz smiled. It felt like stretching a bruise. “Just tired.”

Alice didn’t believe her. Liz could see it in the way her friend’s jaw tightened, in the way her fingers tapped against her chatelaine. But Alice didn’t push. The pigeon cooed again, hopping closer to Liz’s hand. She stroked its feathers, grounding herself in the familiar softness.

Alice reached for the kettle. “Tea?”

Liz nodded. “Please.”

She kept her smile steady, her breathing even, her hands still.

Normal. She could pretend normal for a few more hours.

She had to.