On light feet, Gabriel crept across the rooftops toward Asha House. It had all come down to this night. These next few moments would define the rest of her life. Around her, the city pretended to sleep, one eye half-closed, but she could feel it watching.
She wasn't the only one with expectations.
The upper story of the townhouse was dark, the fourth floor had an air of abandonment. She focused on the dormered windows, sliding across the roofs of the neighboring houses, stepping easily from one property to the next. Everything in Telum was built close, shoulder to shoulder, even here among the wealthiest residents. The houses shared walls and yards, carriageways and alleys. It was all laid out, a straight line from river to window, and she had enough time to contemplate the future, watching it get nearer with each step she took.
Her gaze was fixed on the upper story windows. Hair curled at the edges of the low-fitting cap, the brim pulled down to shadow her face, but her eyes, black as her hair, reflected the chill white stare of the stars. She touched the golden dagger, a gift, and adjusted the cap to make sure her braid wouldn't slip free.
The arched window on the fourth floor of the townhouse swung inward at her touch, and she eased inside, the floors creaking. Her breath clouded, winter curling around the corners of the room. Dust sheets swathed large pieces of furniture and boxes. Moonlight exposed shapes beneath the covers, the forms anything from pygmy hippos and giant music boxes to forgotten relics and boxes of unworn shoes. She crossed to the nearest, lifting the edge to look down at a white bassinet. She dropped the sheet, rubbing her hands against her trousers, wiping the feel of emptiness away.
She exhaled. Daniel Cyrus. Born 1858. Only child. She paused. No living relatives.
Facts beat through her with each step. Sounds filtered up from below, movement and laughter. The house should be empty except for Cyrus. But below, muffled voices rose and fell, a woman’s question and a man’s reply. Then silence.
Graduated with honors from the University on the Right Bank.
It was too late to go back.
Tomorrow, Daniel Cyrus would leave the city.
The stairs didn’t make a sound as she eased down and paused in the large room at the bottom. Warm air circulated through the house, brushed across her skin, turning winter into a spectator of the inner world, kept at bay with heavy gas stoves and roaring flames. Light shone through the elaborate stained glass of the front door, purple and garnet red, orange and bright blue. She raced across the ribbon of color, to the closed dining room, the brass handle reflecting her hesitation.
Married Lady Gloria Shine in 1885. No children. Separated 1892. Her heartbeat should be quick, her pulse should race, her breaths should quicken. All remained steady.
She forced herself to be aware, to be present. She touched the patch of skin on her wrist between glove and jacket, the puckered scar a reminder, before reaching for the door. The scent of food, the hardness of brass against her palm, the itch of the leather harness, an ache at the back of her neck, these things told her where she was. Soon to be the right hand of Mayor Silva, the man who would change the status quo. The man with the power to unite a city.
Turning the handle, she was greeted with a rush of warm air. The room flickered, lit with candles. A fire burned in the hearth, a rifle hung above the mantle on brass hooks. The chandelier tinkled, flames trapped in the depths of crystal, throwing shimmering prisms across the painted ceiling.
The door remained open behind her. With his back to it, the man ate, silver clinking against good china. He reached for the half-full glass of wine. When he set it down, it rang against the table, the musical note vibrating in her ear. Beside it a glass of water sat, untouched. Covered dishes cluttered the table, more on the sideboard where decanters stood. The rich scent of cooked beef and butter reached her.
In less than ten steps, she reached him.
His hair glimmered grey at the temples but the rest shone dark and glossy. She drew her knife from the custom sheath flush at her collarbone.
She expelled a shallow breath, sweat tickling between her shoulders.
The man stilled, setting knife and fork down without turning.
"Daniel Cyrus, died 1900." Grabbing a handful of hair, she yanked, exposing his throat. He choked, eyes widening. She slashed. The blade parted skin, veins, muscles, tendons. Blood spurted, poured from the open wound. It surged over her hand, across the front of his clothes and onto his half-eaten dinner. Drops splashed into the wine, the water, swirling into a murky red.
A door in the opposite wall opened.
Gabriel froze. Her hand was wet, the knife dull.
A woman entered, carrying a tray piled high with little cakes and silver dishes of flavored ice. The tray dropped, scattering and bouncing, the ring of all the dishes jarring her from the moment. Gabriel sprinted for the door, sheathing the knife, the blood on her hands sticky, thick and metallic.
She hit the jamb, threw herself through the opening. A loud crack followed, a thud. She stumbled, striking the wall. A burn blossomed high on her shoulder. She ran down the hall, toward the stairs. Up. She needed to get to the waiting window.
Behind her, the woman screamed. Gabriel took the stairs two at a time, hitting them hard. She'd made it outside before she realized the woman hadn’t followed.
She’d stayed behind with Daniel Cyrus.
*
Cool air hit her as she reached the roof, drying sweat and sending a shiver across her flesh. She rubbed her hands on her thighs, smearing blood, using the inside of the jacket to wipe her face. Her shoulder throbbed, and the arm tingled, numbing, as she flexed her fingers.
Telum appeared peaceful, the noise and fury of Asha House isolated. The tangled buildings stretched away in all directions, roof lines a mix of peaked and flat, shuttered dormered windows and skylights. This district was primarily houses, packed together, all of them three or four stories tall and beautiful. Expensive stone, wrought iron, stained glass, balconies and private gardens, narrow side alleys and carriageways, all of it under a thin layer of ice.
The soft glow of gaslight or candlelight slipped out here and there from between curtains and shutters. As far as she could see, there was no one watching; they were silent and turned inward. Here, in the middle of the Right Bank, the night was cool and dim, streetlamps lessened the darkness. But to the west, across the River of Doubt, the night was deeper, expectant, and waiting for her.
The distance between houses had been crossed easily before, without thought, without second guesses. But now blood dripped from her fingers and her shoulder burned, pain stretching up into her neck and jaw. She bit her lip hard enough to break the skin, focusing the pain elsewhere, forcing clarity.
She took a running start for the peaked roof of the next house, pushing herself over blackness, reaching with a failing hand. The slates were slick and she slipped. She landed on a knee and clutched at the roof ridge, tiles biting into her palms. She wanted to lean into the spine of the building, rest her cheek against the tile and close her eyes for a heartbeat, for a breath.
Get up.
Muscles moved as if she were a marionette on steel wires, jerked upright and propelled forward by a dark puppeteer. A break would come later, in safety.
There could be no rest on this side of the river.
In the streets below, gaslight flickered behind frosted glass, houses lighting up, voices being raised. Men in navy blue uniforms stood on corners, lanterns in hand, sharp eyes trained on the shadows. A whistle blew, harsh, breaking through the muttering noise below her, a dog barked, and then another. It was a rising tide, lapping at her heels, building momentum and coming for her.
Ahead, a gap in the buildings yawned, a narrow alley below. Gabriel could make out the top of a shining window, yellow and warm.
The jump was nothing. But when she missed the far ledge, she knew the ground would hurt.