Page 12 of Reap & Sow

Eda looked nondescript and nearly shapeless. She doubted even nosy Ferelith Dunn across the street would recognize her.

Good as it’s going to get.

The disguise was only a precaution. The chances of anyone knowing her beyond Crowgate’s borough limits were slim. But Ben and Lawrie never took chances. Neither would she.

Eda stepped into the hallway. She listened for noise beyond her brothers’ bedroom door. They were used to the sound of creaking floorboards in the night—her ritual visits to the kitchenette or the washroom made sure of it—but she stepped as lightly as she could. Ben had the ears of a bat and seemed especially attuned to her whereabouts or any perceived wrongdoing. Imagine his face when she told him their debt was paid! He’d have to concede that she’d been in the right. Eventually.

In the shop, only moonlight reflecting off puddles outside illuminated her way. She rummaged for the keys behind the counter and unlocked the front door.

Click.

Eda froze, but when no one came investigating, she grabbed a nearby footstool. Standing upon it, she carefully stuffed her kerchief inside the little brass doorbell, tying it around the clapper inside. This had better work.

She stepped down and slowly, slowly, turned the handle.

The door cracked open. The pulley sent the bell rocking, but only a dull thump sounded. She exhaled. Pulled up her hood and slipped outside, locking the door behind her.

Now came the next step—scour a viable haunt.

There were many such places across Blackbridge. Shady taverns, underground dens—anywhere that the hopeless and desperate might flock to like rats. Ben and Lawrie knew most of them. Eda recalled mention of one in particular, south of the river on the border between Crowgate and the neighboring borough of Gaffham. If Crowgate had its rough with its smooth, then Gaffham was abrasive as sharkskin. Wherever her brothers had found Bartholomew, it surely hadn’t been there. Bored noble types often crossed the Shaws’ threshold, drawn by eclectic curiosities that might offer a brief diversion, but most of their dealies were poor.

For the penniless in Blackbridge, there were only two choices: sell the body or sell the soul. Years were easy to give up when you weren’t sure how many you had left anyway—or what they were worth.

Eda passed through a narrow alley beneath an old overstreet bridge. She spied pigeons in the moonlight, their dark shapes roosting beneath its finial-backed roof. The city boasted countless bridges, built as it was over flat wetlands liable to flooding. Scarcely a single building here wasn’t connected to the next by a little overstreet or rooftop walkway.

She pulled her cloak tight.

Eda almost never ventured out this late, and she felt the dissonance at once. Blackbridge came alive at night. Not in the way of vibrant daytime bustle but as a woodland teemed with secret, skulking creatures that only darkness could beckon forth. The buildings slumped against one another like drunks, timber jetties warped with age. Blackened gables merged seamlessly with the night sky, where needle-sharp spires speared the autumn moon. The city towered over everything like a dark cresting wave.

There was little chance of finding a dealie tonight. Ben and Lawrie came out most evenings and still struggled to find anything promising—sometimes for months on end. But she had to start somewhere.

Eda avoided eye contact with wandering vagrants and stepped over shit dumped from chamber pots. A dog shivered in a doorway. Someone bellowed in argument beyond. Nightwalkers gathered around greased windows and whistled at her, smelling of cloying rose and sour ale. A swaying man stood among them; he turned his face from a heaving bosom to leer at her. Eda walked faster.

Just a bit farther…

She knew she’d reached Gaffham when she crossed the arched bridge over Eastside Canal. Black water sloshed below. A mallard quacked somewhere unseen. A gaggle of men belted a rowdy song into the night, sending echoes bouncing over walls. Eda ventured down the main thoroughfare. A few windows were lit from within by candlelight, but most were dark as pitch. I know it’s around here somewhere, but where? Just off the main street, Lawrie had said in passing.

Her head swung left and right, until finally—

Ah.

Down a narrow side street between two storefronts, a broad plasterwork sign was lit from below by a hanging lamp. A spindly hand was painted palm up, reaching out in supplication. Eda wandered closer.

The Crooked Hand.

This was it.

Trepidation rolled down her spine. Don’t cower now, she told herself, or else what was all this for?

Eda took a deep breath.

Time to find one final Pact.

Four

Inside, the Crooked Hand was bustling.

The air hung thick with pipe smoke and raucous laughter, the sticky scent of cheap ale. Eda opened her cloak to better breathe in the warm smog but dared not remove her hood. She saw now why Ben and Lawrie came here. A veritable feast of characters littered the tables and bar, many of whom she’d usually avoid based on appearances alone. No gentleman or noble lady would come within a mile of this place. Not conspicuously, at least.