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It took three tries for the car to start.

At least the exertion meant she was no longer cold. Still, Atta flicked the heater to full blast in the hope it would dry out her boots some. It made a horrible hissing sound as if mocking her, and blew out only cold air. Atta slammed her fist down on the dash and the whole of the air system shut off.

“Fecker,” she muttered and threw the persnickety car’s gear in reverse.

The streets were still dark, but the flickering dash clock read 5:42 and the sky would begin to lighten all too soon. As she drove, Atta pictured the corpse wobbling and twitching in the boot of the car with every bump in the road, but she hadn’t a second to spare for thoughts of her blasphemy against the dead. She suppressed a laugh. That ship had long since sailed to the Americas.

Nearing her destination, Atta switched off her lights, pulling onto a short gravel drive concealed by a copse of black alder trees.

The first time she’d made this trip, she’d taken the tooth-leafed trees indigenous to Ireland as a sign of good fortune. As a sign that she’d made the right choice.

This morning, they looked like they were mocking her.

Atta bared her teeth right back at them and pulled her car around the back of Achilles House, with its imposing arches and ribbed vaults. Its rough, uneven stone and mullioned windows.

It was a beautiful building, she couldn’t deny that, even if it was unnerving. She slid out of the car, not bothering to close the door, and popped the boot. She’d parked in a way that offered a tidy view of the corpse, and she unwrapped the canvas sheet like she was presenting a gift.

Satisfied, Atta approached the Gothic doorcase that perfectly matched the one facing Merrion Square. Not that she or anyone else ever approached from anywhere other than the concealed back.

Atta banged the open-mawed gargoyle knocker on the thick, polished black wood of the Achilles House door. A long moment passed before she heard the scratchy swivel of a peephole cover sliding against woodgrain. It dropped quickly back into place, and the door creaked open, an increasingly familiar mask coming into view.

They all wore the same plague doctor masks at Achilles House, a clear sign they belonged to one of the secret societies at Trinity, but this anatomist’s was a variation of the classic leather beak and goggles. His mask was stitched in red instead of black. Though Atta had seen some stitched in white as well. It was a way of identifying a ranking system, she presumed.

Gilded as he was by the warm light of the House interior, the black blood on the anatomist’s leather apron looked thick as pitch. He said nothing, the gaslamps framing the door glinting in his round metal goggles as if he was blinking at Atta behind them. He upturned his chin to reveal a dark throat. “Yes?” His voice was muffled by his mask, but easy enough to make out.

“I’ve another cadaver for you.”

“I’ll send someone out.” This Red Stitch never minced words. None of them did. “Payment will be your usual rate.”

He made to close the door, but Atta reached out and pushed against it to find another Mask had joined them, hovering in the foyer. Atta couldn’t tell the colour of this one’s stitches, but it wasn’t red, black, or white. Curious.

“This Infected is different,” she rushed to say. “He showed signs of—” She realised she hadn’t the faintest idea how to explain it. “His lungs had a growth. One of botanical origin.”

The stoic demeanour of the man behind Red Stitch shifted. An unidentifiable thing in his shoulders—a bit like the first twitch of a spooked horse. His posture corrected, and Atta considered maybe she was just seeing things. He shooed away the Red Stitch and met her in the doorway.

Gold. His mask was stitched with shimmering gold.

“Now that is downright mad,” he said, his voice low and menacing, proper and lilting, screaming of old Irish money.

Willing herself not to lash out at the insinuation she’d heard too many times in her twenty-eight years, Atta took a breath before speaking. “I– Sir, I am notmad. I know what it is that I saw.”

Did she, though? She reached into her sodden coat pocket and felt the flora. It was real.

The pain began in her temple this time, a dull thing, growing sharp fangs, and she dropped the blossom to the recesses of her pocket again.

The Gold Stitch came out onto the steps, closing the door behind him and looking over Atta’s shoulder at the corpse in the boot of her car. “Why, pray tell, would you open a cadaver? We cannot provide payment for a desecrated corpse.”

Atta’s trepidation began to boil into something hotter, volatile. “I’ve done no such thing. I’m well-versed in postmortem arts and autopsy. It’s why I’m able to help you at all.” She stood straighter when he looked down his crooked beak mask at her. “I use the very instruments given to me from Achilles House, and I only mean to get to the bottom of the Plague, as you do.” She lifted her chin and added, “Doctor,” for good measure.

The Gold Stitch hissed. “Whatinstrumentsgiven to you?” His words were thick as sludge and something writhed within them.

“I requested them. Instead of money,” Atta explained simply.

“Requested them of whom?”

Not that she knew any of their names or had seen any of their faces, but she knew it was a White Stitch and who knew how many of those there were? Regardless, Atta had no intention of snitching on anyone, but her silence was damning enough. She’d only ever dealt with the same man from tonight and a White Stitch gangly lad.

“I see,” the Gold Stitch said slowly when she never responded. “There will be no payment for this cadaver, and you will return all of the instrumentsin your possession immediately."