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Baymouth had kept him longer than anticipated, and Patrick walked back through the tunnels with his canary alone, troubled, thoughtful, forehead pinched to a keen ache.

The associate he’d been due to meet with had never shown. Patrick had waited for over an hour before finally deciding that the man must be dead, when a woman came in his place.

A woman completely disheveled, her housecoat badly stained in blood. Wisps of her hair stuck to her lips. “Your man’s been shot,” she said, her teeth bared in a grimace.

Patrick knew what she meant immediately. “A raid?”

“A bloodbath,” the woman countered. “Yesterday. Fire Charmers and all. We barely got the children away in the tunnel.”

His blood boiled. “How many dead?”

“A thousand at least,” she’d said. “More by mornin’.”

Patrick clenched his fists. “Tomorrow, I’ll be waitin’ here at this same hour. I’ll bring as much bluff as can be carried for the injured.”

“Heard a few of the Lords’ men say they’re headin’ north,” the woman said suddenly. “They might be comin’ your way. If they show up, tell your lot to run,” she said, her voice breaking. “There’ll be no beatin’ ’em.”

Patrick had stared at her for a moment, at the ash and blood smeared across her right ear, at the tears shaking at the rims of her eyes.

“They won’t get within a mile,” he’d told her. “I’ll be here tomorrow. Ensure someone meets me.”

“And if you’re not here?” she’d called after him, desperation cracking her voice.

“Then I’m dead.” His words rebounded off the tunnel walls.

Now, he retraced the path back to Kenton.

Baymouth was largely unguarded bar the artillery Kenton Hill had provided them with.

They were surrounded by sea on one side, cornered on the cliffs.

Easy to pick off. They’d been raided before and recovered.

This latest desperate attempt by the House of Lords was not a prelude.

And if it were, then they would find themselves with less limbs on the hills.

Kenton was safe. There was no way in but one.

And yet, Patrick’s blood pounded. The gas bulbs began to blur as he passed them.

He ran like a boy bolting from his shadow.

But no matter how fast he moved through that tunnel, Kenton seemed no closer. And he was certain, though he couldn’t see how it was possible, that through the walls he heard marching boots, the clack of artillery.

Miss Polly Prescott

To

RIGHT HONORABLE MASTER OF THE NATIONAL ARTISAN HOUSE

Lord Geoffry Tanner

My Lord,

I write this with the expectation that my remit in Kenton Hill be fulfilled, and that I seek safe return to Belavere City.

The Alchemist, Domelius Becker, is dead.

Passage into Kenton Hill can be found underground, using the map coordinates contained.

I urge the House of Lords to come to peace terms with the Union’s members, who I believe will agree to quick surrender rather than see their parish and its civilians suffer.

Polly Prescott