Good Wednesday.
Early in the morning, I go to Gary's office.
"Gary," I say. A beat. "About Silva."
"Yeah?"
"He has been using memorites to control his students," I say, my fist tightening.
"No doubt," he says, a small breath slipping out.
"You knew?"
"I didn't. But I could guess."
"We should kill him," I say, my voice rising.
A pause. Gary studies my face. Then he leans back in his chair, settling into it.
"Did you find where Silva gets his IAMs?" he asks, flat.
"No."
"Then we observe," he says, quick.
"And his students?"
"Acceptable casualties." His eyes stay on mine.
I nod.
Pulse steady. Jaw locked. Shoulders loose, pretending to be calm.
Gary relases another small breath. He leans forward, his shoulders stiffens.
"Maybe you've seen something. Maybe you're right. But if we don't know where he gets his IAMs…" He pauses. "There will be another Silva."
I leave his lavender-scented office and finish my clerk job for the day.
At night, I lie on my side next to Ashlynn. She lies on hers. We exchange a quiet smile. No words. Just the curve of lips. Just the quiet between us.
Her eyes close as I place my hand on her head, letting my fingers trace her hair. She chuckles softly once or twice, small sounds I could count, before her breathing slows, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Eventually, she falls asleep.
I press my thumb lightly to her lips, making sure.
Then I get up, changing quickly but quietly. Gray coat over black shirt. I glance at her one last time, careful not to wake her.
Outside, the night is cool. I find a carriage and give the jarvy directions: Northern Outskirt Market.
The market is alive, different from the day, though the same. The air is clearer, lanterns casting soft halos along the cobblestones. Drunken voices spill from the taverns, mingling with the clatter of dice and the shuffle of cards. People move along the sidewalk—walking, playing, stumbling—each absorbed in their own chaos. I navigate between them without notice.
The smithshop appears on the side of the street. Inside, the clerk greets me.
"Good Wednesday, Monsieur," he says.
"Good Wednesday," I reply, cutting to the point. "I have a request. I need it ready by tomorrow evening."
"Oh, we can do that. What do you need?"
I cup my hands in front of my chest, forming a round shape. "A retort roughly this size."
The clerk nods and begins to write.
"A long tube, about torso-length." I gesture up and down, giving the sense of scale.
He stops, setting the notes aside. "Excuse me, Monsieur. Are you commissioning a distillery?"
"Yes."
"We can make it, but we'll require assistance from a glassmaker. Extra cost. Is that acceptable?"
"Yes. Can it generate heat?"
"No. But we can order a Trinktek for that purpose. Will that work?"
"Yes."
Satisfied, I leave. The night air greets me again as I head back to the hotel, back to Ashlynn.
Good Thursday.
Margaret doesn't come to work. None of her scary smile can bother me today.
When no one is looking, I slip out, skipping the rest of my duties, and return to the hotel.
Ashlynn sits on the bed. Bodice-fitted red dress—the one we bought. Her favorite.
"I've been waiting," she says, smirk teasing.
"You have?"
"I saw you coming from a distance," she says. "Did they let you come home early?"
I chuckle. Awkward. "Let's not talk about that."
"Do you want to have lunch with me?"
"YES. ABSOLUTELY," I blurt. Her cheeks flush, red creeping across her face.
After that, I change. Crimson suit, high stiff collar, rigid cut. Matches her dress perfectly.
We descend to the lobby. Heads turn. Eyes follow. Jaws drop. People freeze mid-step. Most importantly—Ashlynn looks gorgeous.
A carriage waits. We ride toward the City Heart, leaving the Northern Outskirt and its smog behind.
We arrive, step inside a restaurant, and take a seat by the window. Lantern light filters through the glass, painting Ashlynn's face in gold and red.
I slide into the seat across from her. Her eyes don't leave mine. The quiet stretches for a moment—long enough for the city street outside to hum through the glass.
We call the waitress to make our order.
While waiting, she places her hand on the table. I do the same. She notices and glances at me, biting her lips.
She moves her hand to her right; I follow her. Our hands mirror each other.
Her fingers crawl closer to my hand. Almost there's no space between our fingers.
I lift my hand, grab hers, then shift her palm, holding it gently. Her hand is soft and delicate. She only giggles the whole time.
We don't speak. We don't have to. Our eyes have spoken for us.
A moment passes.
Our orders arrive. The waitress places a plate of well-done steak accompanied by vegetable salads on my side, and a plate of onion soup topped with fried mackerel on Ashlynn's side.
"Enjoy your food, Monsieur and Madam," the waitress says as she leaves us in our bubble.
Ashlynn lifts the spoon. Steam curls up, brushing her cheeks. She tastes it and closes her eyes. I see it in the slight lift of her shoulders, the soft hum escaping her lips—she likes it. Her fingers tighten on the handle. A faint smile tugs at her lips. She stirs it again, slow, careful, savoring each bite.
I try mine. The steak is warm, tender, and firm under my knife. The first bite hits—rich, smoky, a hint of char from the grill. The seasoning is subtle but sharp, each flavor layering without overwhelming.
I chew slowly, noticing the crunch of the vegetables on the side, crisp and fresh, their slight bitterness balancing the richness of the meat. The juices spread across my tongue, warm and comforting.
I swallow. My chest relaxes slightly. The taste lingers. My eyes flick to Ashlynn, still absorbed in her soup. The small smile she gives me when she glances up makes the meal feel warmer.
"Enjoying your food, Monsieur Len?" Ashlynn teases, voice light, playful, lilting, teasing rather than asking. Her lips curve, eyes sparkling with mischief.
At the same time, she nudges her foot against mine under the table. Just enough to brush the toe of her polished shoe against my shoe, deliberate, intimate, without a word. I shift slightly, trying not to grin.
"No, I'm enjoying the view," I say, then pause. My lips press into a thin line. My eyes flick to her, scanning her face as I wait—curious, amused, a touch daring. My brow arches slightly, faint smirk teasing the corner of my mouth.
"And your touch."
She chuckles, light and airy, the sound warming the space between us. The chuckle catches in her throat as she accidentally bites down on a small mackerel bone she hadn't noticed. Her lower lip splits slightly, a bead of blood forming.
I'm on my feet in an instant, moving to her side. Kneeling slightly, I lift my handkerchief and press it gently to her lip, blotting the blood. Her fingers brush against mine, soft, distracted, and she lets out a small, embarrassed laugh.
I slip my handkerchief into my pocket.
Ashlynn leans closer, eyes searching mine, cheeks still flushed from the bite and the laugh. My chest tightens. Instinctively, I lean in as well.
Time narrows. The hum of the restaurant fades.
Our lips meet—soft at first, tentative. Then firmer, urgent. A sharp taste laces through the kiss—her blood, warm, mixing with the sweetness of our mouths. The moment stretches, fragile and heavy, as if the world outside doesn't exist.
Her hand finds my wrist, gripping lightly. I rest my hands on her shoulders, careful, holding her steady against me. The kiss deepens slightly. I can feel her pulse, hear her quiet intake of breath.
When we finally part, our foreheads brush. Neither of us speaks. Just the echo of that first taste, the shared warmth, the tiny tremor in our hands.
After we finish eating, we return to our hotel.
We lie down side by side on the bed. I keep my hands to myself, letting the quiet settle between us. Ashlynn shifts slightly, adjusting her body, and I mirror her movements with careful distance.
We share the same space, close enough to feel each other's warmth, the rise and fall of chests in sync. My hand hovers near her, but I don't touch. She doesn't reach for me either.
Minutes pass. Her breathing slows, even, deepening into sleep. I stay still, watching, listening, feeling the subtle heat of her body next to mine.
Eventually, she exhales softly in her sleep. Her eyes stay closed. I allow myself a small, careful breath. She's asleep.
I rise quietly, careful not to disturb her. My fingers brush over the fabric of my clothes as I change. First, I pull on a long, dark coat, the collar stiff and rising slightly against my neck. I step into brown leather boots, lacing them tightly, the soft creak of leather the only sound. Finally, I place the tricorn hat on my head, the brim shadowing my eyes just enough to make me feel hidden.
I strap a cylindrical bag over my shoulder. The weight settles comfortably.
Inside go my blue student blazer, a fresh shirt and pants, Beatrix's lab key, my revolver, and most important of all my diary.
A cartridge pouch follows—eleven rounds.
Finally, I slip my handkerchief—the one still stained with Ashlynn's blood—into my pocket.
The blood of a loved one.