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Chapter Text

That night, she didn't sleep. It took several hours for Martin to declare that the room he'd found for her was safe enough, and she spent the time sitting in his office, staring at the fire. Even after he led her down to the bowels of the building, past the kennel door and over to an oddly-placed bust of Holger, she didn't feel sleepy. Exhausted, yes, and very done with being conscious, but there was just enough fear in her to keep her alert.

"Here," Martin said. "You press his eye. The door opens. It can be locked from the inside, and I would like you to do that."

She nodded, watching as the heavy stone door rolled up into the ceiling. The winches that made it move must have been huge. She thought she could hear them rumbling.

It revealed a very bare, very clean room. There was a narrow cot bed, borrowed from the barracks, a desk, and a chair. An old rug was stretched across the floor.

"I would have thought," she said, stepping inside, "that Campbell's private chambers would be more... decorated than this."

"They were," he said, dryly. "You wouldn't have liked it. I had it all cleaned, top to bottom."

"So it's not a private room anymore," she said.

"No, it's not. I would have done it myself, but there was nowhere else I was comfortable putting you." He motioned to a slot up near the ceiling that had been newly filled-in with bricks. "There was a window there. Once we're sure it's safe, I'll have them unbrick it, but it was only street-level. Not the best source of light, or fresh air."

"I understand."

"I'll have your hound retrieved from the apartment in the morning, and set up in one of the kennels across the way," he said. "And I'll bring your food myself, or send Windham to do it. We'll rap on the door, like this," he said, and struck his hand against the wall in a short, but distinctive, pattern. "There is a sword by the cot and a gun in the desk drawer," he added.

"Thank you."

He nodded, trying to hide his grimace. "You'll be here for- several days. You can obviously leave during the day to do your duties around the office, but I'd prefer it if you stayed within the building. We'll sweep your apartment, and I'll get Billie's face posted on every street corner. It should only be a couple days."

"It's fine," she said, sinking into the chair by her desk.

"There's a music box on the bottom of the desk, as well," he added. "Same system as-"

"Thank you, Martin," she repeated. "You should go. Sleep, or set up the raid. I'll be fine."

He hesitated, then shrugged. "Of course. Sleep well, Miss Curnow," he said, and his lips did quirk almost to a smile.

She smiled back, tiredly.

"I'll see you in the morning."

And she did; she napped fitfully, then rose shortly after what she supposed must be sunrise, given the sounds outside her room. No light filtered in and the room was dark aside from her candles, however, and the switch to the electric bulbs was across the room. She resolved to get a few more reliable, easy-to-use lanterns that evening to put by the bed. With the lights fumbled on, she dressed, then received breakfast from Windham.

And then her day began in full.

The raid on Rudshore had only been a partial success. They did find three of Daud's old men in the Commerce building, along with a depleted cache of weapons and supplies. Only one of the men was captured, and he broke the capsule in his tooth before any information could be extracted. Still, Hume and Martin declared it a victory, combined with the wanted posters Martin had printed. If anybody questioned where Martin had received his information, they didn't do it where she could hear. Callista penned an announcement for the propaganda officer, and it boomed across the city that evening.

The infamous assassin Daud was dead, executed by the Abbey of the Everyman; his fellow assassins were routed, their base destroyed. The Regent sent a formal letter thanking the Abbey for its services to Dunwall.

It was a win, to be sure, but when she and Martin toasted over dinner, it felt hollow. It had been an accident, not a concerted effort. Still, if it buoyed the hope of the city...

She was still living out of Campbell's room five days later when, as she finished a patrol around the memorial rooms and headed to the kennels to see Blacky, an Overseer stopped her. She recognized his voice immediately as Jasper's, the Overseer who had attended the interrogation of the Morlish thugs. He held out a letter, saying that it had appeared in one of the watchhouses, addressed to her. Did she want it destroyed, or inspected?

Callista took it without an answer. Jasper's grasp tightened for just a moment before he relinquished his hold. Thanking him, she'd stepped around him and continued on her way to the kennels.

She never made it, however; she pried open the back flap of the envelope, and pulled out another encoded letter. Thirty seconds later, she was safe in the privacy of her room, lights on. She lit one candle, in case its flame was necessary.

And then she decoded, and read.

Dearest Callista,

I never meant to write so soon after my first - and last, I had hoped - letter, but I've received word that not only do you remain in Dunwall, but that you are working alongside the High Overseer. My sources are varied and not all trustworthy, so what I've heard in fits and starts is no doubt wrong, or exaggerated. I can't comprehend a world in which you are feared, and yet there are whispers that you are more dangerous than Teague Martin.

I feel responsible. I told you to go to him for help, and so I sent you straight into his path. I never expected, though, that he would take any interest in you, beyond maybe a passing physical fancy. What has happened?

The news has spread; the Empress is found.

Callista paused, frowning. He had to be close, then, to have heard the news and then passed this letter into her hands in such a short amount of time.

Everywhere, there's some level of rejoicing, but I can't join in. I've heard the Abbey was involved and so, therefore, were you. Which means that you have angered the Lord Regent. You've done Gristol a great service, but I fear the price of it.

We only needed one foolish revolutionary in the family!

I will say it again: Get out of Dunwall. Get out of it quickly. Use your newfound power, if you must, but I beg you not to be seduced by it. Living in a fine set of rooms is better than your tenement, and with the plague raging, you're no doubt safer for it. I understand that, after your small, cramped life as a governess, being able to sip wine and smoke cigars must be like a dream. Abandon it. I've seen what power can do to a man. I won't let it happen to you.

Come to Potterstead. You'll figure out what to do when you arrive. Please. Please, listen to me, Callista.

All my love,

Geoff

She stared down at the letter, then swore and tore it into pieces, before feeding each into the candleflame. She watched the paper curl and blacken, and ignored the echoing feeling in the pit of her stomach.

He didn't understand. He'd never fully understood her dreams and desires and thoughts, of course; he'd judged what was best for her, and stood in the way of all her attempts to go out to sea, or to find work somewhere, anywhere, in the whaling industry. At the time, she'd forgiven him (except for the one bleak day when she found out he'd had a man who had promised to show her the slaughterhouses arrested - she had raged for a week, before finally resigning herself to her studies).

But this wasn't just a lack of understanding. She could have forgiven that. He didn't know the details of her life now, and he wasn't entirely wrong; before Martin, she'd never killed a man, and the greatest threat she'd faced had been men leering at her in the street, or a scuffle that broke out in a tavern while she ate her dinner. He was right that the wine and the cigars were thin comfort, and barely balanced out the horror and danger.

Potterstead, though! To put that in a letter! To imply that the Lord Regent was against the Empire in a letter! The last letter had been dangerous enough, with its list of men she could, perhaps, trust, and confession to his crimes. But he must have been drunk when he'd written this letter, and sent it, or else she had no explanation for the sheer stupidity-

The door rattled in its frame, rolling up to the ceiling, and she looked up to see Martin stepping inside. She waited for the door to close behind him.

"Another letter," she said.

He blinked, taking a moment to shift gears from whatever had brought him to her. "Who delivered it?"

"Overseer Jasper," she said, grimacing. "The envelope showed no signs of being tampered with, but he didn't take many precautions to make that difficult."

"Where is it?"

"Burned to ash."

"You don't look pleased," he said, approaching the desk.

"He gave me a meeting place and accused the Regent of conspiracy," she said. "If anybody read it-"

"Do you still have the envelope?" Martin asked.

"Yes," she said, and handed the oiled parchment over to him. He inspected it, turning it over several times.

"I agree. It doesn't look like it was opened before you," he said at last. "Is this the sort of envelope he would have picked?"

"I'm... not sure," she said.

"It would have been much easier to repackage the letter than to repair the envelope," Martin said, leaning his hip against the desk. "For safety's sake, do nothing mentioned in the letter. Don't even avoid the meeting spot - act as if you never heard of it. Do you understand? I'll keep an eye on Jasper, in the meantime."

"Of course," she said, sagging back in her chair. She closed her eyes, and massaged at her temples. "I just can't figure out why he'd be so stupid, as to write all that he did. But it was his handwriting, his code. It would have been monumentally difficult to fake."

"He's scared," Martin said, reaching out and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. His gloved fingertips brushed her cheekbone. "And he can't stick you in a basement room like I can."

She made a sound low in her throat, then opened her eyes, gazing up at him. "I'd appreciate a break from this, to be honest."

"Billie is still out there," he replied.

"With a wounded leg. If you have to, send me with an escort. I just need some duty that takes me outside the compound."

"Wait a few more days."

"Her leg will have healed more by then. Martin-"

He pulled his hand away, waved it. "Fine," he said.

She frowned in surprise.

"I've got an errand that need to happen."

"And what about your fear?"

"If I were afraid, I'd go tell the feeling to shove itself," Martin said, smirking. "Now- how do you feel about a trip to see the Empress?"

Waverly Boyle's governess of choice was a strange echo of what Callista might have become. She was thin, quiet, highly controlled. She didn't crouch on the floor next to Emily, but instead stood primly nearby, watching the girl struggle with her sums. And when the guard announced Callista, and Emily waved her away, she hesitated only a moment. Her brow furrowed.

When she passed Callista on her way out of the room, she gave her one appraising look, and said nothing.

The guard shut the door behind her, leaving Callista and Emily alone.

"What took you so long?" Emily asked, pushing away her book and climbing out of her chair. "I sent for you this morning."

"I had things to set in order at the Abbey, Your Highness," she replied, easily. Martin hadn't been able to give her the reason behind the summons, though he hoped it was the girl reaching out to them, strengthening their alliance. Burrows, she'd noted with relief upon entering the room, wasn't in attendance. "How may I be of service?"

Emily hopped up into the window seat. She was still dressed all in white, though her clothes were new, now, and finely trimmed with expensive lace. Her hair was pulled back from her face with an elegant headband. "I wanted to know what's going on in the Abbey. Burrows doesn't tell me anything that I believe. He never goes into enough depth, either."

Callista glanced at the door. "This could be delivered publicly, you know. Instead of shutting out the guards-"

"I always shut out the guards," Emily said. "Besides, I don't want to hear what you'd say in public. I want to hear what you'd say to me." Her gaze was still sharp and strong, and when she fixed it on Callista, Callista felt the slight urge to bow.

She resisted, and instead settled into the chair that the governess had vacated. "Very well. The Abbey is increasing its patrols of the city, as we believe that in times of fear, more people will turn to the Outsider, which will, in turn, propagate the plague. We have arrested twenty-eight souls on charges of heresy, and are investigating two others who have been reported but who have been evicted from their homes. Their current locations are unknown, but we usually find people in their situation within three days."

"What does the Watch think?" Emily asked.

"Excuse me?"

"The Watch. Waverly told me the other day that the Watch and the Abbey don't get along very well."

"What do you think of Waverly?"

"She's like Burrows, but I don't think she's picked a side yet. Except she wants my support. I know that. So what about the Watch?"

She was determined.

"We have had... clashes," Callista admitted. "Brief ones. Many of the Overseers on patrol think that the Watch overreaches or doesn't do enough. There is not much order to their objections. The High Overseer and I, of course, support an alliance, but it is taking longer to convince the men of that."

"Is it because Burrows pays the Watch?" Emily asked.

Callista flushed. "Ah- at a basic level, yes."

"It's not actually him paying them, you know. It's the Boyles. Waverly doesn't like who Lydia is funding, though. She says it's leading to more- more- divisiveness. That was the word she used."

"Internally?"

"No, between the Watch and the city. She said that Lydia likes to give it to the passionate people, but the passionate ones are the ones who like to make trouble."

Callista filed that away. "My uncle- if I might speak of him?"

"I liked Captain Curnow."

"I'm... glad to hear it, though don't say it publicly."

Emily beamed, for just a moment. "We're not in public right now, remember? I can say whatever I want."

Callista glanced around, at the service hatch near the top of the wall, and at another side door. She cleared her throat, and came closer. "But perhaps not so loudly. People could still be listening."

"... I know." Emily's smile turned sour, grim, then fell completely. "But your uncle?"

She nodded. "He did not approve of how the Overseers were acting. He said they were causing more fear than they were settling, and that they were often brutal to innocent people. Beyond that, though, they were arrogant, and did not appreciate the Watch. As for the Watch... many of them had lost family to the Overseers, or just thought that the Overseers were all uncontrollable zealots. So there were clashes."

"Is that all true?"

"As far as I can see, yes. We're working to leash our men more. Campbell was a poor influence on them."

"Is that why your uncle killed him?"

Callista considered, then nodded.

"I hated him anyway," Emily sighed. "But that's good. I don't want people to be scared. I want the Outsider stamped out, because he helped kill my mother, but I want the people to be safe, not... scared. The only person I want to be scared is Burrows."

"Your thoughts are good, Your Highness." She looked at the girl's drawn features, the twist in her fingers as she clutched at the hem of her breeches. "... But you should take time to relax. To find your balance."

"I don't get time for that," she said, shrugging. "It's all sums and geography and history, then talking with Burrows, then meals with him or with other people I don't want to see. And when I sleep, I-" She cut herself off, shook her head. "I like drawing, though."

"Drawing is very good."

Emily nodded, nibbling at her bottom lip. She clearly wasn't sure how much she wanted to confide in Callista. She had her personal, internal life locked down tight, letting out only the determination and rage.

How she must cry at night, when she's alone, Callista thought, but said nothing.

"A woman came to paint my portrait yesterday," Emily said, propping her chin on her fist, legs swinging as she twisted and looked out the window.

"A woman?" Callista asked, frowning. "Not the Royal Physician?"

"No, he's supposed to come next week."

"Who was the woman?" Callista asked, running through the list of known associates of the Regent. No artists were on it, save for Lydia Boyle and her skill with the harpsichord. Certainly no painters.

"Her name was Delilah. She used to be a friend of my mother's, I think. She told me nice stories."

Callista's hand stilled on her knees. "Delilah?"

"Yeah. She had short hair, and was really, really pale. And wore gloves. I didn't know you could wear gloves and paint."

Witch, her thoughts hissed. That was, if Billie could be believed - but given the frustration and desperation that had been in her voice whenever she'd talked about Delilah the witch, Callista couldn't find a reason to doubt her. This was the woman, then, who had brought down the Empress's killer and his whole order.

Maybe it was nothing. If she really had been an old friend of Jessamine Kaldwin's... if she'd known who Daud had killed...

"Her sketches were really nice," Emily continued. "Burrows hired her. She said he had known her as a girl, too. I think she said something about being Sokolov's apprentice? I left then, though."

"Did you ever feel unsafe?"

Emily shrugged. "Not really. She was weird, I guess. Distant. Spoke strangely. But Sokolov's strange, too. Maybe it's something in the paint. Mother always told me not to eat my crayons and pigments."

"She was a smart woman," Callista agreed, slowly rising from her chair. "Have you been drawing?"

"Sort of." Emily turned to look at her. "My governess doesn't approve of it because she says I should only draw when it's time for art lessons, but Lady Boyle told her to knock it off."

"Can I see?"

"It's private," Emily said.

"Of course," Callista said with as soft a smile as she could manage.

"You look different," Emily said, kicking her legs against the windowseat's bulk, the strike of her heels drawing dull booming sounds from what must have been a storage space. "You kind of looked like a governess the last time I saw you. Now you don't."

"Well, you still look every inch the Empress, my lady," Callista said, straightening uncomfortably.

"Have you killed anybody?"

Callista opened her mouth, but couldn't find words.

"You look like you've killed people. I think, anyway. You don't look mean, though. Not like the man who killed my mother."

Ah. There was an opening. "I have some good news for you, my lady."

It was Emily's turn to go very still.

Callista approached, and dropped to one knee before her. "The man who killed your mother- did you ever see his face, behind the whaling mask he wore?"

Emily nodded, slowly. "He didn't wear one."

"Was his face craggy and marked with scars? Did he wear a red coat, and black gloves?"

She nodded again, hands clutching the hem of her shirt.

"He is dead, my Empress. The High Overseer shot him through the skull. His name was Daud, and we have routed his men, the ones wearing the masks."

Emily didn't move, but she let out a high, soft whine. Her expression grew rigid and tight as she fought to control herself.

"Before he died, he was pathetic, stumbling and falling before us. He suffered."

"Good," Emily whispered.

"His name was Daud," she repeated. "And we have our suspicions as to who paid him. He was a hired assassin."

"It was Burrows, wasn't it?" Emily asked in a sharp, cracked whisper, leaning forward. "It was him, wasn't it?"

Callista considered. Could the girl be trusted to control herself around the man, if she had her suspicions confirmed? It wouldn't matter what Callista told her, though- she would always suspect. She was a clever girl.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, almost certainly."

"I knew it. I knew he had something to do with it. I heard the Pendletons talking about him- and he was always so bitter to mother- I'll kill him," Emily replied, her voice becoming cold and calm. "I'll stab a pencil in his eye. I'll gut him. I'll-"

"There are other ways," Callista said, reaching out with one hand. Emily didn't flinch, so she settled it on the girl's shoulder. "A man like him fears being discovered, and having everything he has built stripped from him, more than he fears death. Although he fears death a great deal, you're right. The High Overseer and I-"

"I want him dead, Miss Curnow. Make the High Overseer shoot him like he shot D-Daud."

"Wouldn't you rather see him in chains?"

"If he's in chains, he can always escape," Emily replied, brow furrowing.

Callista swallowed. "I can't make the High Overseer do anything, your Highness- and I don't think he will believe killing the Regent himself would be good for the city."

"I don't care about the city!"

"You will," Callista said, squeezing the girl's shoulder.

Emily fell silent, mouth working, jaw clenched, fidgeting as she thought. She was filled with rage and frustrated power, power she believed with all her might was rightfully hers. It was a dangerous combination for such a young girl, who couldn't be expected to control all her impulses forever.

"Then tell me," Emily said, "the name of somebody like Daud. Somebody I can hire to kill for me. Or somebody like the Pendletons, who I can hire and use and then abandon if it gets dangerous. I need people like that. He has people like that. Maybe even that painter-"

Callista grimaced. "Lady Emily-"

"Tell me. I order it. I command it."

"... I know of a woman named Billie," she said, looking away. "Though I don't know how to find her, and I know that she's injured. The Abbey is searching for her now. She used to work with Daud."

"Can she appear and disappear like him?" Emily asked. "I think- I think I remember a woman, from when they-"

The words fell off.

"No, she can't," Callista said. Was it better that she didn't think Billie had been involved? "She might not even be in the city anymore, though."

"That's the best you have to offer?" Emily asked, and Callista looked up to see her scowling.

"It is. I'm sorry."

Emily sighed, then nodded. "It will have to do. I want you to find her-"

"I can't," Callista said.

"Why not?"

"Because she broke into my apartment, and if- when Martin finds her, he'll have her killed," Callista responded. "This isn't something we can do for you. The Abbey is searching for her to strike her down, not to hire her for the you."

Emily hunched down in her seat, thinking. "He'd kill her for you?"

"Yes."

"He's a lot like Corvo, then. For my mom. Isn't he?"

"I think there's... quite a bit of difference," Callista said, flushing.

"But he likes you and he's determined to make sure you're safe. That's... really good. I think."

Callista said nothing.

Emily watched her, then shrugged and looked out the window again. "You can go, I guess. I'll have somebody else find her for me."

"Be careful with who you ask."

"I'm not a child, Miss Curnow," she said, and for a moment, Callista almost believed it.

She let herself out of the room.

It was drizzling when Callista stepped out of the car a few blocks from Sokolov's apartment, and she tugged up her collar against an errant chill. In another month it would be truly warm again, bordering on hot, but the rains would only pick up in intensity as the wet season began in truth. The dry cold of a few months before seemed like a distant dream.

There was only half a chance that Sokolov would even be in residence, she reminded herself as she walked quickly across the street and turned a corner. He could be at the Cat, or the Royal Academy, or any number of other places. It would have been better to send him a note, scheduling her next sitting for the painting, but Emily's contorted features were burning in her brain. A terrified, angry girl, in proximity to a possible witch…

She couldn't leave it be.

There were guards out front of Sokolov's building. That was reassuring. She passed under the awning and pulled her identification papers out of her pocket.

"Callista Curnow, assistant to the High Overseer," she announced.

"Outsider's eyes," one of the guards said.

Oh. Reginald Black.

"He wasn't joking, was he?" Black said, coming down a few steps closer. "About the assistant bit? And here I thought that was code for-"

"You'll do well to watch your tongue, Officer Black."

"Captain Black," he said, flushing red. "You're here to see the doctor?"

"Yes, if he's in. I just have a few questions for him." She straightened, held her head a little higher. She knew she looked impeccable, save for the dampness from the rain. Her uniform was pressed and starched, her leather belt was polished, the sash and banner brilliant red and hanging proudly around her waist. She kept her expression very still.

"He's in, but he has company."

"I won't be long," she said.

He inspected her closely, then turned away, shaking his head. "Right. I'll buzz up."

He glanced back at her a few more times as he spoke into an intercom, and Callista waited, fighting every urge to fidget. It was important that she maintain a calm, confident air around the Watch, both because of her uncle and because of the more widespread tensions in the city. Besides, it was just a bit thrilling to show this man, who had nearly arrested her, who had mocked her, just how far she had come. She wished she kept cigars on her, as Martin did, even though this was hardly the time or place.

Reginald stepped away from the intercom box. "Right. He'll see you. Go on in."

"Thank you, Captain Black," she said, and waited for him to open the door. He did so after only a few seconds' silent protest.

She was met by a maid just inside the door, who led her up the stairs to the library they'd sat in briefly the last time she'd visited. There were two half-empty glasses on the table, Callista noted, one of which held an amber liquid – maybe the Kings Street Brandy that Martin had sent over, given the shape of the glass? – while another held a pungently fragrant wine. There were lipstick marks on the wine glass.

The maid didn't move to clear them away. Afraid to waste the alcohol when the glasses' owners might return soon?

Callista strolled along the bookshelves, idly worrying at one of the seams of her gloves. There were books on the sea here that she had never seen before; manuscripts and monographs on leviathans and other deep beasts, treatises on the uses of whaling oil, field journals of trips to Pandyssia. Her teacher's mind stirred at all the knowledge on offer. For the briefest moment, she considered what it would have been like if the Academies had accepted women, and if she'd known they held just as much knowledge about whaling as the ships at sea did. Maybe things could have been different.

"Well, what is it?" Sokolov interrupted, and she turned to face the doorway. His lady called wasn't with him, whoever she was. "If it's your portrait, it will have to wait. Schedule it ahead of time."

"It's not the portrait. I have a few questions for you, though."

"Are letters not good enough for the Abbey these days?"

She frowned. Ornery man, she though; he'd been decent enough the other night, but now she felt just as pinned by his glower as when he'd commented on her resemblance to a plague rat. "Letters can be read, and I was already in the neighborhood." A lie, but an easy one. They were growing simpler by the day to manage. "Did you know that Lady Emily is having her portrait painted?"

"Yes, two days from now. It's on my calendar, Miss Curnow. I'd appreciate it if you would-"

"Not by you," she said.

The words hung in the air, thick and liquid and moldering. Sokolov's glower turned to a scowl, before he shrugged and turned away. "Not unheard of, exactly."

"So you weren't aware, then, that a woman named Delilah had her sit for a portrait?"

"Delilah!" he responded with a bark of incredulous laughter. "Really, Delilah? Who the Void recommended her?"

"So you know her?" Good; Emily might've been right about the apprentice bit. Originally, she'd supposed he might know her because he'd helped schedule her, but while his lack of awareness about her was worrying (did Burrows no longer trust him?), perhaps this was better.

"She was one of my apprentices, and she knew Jessamine," Sokolov said, picking up his cup of brandy. He sniffed. "Very bold, that one, but I can't imagine why Hiram would hire her. He's a traditionalist. She's… emphatically not."

"No?"

"No, she uses bright colors, and sees strange planes in people's faces. Her work looks- possessed."

Callista frowned. "Bright colors. I- may have seen her work before, then," she said, seeing before her the portrait in Barrister Timsh's stairwell, and the painting he had fretted over that had been returned to him. "Do you know if she ever painted Arnold Timsh?"

Sokolov snorted. "You know, he's probably who recommended her to Hiram. Before she left the fold, so to speak, she already had him wrapped around her finger."

"Did you ever think she might have an interest in the Outsider?"

"Hm." He finished off his glass, then set it aside. "She once told me my own interest in the Void was foolish fancy. But given her paintings, and the way she shut herself away… it's possible. Definitely possible. Why?"

"Because there are rumors that she's a witch," she said, lifting her chin. "And, of course, a witch couldn't be allowed to paint the Empress's portrait."

"Hmph. I suppose not. If I were you, though, I'd look into how Hiram found her; if it's through Timsh, the arresting her for heresy either won't work or will anger the Lord Regent. And I'm guessing you don't want that?"

Callista frowned. "I want the safety of the Empress, first and foremost."

"Of course," Sokolov said, reaching for a dish of nuts set out.

"Thank you for your assistance."

"Martin," he replied, "sent me a very nice set of artefacts yesterday."

And you're afraid of being replaced at court, Callista added, silently.

"But if you'll excuse me, I have a portrait to get back to," he said. "I'll have the maid show you out."

"I can find my own way, I think," she said, leaving the bookshelf. By the time she reached the door to the hall, Sokolov had his mouth open to protest, but before he could speak or she could exit the room, Lydia Boyle reached the threshold.

Callista blinked, rapidly, wracking her brain to make sure her identification was correct. It wasn't Waverly, of course, and Esma was supposed to be the great beauty of the three. Lydia - if it was Lydia - was plainer than Waverly, but had a mischievous smile, and fine fingers - suited to a harpsichord player.

Callista inclined her head.

"Lady Boyle."

"This is Miss Curnow, from the Abbey," Sokolov said, clearing his throat. He sounded less than pleased.

"Yes, we've met," Lady Boyle said. "Briefly, at Attano's execution. The weeks seem to have treated you well, Miss Curnow. Adapting to Abbey life?"

"Well enough," Callista said, straightening. "And I should be getting back, in fact."

"Do stay," Lady Boyle said. "Have you seen Anton at work? He's a master with a brush."

"I have," she said. "In fact, we have a portrait in progress."

"Do you," she purred. "I thought I was the only canvas in his studio."

Callista hesitated. Was it bad form to admit to that? She glanced to Sokolov, who was hiding his scowl by turning to pour himself more brandy.

Brandy from the High Overseer, and not from the Regent or his lover.

Ah. "Of the High Overseer," Callista said. "He's often busy, so I drop by on occasion to consult on the details that can be taken care of without him here to pose."

"Be careful, Miss Curnow. Anton is very good about getting fine ladies alone and naked in his studio," Lady Boyle said with a small laugh. She left unsaid, Rumors are a dangerous thing, you know - there are bad reasons to be associated with powerful men.

Yes, this woman's goals were quite different from Waverly's. It made Waverly seem like an ally by comparison. Callista filed the observation away. "It is a good thing, then, that the Abbey teaches self-control and denial. I believe I can withstand whatever temptations he dangles before me." She said it with as light a smile as she could manage.

Sokolov snorted. "Miss Curnow," he said, "is hardly my type. And, as she said, she has business to attend to. The Abbey does not run itself."

"No," Lady Boyle said. "I suppose it doesn't. Though with the populace dwindling, I can't imagine its coffers are very full anymore. Do let me know if the High Overseer would like to talk finances, hm?"

"We are self-sufficient, Lady Boyle. We are not like the City Watch."

"Well, the offer is open," she said, and shrugged.

Callista said nothing in response.

Lady Boyle waited just a moment longer, then waved a hand. "I'll see you upstairs then, Anton?"

He grunted in response, but she was already gone. Callista moved to follow her, but stopped as Sokolov's hand closed around her wrist.

"Do not mention you saw her here," he said, voice low. "Her coming down here was a test. Her position is an open secret, but if you spread it, she could use it against you."

"Discretion. I understand," she said, eyes fixed on the path Boyle had taken.

"I'm having a maid escort you out, so you don't get your nose into anything else you can't handle," he said, and reached for the pull by the door. She heard a bell ring in the distance. "And next time, schedule, Miss Curnow."

"I will. How about tomorrow morning, for my portrait?"

"I'm giving a lecture," he said.

"I'll come."

He shook his head. "No Abbey representatives in the Academy. It hampers the progress of science."

"I can come dressed down."

"No women, either."

The maid's footsteps sounded in the hall, and Sokolov let go. "The day after," he said.

"The day after, then. Around lunch?"

Her only answer was a hmph low in his chest.

The maid appeared in the door, and beckoned for Callista to follow. She did, out in the hall, then back into the kitchen. Callista frowned at the new path, but didn't question it, instead following the maid toward what looked like the pantry. There was likely a servant's stair. The front door, though, would have put her somewhere where the Watch could see her leav-

Arms seized her from behind, and she swore, jerking her body forward, bending at the waist, trying to unbalance her assailant. She shouted, once, but the maid had turned lunged across the distance between them. She had a rag in one hand, and she swatted Callista's kicking legs aside.

The maid covered her face with the rag, and it stank of rot and chemicals. She redoubled her efforts, shouting and kicking out against the woman in front of her holding it in place. She turned her body, sharply, trying to break free of the man behind her. But as she kicked and struggled, her movements became erratic. Her thoughts turned sluggish and contorted.

Her eyelids fluttered.

She went limp.

Chapter Text

She opened her eyes to a dim, grey patch of sky several stories above her. The ground beneath her was paved, but poorly, and long ago; the cement was cracked and broken, and wet things grew in the fissures. She worked her fingers against the cement, against the moss, as her thoughts tumbled back into a sort of order close enough to thought for her to move.

Her nose and mouth itched, burned, then itched again. She worked her lips. They hurt, and she hissed in pain, narrowing her eyes. They felt swollen, too, though not nearly so bad.

The opening above her grew darker as a thicker cloud passed overhead. Then it grew lighter again. A thin shaft of sunlight broke through, and sliced across her cheeks. She could feel the distant warmth for only a few moments before it faded again.

She had to attempt sitting. The effort it took to move her arms and back were monumental, and when she first managed to get her head off the pavement, her vision swam so badly she had to count to one hundred three times before she could try again. The next wasn’t as bad, and the third found her upright at last. She took a slow, careful inventory. Her uniform was still in place, though the belt and red sash had been removed. She still had her boots, her gloves. Her hair was still - nominally - pinned up. Her gun was gone, of course. It had been holstered on her belt, just like her knife.

The patch above her was almost a perfect square, she realized as she squinted upwards. The aperture looked like it had once been symmetrical, but there were spaces removed along the edge, distorting the outline.

If she turned her head, every brick wall seemed to meet another, and if she leaned-

She fell, and cried out as her shoulder struck the ground. The concrete wasn’t clean. Beneath and around the moss was a layer of soot and refuse that had been wetted and pressed down more times than she cared to guess at.

She was in an old alleyway, blocked in as the city's population had expanded. The buildings on every side of her had doors, but they were long-ago bricked or boarded up, save for one that looked heavy, unbreakable. Callista pushed herself upright, craning her head again. The windows, too, were sealed, save maybe for one or two well above the level she could climb.

Damn.

Slowly, she climbed to her feet. She dusted off her hands, and turned in a small circle. By the heavy door, she could see what looked like a tray. She approached cautiously, glancing around. Her kidnappers- they’d been Sokolov’s help. A maid, and... who?

She couldn’t remember.

Reaching the door, she crouched down. The tray was simple, metal, and old. On it was a single bowl.

She stared at the fetid slop inside of it, calculating and weighing her options. She could - probably should - refuse to eat. The gruel seemed to writhe, and she could already feel the diseased maggots squirming down her throat. If it wasn't worms, if it was just her fears, it could always still be contaminated with plague or feces or any number of horrible things.

And besides, Martin would find her. She was still in the city, after all. He would tear the foundations apart to find her. Eventually, they'd realize she was blocked into a no-name patch of road that hadn't seen foot traffic in years, and likely was surrounded on all sides by plague-condemned houses-

Shit .

She could only go so long without food or water, and if she refused now, there was a chance they'd never offer her even maggots again. Her eyes watered as she stared down at the gruel, and her limbs protested as she crouched before it.

It was imperative to figure out what her captors wanted, and how she was going to get out. If she ate the infested food, she'd gain a small amount of strength, but the sickness would take over soon after. If she was here for days, though, that small amount of strength would probably sustain her despite the sickness; better to be alive and incapacitated than starved to death.

Right?

She'd had her increased rations of elixir diligently for the last few days, but would it protect her when she could no longer take her doses? She didn't know the theory well enough. Her stomach twisted, and she looked away as she caught sight of something wriggling beneath the milky film of the dish. Breathing through her mouth brought no relief; she could taste the rot on the air.

Callista staggered away from the bowl, and found herself a dry place to sit, tucked against one of the walls, and waited for her the bile to settle in the heavy center of her belly again.

The possibilities, as far as she could catalogue them:these were Burrows' men. These were Boyle's men. These were contacts of the boys from Morley. These were assassins sent by Billie Lurk.

These were assassins sent by little Emily.

She rubbed furiously at her face, the tension in her forehead and stomach tying her thoughts into knots. She had to get out soon. The longer she stayed here, the greater the chance that Martin would realize something had happened, and the more he risked becoming impulsive, anxious, stupid. He would try to tear the city apart looking for her, but she couldn't count on him to find her. She had no idea how sloppy her captors had been. For all she knew, there would be no trail. If they were smart , there would be no trail.

Rising, she paced to each door, and tested the seals on each. Her fingers scrabbled against rotten wood that was just a bit too firm to be pulled apart, and against nails and metal beams and bricks. Sometimes, mortar crumbled or wood groaned, but never enough, not even when she shoved her whole weight into it, panting and cursing. Then she tried to climb to the various windows, casting her gloves aside, but each time her fingers slid against the brick, and she fell hard to the ground below.

Lying on her back, she thought she could hear whispers. She went very still despite the throbbing pain along her spine, holding her breath. She could make out voices, but not words. Never words.

The rhythm of the voices seemed odd. Accented? Another language? She could hold her breath no longer and gasped for air, and when she stilled again, the sound was gone.

Night fell.

Bright, unrelenting light woke her. She startled from the bed she’d made for herself beneath the eaves of one of the alley’s buildings, a mess of discarded refuse that wasn’t entirely rotten and a bed of slick moss. High above, from one of the windows, a floodlight shone down on her, blotting out all sight and thought as she squinted, blinked, crawled her way towards what she hoped was darkness.

But there seemed to be no escape. Even as her vision cleared and she could make out the details of the cement beneath her fingers, she couldn’t find more than a few inches of shadow aside from the unattainable night sky far above. Her eyes burned. She could hear voices again, closer than before, and she instinctively groped her way into the center of the alley, away from whoever was inside the nearby building.

She’d fallen asleep, fitfully, hours after daylight had failed. There were rats nearby; she could still hear them skittering and chittering somewhere in the walls or maybe in the piles of garbage she hadn’t overturned. The light would keep them away, she thought, as she struggled up to her feet. Standing, the light was still nearly blinding, but she could make out more of her surroundings.

If anybody was in the window that the floodlight was perched in, though, they were made invisible by the lamp. She shielded her eyes with her hand, peering. Was there a silhouette, at least?

“Hey!” she shouted, and found her voice rough and rasping. She’d shouted herself hoarse earlier in the night, and had gotten nothing in return. The same was true now. She turned, slowly, inspecting the walls of her prison.

The light remained on.

Its strength rendered all the remaining windows opaque, and any shadows twisted and strange. She wrapped her arms around herself, hunching down to hide her face and shadow her eyes. It was a military-grade floodlight, like the kind installed at the Abbey or at Coldridge. Fear, hunger and thirst addled her thoughts, and the lack of sleep made what was left fuzzy and indistinct, but military-grade connected with Burrows , and she latched onto the hope that Burrows being involved would make it easier for Martin to find her.

Surely mad, powerless assassins wouldn’t play games like this.

She paced, fretfully tugging at her uniform, working pins out of her hair. Her skin was smudged with dirt, her hair damp and tangled from the bed she’d made. She felt less than human, and she combed her fingers through her hair in a desperate attempt to give it some order. Clenching her fists, the pins dug into her palms. They could be useful, she decided, then glanced back up at the light, eyes nearly shut, looking for any sign of an observer.

No, she had to assume there was one. Later, then. Later, she could dry the main door. She didn’t know how to pick locks, but she’d read enough penny novels to know that an enterprising lady should be able to do it with hair pins, and she certainly had enough to try.

She stuck them back into a quick, tight bun to ensure she didn’t lose them.

She resumed her pacing.

Periodically, she paused, called out to somebody, anybody , but even the muffled conversations inside the building didn’t respond, not even to pause or grow louder over the sound of her voice. Maybe they were audiograph recordings, she thought, played to make her desperate, drive her out of rational thought. Constant conversations, constant hints that somebody could hear her, that somebody was ignoring her. It was more comforting to believe that than the alternative, so she clung to it as well, building up her beliefs like a raft, lashing each to its fellows with whatever tenuous ropes of logic she could draw from herself.

The light never dimmed, and after what felt like hours, she hurled curses at it. When pre-dawn rain began to fall in a cold, light drizzle, it didn’t obscure the light. It refracted it, surrounding her in a blinding halo, and it was only then that she crouched, wrapped her arms around her knees, and began to cry.

Her hair was wet and slicked to her face when, at last, the light switched off. She was left blind again, unable to parse the darkness, not caring.

She tilted her head back, and opened her mouth.

It was the first water she’d had since she’d woken up, and it tasted of iron and soot. Her throat worked, her tongue moved along her lips to swipe up every droplet, and it was not enough.

She wedged herself beneath an overhang and tried to sleep.

At first, sleep was an escape, freedom from the loneliness and fear and deprivation, freedom from the bowl of gruel that was now diluted with runoff from the roofs and that writhed more clearly now, but that looked more and more tempting every moment she was awake. It stilled the hunger pangs, insulated her from the cold, and let her retreat for a few minutes, a few hours.

Then the nightmares began. They came fast, and lucid, and there was no escape from them; she woke up from one and into another, and when she knew she was truly awake, she grew fearful of the day when there would be no distinction. She dreamed in perfect detail of being strapped into the torture chair of the interrogation room, of having Martin flay off her skin inch by inch, informing her solemnly that it had to be done for the safety of his office. She dreamed of being lost at sea, clinging to a quickly-disintegrating raft. She dreamed of a wide, cold, dead place, empty and frozen, where something’s eyes were always fixed on her.

And she dreamed of eating the gruel, the maggots burrowing into her throat, of blood running from her mouth and eyes, of her body taking in the filth and giving filth back out to the world.

When she woke, she tried the door, again and again. She tried one hair pin, two, every combination and arrangement she could think of, but they kept breaking, or she dropped them from her shaking hands and lost them in the muck. The rain went, then returned, then went again. The conversations in the walls moved. Nobody came to the windows.

Her last hairpin broke, and she howled, and threw herself against the door.

Nothing answered.

She had only seen three rats, though, and they looked small, normal. There were small mercies. The bowl, too, was overturned, though she didn’t remember if she’d kicked it or if she’d crawled to it half asleep and sucked down the contents. She didn’t want to remember.

As the thin sunlight began to fade, she tried to climb the walls. She threw her gloves aside and wedged her fingers between the bricks where the mortar was gone or would crumble with the slightest touch. She managed to get to a windowsill, but the hole into the building was sealed with heavy boards.

She swore and, clinging to the window frame, she turned slowly, searching for a better window.

The sill creaked, groaned.

It gave way, and she tumbled down, hands scrabbling at the bricks. It slowed her fall, but not enough. She crashed into the dumpster she’d used to get herself up the first few feet, and was too exhausted to cry out in pain. She rolled to the ground, hugging herself, only capable of breathing.

She didn’t try again.

Night came again, and Callista watched the window from the night before. It took several hours – or maybe more, or maybe less – but the flood light turned on once more. Callista stared directly at it until she could bear to no longer, then struggled to her feet. She limped to the dumpster, and tried to open the top. She could escape the light if she could get inside.

It had been bolted shut. She sank to her knees. It was too heavy to move; there was no chance she could pull it away from the wall and get behind it. The most she could do was turn towards it, hide her face against it, but then the conversations would get louder or she would hear rats, and she would turn again.

By the time morning came and the light was shut off again, Callista couldn’t entirely remember much of what was beyond the walls. She’d given up fantasizing about the whiskey and cigars waiting for her when she escaped, and she’d given up thinking about Martin’s touch, or his bellowing voice as he came to her rescue. It wouldn’t happen.

She would die in this hole, or she would rot into something else. She was too tired to remain herself.

She dozed on and off the next day. It was dry, and she had resigned herself to suffering enough that it seemed oppressive, heavy, but constant. She could handle constant. If she had eaten the gruel, it was already through her. The cramping had been bad, bad enough to drown out the pain in her hip, but it was gone. Now she was only hungry and desperately thirsty, and the panic was only intermittent.

Once, she woke to find another tray. She crawled her way over to it, and stared at the bowl set out for her. This one didn’t seem to move, but she couldn’t focus enough to be sure. She drank it down. The hunger and thirst grew loud when there was none left, but soon settled into something easier to bear.

It was early evening when she got on her feet again, and paced slowly around her prison. There was the blood left as her fingers had scraped along the brick as she fell. There was the window with the floodlight. There was where most of the conversations happened.

There was the door she hadn’t been able to open.

She stopped in front of it, and leaned heavily against the metal. Her hand found the knob out of habit, out of a desperate need to feel something, interact with something. Her fingers slid along the metal, her wrist pressed forward-

And the door opened.

She nearly fell through. She grasped at the edge of the door, stunned and shaking, staring at the hallway beyond it. It was empty. There was a door at the other end. It looked like the door to the street.

Callista glanced over her shoulder, back at the hole. She was supposed to be stuck in there. Burrows would have had guards posted. Burrows would have...

Not done things this way.

Brow furrowed in concentration and pain, and staggered into the hall. She braced herself against the wall and made her way slowly towards the other door. Far off, she could hear a sort of humming, a thrumming that settled into her shaking bones.

It grew louder as she reached the door.

It didn’t lead out to the street. She’d been foolish to believe it would – the building couldn’t have been so narrow. But a strange light shone along its edges, and she tried the latch. It gave, easily, and opened up onto a room bathed in purple light, with a shrine of nets and bones and fine cloths nestled in the corner.

She closed the door again, blocking out the intense unease and intoxication that the thrumming was stirring up in her gut. She lurched to one side, down another hall, and kept looking for the exit.

Cultists .

She’d never met any. She’d only ever heard rumors. For all her weeks at the Abbey, and for all her uncle’s work, she’d never seen a deep, old shrine. The knowledge of its location twisted at her, worked at her sanity. It would be easy to go back, to lie down before it, to ask for some kind of salvation.

She wouldn’t get it. She would only get the same foul gruel, the same tortures designed to make her weak, susceptible.

No, she had to find the door.

It was only at the end of the hall; she knew that, could see the golden light of day shining in beneath it. It was found. And yet her thoughts kept turning, her body kept turning. Her legs threatened to give. If she fell, she knew she would crawl back to the shrine. Maybe even to the prison.

So she kept walking, until, at last, her hand closed around the knob, and it, too, gave. She staggered out onto the street, soaked in shit, red-eyed, exhausted. The neighborhood was unfamiliar, but she didn’t care about street signs. She only cared about finding a member of the Watch, an Overseer, anybody.

She didn’t notice Farley Havelock, in a fresh, new uniform, until he reached out and called her name.

Later, he'd tell her that she'd been almost unrecognizable except for the stark black of her uniform, and that he'd immediately taken her to the nearest rail station, and went with her all the way to Holger. But all Callista remembered was a deep surge of relief, and then nothingness.

Chapter Text

She remembered, vaguely, Anton Sokolov hovering over her, prodding her flesh and opening her mouth so that she could drink something sharp and acrid that immediately made her vomit. She didn't remember the vomiting. Everything painful seemed to disappear in a haze, and everything complicated became muted and dull. What was important was that after her first attempt to escape the lamplight, they dimmed the room and she could sleep. They bandaged her leg and her fingertips, and somebody washed her with a damp cloth. She remembered a few awkward trips to the bathroom, where she sat on the chamberpot shivering and bent down over her knees, and where she sat in a chair with her head tilted back as somebody - Martin? - poured warm water on her hair and scalp, and worked a little more of the filth off of her.

Then she was left in a bed with the lights low but not entirely off, and she fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. Her body felt empty, light, and thin, but the sheets were soft, and there was no rain or blinding light. Whatever dreams or nightmares she might have had, they stayed away, or were drowned in the depths of her weariness.

When she woke again, it was the middle of the night. The room was dim, but not entirely dark. The lamp by the bed had been turned down as low as it would go, and it had a heavy shade. She stretched out a hand toward the light, and wiggled her fingers in it, watching the light dance on the bandages.

“Awake?”

She lifted her head, twisting to look over her shoulder. On the other side of the bed, Martin sat in the armchair from his sitting room. She couldn’t remember the noise it must have made, being dragged across the floor, but he looked like he had been sitting there for some time.

Martin . Martin’s armchair. That meant this was Martin’s bed. She rolled over to face him, then winced, hissing, as it jarred her leg.

“The bone’s not broken,” he murmured. “Just bruised. But there’s a cane for you, if you want it. Are you hungry?”

She nodded. “Yes,” she tried, her voice not even a whisper, more a strange starting and stopping of air. She swallowed. Her throat was rough and swollen. “Water?”

“Not too much at once,” Martin said, as he stood up and paced over to a dresser. It was beyond the small ring of light from the lamp, so she could only make out the barest hint of his silhouette. She could hear him pouring the water, though, and he returned at a slow, steady pace.

He sat down lightly on the edge of the bed. “Do you need help sitting up?”

“I…”

She tried, and she managed to get herself upright, but she wavered. He slipped his arm around her back, and brought the glass to her lips. She lifted on trembling hand to touch the bottom of the glass, to help orient herself to it, then closed her eyes and drank deeply.

He tilted the glass away a few times, to slow her drinking, and eventually he pulled the glass from her reach entirely. It hadn’t been empty yet, and she whined.

“Not too much at once,” he repeated, softly. “Now for food.”

He was patient with her. Callista struggled to swallow down bits of bread, but when she managed three small pieces, he spread a bit of salted fish paste on the fourth. It tasted sharp and strong, even though she knew that, four days ago, it would have been bland to her. Her throat worked. It caught partway down, and she coughed. Martin held her steady, and the moment passed.

She couldn’t track how long he spent feeding her, and she remembered, later, falling asleep at least once, leaning against him with her head tucked against his shoulder. Eventually, she’d managed enough bread and water, and he settled her against the pillows once more. She slept again.

The next time she woke, it was morning. The lamp was off, but the windows were only partly unshuttered. Martin was nowhere to be seen. She lingered in bed and the light from the windows grew stronger. At last, sleep seeming impossible and her stomach rumbling, ready for more bread and paste, she wriggled her way to the edge of the bed. She swung her legs over, and stood up, then immediately sat back down as her thoughts turned fuzzy with the rushing of a hundred storm drains filling with the winter rains.

She took a few deep breaths and waited for her vision to clear, then stood again. There was a cane nearby, like Martin had said. She took it, and made her way, haltingly, out to the sitting room.

Martin was sitting at his desk, which was piled high with paperwork. There was a glass of whiskey by his left elbow despite the early hour, and as she approached from an angle, she could see he hadn’t shaved. His pen scribbled his signature across the easier orders, then hesitated as he heard her cane thumping faintly against the rug.

“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was starting to come back, but half her vowels still lodged in her throat.

He turned in his seat, and he watched her for a few moments, drinking in the sight of her- what? Standing?

Then he pushed back his chair and stood. “How are you feeling?”

“… Better,” she said. “Still hazy.”

He nodded, his shoulders tense, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Then his self-control broke, and he crossed the space between them with a few long strides and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against his chest.

“What happened?” he breathed against her hair. His arms didn’t relax, and she leaned into him, hands curling into the fabric of his uniform. She closed her eyes.

“I…”

“Who took you?”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “Cultists.”

“Cultists?”

“There was a shrine- but I never saw anybody. One of Sokolov’s maids… one of his maids, and some man I never saw took me from Sokolov’s apartment near Kaldwin Bridge. They drugged me. I woke up in a boxed in alley.” Tucking her forehead against his shoulder, she let the rest come out like a litany, or a confession. She told him about the blinding light at night, the conversations in the walls, the gruel and the rats. With each detail, his arms wrapped more tightly around her - until they didn’t. With the last of the details, her description of the shrine and the unlocked doors, his arms loosened, and he lifted his head. She glanced up to find him staring at the far wall, brow furrowed, analyzing and dissecting her story.

“Martin?”

He twitched, then looked down at her. He worked his jaw a moment, then brought up a smile for her. “Let’s get you in a bath,” he said. “I’ll have the kitchens send up some food.”

“Whoever brings it will see-“

“Very few people know you’re here,” he said. “The official report is that you’re being attended to at a private hospital. I’m ordering for myself only.”

Callista frowned, then nodded.

“Besides,” Martin said, “I’m starting to not care who knows.”

She hesitated a moment before saying, “Except that it makes me a target.”

Martin had no response for her. He was still for a few breaths, then let go of her, and stalked off towards the bathroom. She heard the pipes in the walls rattle to life, and she focused on her breathing, and on keeping her balance. Only when she was sure she was in control of herself did she begin making her halting way to the bathroom.

She found him crouched by the side of the tub, dropping a small amount of fragrant oil into the water. The scent was strong, nearly overwhelming, but it began to die as more water rushed into the tub. She limped further into the room, and leaned against the sink to steady herself, then reached up to begin fumbling with the shift she was wearing.

“No, let me,” Martin said, rising from the floor and coming over to her. He took the hem of her shift and dragged it up, careful not to touch her skin beneath. When he pulled it over her head, her world went white, caught in the fabric, and she felt herself begin to slide to one side.

He jerked into motion, then, catching his arm around her waist. She relaxed into his hold, trusting him to support her as he worked her bandages off.

He didn’t let go of her again until he’d helped her into the tub, and even then, one hand stayed close to her shoulder.

She relaxed into the warm water, wriggling her fingers and toes, inspecting herself. She was covered in scrapes and bruises, and her ribs seemed to stand out more than normal, though she’d only been a few days without food. The terror seemed to have eaten away at her, and when she thought about it, it threatened to come back. But there had been a blessing in how far she’d left herself behind in that hole; the memory of her fear seemed distant, belonging to another life.

Martin left her only once, when he heard the main door open and he went to greet the Overseer who had brought up his breakfast. Callista listened to their short, terse conversation, but the words ran together. She didn’t care what they spoke of, only that soon, Martin returned. He fed her bits of fruit, and chunks of bread, and he held a cup of watered down juice to her lips, which she drank eagerly.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured as he brushed his thumb against her cheek, catching an errant droplet of nectar.

She couldn’t find a response. I thought I was going to die ? I was ready to die ?

“I’m not ready to lose you,” he added, leaning in and kissing the crown of her head. When he pulled back, she looked up to find him with his eyes shut, expression pained.

"I've learned," she offered, slowly, "to defend myself."

“You shouldn’t have had to. We’re supposed to be untouchable,” he said, shaking his head and pulling away. He began loosening the toggles of his jacket, and she watched as he shucked his belt and undressed down to his undershirt. She’d rarely seen him so bare, with his bandages still peeking out from under his shirt. “ Untouchable ,” he repeated, to himself. He raked a hand through his hair, then settled onto his knees behind her. His hands were gentle as he slid them over her skin, washing away whatever filth still clung to her.

“It will happen, one day,” she said. “You told me yourself- that soon we’ll be steady, that people will have more to lose by our injury than by our preservation.” As she spoke the words, she turned her belief to them. It was an important thing to remember. It was necessary for their survival.

“Of course,” he replied, but his tone was less than certain, his gaze distant.

Whatever he was thinking about, she didn’t have the room for in her aching body and exhausted mind. She splayed her hands in the water, willed herself to relax, and was silent. He answered her with the same, quietly eating his breakfast.

When he was finished, he reached into the tub again, stroking along her upper arm before scooping her into his embrace. He helped her out of the water, and dried her with soft towels. She insisted on wrapping herself in the fine cloth robe he offered, but let him lead her out to the main room, where she settled down in the armchair. He draped blankets around her.

The chair brought back memories of what now seemed, almost laughably, like simpler times, when they’d only plotted to rescue an Empress, when she had felt almost endlessly powerful, if only she could grasp the subtleties of her new life. He didn’t settle at her feet this time, though, instead walking over to his desk and idly shuffling through pages there. Looking for something to say, no doubt; his words seemed to be caught in a tight knot just below his jaw, his emotions straining to break free of his control.

He was so frightened.

“You never did tell me how you joined the Abbey,” she said.

He huffed a faint laugh. “Now is hardly the time.”

“I want to know,” she said. “And it’s distant. Not a problem that has to be solved.”

Martin hesitated, then turned, leaning his hip against the desk. “It’s a short, simple story. I met an Overseer who was dying, who had been out on his own for months. It was an accident that I met him at all. I talked to him, and I heard where he was going - out of Morley, out to Gristol - and I decided I wanted that. So instead of bandaging his wounds, I took his mask, and his uniform, and his name.”

She let the image sit in her brain. Knowing Martin, it wasn't half so simple, or so easy. There was a fair chance he'd had a knife to the Overseer's throat the whole time, or that he'd lied to the man, talked sweetly until he'd given up entirely. It was a far cry from the Trials she'd read about, the records of what young boys faced when selected by the Abbey, but he'd been harrowed in his own ways. It had left him with the peculiar balance of fear and anger and confidence that made him successful.

It was so much easier to think about him than to think about the yawning gulf of the past few days, and she relaxed into the chair.

“So Teague Martin isn’t your real name?”

He quirked a brow. “Of course it’s real.”

“But it’s not what your mother named you,” she said, lightly.

“No,” he said. “No, it’s not.” He drummed his fingers on the table, then shrugged. "But what my mother named me won't give you any insight into me. My name is Teague. The part of me I left behind-"

"Is just that. Behind you," she said.

If he flinched, slightly, and had to resist the urge to look over his damaged shoulder, she didn't fault him.

He approached her again, settling his hand on the back of her chair. He reached down, tilting her chin up to him, inspecting the drawn, tired lines of her face. "I tore two districts apart looking for you," he murmured, letting a sliver of his emotions leak out. His expression went slack with relief. "I didn't stop looking for you."

She tried to smile, but it was difficult, so instead she reached up and touched the back of his hand. "I know."

That he failed was something she didn't want to think about. Instead, she curled her fingers around his wrist, and drew him closer to her. He bent over her, caging her in with his body, and she relaxed in the shelter of his shadow.

He rested his forehead against hers. "Sometimes I think that my life- that this - would be easier without you. That I'd be able to think more clearly. But the last few days-"

Her breath caught in her chest.

"I need you," he said, exhaled, his shoulders sagging. "Void take me, but I need you. I'd lose my mind without you."

There were a hundred things she could say. The most professional, she supposed, would be to remind him that her absence had only driven him mad because she'd twisted him up beforehand, that he would have, in time, began to think in straighter lines. But she didn't want to be professional. Their professionalism was a fun game, but after days alone, dying, she didn't care as much about games anymore.

So she said nothing, and instead tilted her head up, ghosting her lips against his.

The words I love you came to mind, but they caught beneath her tongue. They were dangerous words, words that made her vulnerable, that could spook him, that could bring everything down around their ears.

She couldn't say them.

"I want to go back," she said instead, softly. "To where it happened. I want to find whoever took me."

"I'll do that for you," he vowed.

"No, I want to do it," she said, her smile thin and unsteady.

Chapter Text

"Are you sure about this?"

Callista looked along the rough, cracked pavement of the street. It had been years since this district had received any funding from the Crown for municipal improvements, according to the records, and it showed. The buildings were crumbling and largely empty, and over half were marked with the red capped cross of the Dead Counters.

“Yes,” she said, then turned to face Admiral Havelock. “You’re sure this is where you found me?”

He nodded. “Hard to forget. You looked like something straight out of the Void, or the sewers.”

Callista glanced to Martin, and found him scowling.

He didn’t agree with the excursion at all, not even with their accompanying squad of the best of his Overseers, who had fanned out around them and were holding a perimeter. Even the squad had been a fight; he still clung to the idea of keeping her suffering a secret, and for once, the man so caught up in knowledge hadn’t wanted to see who their enemy was.

It was necessary, though. She could feel it in her bones.

“You came from that direction,” Havelock said, pointing. “You weren’t moving particularly fast. Not sure if that means you’d come a long way, or that you couldn’t have.”

“Thank you, Admiral. Your help is invaluable,” she said, and turned to face the street once more.

Her escape was a blur. She remembered the hall, and the doors, and the shrine, but not much about the streets beyond. The few maps of this area had all been out of date, with no hint as to where the blocked-off courtyard was.

But the front door to the street had been open. She remembered that. And she remembered walking towards the sun. It had been evening. She’d been walking west, and that was when Havelock had found her, which meant…

She stopped in her slow turn.

“This way,” she said. I think , she didn’t.

Martin stepped past her and led the way, without a word. He had his pistol in hand, and she could recognize the look on his face. He was angry and frightened, every step a reminder of how little control he really had. It was a testament to his attachment to her that he hadn’t simply abandoned thoughts of her, in order to preserve his internal narrative. She suspected that the Martin she had met all those weeks ago would have.

She swallowed and limped along behind him, cane tapping out an unsteady rhythm. Behind her, Havelock considered, then followed as well.

Blacky tagged at his heels, then pushed up beside Callista so she could settle a hand on his head.

Havelock’s presence was reassuring, and largely unexpected. His ship had been set to leave that morning, but he’d apparently held back, waiting for word of her state. The usual analysis had left her with a few theories as to his motives, but the one he played to most was simple concern, and emotional attachment by way of Geoff. The other competitor was that same need for knowledge and certainty that Martin had, but with a commission under his belt once more, he hardly seemed ambitious. He was satisfied.

Which left him probably just worried for her, and once more willing to come to her defense. Luck remained with her.

She rubbed at Blacky’s ears, then used him to keep her moving. He kept a steady pace, attentive to her gait, and he kept his head lifted to act as a second cane. Ahead of them, Martin slowed as they neared the first alley.

“Down here?” Martin asked. Their guard had closed ranks around them as they neared the buildings, and one Overseer stood in the alley. She leaned forward, peering past him. It was open, no walls blocking it off.

“No,” she said. “There were four buildings abutting one another. It looked like one or two of them had been built straight inside an existing alley, chopping it in pieces. And the door will be open, not plague-barricaded,” she said, pointing to the front door of the adjacent building, which was held shut by one of the bright-red winches.

Martin nodded. His free hand rested on his hip, and he leaned back on his heels, looking up.

“How many stories?”

“I counted three on all sides.”

“Right,” he said, but did not resume his patrol.

Callista considered a moment, then took a step forward. Blacky accompanied her without a hitch, so she paced past Martin, and let her eyes unfocus. She reached back, trying to remember the panic, the fear.

It hit her like a wall, and brought no new information with it. She hadn’t cared enough to note the streets she was on; the memory simply wasn’t there.

She sucked in deep, fast breaths that never quite filled her lungs, then jerked as Martin’s hand settled on her elbow.

“You’ve gone white,” he murmured.

“Just- trying to remember.”

“You shouldn’t have come. I could have-“

“You won’t recognize the place,” she said, and managed a faint smile before taking another wavering step.

It took another two blocks before they found it. Two Overseers went around the clump of buildings, and reported it entirely square, with no alleys. Three of the buildings had blocked entrances, which left the bulk of their squad to pour into the last building.

As Callista stepped in behind them, she began to shake. Blacky pressed up close to her legs, alert, reflecting her tension.

She knew this hallway.

“There,” she said, pointing to the bend in the hall. “There’s a shrine there.”

The Overseers- her men - were efficient and brutal. They broke down all the doors on the first floor, laying bare the shrine and her prison. The shrine they broke to pieces, then dragged out into the courtyard and set alight. Its tempting hum never made it above a low thrumming in her lungs, and she kept her distance, watching as the purple light went out despite it coming from no particular place. In the end, it was just wood, cloth, and bone.

There were no inhabitants on the first floor, but on the second, they found holes in the walls that led to the other buildings. She stood in place, with Martin and Havelock and Blacky, as the floor was cleared. They found mattresses recently used, and abandoned food. They found two fresh corpses on the first floor of one of the sealed building.

Had they been the source of all those muttered conversations?

Their bodies were hauled away for inspection.

The third floor was just as empty, but Callista slowly paced to each room that held a window, looking for the whale oil converters or heavy cables necessary to run a floodlight. She found none, but she did find the dust shadow of a large piece of equipment by one. She crouched down, slowly, looking at the shape of it.

“Here,” she said, and Martin approached from the doorway, where Blacky stood guard. “This is where the light was. I think.” She stood, and looked out the window. It seemed right. There was the dumpster. There was where she’d made her bed. There was where the gruel had been. “Yes, this is it.”

Martin hummed in thought behind her. “What’s that on the floor? By your feet?”

Callista looked down.

Paint .

Spots and flecks of paint dotted the floor. They were minute, cast off as the brush passed over canvas. Blacky sniffed at them disinterestedly, but Callista’s mind raced.

Light, blotting out the painter but illuminating the subject. Sokolov would never work in such conditions, but Delilah, the witch who had come to paint the Empress’s portrait-

Out in the streets, the announcement system screeched to life, its alerting siren bouncing down the alleys. Blacky stood, head lowering, hackles raising at the din.

“Citizens of Dunwall: Enemy of the state and murderer of High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell, Geoff Curnow, has been apprehended by brave members of the Abbey of the Everyman.

“I repeat, Geoff Curnow, enemy of the state and known murderer, has been apprehended.”

Callista couldn’t breathe.

Martin swore, crossing the few inches between them and grabbing her around the waist. He tugged her from the window. “Come on,” he hissed.

“The Abbey of the Everyman?”

“I have no idea what they’re talking about,” he said. “I never -“

“Apprehended,” she repeated, dully. Blacky moved from the doorway, circling her and Martin, watchful.

“We need to get to Holger. Coldridge. Wherever they’re keeping him.”

“They’re going to kill him,” she said. “There won’t even be a trial.”

“ Callista .”

Footsteps pounded in the nearby staircase, grew louder in the hall. Martin let go of her, but stayed close, rounding on the doorway just as Havelock appeared in it. His jaw was set, grim.

He ignored Martin, and looked straight at Callista. Did you know about this never passed his lips, the words arrested at her blank expression. Instead, he jerked his chin back over his shoulder. “We’ll fix this,” he said.

Martin moved to take her arm again, but Blacky pushed between them, looking up at Martin with bared teeth. His growl was low, and Callista couldn’t hear it, could only feel it where his flank pressed against her leg.

“I believe,” Callista said, softly, “that there’s not much we can do, Admiral. The Abbey has apprehended a known murderer and enemy of the state. And if I’m not mistaken, our continued power is more important than the life of one man.”

The words were dead weights on her tongue.

Martin said nothing.

“He made the decision to write letters to me, alluding to where he was and would be. It was his own foolishness that caused this.”

A month ago, a week ago, she would have been frantic, throwing out idea after idea, desperate to save him, desperate to use her power to carve out a little bit of happiness for herself. But the power that rested in her - even if it were fully developed, even if it had protected her from being stuck in this place for three days, alone, until chance let her walk out the door - would always have its limits.

There were fictions in place which had to be upheld for her safety to continue.

Callista settled a hand on Blacky’s head, feeling numb and worn.

“There will need to be another denunciation,” Martin said, not looking at her. “Either at his execution or over his body. It would be best if you did it, but if necessary, given your recent ordeal, I can-“

“I’ll do it,” she said.

“In the meantime,” he continued, “I can try to sneak you in, so you can speak to him alone. If that’s- what you want.”

“He’s going to be interrogated,” she said, softly. “And Burrows will want me there, won’t he?”

Havelock grunted his assent. “That fiction the worm’s been spreading - that your uncle conspired with Attano? Yeah, he’ll want it ‘confirmed’ for the record. It won’t be pretty. I can assure you, Miss Curnow, that your uncle can take a distressing amount of punishment before breaking.”

“ Admiral ,” Martin hissed, again reaching for Callista’s elbow. Blacky snapped at him, and he pulled away, backpedalling as he swore. “Callista-“

“It would be kindest,” she said, turning back to the window, looking out on her prison, “if we arranged for an accident, I think.”

The room was silent.

Her chest burned, her body pulsing in time with the horror building inside of her. It was kindest to put him down like an injured animal. Her fingers curled into Blacky’s short, wiry hair, and she was rewarded by the hound jerking its head away, still unused to being touched. It was kindest to treat him like she’d treated the thugs who’d butchered Martin’s back.

And was it kind to her, to him, to never see him until she watched his corpse be brought out? It was certainly safer.

More footsteps in the hallway. Callista didn’t look up as whichever Overseer it was stopped in the doorway, saluted. “High Overseer,” he said, and Callista placed the voice. Windham. Loyal Windham. “We have cleared the building, and have recovered several heretical items that will need to be studied more in full at Holger. We have found no evidence as to the identities of the cultists that kept Miss Curnow.”

She felt his eyes, momentarily, on her back. He had heard the announcement too, she was sure.

“I have,” she said. “Do we have anybody who knows about pigments? Paint?”

“Nobody, ma’am.”

“Sokolov would know,” Martin offered, voice tight.

“Then pry up the boards, here,” she said, slamming her booted foot hard against the floor. The boom resounded, the noise bouncing out into the courtyard, echoing off the walls. It was satisfying, but only for a moment. “Take them to Sokolov. Ask if he knows where the painter got her pigments.”

“Painter?” Havelock asked. “You think you were kidnapped by an artist?”

“With all due respect,” Windham began, “it may be more likely that a former tenant-“

“Careful, Brother Windham,” Martin cautioned.

Callista turned from the window, knuckles white beneath her gloves, shoulders tense beneath the thick fabric of her uniform. It masked all the signs of her distress, except for the paling of her face and the setting of her jaw.

“I gave you an order, Brother Windham,” she said. “Pry up the boards. Take them to Sokolov. Whoever sat in this window didn’t let me sleep for three days, and I want to know everything I can about her.”

Windham looked to Martin. It was a minute motion of her head, but she saw it all the same, and for one blinding moment her rage flared so white and hot that she couldn’t think, couldn’t see. She stayed perfectly still.

“Yes, ma’am,” Windham said.

The rage subsided, leaving her hollow, burned out and empty.

“And rejoice,” she said, “for another enemy of Dunwall has been captured. We are bringing ever more order to the city.”

He saluted.

She stepped away from the window

Chapter Text

Geoff Curnow is an enemy of Dunwall, and of the Empire. By his actions, he has sown discord, created chaos, and threatened our bulwarks against the Outsider’s agents. He conspired alongside Corvo Attano, murderer of the Empress, the two working in tandem to cut off the head of this nation and drop it screaming into the Void.

Callista paused, pen poised above the page. There was a roaring in her ears that wouldn’t cease, that hadn’t ceased for the last several hours. It sounded like the crash of waves, or like the sucking vortex in a cavern where the sea rushed in and down into the depths of the earth. It was a dangerous sound. She could feel the edges of herself shredding from the force of it.

She knew exactly where in Holger her uncle was being kept – and he was being kept in Holger, albeit with several of the Regent’s guards assisting the effort. This was an Abbey victory. It would cement their place in the new regime. Whoever had done this – whoever had tracked her uncle down – was a hero. He had done well. He would be promoted.

Too much. This was all too much. Her leg still ached, and her skin was still sallow. She still felt nauseous whenever she tried to eat, picturing again the writhing maggots. With a strangled cry, she swept her arm across her desk, sending the paper dancing in the air and her glass of whiskey shattering against the floor.

Blacky gave an answering growl from where he paced anxiously in front of the door. He’d refused to leave her side since she’d heard the announcement. His hackles were up, his head low as he guarded her.

It was comforting, in its own way. Blacky was honest. Attuned to her mood. Alert.

She sank forward, bracing her elbows on the desk and raking her hands through her hair. It wasn’t fair, the sort of mental acrobatics she had to do to keep herself from screaming. And it was even less fair that they were coming so easily now. The explanations and excuses came to mind so readily: he did this to himself, it was for the good of the city, for safety, for us . It was for the fine whiskey now soaking into the rug, for the fact that she could pretend to have a measure of control over the world.

It was for his own comfort that she would, as soon as she had made her speech and tied up all the loose ends, send one of her men into his cell to shoot him dead, and it was a shame she would have to sacrifice a loyal Overseer to do it.

But as soon as it was done, she could bandage herself, heal each gaping wound he left with itching, festering scabs, and she could get back to the work of-

What?

Tracking down a witch who painted portraits?

What was she doing ? Revenge felt hollow when she couldn't protect Geoff.

The door rumbled to life before Martin’s quick, coded knock, and Blacky crouched low, growing into the slowly expanding gap between floor and door. She heard Martin’s swear – soft, controlled – and struggled to keep her breathing easy.

“Call him off, Miss Curnow,” Martin snapped as Blacky lunged for his boots with a snarl.

“I’d prefer to be left alone,” she replied, fingers curling in her hair.

“Callista. I need to know you're okay. Call him off .”

She bowed her head lower, fingers clawing. Her breath hissed through her teeth.

“... Blacky,” she said, and the hound’s head jerked up. She lifted her own head and stared at him, until, slowly, he backed away from the now mostly-open door. He was fixated on Martin as the man stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him.

“And we need to talk.”

“Give me the name,” she said, “of the Overseer who brought him in.”

Martin had seen the broken glass. He frowned at it, wrinkled his nose at the scent of alcohol on the air. “... Overseer Jasper. The one who brought in-“

“I remember him,” she said, voice clipped.

“It will take some time for me to be able to- take care of him,” Martin said. “Burrows has taken notice of him.”

“Burrows,” she said, “probably pays him. The Abbey may not entirely know what to do with me, but this - is a calculated move, by somebody with much clearer political aspirations, and a more personal vendetta.”

Martin worked his jaw, his hands clasped tightly behind his back likely to help him keep from reaching for her. She could hear the leather of his gloves creaking. “You’re probably right,” he agreed.

“Who can we afford to sacrifice?” she asked, pushing back from her desk and standing.

“I don’t think-“

“ Martin ,” she hissed. “Give me a name. Somebody will end my uncle’s suffering, do you understand?”

“... I can do it,” he said. “During an interrogation, I’ll take things into my own hands and-“

“No. Whoever does it is going to suffer for it,” she said, approaching him slowly. Her face burned. She felt tense, too large beneath her skin. She wanted to scream, to rage, to destroy- everything. “If you don’t give me a name, it will be Windham.”

“He’s too valuable,” Martin said, regarding her warily.

“Then give me a name.”

“I need time to think.”

“ Fuck your time to think!” she snarled, and lunged for him. The roaring in her ears intensified, blotted out everything else, even Blacky's earsplitting barks. There was only sound and anger and motion as Martin backpedalled. The room was small, and his maneuvering had his back flat against the wall as her weight crashed into him. She got a hand beneath his jaw, and forced his head up. Blacky snapped at his heels, but stopped short of attacking.

Callista’s other hand held the letter opener from her desk, its dull tip pressed into Martin’s belly.

The animal panic in his eyes matched the bestial rage in every sinew of her body. She drank in his fear, the way he went entirely rigid. It was a concession, she knew, to how much he otherwise trusted her. Any other attacker, he would have turned on, thrown off. She wasn’t good enough to best him.

But she was important enough to make him listen.

“Callista,” he breathed, voice strangled by how she forced his jaw up. “Callista, don’t do this.”

Blacky answered with a snarl.

She was shaking. Her blood roared in her ears, and she couldn't think straight. Her leg screamed at her, but she couldn't care. All she could do was seethe and press harder against Martin.

Callista shook her head, violently, trying to clear out the noise. She gulped down air, pushing past the maelstrom.

She swallowed and pulled back by a fraction. “Do what?” she asked, dropping the point of the letter opener and pressing her fist against his sternum instead. She lifted her head, jerking her own chin up. “I’m not going to hurt you, Martin.”

He laughed, weakly. “My back begs to differ. I- I understand that this is a lot to handle, that it's a-“

Another deep, sucking breath, another quake of her body beneath the rushing train barreling down the tunnel of her thoughts.

“A nightmare?”

“That’s one way to put it, yes,” he said. She could feel him shaking as the hound paced in a tense arc around them. “A nightmare on top of a nightmare. I never wanted this to happen.”

“Did you take steps to keep it that way?” she asked. “Did you really look into who had delivered the letter the first time? How Jasper got it the second?”

His throat bobbed. His eyes darted to the hound. “No.”

“Why not?”

“There was no time ,” he said. “Things have been moving so quickly.”

“And there were more important matters to attend to,” she spat.

"Like finding you. Yes."

Her heart threatened to break at that, at the pain and honesty in his voice. He was trembling, and her muscles began to twitch and spasm, her breath refusing to come evenly. She let out a desperate, pained cry, dropping the letter opener entirely and bowing her head against his chest. Her thoughts imploded, her head split with sudden, searing pain. Blacky immediately approached, pressing his flank to her legs, supporting her, letting her know he was ready to strike.

She didn’t encourage him.

“There is nothing good here,” she whispered when the screaming of her thoughts gave way to words once more. “Tell me one time that power kept me safe. Tell me. I can’t think of a single one. All it’s done is paint a target on my back. That alleyway- I can't do this. The assassin, and the witch, and now Geoff... I'll never be safe.”

“It will come,” he whispered.

“When? When I have nothing else to lose?” She lifted her head, and loosened her grip on his jaw. “I’m only in power because of you – and so I’ll always have something else to lose.”

“You won’t lose me,” he said. He looped one arm around her, and when she didn’t jerk away, he pulled her close. “I swear.”

Her jaw tightened by degrees, his words at first soothing against her soul, but quickly drowning it, driving it deep in an attempt to salvage itself. She let out another cry, and shoved him away, slamming his back into the wall again. He hissed in pain and his grip loosened, and she backed away from him, eyes blazing. She put a hand to her head.

“ Callista -“

She turned and stalked to her desk, sitting down and pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. Blacky took up position at her back, lying down with his gaze fixed on Martin. He would be her eyes and ears.

“I’m not a child or a possession to be kept safe,” she said, words clipped.

“You said you wanted safety ! That’s the only way I know how-“

“Well, it’s shit .” Her fingers curled around her pen. “It’s how Geoff protected me, and it has one fatal flaw. One day, you’ll be dead.”

Martin’s breathing turned labored

She licked her dry, thin lips. “And I’ll be left picking up the pieces, reconstructing the parts of me that you provided, the architecture that I thought was me, but was really you all along. I refuse to do it again. This is the last time,” she said.

“Then what do you want of me?” he asked. His voice had moved. She turned her head to see him right by the door, ready to walk out.

Her chest tightened, but not enough to pierce through the anger wrapping around her like a body bag.

“I want to be alone,” she said. “The rest I’ll figure out later.”

Martin nodded, jerkily, then turned and slammed the button that would raise the door. Callista turned back to her writing.

Fear is our greatest weakness, and our greatest strength . It leaves us alert, but in time, it tires us, leaving cracks in our resilience, our goodness, that the Outsider can worm his way into. Geoff Curnow did not just kill a man; he made us fear. He made us panic. He made us vulnerable.

He betrayed not only this Empire, but the safety of our spirits.

The handwriting didn't look like her own.

Chapter Text

“… There is worth in severing ties to him,” Callista said, voice rising over the courtyard. Her eyes remained firmly turned from her uncle’s struggling body, pinioned in the stocks. “And there is a great temptation in it, to say, this is no longer my blood, this has no bearing on me.

“But to say that would be dishonest. I was raised by this man. I was protected by this man. His actions, his perversions, his weaknesses and his strivings created the foundation of my being, and so it would be dishonest - it would be dangerous - to ignore them. I must instead root them out of my body, my spirit. I must replace them with what is good, what is controlled, what is constrained.”

Her gaze was unfocused as she looked over the crowd, a mix of Overseers and citizens of Dunwall. Behind her stood Martin and Burrows, General Turnbull, the Empress, several dignitaries, and Sister Anise.

She lifted her head, the carefully rehearsed words continuing to tumble out of her mouth.

“That has been my path for the last forty-two days. And while for me it was a personal journey, it begins now for the rest of Dunwall. Look upon the traitor Geoff Curnow, note the elements of him that reside in you, and weigh them.

“Does this protect me? Does this protect others? Or does it leave me weak and vulnerable?

“The Strictures give us guidance, but they are broad, unerring truths; there are times where we may feel they do not apply. It is then that we look to the destroyers of peace to learn specifics, to learn the insidious behaviors that seem fine on the surface, but that fester and destroy when taken in by us.

“To that end, Geoff Curnow will be left out to the elements for the next three days. He will be under guard; you need not fear his escape. Come, and look on him. We will cut out his tongue and muzzle his mouth so that his words cannot infect you. Come, and judge him.

“In three days time, he will be brought to Coldridge and executed for his crimes.”

She took a deep, rattling breath, keeping her chin high. There were no cheers. There was only a low murmuring, a flow of whispers. Her gaze fell at last on Geoff, who was blessedly turned away from her.

Tonight, Windham would murder him. Tomorrow, Windham would be imprisoned by his former brothers. Burrows would want custody of him, but Martin wouldn’t allow it, for their own safety.

But first, two Overseers would approach her uncle with tongs and blade, and-

She turned away and stepped back onto the hastily-built platform where her fellows stood.

“A skilled speech,” Burrows said, inclining his head. She barely heard him above the rushing in her ears. She felt faint.

Emily looked up at her with a furrowed brow, but said nothing. Waverly Boyle, just behind her, had her gaze fixed on Callista with an appraising, weighing look.

She looked- pleased.

The oracle had her brass face dome in place, and Callista didn’t dare look at it, afraid of seeing her own reflection. The woman was silent.

Martin, too, said nothing, and did not reach for her, but she could see the tension in his shoulders that came from resisting the urge. She kept her eyes fixed on him as Geoff began to shout. She heard it only indistinctly, fuzzily.

She'd had no time to speak to her uncle, no opportunity, and now there could never be an opportunity again. The knowledge that her denunciation, her damning, would be their last interaction-

No. She couldn't think on that. She turned, and faced the crowd, standing in proper rank. Two Overseers - one, no doubt, was Jasper - had a hold of Geoff’s head, and they worked to pry his mouth open. The crowd shifted, drew back. She saw some turn away, some leave- but some remained, eager for the bloodletting.

They worked a bit into his mouth that kept his jaw open. He howled. His swears were meaningless gurgles of words as they caught his tongue in the grip of the tongs, dragging it out into the open.

She was thankful she could only see a portion of it, could only really focus on the thrashing of his body in the stocks. It was more important, after all, that the people see.

They used a small blade to slice his tongue out. She’d seen it while they’re prepared, earlier that morning. She watched now as Geoff howled, then shouted, then only sobbed. His body twitched and spasmed, and the two Overseers held his head down so that the blood would flow onto the pavement and not down his throat.

The fuzzy, indistinct nature of her thoughts began to spread, into her shoulders and limbs. Was this what she had felt like after denouncing Geoff the first time, that day when she’d blacked out and come to in the railcar? It seemed like it had happened years ago, and that gap that still remained in her memory was a dark pit, dividing her from her life before. Under an hour later, she’d escaped with Campbell’s black book. Before that, things had felt almost like a game, almost like a story.

After, they’d become all too real.

If she’d never taken that book…

She frowned. Her thoughts were flowing in directions she didn’t intend. She could see the book open, could hear her thoughts reciting the decrypted passages. She touched her lips. They weren’t moving, thankfully, and a glance to the side revealed nobody watching her. She swallowed.

Her body swayed, then steadied. She felt as if she would fall in an instant, but when she looked at herself, she wasn’t shaking, wasn’t trembling.

Martin stepped forward, to give the parting speech. She could barely track his words. Avoidance? Desperate dissociation? She needed to get inside. She wanted to badly to get inside. She wanted-

She wanted to walk up into Martin’s rooms. Yes, that was what she wanted.

She eyed her companions on the platform. Waverly watched the proceedings in the square with keen interest. Burrows looked triumphant. Turnbull was serious-faced, presenting an unflinching front that she didn’t know how to read.

Emily was bright-eyed, alert, and terrified. She could see the terror in her. She remembered in a flash her own childhood terrors, and the children she’d cared for, and the urge to take the girl’s hand grew immense. But Emily wouldn’t take it.

And then there was the Oracle, whose name seemed suddenly very far away. Had it started with an A? Callista looked at her own reflection in the domed mask and felt a faint hint of disgust- but from where?

She wanted to go inside.

Martin continued to speak. She couldn’t track the words. When he finished, there was at last a cheer from the audience, but it was hollow, dark, and strange. He turned back to her, and at last offered a small smile.

“Well,” he said. “Whiskey and cigars, then?”

“Indeed, I believe so,” Burrows said, then glanced down at Emily. “Your Highness, would you like to accompany us?”

She shook her head. “I am going to see Lord Pendleton’s city estate today. He has promised to show me his hunting trophies.”

Waverly snorted, but it was a faint sound, swallowed up by the noise of the crowd. Somewhere, her uncle was crying from pain, anger, and fear, but she could barely hear it. She certainly didn’t want to.

She wanted to go inside . With Martin.

Callista cleared her throat. Her lips felt numb, but the words that came out of her throat were clear, crisp. “I’ll meet you all in the third-floor meeting chamber,” she said. “I need to attend to a few matters first.”

Burrows inclined his head. “Your speech was very thoughtful,” he said. “You’ve truly become a member of the Abbey, I think.”

“Thank you,” she said, and the numbness made it hard for her to remember if she should believe him or not.

Martin looked at her, and quirked a brow. She nodded slightly.

She felt a gaze on her from below, and turned to see Emily staring up at her. Her gaze was accusatory. Callista struggled to guess how she felt. Angry, that Callista could betray family so easily? No- angry that she continued to uphold the idea that Corvo Attano had killed her mother. And there, on the edges, she looked impressed. Nervous.

“We will have to have dinner together sometime, Miss Curnow,” Waverly said, smoothly. Callista lifted her head. “I feel there is much to learn about you.”

Callista inclined her head again, then excused herself and climbed down from the platform, making her way back to the main building.

Alone, the numbness became comforting again, confusion dropping away like dead flies. She was alone, and her thoughts were blessedly still. All she could focus on was the climb up towards Martin’s rooms. There were few people in the halls, most congregating outside, and she didn’t have to expend much effort to pass unseen up the stairs. She reached the door, but found it locked.

She would have to wait, then, and hope that Martin had caught her meaning.

Footsteps on the stairs a few minutes later suggested he had, and she felt a deep relief spread through her limbs. She couldn’t help her smile as he appeared at the end of the hall. He approached warily, though, and she canted her head.

“How are you doing?” he asked when he was close enough that he could drop his voice to a bare murmur and still be heard. He was nervous, yes, but also desperately concerned. A little angry, too. The analysis flashed through her thoughts before she realized she was making it.

It connected with her memory of the previous day, spent attempting to write her speech, and the broken glass on the floor. Strange- why had it been so sluggish, coming to the surface?

If she frowned, it didn’t reach her face. She could feel herself smiling.

“Better, now that we’re alone,” she said, without intending to say anything at all.

Through the numbness, she began to panic.

“We can’t be long,” he said, “or else Burrows might-“

“If Burrows doesn’t already know I’m strained from today, then he won’t figure it out. But we both know that he’s already aware of it,” she said.

He sighed. “You’re- probably right.”

She reached out, fingers curling around one of the straps of his harness. Inside her body, she screamed, helpless, as she pulled him closer. There was something in the way, something blocking her control of her limbs, of her lips.

Martin didn’t seem to notice. He leaned one arm on the door behind her, pinning her in.

“Ah,” he murmured. “ That’s what you need.” He bent his head and ghosted his lips over hers, then reached behind her to unlock the door. Pleasure and anticipation surged through her, but it was located up in her chest, not in the pit of her belly. She could feel it only distantly as she lifted her chin and kissed him more firmly. The door gave way behind her, and Martin guided her inside, shoving the door shut in his wake.

“It’s understandable,” he murmured as he reached between them, working at the fasteners of her trousers, “that you’d need some balance after all of that. I didn’t want to offer- didn’t want to seem crass- but-“

“Please,” she returned, reaching for his harness, unbuckling it and shoving it from his shoulders. His pistol clattered to the floor.

He pulled back, and for a moment she tensed- but he was grinning. “Go into the bedroom,” he said, “and take your boots and knickers off. Lie down on the bed. I’ll be in in a minute.”

Again, the thrill she felt wasn’t sensual, wasn’t arousal. It was more the primal hunter’s thrill, and she again railed and thrashed against whatever force controlled her limbs. She walked into the bedroom without pause, while Martin turned to a chest in the corner of the room.

She paused just long enough to pick up a cheese knife from the sideboard she passed, palming it.

No , she thought, and redoubled her efforts, but it was almost impossible to find the point she needed to struggle against. There was no sensation of being held down, or bound. There was nothing for her to attack with fingers and teeth. Instead, she felt disconnected, displaced, floating in a hazy, weightless, still place. That she could see and feel was torture, not a freedom.

She watched as she removed her boots and pants, and climbed onto the bed, tucking the blade beneath her hip, and when her screaming stopped from exhaustion, she heard, in the silence, a woman’s laugh.

It was soft, as if through many doors, as if she wasn’t meant to hear it, and the woman didn’t make any noise after that. But her thoughts, now freed by the realization that she was not herself any longer, raced and connected the parts.

Delilah. Witchcraft .

The woman laughed again, this time in surprise. Still, though, she said nothing. Was she not aware that she could be heard? She was arrogant, then. Again, her thoughts turned, raced, connected and then released. She remembered the spots of paint, and Sokolov’s description of Delilah’s portraiture, and the paintings in Arnold Timsh’s home. She remembered his arrogant mockery turning to attentive consideration, and how she’d simply taken its benefits and run.

Could it have been-

Callista thought back to the signature Timsh claimed he had never scrawled on her permit.

Martin appeared in the doorway, and she felt a wash of relief that wasn’t her own. It was started in her brain, but it came like a dump of waste into the sewers, introduced by an outside source, mingling with the currents inside of her until it couldn’t be extricated. Martin approached the bed, sauntering, slowly. He hadn’t picked up his gun again. Good .

No, no -

He came to the side of the bed, and Callista stretched out, lifting her arms over her head invitingly, parting her legs. He smirked, resting a knee on the side of the mattress. It bowed, and the knife threatened to slide into the open. She tensed, and he leaned forward, drawing a length of cord from behind his back.

He reached to bind her wrist to the bedpost.

Confusion shot through her, then anger, then desperate, frustrated rage, and she jerked her hand away from him, reaching for the dagger beneath her. Martin’s eyes went wide, and she prayed that he would retreat, that he would put space between them, and fast. But he didn’t.

He swore, and he caught her wrist. His hand was strong.

“Callista!”

Her brow contorted with fury, and she screamed.

He wrestled her down, blade falling from her hand as he slammed her hand into the headboard of the bed. Crawling on top of her, he pinned her elbow in place with his knee, her thrashing legs with his bulk.

“Callista, stop!”

“Fuck you,” she hissed, but her accent was not quite her own. Martin’s expression darkened, and he forced her back down against the mattress, contorting to grab the length of cord again. She thrashed, and nearly managed to unseat him, but he got hold of the cord and wrapped it, hard, around both her wrists. He was quick with his knotwork, and her body was weak, both from years of fading into the background and her more recent ordeal.

Her legs he bound in similar efficient fashion, and soon she was trussed to the bedframe.

Get out! she thought, but the woman was too busy swearing, as if struggling to extricate herself. Her body remained numb. Her eyes continued to look where she didn’t want them to.

Martin stared down at her, heaving for breath, red-faced.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, then covered her lower half with blankets and left the room. She could hear him wedge a chair beneath the handle.

In the silence that followed, she could hear the thrumming in her mind that wasn’t hers. She could feel, if she fought hard enough, how the witch had edged her out almost completely. She was hanging onto her identity, her body, her thoughts, by only the barest thread, and she could feel the waves of soothing emotions coming not from her, but from her captor.

Rest , they said. Relax. It’s over. You no longer have to protect yourself, or fight, or fear. Soon, there will be only nothing.

It would have been tempting, except that the yawning emptiness that was outside herself, that she could feel tugging at the small boundaries she had left, was the crushing Void itself. If she let go, she would disintegrate. She would disappear entirely.

Trapped, she howled and cried and screamed, making no noise except a faint echo only she could hear. She wasn’t willing to lose herself, no matter how tired she was, how very done with her life. She tried to force her way back into her skull, into her throat, into her toes, but it was as if her whole body was filled up. She clung to the margins, shoved into the patch of skin below her left shoulderblade, into the lobe of one ear.

Then the margin gave, letting her press inward toward her spine. The wall separating her bowed, flexing, distending. The witch was leaving. She’d tested the cord binding her wrist, and found it impossible to get free. She was fleeing.

Let her .

They would find her some other day. What was important was gaining back control over her form. But what then? What if she came back in? How could she ward herself?

She pushed further. She reached the knobs of her spine.

The wall shivered, then snapped back like a rubber sheet.

Rage flowed through her, not entirely all her own. Her body thrashed on the bed, and her jaw was clenched so hard that her teeth groaned from the force.

The witch couldn’t leave. And she was angry.

There were footsteps in the room beyond, and Martin shoved the door open. He had his harness in place, and his gloves, and his hand rested on his pistol, though his fingers trembled. Behind him was the Oracle. Anise , she remembered, her memory no longer clouded by the witch’s ignorance, her search for knowledge.

“As I said,” Martin murmured, “something is wrong with Miss Curnow.”

Anise hummed behind her mask, then reached up and detached the dome. She handed the metal bowl to Martin, and he set it aside, gingerly. Her eyes were still covered in a wrap of red as Callista remembered.

The witch stilled, paying close attention. Had she ever seen an Oracle before?

"Are you certain," Anise mused, "that she doesn't just want to kill you?"

"Not entirely," he admitted, frowning. "But she wouldn't do it like this. And this doesn't- seem like her."

"I would offer that your perception is skewed," Anise said.

"Noted."

"But if this isn't Miss Curnow, then who do you suspect it is?"

"A witch," Martin said. Callista cheered in relief, but her body only tensed, making no noise. "We heard tell of her a week ago, from one of the witch's purported victims. The woman said that a witch had controlled her thoughts, and that when we played Holger's device, she woke up as if from a fog."

"Have you tried the device?"

"No. I don't want my men knowing that there's- a problem."

"And yet I'm okay. Interesting, High Overseer."

"Do you have a solution, or not?"

"I do. But I think, first, we should try to get as much information as we can. Obviously, if this is not Miss Curnow, whatever or whoever is inside of her has every reason to simply leave- but they haven't. Which means we have an opportunity."

Martin looked at Callista, brow furrowed in pain. Then he nodded, and approached the bed. He reached for the knife that had dropped from the side of the mattress. Inside her metaphysical prison, Callista quailed.

"Though," Anise interrupted, "there's no guarantee that whatever is in her flesh will be able to feel pain."

He hesitated, shoulders tight.

"... What is your solution to exorcise her?" he asked, gaze locked on Callista's.

"I'll need several things from my rooms," she said. "I'll explain when I return."

"You can find your way?"

"Of course," Anise said, and drifted from the room.

Martin didn't lift his head. He fingered the shaft of the knife, his face cold, stony.

I'm sorry , Callista thought, then mimicked the feeling of taking a deep breath. Delilah would never give them answers, she was sure, though she might delight in having Martin torture her. She breathed thanks to Anise for staying Martin's hand. That might not stop Martin entirely, if his thoughts turned to violence, but it gave her a respite, and gave him a chance at salvation.

Now, if she could only focus, start noting down what little details of Delilah she could...

She had no control over where her gaze tended, and Delilah, after grinning triumphantly at Martin, studiously turned her head away. At first, Callista was glad to have one less thing to worry about, but the blank wall Delilah stared at soon made her disoriented. She lost sense of everything save where her eyes were pointed, and the strange straining within her that was Delilah struggling, futilely to get free.

No matter; she focused on that struggle. It was more important than where she was in the world.

But try as she might to delve into the particulars of the struggling force that slammed against the confines of her body, she couldn’t gain entry. Where her mind and thoughts had been permeable to Delilah, Delilah’s were hard, locked down tight. Callista tried forcing her way inside, only to be met with mocking laughter. Then she tried stealth, waiting until Delilah pushed and then imagining worming her way in from behind.

Nothing happened. Was it a matter of training, ability? Or was Delilah protected in some way, as the outsider to Callista’s mind?

She realized she could no longer see the wall.

She was in complete darkness, more profound than any lack of light or any blinding floodlight pointed at her face. It was simply-

Nothingness.

Callista strained to focus on the sound of Martin’s breathing, suddenly desperate for the connection. He was still in the room; Delilah was aware of it, and that awareness leaked out into Callista’s thoughts. A weak point ? She tried it, but only half-heartedly, and was not surprised when it did not give way.

There- he was behind her. She was still turned away from him. He was- saying something?

“Callista, if you’re still in there, I will get you out. I swear it.”

And then what? If he got her out , what would happen to her body? Could she reattach herself to it? The panic grew.

She felt her head turn. Sight came back in flashes, discrete bursts. There was Martin, with a chair dragged up to the bed, brow furrowed.

Her lips pulled back over her teeth, and she laughed.

“Go ahead,” her mouth said. “Take her back. Though I can’t promise you’ll like the state you find her in.”

Pain lanced through her. If she’d had breath to lose, it would have been fully knocked out of her. She had no body to feel the agony with, and so no way to orient herself, to limit it, to escape it. There was no way her thoughts could turn that wasn’t excruciating, as if her skin were being flayed, as if her ribs were being broken one by one.

Her body showed no indication. Martin looked on, confused, until Callista’s hold on her vision dropped away.

“What do you mean, witch?” he breathed.

Delilah said nothing, but her laughter filled Callista’s existence. If I can’t use you to kill him, I’ll use you to cripple him , Delilah purred.

Callista slammed her awareness out against the pain. It only brought more.

If she’d had a body, she would have been thrashing, jerking uncontrollably. As it was, her thoughts jolted this way and that. Her uncle’s tongueless mouth; the pit between the apartment buildings; Martin’s throat as she worked the razor along his skin; shooting the Morley men; coming to her apartment to find it closed up to plague. There were few good thoughts to flee to, and she feared that lingering on any one would allow the pain to affect it, to twist it. She couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t lose the few shining moments of the last few months.

But it was so difficult to stay away.

Instead she dwelled in the jangling of her nerves the night she’d crouched in the storage closet, listening to Burrows and Martin begin their sparring of wits. She lived in the railcar where she had faced the Empress and the Regent and been as polite as she was able. She stretched out in the hound fighting arena, remembering how Blacky had ripped out the Overseer’s throat in perfect detail.

She expected the pain in those memories. It was easier to bear. She’d already trained herself to find strength there, to reshape each horror into a little bit of armor, of numbness, of strength.

Callista shuddered beneath the pain, but did not break. The boundaries of herself firmed up. She longed to cause pain in turn to Delilah, but no opportunity presented itself.

So she remembered the assassination attempt, and Daud stumbling in the hall, poisoned, unable to complete his task.

Delilah thrilled to the memory, turning her attention momentarily away from escaping.

Her thoughts leaked out into the space Callista shared with her. There- Brigmore Manor . There- the Empress . Callista didn’t dare try to hold onto those thoughts, but she noted each as it passed. A portrait of Callista hung in a half-flooded room, and Delilah sat in contemplation of it. There were so many other portraits- Billie, Timsh, and a few early sketches of Emily.

Callista’s thoughts faltered, dropping her back into the cultist’s pit, Delilah’s floodlight blinding her. She’d had her portrait painted, all to let a witch inside her body. They’d imprisoned her, starved her, all so the woman could have unfaltering lighting over the course of two nights to paint her portrait.

She clamped down on the thoughts quickly, afraid Delilah would find them. She buried them in the memory of her stomach writhing with maggots, of the fall from the windowsill, of how close she had come to giving up.

The pain redoubled, and she sank into it.

Somebody grasped her chin. She could feel it, faintly, before Delilah rushed to sever the connection to her nerves. Her mouth opened. Something foul ran down her throat, the fumes of it curling into her nose.

She opened her eyes, body seizing, then twisted, hard, and began to retch.

Martin swore, reaching for her back. Anise stood a ways off, watching her spit bile onto the sheets.

Delilah was-

Gone.

She blinked, rapidly, heaving for breath. The retching stopped quickly, though her stomach still churned.

“Miss Curnow?”

She swallowed. “Yes,” she rasped. Her voice was strange. Moving her mouth and tongue to make the words was foreign to her.

Martin’s fingers were fast and nimble as he worked the bindings free on her wrists. His arms encircled her, and she realized belatedly that he’d climbed onto the bed. He pulled her upright and cradled her against his chest, and when she looked up at him, his eyes were closed tightly.

She looked over at Anise. Her eyes were covered, as always, but certainly the sounds hadn’t escaped her.

Her throat burned from bile, and she rubbed at the top of her chest. She wanted to ease away from Martin, lean against the headboard instead, but when she tried to move, she found her ankles still bound.

“It was Delilah,” she said, twisting to look up at Martin again. “The same witch who kidnapped me, and clouded that assassin’s mind. And I believe she influenced Timsh to sign over my uncle’s apartment to me.”

Martin frowned, pulling back. “Timsh?”

“He had her paintings in his house. The portrait she had done of him left the house while we were meeting, and halfway through, he began acting- strangely.”

“I remember,” he said. “You think that it had to do with the painting?”

“She- she has also been sighted at Dunwall Tower. Painting the Empress’s portrait.”

Anise hummed. “It is certainly possible,” she said. “The making of effigies has been observed in Pandyssia and among some cults in the Isles. Magic is worked upon them. There is at least one case in the records that showed that one practitioner could drown a man by dropping a carving of his nose and mouth into the cenotes in Serkonos.”

“And possession?” Martin demanded.

“Has been seen in cases without effigies. Possession is an elaboration on opening one's mind to the Void.”

“What did you give me to drink?” Callista asked, wrinkling her nose. As the taste of bile faded, she could taste bitter, astringent slime on her tongue.

“A preparation that all Oracles keep on their persons,” Anise said, approaching the bed. “To observe the stars properly, we exist in a state of darkness except for when we view the heavens. And as the Void is a part of the heavens, there’s always a chance that when we gaze, we will get… lost. It is a very empty feeling, and it leaves the body open to all manner of abuses.”

Martin stroked Callista’s back once more, then slowly released her, shifting to sit less intimately. “I didn’t know that existed.”

“It’s usually deemed safer for the Abbey not to know what goes on in our roosts,” Anise said, smiling faintly. “Some of your more orthodox, fanatical members would say it sounds a lot like witchcraft.”

He snorted, half-heartedly. “I think Miss Curnow and I are quite aware of the benefits of observing the enemy.”

“Just so,” Anise replied. She was smiling, but it was faint and a little strange. Offputting. Not threatening, though, and Callista relaxed, hunching forward and rubbing at her face.

“You said she’s had the opportunity to paint Emily’s portrait?”

“At least one day, yes. The day I went to see her, she mentioned that a woman had painted her portrait. I discussed it further with Sokolov.”

“That may be why you were taken when you were,” Martin mused. “If some of Sokolov’s staff were agents of our witch, and thought she was in danger, they would likely rush to her aid, hoping to be bestowed with some of her power in return. So they imprisoned you, and summoned the witch…”

“And she set up a floodlight to make sure she could paint me without being seen, with enough lighting to make out all my features,” Callista finished, exhaustion creeping into her voice. She sagged further.

“She would have used you to kill me,” Martin said. “No head of the Abbey means no coordinated force to keep watch on the Empress-“

“Who might eventually be controlled by Delilah.”

“But why didn’t she just leave when she failed?” Martin asked, standing and beginning to pace.

“Simple,” Anise said. “She couldn’t.”

“She felt like she was… stuck,” Callista agreed, slowly.

“I would imagine that putting all your awareness into another body is difficult,” Anise said, “or we would see more cases of it. And then, to extract yourself back to where you started…”

“Timsh seemed to recover just fine,” Martin said.

“There are levels, I think,” Callista said. “At first, my thoughts were cloudy, and she guided them where she wanted to go. I controlled my body. I came up here thinking that it was my idea. Then she seized control away from me, but I could still see and feel. At the last, she pushed me out of my body almost entirely. I felt like I was trapped in- in an earlobe. Or somewhere else small, insignificant. If she’d pushed me further, I might have fallen entirely into the Void.”

Anise nodded, slowly. “And your body would no longer have an owner - it would have become hers, if she wasn’t able to extract herself.”

“That seems dangerous. Miss Curnow’s body is not a vessel for the Outsider. Her powers may have disappeared entirely, had she done that.”

“Perhaps that was why she couldn’t extract herself. Her powers attenuated.”

Callista nodded. “But if she were to be in the Empress’s body…”

“Why would she need magic when she had control over all the Isles,” Martin supplied, grimly. “Even if we found out, by her changed mannerisms-“

“Though Timsh’s signature was indistinguishable when Delilah signed it for him,” Callista said.

He shrugged. “It wouldn’t matter if it was different. There’s no way the populace would be okay with the Abbey executing the Empress for being possessed. If she couldn’t be exorcised, we’d be screwed.”

Anise cleared her throat. “We need to know if that portrait was finished,” she said. “Are the dignitaries still downstairs?”

Sudden pain seized Callista’s heart, strangling the breath in her. The dignitaries . The public shaming. Geoff -

“Some, maybe. But-“

Callista pushed herself up, stretching out in an attempt to reach the bonds around her ankles.

“Miss Curnow?”

“My uncle,” she said, dragging herself closer to the foot of the bed. “I- I’d forgotten about him. I need to see him.”

Martin said nothing, looking up at Anise.

“I have to see him.”

“… You can’t.”

“Help untie me, Martin-“

"You can't," he said, grabbing her around the chest and dragging her back against him. "Callista, stop-"

"What do you mean I can't? I don't care anymore. I was just nearly pushed out into the Void by a witch. The only way I could keep her at bay was to focus on all the nightmares I’ve lived since my uncle left, and now that I’m free of it, I don't care who knows I still love him. I have to apologize to him. I have to-"

"He's dead.”

Callista went still.

“You’ve been up here for some time,” Anise said, voice softening. “Several hours. When Martin came to fetch me, there was an- accident, in the courtyard.”

Her eyes burned. She frowned, brow furrowing. “But- but Windham-“

“It was a civilian, in the crowd,” Martin murmured, refusing to look at her. “Nobody got a good look at him, though they said he was- broad. Older.”

A high-pitched whining filled the room. Callista realized it was rising from her throat.

“Your uncle didn’t suffer,” he murmured. “It was a clean shot.”

Dead . The image was brilliant and clear before her eyes, of his body slumped in the stocks, his eyes open and glazed, the blood and spit dribbling from his mouth slowing, stopping.

The last he’d seen of her, she’d been in full uniform, flanked by Martin and the Regent.

The last he’d heard of her, she’d been condemning him to death as a heretic, as a cancer to the city.

“His body,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Where is it?” She pictured it, already in the corpse cars of the trains that passed over Rudshore, going to join the likes of the Pendletons.

“Where we had Daud’s body,” Martin said. “I demanded he be inspected for signs of outright Outsider influence, which means- which means he will be autopsied, but not tonight.”

Body, flayed open, ribs cracked-

But not yet.

“… I’d like to see him,” she whispered.

“Of course,” Martin said, then looked up to Anise, challengingly. Anise only shrugged.

“It would be best,” Anise said, “if we moved quickly. We don’t know if or when Delilah will attempt to possess Miss Curnow again, or if she can possess the Empress at will.”

“Brigmore,” Callista said, lips feeling thick and numb.

“Excuse me?” Anise asked, cocking her head to one side.

“Brigmore manor. That’s where Delilah is.”

“According to an angry assassin,” Martin cautioned.

She shook her head. “No. According to Delilah’s thoughts. She thought very clearly about Brigmore manor. She was picturing flooded rooms, in the swamps further up the Wrenhaven.”

Martin looked between her and Anise, then nodded. “I’ll get a team ready- while you say your goodbyes. And then we’ll go and finish this.”

“Perhaps it would be wiser to leave Miss Curnow here, in case of a repeat possession,” Anise said. “I will look over her, if it’s needed.”

“No,” Callista said, shaking her head. “No, I’m going.”

“As you wish,” Anise said. “I will go request the river charts we will need, then. Should we keep this secret from the Regent?”

Martin considered a moment, then shook his head. “If he asks, this is an Abbey matter - we are pursuing a witch, potentially a coven, that may threaten the safety of the city. Do not mention the possession, but do inquire about the Empress’s portrait painter - where and how he found her, if she’s been by more than once. Do not be accusatory.”

“Understood,” Anise said, and inclined her head, then went to retrieve the domed mask. When the door closed at last behind her, Martin pressed his lips to the crown of her head, and she sagged, limp and weak.

Geoff was dead. The Empress was in danger. A witch could possess her at will.

When would it all stop ?

“Soon,” he whispered. “Soon this will be over. Soon we’ll be in control.”

He sounded like he was trying to comfort himself.

Chapter Text

Windham was on guard outside of the morgue. A dead man required fewer guards than a live man, and wherever Jasper was, he wasn’t here. Callista was alone, and for all her grief and anger, she felt quiet. Sad. Numb.

He was thinner than she remembered. His weeks on the run had been short, but not easy. They’d stripped his corpse to the waist, and she counted his ribs, hands hovering just above his cool skin.

The bullet had punched open the base of his throat. On his front, it was a neat-edged, largish hole, no longer bleeding. If she rolled him over, she knew she’d seen a gaping wound and the jagged edges of his spine.

She still didn’t touch. It seemed wrong, to pollute him with her presence. She twisted her hands together, and bit down on every errant noise that sought to escape from her lungs. Windham would understand, true, but she didn’t deserve those exercises of grief.

She had done this.

Quietly, she added him to her mental ledger of murders. This was where all her machinations brought her. Safety was a laughable concept - not just hers, but everybody around her. Power and stability demanded she respond quickly, forcefully, that she eliminate all softness in herself-

But as she thought back over the last several days, she knew there was nothing she could have done to prevent this, except to have never come to Martin at all.

“All I wanted,” she whispered, touching the table just by his shoulder, “was to make sure I would be okay. You told me to come here, so I did. But when you told me to leave, I wouldn’t listen.”

The corpse said nothing.

Outside, Martin was drawing together a large platoon of Overseers. Anise was gently pressing the Regent for information. The world moved on. Inside the morgue, everything was still and cold. Callista settled both hands on the table, and bowed her head.

Her thoughts screeched like unoiled hinges, like grinding gears, in the scorched, nearly-barren interior of herself. Delilah had burned her raw. She reached for the place where there was nothing left of her, needing the encircling emptiness to numb her pain once more.

Geoff’s chest rose by degrees.

She held her breath, not daring to look directly at him. His chest rose to its apex, then fell again, breath gurgling through the hole in his throat. She clutched desperately at the edge of the table, and in the edges of her vision, Geoff pushed himself upright, turned in place, and swung his legs over the side of the table.

His hand was cold on her shoulder.

“If only you had run away with me,” Geoff said, despite his lack of tongue. The words were round-edged, indistinct, but it was his voice.

Tears spattered the table, droplets sliding along her fingers.

“Do you remember, when you were a little girl, and Viola’s daughter drowned in the ocean by our coast home?”

She nodded, seeing Delphinia’s head disappear beneath the surf, and then the following stillness, as if nothing had happened at all.

“You were a child, so it would have been unfair to blame you for it.” Geoff’s breath rattled in his throat. “But if you hadn’t been so distracted, she would never have gone into the ocean alone. If you hadn’t been distracted, you might have remembered that sometimes a riptide sprung up between those two rocks. You were a child, but you were old enough to show some consideration for the safety of others.”

Callista’s choked sob sounded too loud in the confines of the morgue. She sank down to her knees. Geoff’s hand never left her shoulder. She hunched forward, her head tucked against the side of the table.

He was right, of course.

“Your brother’s illness was inevitable,” Geoff continued, “but you hastened his death, too. He was weak, but you brought him dirty things from the yard. You talked too much to him when he was tired, and when he was vigorous, you didn’t have time for him. There was no knife in your hand, but you are not entirely blameless, either.”

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

“If I had let you go out to sea with the whalers - if they would have taken you at all - it would have sunk in the next great storm.”

“ Why ? I don’t understand.”

Geoff didn’t respond for a long moment. Then he laughed, a gurgling, rasping sound. “Because you’ve always been dangerous, Callista. Everything you touch, you destroy.”

“That’s not true,” she whispered.

“Oh?”

She struggled against the weight of his accusations, accusations that should never have come from his mouth. He’d always thought her gentle, vulnerable, in need of protection.

“My students,” she said at last. “None have died. Some have grown prosperous. You’re wrong - I don’t destroy everything.”

“Then what does?”

“The world,” she said. “Other people, other places. Nothing is blameless. How dare you, when you foolishly sent me letters, knowing there was no easy way for me to respond, knowing that all they did was make you vulnerable. You selfish, lonely, stupid man!”

Her cry echoed in the room, and she blinked through a sudden rush of tears. When she could see again, Geoff’s body, cold and unmoving, stiff from death, lay bundled in her arms.

He’d never spoken at all. He had no tongue to do it with.

She staggered up, pressing his body back onto the table. She draped herself over it in one last hug. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I love you. I miss you.”

Her body tensed, then released.

She stepped back from the table, wrapping her arms around herself.

By the time she returned from Brigmore, he’d be split open like a specimen, and then he would likely be dumped into Rudshore, unless Martin could effect a mix-up that took him to one of the few functioning crematoria left in the city. She would never get his ashes, in any case.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, to the empty world.

And then she went in search of Martin.

The railcars could only take them to the city limits. When they reached where the walls met the river, they transferred onto two patrol barges that the Abbey owned. There were a few small squads of the City Watch, there in an ancillary capacity and to handle any civilian arrests. The rest were Overseers, clad in their starched uniforms and their gleaming masks. Every  man who had participated on the raid at Rudshore was there, eager for a true clash with the Outsider’s agents, and the younger, greener Overseers aped their haughty confidence, their eagerness for battle.

Callista sat alone by the back of the barge, her hand on Blacky’s head. Her body felt heavy, her mind slow. She watched the surface of the river as they passed over the murky depths. Its banks began to narrow, and the surrounding landscape changed from industrial to tamed farmland to endless stretches of willows growing in the shallow expanses where the water would never be deep enough to sail, but too deep to build.

She wasn’t scared. Fear had passed out of her, seemingly for good. She had no room for fear. She had room for a gun at her waist, and a hound at her heels, and an army of soldiers between her and the witch – and that would be enough.

But despite how raw her thoughts still felt in the wake of her grief and the witch’s invasion of her mind and body, she couldn’t bring herself to truly care about the mission. She wanted very badly to see the woman clapped in iron, or shot down like a beast, but it was a want divorced from the personal desire to seek vengeance. The witch’s control over her had robbed her, possibly, of a few more moments looking upon her uncle’s living body, and her continued life threatened Callista’s autonomy, and the safety of the Empire, but she was not the person who had killed Geoff. She was not the person who had given a carefully crafted speech as men cut out Geoff’s tongue. She was not the person standing behind the Empress, manipulating everything for personal gain and power, and she was not the plague ravaging the city.

Callista had no single enemy, and no one threat was large enough to draw the full attention of her ire and devastation. They were the horrific equivalent of a mass of stinging flies.

The barge glided forward. Martin strolled back to check on her, but said nothing. She stared at the water, and beneath its surface, in the light of the setting sun, she thought she saw pale faces. They bobbed and sank and rose again, and she began to name them. Geoff. Delphinia. Daud. Custis Pendleton. Morgan Pendleton. Three unnamed Morlish men.

Callista Curnow was not among them, and for a moment, she was surprised. Neither was Martin.

Her mind, it seemed, was being generous. She drew on the hint of strength she felt in herself, and it began to grow.

“We’ll arrive in a few more minutes,” Martin said. “Are you ready?”

“This is just like the Cat, right? We hang back?”

“If you want. I would suggest we not hang back too far, however, in case the witch attempts to take control of you again. It’s what I would do, with her abilities.”

Callista nodded. “I understand. If she does, it would be far simpler to simply incapacitate me.”

“I won’t shoot you, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

The thought made her stomach twist, painfully. “No, it’s not,” she said. She looked up at him, considering. “... Is there anything in your toolbox that would allow you to- leash me, so to speak? Without drawing attention or making me vulnerable?”

“Contradiction in terms. If I can incapacitate you quickly, so can any assailant. But here,” he said, fishing a vial out of his uniform pocket. “It’s another dose of Sister Anise’s medicine. If you notice your thoughts fogging, drink it. It’s better than nothing. Let us hope our witch attempts subtlety again.”

She folded her fingers around the vial. Martin’s thumb brushed across her knuckles as he relinquished it. “We’re almost done,” he said.

“This part.”

“I suspect I will be able to move some pieces, when this is done. The witch had to cross into the city, clearly – I’ll have the officers at the border questioned. There could always be a money trail.”

“Or a trail of dark magic,” she said.

He shrugged. “Always worth a shot.”

Cries went up as the barges neared the shore closest to Brigmore manor, and deckhands moved quickly to secure the ships in place. In five minutes, she was on solid ground. In fifteen, she was surrounded by Overseers and approaching the manor.

The grounds were covered in dense, lush foliage, obscuring an expansive graveyard that was just high enough above the watertable to keep the dead from rising from their coffins. The ground was soft from recent rains, though, and her boots didn’t always find perfect traction in the mud. She moved slowly, in measured paces. Martin stayed just behind her.

There were three groups; a central one, where Callista walked, and two others that circled around the far edges of the property. Nothing seemed to move. The house appeared to be empty.

A hound in one of the advance groups barked.

Bones rattled, the sound distant and unsettling. Her stomach turned. The scent of greenery filled the air, and-

Something struck her from the side, and she went down, coughing and gasping for breath. Around her, Overseers leapt to action. Blacky snarled and lunged at her assailant, a beast-shaped form with a fleshless skull snapping and biting. The grinding noise of five Holger’s devices filled the air, and with it came shouting. Women shouting.

She fumbled at her belt, unholstering her pistol. Martin shouted commands over her head, but she ignored them, focusing only on the mechanics of the weapon. Blacky grappled with the undead hound, and despite his injury appeared to be winning. Years of fighting in the pits had hardened him, prepared him.

So Callista turned from the struggle and instead rose up to one knee, leveling her pistol at a woman who approached them at a sprint, her skin mottled, discolored, distorted. Light glowed about her hands, true magic of a kind Callista had no experience with.

She pulled the trigger, and the witch went down like any pile of flesh would.

Martin grabbed her around the elbow, hauling her back up, and they moved quickly, surrounded by their guards. Blacky had succeeded in subduing the hound, but there were more across the field. Bullets to their shining skulls seemed to be the quickest way to put them down, but some of her men weren’t fast enough. Bare, bleached teeth ripped into throats, guts, and shins. Bodies were skewered on the blades the witches wielded, and were bowed down by dark magic.

Adrenaline flooded through her, and for the first time in weeks, Callista felt at peace.

She understood this struggle. It was clear and true, and the objective was obvious: survive, and kill those who came for her.

This was the freedom of the whaling ships: simplicity of purpose, clarity of foe. She shot another witch in the gut and watched her fall, watcher her discolored skin return to clear peach, then deaden by degrees as she bled out and clawed her way across the grass.

The words hurled across the field meant nothing to her. They were a mixture of commands, threats, hatred, fear. They broke across her as she climbed the front steps to the manor.

Blacky followed at her heels, but his clicking steps stopped just moments before he let out a pained howl. She turned, startled. The skull hound that had attacked Blacky before was back; she recognized the lines of its fangs, and the way Blacky twisted on it, barking as he tried to dislodge it. She lifted her gun, but before she could fire, Blacky broke free.

The skull hound lunged and got beneath him.

She heard the rending of flesh even as her finger pulled the trigger in reflex. The bullet punched through Blacky’s chest as the skull hound ripped open his belly. Death was swift, and merciful, and when Blacky fell, he fell atop a half-shattered skull.

Callista stared at the corpse.

It had been so easy, to shoot the hound who had become, if not a source of happiness, certainly a source of comfort and continuity. She saw lying there, for just an instant, Martin in place of the hound, and knew that she could do the same to him, if it came down to it.

“Callista!” Martin barked, and she turned away, climbing the steps two at a time.

There were more witches inside the walls of the house, but once the initial surprise and panic faded, the men around her went to work as well-oiled machines, slaughtering all they came across. Holger’s device filled the large rooms with unsettling rhythms, and they waded through the ankle-deep water that seemed to cover every inch of the manor. Callista no longer needed to keep her finger on her pistol’s trigger, but she did anyway, just in case.

With the first floor cleared, the group split. Several stayed below to keep watch, while the larger portion of the detachment split in two to climb both sets of stairs. The second floor was dry, but filled with furniture and refuse placed to block easy navigation. They cut through it. More witches, roused from sleep, ran into the halls, but Martin put down two with clean shots, and the other Overseers took care of the rest.

They were approaching the attic when Callista felt a tug inside her brain.

She reached for the vial as she followed Martin up the last set of stairs. She uncapped it with one hand, and brought it to her lips.

They reached the top of the stairs, and paused a moment, the group rearranging themselves in the tight confines. Callista’s throat seized and caught as she swallowed down Anise’s ichor, but this time, she did not retch. The witch must not have had firm hooks in her yet.

Martin pressed close, and whispered, “Be prepared for anything.”

For a moment, she imagined stepping into that room and falling into the Void, alone against a powerful foe. Then the lead Overseer kicked open the door, their bodies surged forward, and five guns went off.

Before Callista could see the room, the lead Overseer called out, “One dead heretic, High Overseer. Room is empty.”

The group spread out, and Martin and Callista stepped towards the unmoving body sprawled across the floor. She had dark hair, slicked back from a high, pale forehead, and eyes painted with charcoal. Her clothing was strange, seemingly half-organic, and when Martin nudged her hand over, Callista could see the Outsider’s mark bright against the inside of her wrist.

Delilah.

Slowly, she turned in place. The room was filled with paintings in various stages of completion.

There was a portrait of a strange landscape, almost finished but with one blank spot near the lower left corner. There was a painting of Billie Lurk.

And there, turned towards a window for the best light, was a canvas decorated with the Empress’s form.

It was still just an underpainting, but Callista hesitated to approach it.

“It could still be connected to Her Majesty,” she said, glancing to Martin. The other Overseers had been briefed on their target’s artistic pursuits, and most were averting their gazes from the portraits.

“It will be taken for testing,” he said.

“Miss Curnow?”

Callista turned. “Yes?”

“You should look at this,” the Overseer said, turning an easel that had been at right angles to her.

It was the portrait of her, worked in unsettling shades of purple and bright green with spatterings of red, some pigment and some blood. A bullet had passed through her painted shoulder, and for a moment, Callista felt an answering, echoing twinge. Then it passed.

“We can begin our testing now, I think,” she said, and held out her hand for the nearest Overseer’s sword. He handed it to her. Her fingers trembled as she curled them around the hilt, but she took a deep breath and she brought it down across the canvas before Martin could protest.

Inside her, something opened up, like a gaping, sucking wound. The air went out of her lungs. Her fingers tightened around the blade, and her eyes went wide.

Then it passed. She breathed again. She stepped back, tip of her blade pointed down, and turned to Martin.

“Better to just destroy it, I think,” she said. “And all the rest. These should not exist.”

“Well put, Miss Curnow,” Martin said, voice tight. He lifted a hand, and Overseers seized the remaining portraits and began carrying them down the steps. Below, she could still hear the intermittent sounds of fighting, but they were dying down as well.

The day was won.

As the room emptied, she approached Delilah’s corpse. There had been no grand finale, no stage-worthy moment of triumph, and she felt empty as she gazed at the woman. It was just another death. True, the rush of battle had been pure and understandable, and true, this had been a great enemy, and this was a great victory, but it was small, in the grand scheme of things. It was a completed task.

There would always be more.

“… Your hound,” Martin said, softly.

“Died in battle,” she replied. “I seem to attract death, you know. Like Sokolov said.”

“This whole city attracts death, these days,” he said, and she listened as his footsteps approached. “But we’ve averted a crisis. Your portrait is destroyed. No more threats from a wild coven, hm?”

“I’m quitting,” she said.

Martin said nothing.

She turned to face him. He stood a few feet away, looking out the window. His jaw was tight. His gaze was distant. His skin flushed with anger, then paled with fear.

“The plague,” he said at last.

“Give me permission to leave the city. I’ll go to my uncle’s old house. The town there is still functioning - I checked.”

"You know,” he said, voice strained, “in Morley - in Serkonos - anywhere else in the Isles, the people who rise to power are carefully vetted, carefully controlled. Anywhere else in the Isles, people like us could never be where we are now."

She shook her head. ”Maybe people like us shouldn't be where we are."

"With your compassion and perceptiveness, mixed with my- my-"

"Ruthlessness?"

"I am hardly ruthless. Not now. Not with you here. Without you- maybe."

"Then what?"

"My knowledge. My grasp on the situation.” He rounded on her, hands clenched to fists for just a moment before he gestured as expansively as he could. “My experience and scraping my way to the top and staying there-"

"Until you're betrayed."

"I am a different man than I was then. A better man. Callista, trust me.”

“I do trust you,” she said. “But I don’t trust the world. This,” she said, toeing Delilah’s body with her boot, “is what the world does.”

“We will be above it all!”

“Never. We never will be above it.”

Martin opened his mouth to reply, then clamped it shut. He turned away from her once more, back to the window. His throat bobbed.

“There will always be another threat,” she said. “Look at Campbell’s journal. He spent his career finding the lynchpin of each man he could see who threatened him, so he could neutralize them - but he never counted on my uncle, or on you. Whatever idea you have of power, it’s wrong. There will always be somebody ready to take it from you. There will never be stability. It’s a child’s story, Martin!”

She was shouting, and she pulled back, breathing hard. She scrubbed at her face.

“And what of living powerless?” Martin replied. “Fearing for your next meal. Desperately scraping up all the barriers you can, all the ways you can keep the brutal among your ranks from cracking you open to take all you have. If it’s the same everywhere, then so be it. But at least with power there are some enjoyable interludes.”

“Cigars and whiskey aren’t enough for me to always be afraid for the Empire, for the Abbey. They’re too big, Martin.”

His throat bobbed again. “I can’t stay with you, if you do this. You understand that? As High Overseer-“

“We were always going to be a strained secret,” she said.

“That’s not true,” he said. “That’s not true . In time, we would have become fixtures, we would have become inarguable forces, and then we could have done whatever we wanted. We know we have the High Oracle’s favor. It was possible .”

The idea pained her, but she fought to stay firm. “I’m going to my uncle’s home, outside the city. I’m done, Martin.”

Silence fell again. She could hear only her harsh, ragged breathing.

Then he shrugged. “Fine. Do you need anything from the Abbey? From your uncle’s apartment.”

She considered. “No, not really. Some money, perhaps.”

“I’ll give verbal dispensation when we reach Dunwall, then have Overseers escort you to the proper gate,” he said.

And he turned and walked out of the attic.

She lingered. She looked at the shreds of canvas that had a distorted, pained version of her face upon it, and at the dead woman who no longer seemed so frightening, now that her body was cooling.

The barge waited downstairs.

She descended.

Chapter Text

Two weeks later, Callista sat on the deck of her uncle’s house, staring out at the surf. The house had been ransacked since her last visit, and most of the furniture was overturned or broken. There were scorch marks in a few places, and she supposed she had the oppressive rain to thank for the building’s continued survival.

Two weeks away from Dunwall had given her enough time to cry, scream, and howl, and now she was quiet most days, and alone always.

Now, though, she sat on the deck in a rare moment of sunlight, and read over the letter that had been delivered by a boat hand earlier that day.

Miss Curnow,

I understand you no longer work for Martin. Congratulations, I suppose. I can’t imagine him ordering you away, so it must be by your own desire.

I would have come to tell you this in person, had you remained in town, but I need to depart for Morley soon. There is much to be done. So I will set it out here for you instead:

I am the man who shot your uncle.

I saw it as a mercy. I am sure you had something similar planned, but I had the moment, the opportunity, and the old debt. I now consider it discharged in full.

Sincerely,

Admiral Farley Havelock

She had read it close to twenty times now, and she still couldn’t sort through the roil of emotions in her breast. It was good that a long-ago friend had killed her uncle. It was horrible that another person he had known and maybe loved had harmed him that day. It was good that her links to Havelock were now severed. It was horrible that she had killed the hound he had gifted to her, in an attempt to keep both her and the beast safe.

Everything about the last few months were that same mix of horrible and beautiful.

She found she missed the order of the Abbey. She missed the importance living in her breast. She didn’t miss the paranoia, the fear.

She did miss Martin.

Whatever had existed between them had been strange, tightly wound, and so intimate she could hardly think of it without wanting to curl up and cry. There had been no true sweet words exchanged, no vows made, but they had been linked , undeniably. He had been hers. He had changed so much in response to her presence, had grown vulnerable, perhaps weak, definitely protective and frightened.

Horrible, that she could so castrate a man. Beautiful that he had been willing to trust her so much.

Distantly, she heard the front door open. She hadn’t been able to hear the lockpicks, but the surf was loud. She ran through a quick list in her head: unattached thieves, Billie Lurk, Windham, an agent of the Regent. There were enough people who wanted her dead or who would sleep easier at night with her corpse rotting in the surf that she’d been awaiting this moment ever since she decided not to move on immediately.

But whoever it was didn’t hide their footsteps, and she recognized them instantly. Her chest tightened.

“Miss Curnow,” Martin murmured from the doorway to the deck.

She turned in her seat slowly.

He was in full regalia, but he was alone. His expression was taut. His gaze flicked over her, wearing bare, simple clothing that she’d bought in town for too much of what she’d been given by her escort.

In his hand was a rolled up canvas. He held it out to her. “I thought,” he said, “you might like this.”

She stood and took the canvas from him. She unrolled it slowly, then all at once, revealing the half-finished painting of her that Sokolov had begun weeks ago. She’d barely seen the sketch the day he’d begun it. It was beautiful, elegant, and of a woman she barely recognized. The Callista Curnow in the portrait was quiet, stable, and dangerous. The red Abbey banner hung from her belt and made her breath catch.

“I also have news,” Martin said, and she looked up to find him standing with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he had to restrain himself from reaching out for her.

“What news?”

“The Lord Regent has been arrested,” he said. “He had hired the witch Delilah, and it later came to light, with Sokolov’s help, that he had known Delilah as a little girl, and had known of her heretical tendencies. Then ledgers came to light showing payments made from accounts connected to the Regent, to Daud.

“A certain notebook surfaced once the Lord Regent was in secure holding. It confirmed that there had been a conspiracy between the former High Overseer and Hiram Burrows. The Empress has ordered his death.”

Callista’s eyes were wide, her breath shallow. “And Lydia Boyle?”

“Has publicly denounced him. It seems she prefers to work with her sister, who is the Empress’s first choice as Regent.”

“Waverly Boyle, as Regent,” Callista said, softly.

“With Treavor Pendleton assisting,” Martin said, with a thin smile. “Our Empress has also made demands on the Boyles that the Watch begin working with the Abbey, and has shifting Sokolov’s funding away from the Walls of Light to more and better elixirs. I suspect, too, that with Burrows’ removal, the blockades may loosen.”

“The world seems to be on its way to a nicer state,” she said, softly.

“It is. I was- also able to get your uncle’s body cremated, and the ashes are currently in storage at the Abbey.”

She frowned. “But Jasper and his group-“

“Find themselves under lock and key for conspiring with the Regent and promoting sedition within the Abbey. Oracle Anise is taking the lead in their… investigation. I understand that it is not pleasant.”

Callista stared at him, the surf roaring below. Martin shifted where he stood.

“I can have the ashes sent out to you,” he said. “But-“

“Stop,” she whispered.

He did.

She swallowed, thickly, and turned away. She set the painting in her chair, and went to the railing, fingers curling around the worn metal. Their greatest enemies were vanquished. New enemies were potentially forming, but she knew their natures better than she had Burrows’.

There was nobody else for her to lose, save for Martin, and a few weeks alone seemed to have restored his balance to him. He was tense, but quick. Eloquent.

But if she returned…

“You have two offers of employment,” Martin murmured. “One is to return as my assistant. The other is to serve as an adjunct of the Empress, and perhaps liaison between the Abbey and the Crown.”

Both, should she choose either, gave her access to Martin, and some degree of safety.

“Either way,” he said, “we would be working together closely.”

There would always be another enemy. There would always be another crisis. But while the idea of escaping to Potterstead, of becoming just a schoolteacher or a governess, of living out her life small and quiet, seemed tempting in the brightest light of day, for its simplicity and for its imagined safety, she’d found, in the darker parts of the night, that she was angry. Angry at all that she had lost, and all that she had given up.

She wanted to be paid in kind for it.

And there was an element, she had to admit, of chasing leviathans to it. The great beasts at sea could kill a man or an entire ship. There was no safety there, either. The men who went out on the waves, if they didn’t die, lost everything; they never returned home the same.

They were always changed, and they always went back out to sea.

Running was pointless. A governess was just as much in danger as an adjunct to the crown, but the adjunct had a fine home, fine wine, and the attention of Teague Martin. She turned, approaching him. He didn’t move, as if afraid to spook her.

“When do I start?” she asked.

His face broke into a triumphant grin. “There is a ship, leaving for Morley. This evening. A delegation, which you would be a part of.”

He held out a hand. “Come with me?”

“Havelock’s ship?”

Martin blinked, stunned, then laughed. It started small, then grew great, shaking his body. She laid her hand in his, and he tugged her close, folding her against his body.

“Of course you know,” he said, laughter dying down to a low chuckle. “Of course. Yes, Havelock’s ship. What would I do without you?”

THE END