Funnily enough, I've grown accustomed to the mess of this city in less than twenty-four hours of breathing Crossreach air. The constant tang of soot and smoke has crept into my lungs, and somehow, impossibly, I find myself smiling back at him—of all people.
Today, Leonhart is transformed. The sharp suit molds to his frame with the precision of a tailor's careful hand, his tie a hideous confection of brown stripes that clashes against the fine leather of his gloves. A top hat perches on his head, polished and sitting just right, the final touch that makes him look like a respectable textile trader instead of a man who has, on occasion, severed hands for less.
"Slept well last night?" he asks, lifting my heavy suitcase with ease as we reach the top of the staircase.
"What do you think?" My voice is thin, exasperated, as I swipe the sweat from my brow. It's not even midday, and already I feel as if I've run laps under a blazing sun. A side effect of skipping my usual dose of Zephronium, no doubt.
He flashes me a grin, all white teeth against a fair, unblemished face. "Oh no, if you'd slept well, you'd still be asleep—until forever."
A shiver that feels like ice down my spine makes me tug reflexively at the buttons on my coat. Adjusting my hat, I glance sideways, feigning nonchalance. I'm not hiding, exactly—just avoiding last night's humiliation when I was mistaken for a prostitute and cursed in the harsh, sing-song dialect of the slums. The wench's words have dug in like splinters, still clinging to the back of my mind. Remember, I remind myself, I came here to find my brother, following his heartbeat like a pulse through the thin metal of a gypsy's necklace.
The memory of the jerk's smirk flares in my mind, his lips—
Oh, for fuck's sake.
"So... can I go in?" I ask, my voice steadier than my heart.
Leonhart looks at me, eyes narrowing as if appraising some fine wine. "Yes, you can." A pause, then, "That piece of writing you brought—what an opera script that was." He leans against the stair rail, eyes dancing with an inside joke. My blood cools, and I bend to fuss with my case, the click of the lock a distraction. I'm not the one who wrote it. I force my breathing to remain calm. His silence, for once, weighs on me.
Mel's story is not so different from Iza's. Iza—the body double who learned to love the blade she wielded for others. But Mel, Mel's suffering was built of different horrors. Trapped under the iron fist of a mistress with cruel eyes and crueler hands, married off to an old man to clear a ledger of debts, Mel had run. She'd run straight into the arms of her uncle, believing for one desperate heartbeat that salvation lay there. Instead, she found herself in a fire she knew too well, flames she knew how to breathe in like air.
And Iza? Iza was the one who had broken her own mistress, undoing her piece by piece until no cruelty remained but Iza's own reflection.
"Then you haven't seen a real opera," I say, tilting my head and offering the smallest of smiles. It doesn't reach my eyes.
His eyebrows rise. "And you have?" His voice is velvet, curious, always smirking.
"One of the privileges of a body double," I reply, shrugging one shoulder with practiced ease.
He lets out a low whistle, admiration, or something like it, flickering across his expression. "They really do have separate brains for these inhuman ideas, don't you think?" He sighs, rummaging in his bag with the nonchalance of a man accustomed to surprises.
My breath catches. I brace myself, half-expecting another severed hand.
"Why don't we go see a real one, then?" His voice is playful, flirtatious even. But his movements are sharp, deliberate. Before I can pull away, he grips my arm and in a blink, a metallic device pricks my skin.
"What the—" My words die in my throat as a sharp sting blooms in my elbow. I recoil, too late, watching as the small tube fills with my blood. The device hums quietly, and a sick feeling churns in my stomach.
"What's that for?" I say, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. My fingers clutch the skin where the needle kissed me, as if I can push the fear away.
Leonhart secures the tube in his briefcase with a flourish, as though this were a mundane transaction. "Standard protocol, Miss. Blood records. It's how we identify residents here—much more reliable than those scented papers your Highspire folk like so much."
Stars be damned!
My jaw clenches. "And what do you plan to do with it?" The words slip out, low and rough.
He waves off my question with a flick of his gloved hand, his grin infuriatingly crooked. "You wouldn't understand—it's magic, after all." The wink he shoots me feels like a slap.
"Anyhow, let's move along. Welcome to our shit hole." He offers his hand, mock-gentlemanly, and I curse under my breath as I heft my suitcase once more. Isaiah appears out of the crowd, ready to help, but I turn away, ignoring him.
Blood in this city isn't just blood. It's identity, power, a signature of humanity—or its absence. And where lineage decides your fate, shedding blood, even a little, is akin to suicide. Well, I forgot, Not only Undercity but in the Uppercity too.
I have to do something with that.
Daylight exposes Crossreach in ways the night never could. The cobbled streets, dangerous under gaslight, thrum with life under the sun's pale eye. Shouts echo through alleys; steam vents hiss and spit like creatures disturbed in their lairs. Leonhart moves through the crowd with the grace of a dancer, long legs making it look easy. I struggle to keep up, my own steps hurried and graceless. He stops now and then, looking over his shoulder, waiting just long enough for me to catch my breath before taking off again, a mischievous fox darting ahead.
Newspaper boys skitter between carriages like sparrows, their calls sharp as sparring knives. Women in crimson dresses cut paths through the throng, their laughter jagged, their eyes fierce. The stink of sweat and smoke saturates the air, cloying and familiar. Carriages creak and groan over the cobblestones, splattering the remnants of last night's storm into muddy arcs.
"Let's take a detour," Leonhart calls back, nodding toward a side street. It's less crowded, but the guards here are different, their golden cloaks gleaming even in the midday murk. I nearly bump into one, distracted by the press of bodies and Leonhart's infuriatingly casual gait.
"Oh! I apologize!" Leonhart is there, tipping his hat to the bushy-bearded guard. The man grunts acknowledgment and continues on, and Leonhart pulls me aside with a grin.
I wipe sweat from my neck, swallowing hard to calm the pounding in my chest. "Is someone dead? Why are there so many—"
The question withers on my tongue as I catch his expression—dark, unreadable.
"Come now, Mel," he says, his voice a whisper, sharp as a blade. "You know better than to ask questions you already know the answer to. You were there, after all."
A cold chill slides down my spine. The square feels suffocating, the noise of the bustling crowd suddenly muted, as if the city itself is holding its breath.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten," he adds, tilting his head, a shadow of a grin playing at his lips.