When Jacob woke, it was slowly. His lashes fluttered as he tried to shake sleep from his eyes, the room dim around him. He was warm and comfortable, and loathe to leave the paradise that was the bed he was currently nested in. The pillow beneath his cheek was soft – softer than any pillow he could recall them ever having procured on the train. And the lounge had never been this comfortable… Was he in Evie's bed? And if Evie had seen fit to allow him to sleep in her bed, something must have happened… Something was wrong.

Jacob opened his eyes.

He was somewhere new. The room was growing dark with the falling sun. Dusk. How long had he been asleep? Jacob sat up slowly, but was instantly disoriented when he did not gain nearly the height he had expected. Confused, he raised his hands to rub at his eyes – only to notice how small they were. And that was when panic set in.

He flung himself from the bed, but the drop down to the floor was further than he was ready for. When finally he was standing on his own two feet, his chest barely met the top of the bed. He was… He was tiny. The shirt that he was wearing was huge on him, the collar pooling to the side to reveal a pale and scrawny shoulder and a very undefined arm. Jacob patted at his face, feeling the baby smoothness of his cheeks, missing the places where scars should have been.

How?

Jacob struggled through the memories, grasping at his head as pain flared suddenly through his temples. They were at a… at a ball. There was a chamber underground. He had gone ahead and – a hand at his throat, squeezing. Energy being pulled from him, funneled into the glowing Shroud around Starrick's shoulders as Jacob shrank beneath Starrick's hand. Evie throwing Starrick off again and again only to end up with a knife in her shoulder and thrown across the chamber. A barrier. No escape, no help, and Starrick's hand – sucking the years away from him.

Then blackness.

Jacob came to on his knees, wetness at his nose. He rubbed at it with his sleeve only to come back with a red smudge across the clean white linen. The Shroud had done this to him, and he could only assume that based off the rich décor of the place he now found himself in that he was in one of Starrick's estates. He had a sudden and childish urge to trash the place in retribution, but a swift shake of his head was all he needed to subdue the thought and focus on what mattered – getting away, getting back to Evie, and fixing this mess.

Evie would know what to do. She'd been studying these artifacts for the better part of their stay in London and beyond. He felt a pang of annoyance in realizing that in her studies she had missed the very important detail that the Shroud could change the age of a person, not just keep the wearer alive and young forever – but it was too late for such regrets.

Instead, Jacob lifted himself to his feet and waited for a sudden flash of vertigo to pass before heading to the window. The locks were drawn, but that was no issue – just a matter of climbing upon the sill to reach them, although the necessity of climbing just to unlock a window irked Jacob to no end. It was the nails that proved to be a problem, bolting the windows shut to their stills.

"Damn it, Starrick, you crazy bastard," Jacob growled beneath his breath and tried to ignore the childish tone that accompanied it.

He moved next to the door, keeping his steps as light as possible as he tested its knob. Locked from the outside.

"Think, Jacob," he whispered, turning back to reassess the room. Between one blink and the next, he activated his eagle vision – but in his youth, it was nearly overwhelming. Instantly he was barraged with huge plumes of ghostly smoke, and the change in perspective nearly made him want to vomit. But after a moment of adjustment, things began to fall into place in his vision.

The estate, wherever it may be, was crawling with Blighters. Everywhere Jacob looked, there they were – walking in packs of two or more. He'd never make it through the halls even if the door had been unlocked. The roof, however, was a different question altogether. For the moment it was barren, and if he could make it to the roof, maybe he could find a way out from there.

But therein still lay one problem – the windows and their nails.

He'd have to break the windows.

He could use the chair to the desk, smash out the window, cover the sill in the sheets from the bed and climb to the roof. But the guards would likely hear it…

"Guess I'll have to be quick about it, then," Jacob murmured pleasantly, more than ready to bring damage upon some part of Starrick's home. He quickly went to the desk and dragged the chair to the window. It was heavy, Jacob realized uneasily; heavier than he thought, in fact. But with a burst of adrenaline and a miracle on his side, he managed to lift the chair and smash out the fragile glass of the window panes.

"Hey, what was that?" A man asked, his voice carrying from some part of the property. Jacob quickly darted to the bed and pulled free the sheets. After placing the sheets over the sill, he carefully climbed atop it and made sure not to move suddenly lest a stray bit of glass cut through the sheet and into his foot.

"I think it came from in here," another voice said, the doorknob to his room jiggling just as he pulled himself out the window and stuck himself fast to the wall outside. Despite his small frame and the struggle he had with the chair, it was surprisingly easy for Jacob to haul himself to the roof. Not a moment later, he saw a face peer out the shattered remains of the window below – looking out onto the property with a scowl.

"The pipsqueak's gone," the man said, and Jacob felt a furl of annoyance curl in his chest.

"I'm not that small," Jacob murmured in a whisper beneath his breath, arms crossed.

"Well we better find him before Starrick finds out," Another voice said, sounding far more concerned than the first. "A bullet would be a kindness if he finds out we lost the boy."

Did they not know who he was? They were speaking as though they had lost sight of Starrick's nephew rather than an assassin turned child. But still an assassin none-the-less. Did they really think he'd just stay put just because he was… God, how old was he?

"Deal with that later, Jacob," he whispered, turning to look for the highest point of Starrick's estate, "Focus on getting out of this mess, first."

The property must be outside of London proper, because there were distinctly trees surrounding Starrick's property rather than the immense cluster of buildings that Jacob was used to. So escape wouldn't be as simple as crossing a few rooftops as he had hoped. Instead, he'd have to find a way off the property, figure out where he was, then make his way back to London and the train. Jacob sighed, weariness beginning to settle over his bones despite just waking. He had a long way to go.

"One step at a time," Jacob whispered, turning his sights back to the highest point on the estate – the chimney stack. He walked up to it, one small hand bracing against the cold brick as he shivered. He had never been afraid of heights, but the tallest cathedral in London felt like nothing in comparison to this chimney stack before him.

"Alright, let's do this."

Jacob searched for his first handhold. Once his small fingers found purchase within the gritty stone, he pulled himself up and searched for the next – and the next and the next. He was probably two feet off the ground when his concentration was suddenly shattered by two huge hands grabbing him around his ribs; their fingers practically meeting at his sternum.

"Hey!" Jacob cried out, legs and arms lashing every which way as he was pulled from the chimney as if he weighed nothing.

"What're you doing up here, boy?" the guard said, and for the life of him, Jacob couldn't figure out where he had come from. How had he missed him? "Starrick's worried sick. You're supposed to be resting."

Jacob stilled, ice pouring down his spine. God, that sounded so…so…domestic. Had a Blighter – someone who would have normally taken the opportunity to kill him without blinking an eye – just reprimand him for being out of bed?

"What the hell are you going on about?!" Jacob said, hating himself for sounding as young as the Blighter was making him feel. "Let me go!"

The Blighter actually had the gall to laugh, and Jacob felt himself flush all the way down his neck.

"No, no, no," the Blighter said, tucking Jacob underneath one large arm like he were a sack of potatoes. So he was dealing with a thug then; one of those huge, hulking men that Roth had been particularly good at finding and recruiting. No matter how Jacob twisted or kicked, he couldn't pry himself free. "Starrick will want to see you."

"Great, dandy," Jacob muttered, going slack. "Off we go, then."

If Jacob had thought being carried through the estate hanging like a doll from the crook of a Blighter's arm was embarrassing, it didn't hold a candle's flame to being deposited into Starrick's private room like an unruly child caught up past bedtime – which he guessed, in their twisted eyes, he was just that. He stumbled forward as the Blighter practically tossed him forward.

Starrick's private room was lavish, just as expected. Rich curtains, plush carpets, a large bed and a heavy oak desk that could crush a man beneath its intricately carved weight. It was there at that desk that Jacob found Starrick – nose down as he scrawled away at some letter or important ledger. He was wearing his normal clothing, but instead of his normal immaculate flare, he had his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his collar open at his neck. And the Shroud was nowhere to be found.

"We found him, Mr. Starrick. Right as rain, he is," the Blighter said. Jacob turned to run, but the man was taking up the entire frame of the doorway with his bulk. When he caught Jacob's glare, he just gave him a cheerful wink. Rage flooded Jacob's bones and he clenched his tiny fists.

"Well done, Mr. Abrams. While I do not understand how a child alluded your watchful eye in the first place, the boy is found and the damage undone," Starrick said, his gaze still down as he did not bother to discontinue his writing. "However, should this problem arise again…"

He paused just long enough to meet his Blighter's gaze, his pen momentarily still and his tone even stiller – like the calm surface of dark water, it's depths unfathomable.

"Understood, sir," Mr. Abrams said quickly, "I'll leave you to it, sir."

And then the meaty wall blocking his way was gone, replaced by a door and finished with the quick snick of a lock. Jacob cursed, and it took all of his willpower to turn on his heel and face the man who should have died beneath his blade. But when he did, Starrick's eyes were not awaiting him. Instead, the man had gone back to his writing – leaving Jacob standing there like a fool.

Jacob cleared his throat.

"Just a moment, Jacob," Starrick said, his words closely followed by the soft scratching of his pen. "After what you've put me through tonight, I think you can offer a little patience."

"What I've put you through?" Jacob exclaimed his hands out at his sides and looked around for the support of an audience that was not there. "I'm a child because of you. You kidnapped me, and let me stress the 'kid' in that word because I still can't quite wrap my mind around the fact that I'm barely four bloody feet tall now. So I'm sorry if I didn't stay put in bed like a good little boy because extra, extra – read all about it – I'm not a little boy!"

With a large, put upon sigh – shit, Jacob would nearly call it theatrical – Starrick set down his pen and slowly raised his gaze to address him.

"Are you done?"

Jacob felt his neck run red again, rage blushing his cheeks.

"No, actually – while we're at it how about you unlock these doors, give me one of those fancy carriages your dearly departed sister left you and I'll just be on my way. No damage done, as you say."

There was a long, chilling moment when Starrick simply stared at him. If not for the fact that he knew the man had no qualms hurting children, if his factories were anything to go by, he would have questioned it then; knee deep in Starrick's bone-chilling glare.

But then, just like that, his expression changed. He laughed. The man laughed! As if Jacob had told a particularly amusing joke. And while Jacob loved being hilarious and charming in all that he did, he didn't find Starrick's amusement very settling.

"Want to enlighten me on the joke?" Jacob asked.

"You, dear boy," Starrick answered, standing slowly as if his laughter had weakened him. "Speaking as though you were still a man."

"I am a man!" Jacob snarled, and flushed at how young he sounded even to his own ears. And every flush, every embarrassment, every reminder took something from him. More of his confidence, more of his steel. More of his ability to keep his chin up.

"Quite," Starrick said, his laughter simmering to a soft chuckle, only to blend down into a serious stare once more. "I have half a mind to bend you over my knee and spank you, young man. But I don't think you're ready for that quite yet."

"S-spank me?! Am I going crazy?! Or did you forget – I am the assassin that tried to kill you mere hours ago. We're enemies. Not that I'm ungrateful for you not killing me, but I'm not your boy!"

"Days."

That brought Jacob's rage to a pause, his brows drawn in confusion.

"What?"

"Not hours. Days. The change took a lot out of you. You've been bedridden for days."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I don't think you understand your situation, Mr. Frye," Starrick said, and Jacob felt a small flutter of relief at being addressed like a man again, however brief. "Days of recuperation. Days in which no one came to save you. Your darling sister is dead, as is your exotic friend. No one is coming for you. Your Rooks are scrambling without a leader, and the person they are looking for so desperately is a man. Who would think to look for Jacob Frye, notorious gang leader of London and fearsome assassin, in the form of a boy no taller than my waist? Without your sister, no one will know to look for you as you are," Starrick said, slowly coming closer, forcing Jacob to step back to keep from craning his head too ridiculously. "And small as you are, you have no hope of escaping this estate. So do what you need to do to come to terms with your new arrangements, Mr. Frye. I'll give you a day. But come the day after that, you will be addressed as a boy, act as a boy, be a boy."

Jacob felt icy terror run through his veins, his ears and mind all but numb to Starrick's words the moment he heard the news of Evie's fate. 'No,' he thought aghast, 'no, no, no. It can't be true. Not Evie. Not his Evie. She was better than him. In all ways, she was better. No way did she fall prey to Starrick's whims as he had. He was the one who made mistakes. Not… Not Evie…'

He felt his bottom lip quiver, as if his small body couldn't contain the emotions he could have masked as a man. His breath hitched, and he clenched every muscle in his body to stop the burning in his throat and eyes before they could evolve into more ammunition in Starrick's arsenal.

"Oh dear boy," Starrick said, suddenly kneeling before him – his hands gentle where they cupped Jacob's whiskerless face. "Don't be down, it won't be so bad. I have such a life to offer you. Better, no doubt, than the one you led before. You have such greatness ahead of you."

Jacob bit his lip and jerked away from Starrick – but he did not miss the momentary flicker of white hot rage that flashed through the man's eyes at his rejection before it slipped beneath a calm, fatherly mask once more. That felt good to see. The man he knew was still there. Jacob hadn't gone crazy.

"Evie isn't dead," he snarled, "And I won't rest until I put you in the ground and piss on your unmarked grave."

Starrick raised his hand as though to slap him, and Jacob flinched – idly wondering how much more that hand would hurt as small as he was now – but his eyes flickered open hesitantly when the blow never came. He side-eyed Starrick suspiciously as the man looked at him with an open look of sadness.

"You thought I would strike you."

Jacob's eyes burned.

"You killed my sister. We tried to kill you. I don't think it's outside the realm of possibility."

"Yes, well… those memories that plague you will fade soon enough," Starrick said, and Jacob hated it when the man rested a gentle hand atop his bony shoulder. He tugged himself free and couldn't figure out why Starrick looked regretful, stricken even, when he did. "Come on, dear boy. I think that's enough excitement for one night."

And then with a soft pop of aging knees, Starrick stood and returned to his desk.

"You can rest here tonight, my boy," he said as he sat down and picked up his pen, eyes never even straying to Jacob – dismissing him completely. "As you can imagine, I'd rather not take my eyes off you. Not until you're more settled in."

"Not gonna happen," Jacob muttered, arms crossed – but still unsettled from their conversation, Starrick's words still rolling through his head. Distracting him.

'Those memories that plague you will fade soon enough.'

Well, if Starrick was hoping that time would heal those scars and that Jacob would become his darling baby boy overnight, he had another fucking thing coming to him. Instead of going to the bed as Starrick wished, Jacob sat down where he was in the middle of the floor and glared at him. If he couldn't escape, he'd find a way to kill the man in his own home. He'd find the Shroud, he'd fix himself, and he'd find Evie.

She wasn't dead. He'd know if she were. He was sure of it. But for now, he'd buy his time until he found a weapon with which to finish what he had started.

Starrick would pay.