When Credence walked down for breakfast the next morning, he knew something was wrong. Modesty had her eyes fixed determinedly on her plate but wasn't eating. She was simply pushed her food back and forth, the tines of her fork tapping. Ma was sitting at the table with her hands folded in her lap, her food growing cold in front of her. There was no plate waiting for him.

The sound of plates clanking and water splashing drew his eye to where Chastity stood beside the sink, already cleaning the dishes she'd used for breakfast. There was nothing set aside for him.

No breakfast then.

"Good morning," Credence said softly, fighting the urge to turn and run. His heart was racing in his chest and his mouth felt dry. Chastity had seen. Chastity had told.

"No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it." Slowly, almost mechanically, Mary Lou's face turned to him. "Chastity said she saw you holding hands with a woman in front of the library yesterday."

"Ma, no…" Credence begged. "I didn't… I wouldn't…"

"You would call your sister a liar, then?" Ma demanded, rising to her feet. Her voice cracked like a leather belt and Credence flinched, pressing back against the wall, like having something behind him would save him. He knew it wouldn't, he knew she would throw him to the ground and beat him no matter what he did, but he would take small moment of comfort where he could get them.

"N-No… I… She was just…" Credence struggled to explain. "Sh-She saw my hands. She asked… wh-what happened."

Ma's eyes widened, nostrils flaring in rage. "And what did you say?"

"I-I didn't lie!" Credence was desperate to make her understand that, because maybe that would make a difference. Maybe this time she'd listen. Maybe this time she'd forgive him. "I j-just said… I said…"

"Speak!" Mary Lou barked, and the sudden loud noise, when she had thus far been so icily calm, startled a small whine from his lips. Ma sneered. "You cannot even answer me. You are pathetic, Credence. Unable to even answer your mother's questions, crying like a child. Chastity came to me out of concern for your soul. She feared her brother was being led astray by a temptress."

"N-No, I didn't..."

"Chastity is a good and loyal sister, trying to protect you from sins of the flesh. Look at your sister. Thank her!" Mary Lou ordered.

"Thank you, Chastity," Credence mumbled to the floor, trying to stay as small and non-offensive as possible.

"Look at her!" Mary Lou shrieked, and Credence jerked again, shoulders coming up to his ears. Instinctively he tried to curl his hand into fists like that would protect his sensitive palms from a belt this time but his fingers were still too sore, the cuts too raw. It hurt just to close his hands.

Credence barely tilted his head up, careful to keep is eyes on Chastity's forehead on instead of her eyes. She was better than him, she'd been good, she'd tried to protect him from that girl – but she was a nice, wasn't she? – and he had been weak, letting her touch him.

"T-Thank you, Chastity," he said again.

"All I have done for you, all I have tried to teach you. I have beaten the devil away from you three tainted children with my own hands," Mary Lou said with something that sounded like it should have been mournfulness but simply… wasn't. "I should not have thought you were capable of resisting a pretty face, Credence. I should not have had so much faith in you."

Her hands closed on his wrists and Credence began to thrash weakly because it wouldn't help, it never helped, but his hands were so painful that anything further done to them and he thought he might cry.

"You are weak!" she berated him. "You are pathetic!"

Ma dragged him towards the sink, her fingernails digging into the sensitive undersides of his wrists and raising little crescents of torn skin. Credence understood what she meant to do as Chastity quickly stepped away from the scalding water, reaching for Modesty to rush the girl from the room with reddened hands.

"No!" This time Credence's shriek was desperate. "Please, Ma, I don't know her…Sh-She's not… I never… Please, ma, please!" He begged for mercy.

"Since Christ suffered in his body, arm yourselves also with the same attitude, because whoever suffers in the body is done with sin!" Mary Lou intoned, and then she yanked his hands forwards and plunged them into the hot water.

Credence screamed, sagging against the edge of the sink. It felt like she'd just immersed his hands in lava, the raw skin seeming to absorb the heat and bury it deep into his bones, lightning ripping through his blood. He could feel it all the way up to his elbow, aside from the ring of numbness where Ma's hands gripped him like a vice. He sobbed and felt like retching as the scabs that had formed split open. Ribbons of his blood wormed through the brown-grey water. The sight of it was sickening.

After what felt like hours Ma released his wrists. Credence wrenched his hands from the water, sending up a spray of dirty water and bubbles as he clutched them to his chest. His own feet tangled under him and he crashed down, landing hard on his tailbone and toppling backwards. He rolled bonelessly onto his side, clutching his burned and bleeding hands to his chest, hoping and praying that this was it, that she wouldn't ask for his belt.

"If you will allow the devil to pollute your soul, then I must be the one to tear him free," Mary Lou said, standing over him as he wept. And with that she turned and walked from the kitchen, leaving Credence curled and crying.

Credence trembled, wondering what he had done wrong. The girl had been so kind. Was it wrong just to talk to her? She had seemed so concerned for him, and that was something he had craved for longer than he could remember. For someone to care, even just for a second. He hadn't lied to her, and no matter what Chastity said, he hadn't held her hands, he would never dare to touch her like that.

Because deep in his gut Credence was certain – he didn't know quite how, but she was different, special. Not a bad kind of special, no. A very good kind of different. The kind of something new that had soft hands and gentle eyes and didn't look through him or, even worse, focus on him only to cause him pain. The kind of something new that he'd prayed for secretly whenever Mary Lou reminded him of how lucky he was that she had saved him from a house of godlessness and sin.

He was fully aware that the girl had probably forgotten he even existed. Maybe she would remember him vaguely if she stuck her hand in the pocket of her dress and felt paper crinkle. She'd pull out the pamphlet and smooth it out and spend a moment remembering where it had come from. And maybe, if he was very lucky, she'd take a moment to wonder what ever happened to the boy with the bloodied hands. Even though he would probably never see her again, knowing that he might cross someone else's mind, might be something important for a few seconds, was a heady thought.

An arrogant thought. A prideful thought. A sinful thought.

Credence moaned. No matter what he did, even within the confines of his head, he was a sinner, and no matter what Mary Lou did to him, she would never manage to beat it out of him.

He knew, around the fuzzy, blocked memories from when he was very young, before Chastity and Modesty, that he was foul. He remembered staring into the window of a toy store and wishing he could have the stuffed rabbit on display. A moment later, an identical toy had been in his arms. Mary Lou had shrieked at him for using evil powers to cheat and steal and burned the rabbit before his eyes, stuffing going up in flames. Those small moments of unnaturalness had plagued his childhood, but they had long-since faded.

Credence knew it was still there though. That evil that was under his skin no matter how many times Ma tried to bleed it from him – it lurked. It swirled in his stomach, angry and dark and bitter, and he had lived for so long forcing it down deep where it couldn't get out, couldn't do something that would earn him another punishment, that it was almost second nature. That didn't make it go away though, it was jus putting a lid on the pot and hoping whatever was inside wouldn't boil over.

He was terrified it would.

He was terrified he wanted it to.

He was terrified of himself.

Miss Blödgarmr,

I'm terribly sorry to hear about your father, I hope my letter hasn't dredged up any unpleasant feelings. However, I'm very glad that you've agreed to correspond with me in spite of that.

About my acquisition in Cairo: calling it a purchase would be slightly misleading, and I feel it only fair you know what you're dealing with. You were exactly right when you took a guess about the black market trade of magical creatures. It's unfortunate, but occasionally my research puts me in contact with less-than-savoury characters and I come across creatures in truly pitiable situations.

That's exactly that happened. A thunderbird was showing signs of stress, which as you likely know, can be fatal. I found it chained in a marketplace plucking its own feathers out. You should have seen the state he was in. I hope you can understand that I couldn't leave him there, so I broke him free and smuggled him from the country.

However, as you can probably imagine, this is quite a bit larger of an undertaking than simply working on my manuscript. I confess that, things being as they are, I know precious little of North American magical creatures. For example, I have regrettably never even heard of a cactus cat, though it sounds fascinating!

I will understand if you are no longer willing to correspond with me. What I'm doing is, after all, illegal, and I wouldn't blame you at all if you didn't want to risk being involved. However, if you're willing to help then I need some advice. Primarily, what would be closest to Frank's – that's what I've decided to call him – natural diet and range? Are there any common diseases I should check for signs of? Any common pitfalls to be wary of?

Your help is most invaluable, Miss Blödgarmr, I truly don't know how to repay you.

Sincerely,

Newt Scamander

"What are you smiling about?"

Elvira looked up from her desk in the flat above the Cactus Cat where she and Iliana lived. Her sister was dressed for bed in a light mint-green peignoir set, a book tucked under her arm and her hair put up in pin curls for the next day. Elvira was still dressed, though admittedly relaxed. Her waistcoat hung on the corner of her chair and her suspenders were shoved off her shoulders to hang by her hips. She'd abandoned the sleeve garters on the floor by her stockinged feet and rolled her sleeves up to her elbows, unbuttoning the first few buttons. Finally, in the safety of her own home, Elvira wore a pair of thin-framed spectacles perched low on her nose.

"My new pen pal," she replied, brandishing her letter as Iliana stepped into the room curiously.

"The man who wrote you about Egypt?" she asked, and Elvira nodded. Iliana perched herself on the corner of her sister's desk and reached out for the letter curiously. Elvira moved fast, snatching the letter back. Iliana raised an eyebrow.

"What's wrong?" she demanded. "Why can't I see?"

"No reason," Elvira admitted, feeling flustered. Something about this, about being contacted out of the blue by a man wandering the world to do research was a bit fantastic. Granted, last evening she'd watched a werewolf, a vampire, and a goblin absolutely fleece an unsuspecting young wizard at the card table, and many people might find that fantastic. To her it was another Thursday night. This was… different. Special. Elvira couldn't explain why, but she'd always trusted her gut and it had never once steered her wrong.

"He's worried about involving me in illegal activity," Elvira offered instead of explaining herself, tucking the letter away into a drawer of her desk. "Ain't that sweet?" she simpered.

Iliana scoffed. "Clearly he hasn't met you. I'd be shocked if he found some kind of illegal activity you haven't already partaken in."

"You know, I have yet to commit… no, damn, last August… Alright, fair," Elvira submitted. "But he's gotten his hands on a thunderbird somehow and…"

"Oh, a thunderbird!" Iliana gasped in delight, pressing her palms to the wood and leaning in. Her sudden movement sent her foot swinging forward to hit Elvira's cane where it leaned against the desk. Elvira caught and straightened it without blinking. "I haven't seen one since we moved back East!"

"I know," Elvira nodded in agreement, remembering vividly the time when she and Iliana had been in Arizona hunting down a contact of their father's. They'd been riding through some canyons – it really was the best way to get around and besides, both women loved riding – when a storm had suddenly kicked up. It was so abrupt that the only explanation had been magic, and sure enough they had spotted a thunderbird high above them, streaking down the canyon. They'd taken off laughing after it, getting soaked to the bone until the bird peeled off down a side channel and they had to continue on, winded and wet but giddy.

They'd had an admittedly interesting childhood, based in the fairly lawless west where their father was able to conduct his research without weekly check-ins from MACUSA. Without Ilvermorny filling their year with classes and homework they'd been free to spend hands-on time learning about anything and everything they wanted and their father's friends had been happy to correspond with them about anything they wanted to know. It was a very nontraditional childhood, but it meant that by the time Iliana was seventeen and Elvira was twenty-seven, they had more field experience than most researchers twice their age.

"You should warn him though, you know," Iliana commented, sliding from the desk and adjusting her book under her arm. "When you write him back, I mean. He may think he's getting you in trouble but I think you're just as capable of doing the same."

"True," Elvira allowed, leaning back in her chair and stretching her feet out under her desk. She crossed her legs at the ankles and gave a long stretch, arching her back and lifting her arms above her head. "Case in point," she said, voice slightly strained as her back let out an alarming series of pops, "can you hit up another Salem meeting tomorrow afternoon? I hear they're going to be on Wall Street tomorrow and I really don't want those people near that kind of money."

Iliana winced, imagining the damage a fanatic like Mary Lou Barebone could do if she had the money to back up her ideals. It wasn't a pretty picture. "Sure. I was thinking of going shopping anyway so I'll already be out."

"Shopping for what?" Elvira asked in bemusement.

"The Halloween night that's coming up in a few weeks?" Iliana replied, arching an eyebrow. "You know, the one happening downstairs in your bar?"

"Alright, off to bed with you, no need to get snippy," Elvira huffed, waving her hand in the direction of the door. The other reached for a piece of paper and a pen. She planned to write back to Mr. Scamander tonight, and then she would head to bed.

Mr. Scamander,

It's sweet of you to worry about getting me involved in your illegal activities, really it is, but it's not necessary. I see whoever gave you my father's name didn't quite communicate his reputation or the reputation of my family, so I feel compelled to inform you as to who you're dealing with.

Once upon a time, Blödgarmr was a revered name in the United States. We were among the first Aurors in the United States, a lauded group at the time given the amount of Scourers running around trying to wipe out anything more magical than a toadstool. My ancestor, Fridolf Blödgarmr was among them and he was less than thrilled with the way MACUSA was developing. So he ran off to the west and returned to his first love, which was botany. Of course, to everyone else, this was considered abandoning his duty and his country.

Since then, we Blödgarmr have been considered eccentric by most and downright criminal by MACUSA. Currently, I own a bar which is frequented by less-than-savory members of society, to use your words. MACUSA would love to arrest me on any number of charges relating to that. However I'm particularly good with warding and they are unable to do break into the Cactus Cat Lounge in order to raid it and get what they need. For other reasons, I'm not physically capable of leaving New York City based on other charges I was convicted of.

Nothing I'm ashamed of, to be clear, and no violent crime that you need to be concerned about either.

But now that you're aware of what you're dealing with, I'll answer your questions. Thunderbirds tend to like high, rocky paces. They're common in Arizona and like to make their homes in caves in cliff faces. Any smallish mammals should do for Frank. Rats, rabbits, the odd fox. Just make sure that there are some rocks around in whatever habitat you're keeping him in as they like to sharpen their claws.

I'm enclosing a recipe for a poultice developed by my great-great-great aunt Ingrid that will help soothe poor Frank's plucked spots. The smell will be calming to him and the poultice itself should help encourage regrowth of feathers. As an added bonus, it tastes utterly foul and so will likely discourage him to continue plucking… at least in that area.

You're actually at an advantage, though you may not see it. If you can get Frank to bond with you, then his ability to sense danger and react to it will extend to you. He will alert you of any potential danger to you that he can sense. There are reports of thunderbirds who bonded with witches and wizards in the past actually swooping down and carrying them off ahead of an attack or natural disaster. While Frank might not be feeling up too much swooping, he should react by flaring his wings and cawing. He may also fly in circles a bit.

To keep an eye out for disease, I'd recommend keeping an eye on his talons. As you might expect, that's where many warning signs manifest. Any discoloration, cracking, or peeling would be a sign that something's wrong. Normally I'd say watch out for plucking as well, but we've already established that he's doing that. If he begins to do it more often, that's also a warning sign. Going off his food would be another major warning as thunderbirds need to eat a lot and often. Keep feeding him until he will not eat anymore the first few weeks – he'll likely need the energy and nutrients – then back him down to a more reasonable diet.

I would have offered to join you in releasing Frank, but now you know why I can't. That being said, you'll likely arrive in New York City at some point, and I would enjoy meeting you, Mr. Scamander.

Sincerely,

Elvira Blodgarmr

P.S. I've enclosed pictures of both an axe-handle hound and a cactus cat.

Newt picked up the envelope and let it pour out onto his lap. Out fluttered two pictures and a second bit of paper. He set the potion aside to go over later and check against his stores of ingredients – hopefully he had everything he needed – and instead picked up the two pictures.

One seemed to have been taken in the middle of a desert. It featured a creature that looked like the offspring of a porcupine and a bobcat with a long, branching tail. As Newt watched, the cat raised its tail and swiped at a cactus, tearing long lines into the flesh of the plant. The cat then curled up in the shade, eyes locked on the cactus, and seemed to wait. Newt tilted his head and observed the cat curiously. It glared up at him from the picture, letting out a piercing yowl and swatting at him warningly.

"Alright, alright," he assured it, setting the picture aside face-down so as not to bother the thing anymore.

The second picture was taking inside of someone's living room. A very tall woman was stretched out across a couch. She was dressed in men's clothes, a waistcoat buttoned up her stomach and trousers covering her legs. Curled up along the arm of the couch was a creature that was unmistakably canine, but had a face shaped like the head of an axe handle and an impossibly skinny body. That body was wrapped around the woman's shoulders as her head reclined back, holding a newspaper over her face.

As Newt watched, the woman reached down to a small bowl beside the couch and lifted out a stick. She held it over her shoulder and the dog eagerly devoured it. She sputtered as its tail began to wag, whapping her in the face, and dropped the newspaper very ungracefully on her face as she tried to swat it away.

Newt chuckled, wondering if this was Miss Elvira Blodgarmr. She certainly didn't look dangerous or criminal despite what she'd said in her letter. Newt had never heard of such a thing! Tying a witch to a specific town and refusing to allow her to travel seemed cruel, and he wondered what Miss Blodgarmr had done. Nothing violent, she had assured him, but she had done something, and something fairly bad it would seem.

Newt began to peer into the background of the picture to try and find any details that would explain. The picture was taken from somewhere off the ground, that he could tell from the view of windows outside. There was a cane propped against the end of the couch, though there was no guarantee it belonged to her. It could have easily been her father's – the only way to date the picture was the newspaper and it was too small to read. All in all, it looked like a perfectly normal flat, which was rather surprising.

Miss Blodgarmr herself wasn't what he'd expected. He didn't quite know what he'd imagined, but it certainly wasn't this. Dark-haired, he couldn't make a guess at her eye color, but the way she was sprawled out was almost masculine and as he watched, the picture picked up a leg and draped it over the back of the couch casually. She had broad shoulders and, Newt noticed with a blush, the curves to balance it out.

It was nice to be able to put a face to the name though, to have a picture in his head of who he was writing to. Newt took this picture and leaned it up against the silver-framed picture of Leta. The difference between the two women could not have been more stark – a professional portrait taken to flatter Leta's dark, exotic looks compared to a candid snapshot of Miss Blodgarmr relaxing in her living room. Yet there was something about the confident way they both seemed to hold themselves that almost matched, and Newt nodded to himself.

So Miss Blodgarmr wasn't exactly an innocent, but neither was he. Newt closed his eyes and secretly prayed that she never found out he hadn't finished Hogwarts – that had nearly kept him out of the Ministry. He doubted it would impress her overmuch considering how many doors it had already closed to him in the past.

Miss Blodgarmr,

Thank you for the pictures and the potion, both are very welcome. I would very much like to meet should I find myself in New York City, and I very likely will. There's a few things I must finish up in Africa, reports from the west that I would like to look into, but I believe I will be heading to the States after that…