The greengrocer's "boy" was actually fifteen years old. That made him young enough to get stuck with the scut work, old enough to be trusted with the delivery duties, and definitely old enough to appreciate the buxom blonde that came up to him on the street.
"Hey, there! Eric, isn't it?" she said, a big, sunny smile on her face.
"Yeah," he said.
"Can I talk to you for a second?"
Eric wasn't an idiot. Thieves swarmed London, and while the streets of the fancy district he was on his way to deliver to were basically safe at any hour, a person had to watch himself in this neighborhood of shops and stores, just in case.
On the other hand, the girl looked all right. He put her in her early twenties, just old enough to be really interesting. She wore a simple yellow skirt and jacket with a cream-colored shirtwaist, nothing fancy but proper and decent. Typist or secretary, a teacher perhaps, or one of the better class of shop-girl. She definitely wasn't dressed like a streetwalker or anything, except maybe a little too much in the way of face-powder. If she had been, a lot more of her figure would have been on display.
"I guess so," he decided. "But can you make it quick? I've got a delivery to make." He gestured with the produce-stuffed crate he was holding.
"To the Torchwick house at 19 St. Augustine's, right?" she asked.
"Yeah, that's right. How did you know that?"
"It's why I stopped you. I...I was hoping you'd let me take your delivery for you."
"Wait, why would you want to do something like that?" Now that he got a second look, Eric noticed that the woman's build, her height and broad shoulders, suggested that she probably would have no trouble carrying the crate, but even so her clothes didn't fit the image of someone doing that kind of manual labor.
She glanced aside shyly.
"Well, I..."
She pushed her fingertips together in an uncertain little gesture.
"This is kind of embarrassing, but I have a sweetheart there. He's one of the footmen. The problem is, that nasty butler doesn't want any of the servants to have callers." The woman pouted. "He says it encourages licentiousness and immorality. Fusty old bore! Just because it's been decades since any girl's tickled his fancy, or his anything else."
Eric definitely had her down as a shop-girl now, both because of how she talked and that she was having a romance with a footman.
"So, you want to take my delivery, because it'll let you get into the house and see your beau?"
"Exactly! So what do you say, Eric? Can you help a girl out?"
She batted her eyelashes at him, which probably would have had more effect if she hadn't just told him that the whole point of it was to give her a chance to be with another man.
Besides, there were more practical concerns.
"I'd like to, but if anything doesn't get there and they complain about it, old Fitch'll tear a strip off me for sure. That and, well, the cook always gives me a nice tip."
She grinned at him.
"Fair's fair. How about a shilling for your trouble?"
His eyebrows went up.
"You mean it?"
"'Course I do." She held up the coin. It was shiny new and glinted in the sun.
"Well, miss, that makes a difference. I hope your fellow appreciates all the trouble you're going through to see him."
"Oh, I'm sure he's going to notice," she said as she handed over the shilling.
She was still smiling as she accepted the crate of produce, but Eric reflected as he handed it over that it wasn't a very nice smile any more.
~X X X~
"Now, don't you go saying such things, Mina Jenkins," the cook said, waggling a wooden spoon at the scullery maid. "Mr. Torchwick's a fine gentleman, he is, and wouldn't be up to the kind of goings-on you're prattling away about."
"Hmph!" Mina said, tossing her head. She was a saucy young miss of seventeen and not at all intimidated by Cook's matronly scoldings. "Cousins, my eye. Those two are no good, and that's all there is to it."
Cook had been in service to the Schofields, Mrs. Torchwick's family, since she was twelve, and had very determined opinions on the family's affairs, namely that they could do no wrong. Mrs. Torchwick, especially, had been a saint in her mind, running off for True Love and being treated shamefully for it by the Greenvales, and that had transferred right on to her only child.
"I won't be hearing another word!" she declared firmly. "A gentleman has his needs right enough, but the young master would never be so lacking as to bring such women into his own home. If cousins be what he says they are, then that's right enough and no mistake."
Mina sniffed.
"Well, that's as may be, but if any cousins of mine showed up looking like that, Ma'd show them the door. All those feathers and frills, and skirts like that. You know as well as I do there's only two reasons why a woman wears a dress like that, and neither one of 'em's a proper thing for a decent gel."
"Your ma'd have been better served teaching you more about respecting your betters and less of those snooty Puritan airs, if you ask me. 'Judge not, lest ye be judged,' the Good Book says, and that's words for a servant to live by."
Mina, never one to let an opportunity for sass to pass by unanswered (especially when she seemed to be losing the argument thus far and needed a good comeback) opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the ring at the back door.
"Get that, would you? I've got my hands full with this stock, right enough."
"All right."
She went over to the door, and found a tall blonde shouldering a crate of produce.
"Can I help you, miss?"
"I'm from Mr. Petherell's. Eric's out sick today, so Fitch sent me with your delivery."
"Oh, of course. Come right in."
Mina stepped back and let the delivery girl into the kitchen.
"Thanks! That's just what the footman at the garden gate said when I showed him the delivery slip. He was pretty hostile until then. Where should I put this?"
"Oh, just over on the floor next to the table will be fine."
"Okay." She crossed the kitchen to where Cook indicated. "Where was I?"
"You were talking about how Robert almost didn't let you in," Mina answered. "But I think you were being too hard on him. After all, it's his job to only open the gate for people with legitimate business here."
"I'm just trying to do my job." She bent over, setting down the crate. "It's a good thing I thought to get that slip from Eric, or else I might have had to show that footman these, instead."
When she straightened, she was holding two double-barreled scatterguns, shotguns built with a sawed-off barrel and pistol grip. Coolly, she leveled one at Mina and the other at Cook.
"That wouldn't have been good at all. Even if I shot him, the gate would still be locked and the shot would attract attention that could bring more guards while I was climbing the fence."
Mina actually squealed in surprise and shock; she'd started to cry out in alarm but her throat felt like it had clamped shut, fear strangling the scream before it began.
"Now, don't make another sound, either of you. A gunshot is loud, so if you don't start screaming or fighting back it'll be better for me not to shoot you. So if you do what I tell you, I won't have to make any noise and you won't have to get hurt. Everybody wins!"
Cook and Mina nodded mutely. In truth, Mina didn't think she actually could make any noise even if she wanted to.
"Good. Now, both of you, get over there in front of the stove and lie down on your bellies. Go on, the floor's not that cold."
Reluctantly, the two women moved to obey her. Efficiently, she took an apron off its hook, tore it into strips with a carving knife, and proceeded to gag them both, tie their hands behind their backs, and then tie their ankles together.
"There, that should keep you out of trouble," Yang said, eying her work. If they worked at it, they ought to be able to untie each other's hands, or more dangerously, get hold of a knife and cut themselves free, but those two didn't seem like the type who would try unless pressed. "Don't try too hard to get into any."
Yang reached behind herself and undid the hooks holding her skirt closed, ripping it off. Beneath it she wore tights under a pair of short pants that came to mid-thigh, more weapon harness than garment. She wished that she had the swing-out rigs for her shotguns, but a frontal approach on Torchwick's house was out of the question. Not only would he almost certainly have guards or henchmen, the neighborhood was regularly patrolled by police and watchmen, all eager and ready to aid a resident against a housebreaker.
It had taken her a day's observation to prepare the plan, to get the lay of the land. A petticoat concealed a multitude of ill intentions, and had gotten her inside without trouble. Her LeMat was already holstered on her left thigh, around towards the back where the shape of the skirt had concealed it, while the scatterguns hooked onto loops on the front. Digging beneath cabbages and onions, she got out her fingerless gloves and put them on, then retrieved her gauntlets, which she'd unbolted from her gun rigs, and slipped them into place as well.
Yang slid her fingers over the carved wood butt of the LeMat, then slid it out. She wanted to get her hands on Torchwick, to literally beat the reasons she had come here into him. But the Phantom would be slippery; his record stood for itself. If she got a shot at him, she'd take it without regrets, and let Torchwick learn what she'd done and why once he got to Hell.
After a moment's hesitation, she drew a scattergun with her free hand. Running into servants or guards was still a possibility.
It was getting harder to remind herself that these were people she didn't want to hurt. They lived under Torchwick's roof, accepted his money, did his bidding. The fact that the servants likely knew nothing of his criminal activities was the only leash allowing her to hold herself back, to force a lightness into her voice and try to neither brutalize nor terrify them any more than she'd had to.
Yang closed her eyes and took a deep breath,
If you hurt these people because they work for Torchwick, you'll just be adding to his list of victims. It was bad enough that when she took the thief down, the servants would likely be out of a job. And finding a new one wouldn't be easy when their last employer was a notorious criminal. Those little, niggling doubts would follow them around even though they'd done nothing wrong.
And in the space of ten seconds, you've gone from wanting to beat the hell out of them to feeling sorry for them, Yang thought with a sigh, opening her eyes.
She had to stay focused, keep her attention on Torchwick where it belonged and not get caught up in the games surrounding him.
Yang left the kitchen, moving down the hall that connected it to the dining room. That chamber proved to be stylish and understated, with cream-colored linens and a portrait of a young woman in eighteenth-century dress over the mantel, perhaps the great-aunt who'd left Torchwick's mother the house. The carroty hair and the arrogant curl of the lip reminded Yang at once of Jaune's description of the thief.
I wonder if she'd be proud of what her family's become. Probably so; that look was one she'd seen before on the faces of patrons at the Kodiak Club, that assurance that the world was their plaything and they had the right to just reach out and take whatever they wanted.
Even a young girl's life.
The fury that had banked with the thought of the servants' future plight roared back up again, that if Yang had barged into a footman on leaving the dining room she'd have clubbed him down without a second thought. The whipsawing emotions were almost dizzying in their force, her close proximity to Torchwick making them all the worse. She all but threw the door open, storming out into the main hall.
The room was small for its purpose, with a staircase that wound up the side walls like it was climbing a bell tower to two balustraded landings above. Against one wall under the staircase was a long, narrow table with vases of cut flowers flanking a landscape in a rococo frame. With no windows, light came from cut-glass sconces rigged for gaslight on the wall, though a massive chandelier above had no doubt served that purpose in the old days. Yang paused to take stock of the various exit doors, trying to guess which direction would be most likely to bring her to Torchwick.
Considering how much of a showman he is, I'd bet he likes high places. It was too bad that the house didn't feature a turret or tower; she was certain his private den would be at the very top. She'd just started to cross the room when a loud, grating noise of metal on metal caused her to look up.
The chandelier!
It was plummeting towards her in an uncontrolled fall; if it hadn't been for the sound of the chain dragging through the pulley she might well have been hit full-on. Yang flung herself to the left, the closest way out of its path, and nearly made it. The heavy bronze arms caught her right shoulder, side and hip as they passed, knocking her sprawling. The LeMat was torn out of her hand and went skittering away, luckily without discharging, but she managed to keep hold of the scattergun, and she rolled onto her back and fired up at the crimson blur she saw rushing along the second-floor landing. One shot went wide; the other was dead on target but hit the heavy wooden balustrade; ammunition designed to be incapable of penetrating the human body had no chance to get through the thick oak.
Yang dropped the empty weapon and started pushing herself to her feet as Miltia Malachite dashed down a flight of stairs, then hurled herself over the lower landing directly at the blonde. Yang rolled out of the way while Miltia landed hard; the two sprang up and launched at each other in the next instant.
Miltia was fast and ferocious, well beyond the level of Junior's hatchet men. Her blades came flying at Yang, stabbing and slashing, and she was barely able to fend them off. Engaging Yang high, she then flicked her foot up in an almost jab-like kick to the side of Yang's leg, but Yang was able to shift her stance so it landed low, missing her knee, and landed two quick body blows in return.
"Don't think you can just walk in here and do whatever you want," Miltia snapped at her, sweeping her claws at Yang's face, making Yang whip her head back. "By the time we're through with you, that invincible reputation of yours will be in tiny pieces!"
We, confirming that Melanie was here as well. All the better.
They weren't like Junior's goons, thugs doing their jobs, who might not be good people but hadn't done anything to Yang personally. Nor were they innocent bystanders despite being on Torchwick's payroll the way the servants were. The twins didn't just take Torchwick's money; they'd actively assisted him with his crimes. They'd actually been there that night and had fought against Ruby, besides, helping Torchwick get to Sir Reginald and setting up the final confrontation on the roof.
There was plenty of room for responses to Miltia's opening, but Yang didn't provide any, not her usual playful banter or the angrier, bitter dialogue of the previous day at Junior's. Instead, she just roared in anger, coming in fast, landing a punch, then stealing Miltia's idea by slamming a boot into her thigh to knock her off-balance, then pivoting into a crushing roundhouse seemingly meant to take Miltia's head off by main force. The punch didn't land cleanly; though the crimson twin was too jarred to stop it she still saw it coming and was able to jerk her head to the side so that the thunderous blow only grazed her. She still went stumbling back against the table, and Yang was about to follow up when a whisper of sound caught her attention.
She probably wouldn't have noticed it if it hadn't been the Malachites. Melanie and Miltia were so closely associated with each other in their lives and their work that most people who only knew them casually didn't really think of them as individuals at all, more like a single entity that happened to have two bodies. Miltia saying "we" had only doubled up on that effect. No matter how angry Yang was, at least some part of her brain was constantly wondering, where is Melanie?
And so that one step was enough, that brush of a foot on the carpet, to have Yang spinning away from Miltia, her hand coming around in a savage backfist. Steel rang off steel as her gauntlet clashed against Melanie's boot-blade, parrying the rising kick she'd fired at the back of Yang's head.
Melanie didn't stand around shocked that her ambush had failed; she'd probably half-expected it to go that way and planned accordingly. A flurry of kicks came at Yang that she was hard-pressed to block and beat down.
The strength of the white twin's style was that her attacks came low and at odd angles, ones most people weren't used to blocking or guarding against, while her own arms were used almost entirely for defense. She made it work with a combination of exceptional balance and more speed than Yang had believed possible for a person to put into their kicks. There were really only two significant weaknesses, and Yang tried to exploit one right away, pressing forward to try to get inside the radius of those lethal boots. It cost her a knee to her already aching right side, but she got in close for a quick short-arm punch to the stomach and an uppercut that jolted Melanie backwards.
She was about to go for the finishing shot, when Miltia was there again, a blow landing against Yang's back with a sound of breaking porcelain and a rush of cold soaking through her shirt that made her realize that Miltia had thrown one of the flower vases at her. It was barely more than a distraction, but it gave Melanie the chance to whirl back, creating space between them, then go back on the offensive even as Miltia rushed in.
They came at her on both front flanks, launching a blizzard of attacks. Yang blocked and dodged as best she could, but was forced to give ground, until she found herself with both twins' blades coming at her from opposite sides. She blocked the claw with her gauntlet, then knocked Melanie's leg up with a blow to her calf, but it left her open to a surprise kick from her sister that hit Yang in the stomach, knocking her back against the side of the staircase.
Yang's stagger gave Melanie the chance to regain her balance, and she came in with a scything jump-kick. Yang did the only thing she could do while she fought to catch her breath and crumpled, ducking under the lethal arc so that Melanie's boot tore apart three of the balustrade posts instead of Yang's skull. Sucking in air, Yang went lower instead of trying to rise, taking advantage of Melanie's second weakness by sweeping her plant leg and sending her tumbling over onto her back.
Miltia had come after her at once, punching her claw-blades down in a straight thrust at Yang's head, but the huntress got her arm up, deflecting the blades up and away. The parry was quick and crude, though, so the gauntlet only caught one blade while the cutting inner edge of the second sliced a line across the outside of Yang's forearm. The twin blade being blocked kept the cutting one from being able to slice in too deeply, but it still drew blood, tracing a line of fire as it slid along the flesh while Yang forced Miltia's hand back, then hit her hard just below the breastbone. Miltia gagged, choking for air as Yang got to her feet, then bloodied the red twin's nose with a quick jab.
She was about to step in with a right cross that would have put the dazed Miltia over onto her back, but the point of Melanie's toe slammed into her ribs, sending a spike of pain through her and she stumbled, her swing missing wildly. The white twin's other foot came up even as the first hit the ground, slicing across Yang's thigh, only the double layer of cloth keeping the blade on her boot from cutting into muscle. Roaring, Yang fended her off with a flailing backhand, but then Miltia was there, and the huntress was forced to jump forward to keep from getting stuck between them.
It wasn't enough, though, as she found herself struck twice more and sent crashing into the table, only keeping from being knocked down by grabbing the edge of it. The other vase toppled at the impact, rolling off to shatter on the floor.
"This is supposed to be the great Yang Xiao Long?" Miltia sneered. "I thought she was supposed to be better than this."
Melanie folded her arms across her chest.
"I don't know, Miltia. It looks like the reality and the stories just don't add up."
"I think the stupid cow broke my nose," her sister said, wiping blood away from her mouth with her palm. "She ought to pay extra for that."
Yang might have had a snappy retort for that, but she couldn't focus on dialogue. Dammit! she barked at herself. It may be two-on-one, but I shouldn't be having this kind of trouble. The twins were good enough, but not that good—not good enough to beat her. But they were always one step ahead; she felt like a child flailing out at whatever she could get near to without being able to do anything.
But she had to. If she didn't, Ruby's attacker—
Her killer, maybe.
—would get away. She hadn't even sent word to Jaune about Torchwick's identity, and she doubted that Scotland Yard would do any better at tracing the Phantom Gentleman than they had in the past.
"Don't worry," Melanie told her sister. "We'll make sure that she gets plenty of chances to regret her mistake."
"Like hell!" Yang shouted, ripping free the other scattergun and bringing it up to fire in one smooth motion. The Malachites scattered the instant they saw her go for the gun, trying to stay ahead of her moving hand even as she fired twice. The first shot missed entirely, but the second one caught Melanie in the shoulder, spinning her around. All but howling in her desperation, Yang hauled herself up to her feet by the side table, then grabbed onto the polished mahogany accent and spun around, hurling it at the white twin. Her ribs screamed at her, the battering she'd taken on both sides making her muscles protest even more at their misuse, but Yang barely felt a thing, barely even noticed as Melanie went over beneath the table, as she was already rounding on Miltia.
The red twin was staring at her in shock and horror at what had just happened. One moment, they'd been beating Yang down, all but had her at their mercy, and suddenly she was rising up like some kind of phoenix. Miltia flinched away from Yang's charge, taking a punch to the jaw. She tried to strike back, her right arm swiping weakly down, and Yang's hand shot up, catching her wrist, then wrenching it around savagely until the sharp crack of snapping bone echoed up through the tall, narrow room.
Miltia screamed, sagging to her knees, and Yang, still holding the red twin's arm in one hand, raised her other hand, clenched her right fist, and brought the gauntlet down like a hammer full into Miltia's face.
"Miltia!"
Yang shoved the unconscious girl away, leaving her sprawled across the fallen chandelier and rounded on Melanie, who was pulling herself free of the table.
"Damn you, you monster!" the white twin shrieked. "I'll kill you for that."
She charged at Yang, launching herself into a savage flurry of attacks. Any one of them would have gruesomely maimed if not killed their target had they landed, but the blonde huntress found it easy to weave away from or deflect each one, standing her ground in the face of the assault.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" she shot at Melanie. "To see your sister go down? To see her lying there, broken?"
"Shut up!" Melanie screeched, her foot coming up in an uppercut-like front kick that would have all but popped Yang's head off if she hadn't jerked her chin back.
"Yeah, it does," Yang growled, and was answered by a spinning wheel kick aimed at her neck, a slashing blow that was like nothing so much as a sword-stroke meant to decapitate. It was also badly telegraphed, not set up in the slightest, Melanie's rage and desire to inflict pain making her go all-out instead of using the skill that she had been showing before then. Just like Yang had been, in fact, why she'd taken a beating from two opponents she should have handled with little trouble.
Yang blocked the scything kick, smashing her forearm against Melanie's calf, then as the leg came down, dropped her arm over the leg and caught it just below the knee. She shot her right arm out and caught Melanie by the throat.
"Now you know how I feel!" she shouted, then whipped Melanie off her feet, swiveling the kick-artist around to Yang's left and slamming her down onto her back. Melanie gasped, her voice half-strangled by the grip on her throat. Yang pinned her down, knees on Melanie's thighs to keep her from being able to use those lethal legs.
"I'll make this easy," the huntress spat at her. "Tell me where Torchwick is now, or I'll kill you and get the answer out of Miltia the hard way."
Melanie's eyes widened; she heard the promise in Yang's savage voice. Part of the blonde shrank from the sight, but it was silenced by the bitter, hungry voice that took an ugly joy in being able to inflict the same pain on the girl that she herself was feeling over Ruby.
Shock and hurt dissolved into anger, anger and contempt.
"You want Torchwick?" she sneered. "Fine, go to the second room to the left off the first-floor landing. You'll get all of him you can stomach, I'm sure."
Melanie's voice made Yang see red, but she kept enough control to flip the would-be assassin over and apply a short-wrist choke, compressing the carotid artery and cutting off the blood flow to Melanie's brain. She sagged unconscious in seconds, while a dark part of Yang's mind howled shrilly at her to keep the pressure on, to put Melanie under for good, but she maintained control, flinging the white twin down.
There was only one person who'd truly earned his end.
Now, she was going to give it to him.
She straightened up, her aching body creaking. The ribs on her right side were definitely bruised at the least, maybe more. Taking a deep breath sent a stabbing pain through her as the muscles stretched, a pain no longer being drowned out by the rapidly ebbing surge of adrenaline that had fueled the fight. The cuts on her arm and thigh stung; the hand that reached down to pick up her firearms was stained red with her own blood dripping down from her cut forearm to mingle with Miltia's.
The two scatterguns went back into their harness. She didn't bother to reload them; there was no point in loading a gun she didn't intend to shoot. The fight with the Malachites had been noisy in the extreme, so the only reason the room wasn't swarming with servants was that they'd been told to stay away from such things instead of running to help. It would be, for better or worse, just her and Torchwick.
The LeMat, Yang didn't holster. Her thumb drew back the hammer on the single-action pistol so it was cocked and ready to fire in an instant.
Gritting her teeth, she began to march up the stairs, one step after another, rounding two sides of the tower-like room to the first-floor landing. Melanie's directions were easy to follow; Yang came right to the room, grabbed the handle, and threw open the door, keeping her body to the side of the frame just in case Torchwick was ready and waiting with a weapon, but no shots or other attack answered her. Instead, the sound of a rich tenor voice drifted out of the room.
"Well, if it isn't Yang Xiao Long. I'd say it's a pleasure to see you, but obviously I can't do that right now."
She spun in front of the door, sweeping the gun before her to cover the full field of fire.
"You monster, I'll—"
Yang didn't finish the threat, too dumbfounded at what she saw. The room itself was a study, the décor typical of its type, paneling and furniture in dark wood, the sideboard as well-stocked as Junior's, and a large desk in front of the windows. It was the kind of room where one would expect a gentleman to sit, relax, and do business, going over his holdings and investments or sharing a drink with associates.
Only there was no one present, no orange-haired man meeting Jaune's description or anyone else. Instead, on the desk was a modern gramophone, a string leading from its switch around the leg of a leather-upholstered chair serving to redirect the force, then running to the door handle so that opening the door would set the machine running. A wax cylinder, etched and grooved from recording, turned beneath the needle while the crank unwound.
"And if you're listening to this," the man's voice continued to blare from the machine's brass bell, "then I've been forced to leave my family's home because of you, and that's not the least bit pleasing. Then again, I'm sure that you're no happier than I am, having snuck, tricked, or forced your way inside, gotten past all my defenses, and come here, only to find your quarry gone."
Yang trembled, the scratchy, recorded voice hitting her like a hammer-blow. Gone?
"You know, you really shouldn't have gotten on Junior's bad side. He didn't share too much about what exactly it was that you did, but for such a pretty girl, you really seem to have some problems with staying in people's good books. He was ready to chew nails over what I did, but he still picked up the telephone and called me right up, telling me to expect you to drop by. And and all he asked by way of compensation was that I put the Malachites in your path. I think he figures that whatever you do to them in order to get to me is a fit punishment for walking out on him. It's not much of a sacrifice; if they'd been half as good at their jobs as they'd claimed, the Seven Oaks theft wouldn't have turned into such a mess."
Junior...
"I'd have liked to have taken up these issues with you personally, but I really don't have the time. Since you've no doubt given my name and address to that idiot policeman—"
She hadn't, since if she had she couldn't have trusted that Jaune would let her go after Torchwick herself.
"—I'm afraid that England's become too hot to hold me. So, I'll just have to take my leave. Perhaps we'll finally get the chance to meet some day in the future...but I really doubt it. Farewell, sunshine, and the next time you read about a dashingly handsome thief striking on the Continent, do think of me."
The needle hit the end of the recorded portion and lifted off the cylinder with a click. The only sound in the room was the whirring of the turning mechanism as the gramophone's spring continued to unwind.
He's gone.
He'd left England. All her efforts had been useless. While she'd been flirting with the greengrocer's boy, thinking she was being so clever at winning her entry into the house, the Malachites had been twiddling her thumbs wondering what was taking her so long. When she'd been fighting her way past them, her anger distracting her to the point she'd gotten herself hurt, she'd just been doing a favor for Torchwick, paying off his debt to Junior for him.
With a wordless, roaring scream, Yang rushed at the desk, grabbed it under the overhanging lip, and flipped it over in a shower of accessories. Paper flew, ink-pots and pens scattered, and a cut-glass lamp shattered against the floor along with the gramophone . She gave another scream, and then the fruitlessness of it all drove the violence from her, and she dropped to her knees amid the wreckage as hot, bitter tears began to stream down her face.
~X X X~
A/N: Just in case you were curious, the reference to Yang wearing too much face-powder when she was talking with Eric was because she needed to cover the bruise from the pit fight. For those paying really close attention, yes, Roman's mother's maiden name was "Greenvale"; the reference to her family being the "Schofields" is because the house came to her from her mother's side of the family, and it's that family that Cook's been in service to.