At the back table of Carraway's Coffeehouse, Five hunched his shoulders and dug into a week's worth of catch up reading. If he kept his head buried in Boddley's Journal and wore a scowl the size of the Crown's coffers, he might have a chance of slipping back into his anonymous skin. Maybe, people would leave him alone out of habit.

The universe, it seemed, had different plans.

"Mr. Quintus! Such fine weather this morning!"

Fine weather for reading the papers. Good day to you.

"Traveling to London soon? I'm sure the Bath Fencing Club would offer a reciprocal invite to Angelo's Academy if you asked."

I'm not asking, but thanks all the same.

"Fancy a match next Tuesday?"

My schedule is full right now. When I'm done avoiding all of England, I'll let you know.

Five wore a tight smile, trying to be civil. After the series of how-dos and fanny's-your-aunts, he spread out the paper and stared so hard that his eyes might burn a hole through the obituaries. Intent on keeping up his concentration, he flipped to the next page. If anyone else wanted his attention, they'd have to put an ad in the classifieds.

He skimmed through adverts ranging from tinder boxes to a tailor's goose. There it was, the announcement for a used umbrella - the same ad he'd checked every day for the last five years, accompanied by a circular graphic, depicting an umbrella above the text. As usual, the space underneath the ad for any interested parties to 'respond in kind' remained blank. Why would today be any different? Apparently, umbrellas were out of style. Or ahead of their time. Or not worth looking for.

Whatever.

His solitude was interrupted yet again, this time by an audacious hand peeling the pages down. Before Five could sputter insults or inflict injuries, Daniel took up residence in the chair across from him.

"This," Daniel circled a finger through the air, "is not lying low. Not anymore. Not when people recognize you."

"I know that!" Five half-whispered. "I had nowhere else to go."

"You've still got a key to Green Park, and there's always the Towers. Or Newman's."

Five shrugged away Daniel's annoying habit of solving all his problems with a list of undesirable solutions. "Newman doesn't have subscriptions to the Advertiser or the Chronicle."

"A paltry excuse!"

When Daniel continued to stare him down, Five set the paper aside and took a long pull from his coffee. His friend was right. Newman would subscribe to every publication in England if Five asked. But he leaned on the man for too much already by taking up residence in his home and laying claim to his horses whenever he pleased. He'd noticed a troubling pattern over the last few lunches, in which Newman had hinted about involving Five in some long-term enterprise. Given his current circumstances, Five was doing his best to avoid the conversation.

He would like to avoid this conversation, too.

"Your point," Five said, putting down the mug. "Do you have one, or are you interrupting my reading for a bit of fun?"

"Saira Russell is missing."

"I know." He scoffed as the coffee burned in his gut like a wildfire. "She's safer that way."

Was she safer? Had running and hiding been enough… should they have run off together… with her aunties… okay, that probably would have been a poor plan.

After delivering Saira to Avonburgh House, Five had left her with as much dignity as he could muster, failing to silence his screaming insides. He had struggled all week to recalibrate his goals, recentering the idea that this life thing was a solitary endeavor. People (besides Daniel, who insisted on being included in whatever Five was up to) were still a cautionary variable in the formula for his long-term future. He'd given himself a very stern lecture about how Saira had never been part of his plan. How her needs and his needs differed too much to consider veering from that plan. How a few encounters that had changed his life shouldn't affect him as much as they obviously had.

It had not been a convincing argument.

"I'm trying to keep things from getting any more complicated than they already are."

"Right." Daniel said, not looking at all convinced. "Then I suggest you leave, before that becomes another complication." He jerked his head towards the upper crust corner of the coffeehouse, where an older man in a wrinkled waistcoat was being dressed down by a younger man in a double-breasted morning jacket… no, wait. Garfield, again?

"I am not dealing with that ape today," Five insisted, burying his head back into the paper.

"Not him. The other one."

Five peered across the top of the classifieds at the older, wine-blushed man stabbing his finger into the table. His face looked oddly familiar, but Five couldn't place it.

"Who is that?"

"George Russell," Daniel said.

"Never heard of him… oh, hell, no. Is that Saira's father?"

Daniel nodded solemnly. "And he's about to engage in some serious stupidity."

"And what the hell should I… Daniel, where are you going?"

Daniel had already gotten out of his seat, but he leaned back over Five's paper to deliver a stern look. "The Marlborough Magistrate sent me here to sit down with the Constable, since it's the town where I currently pay rent. I may not be around, depending on who they send me to next. Don't worry, it'll eventually come round to my favor. I'll write to you at Newman's when it's over. Just remember one important detail." Daniel leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a level only Five could hear. "You were never there."

His words added more fuel to the burning in Five's gut. If anyone asked, he would have to pretend that the unending nightmare of that blade against Saira's throat hadn't taken up residence in both his sleeping and waking moments. He would never admit that his steel drove into that man's throat. But he had a hard time forgetting that he'd held her in his arms, or made her promise to stay away from him, or told her how he felt about her.

Ah, hell. He never told her.

Saira's father was getting redder with each passing second. Five couldn't bear to think about what that man had tried to do to Saira in London. What he was still planning to do to her now. How easy it would be to follow him home, give him a well-deserved thump to his skull, and let him wake up on the next ship out to anywhere but here… nope. Not thinking about that right now. He finished his coffee in one swallow and stared at the paper, seeing the curves of the news font vowels blend seamlessly into the straight-edged consonants, comprehending none of it as the volume of the conversation across the room rose high enough for all of Carraway's to listen in.

'Honor' and 'Dignity' were being thrown around, along with phrases such as 'run you into the ground' and 'die before I give in'. Five neatly folded the paper and turned to drape it over the news rack. He'd duck out the back, like Daniel said… maybe he'd go to Green Park. Or visit Newman's and finish that conversation about assets that he didn't want to hear. But other words, such as 'Mr. Quintus' and 'bright young star of the Fencing Club' landed hot in his ears, just before George Russell fell against him, breathing whisky and rye. He jostled Five into the row of papers, knocking several off their rods and onto the floor.

"There'll be nothing left," Russell slurred in his face, though his eyes were out of focus and it didn't look as if he meant to talk to Five directly. "Not of the estate, nor me neither."

Five caught Garfield's attention, trying to send him the silent message of 'your problem, not mine'. But Garfield's slow saunter spoke of a man who'd made a meal of the canary and its cage, the lady it belonged to, and the estate she lived in.

Five didn't trust that look. "What's going on?" he asked, as Garfield came within conversational distance.

"A gentleman's quarrel," Garfield said smugly. "Nothing for you to get involved in."

Russell looked about to drop. From fatigue or too much liquor, it was hard to tell. "He insists on taking it all, and me along with it," he slurred. Then his eyes narrowed to tiny slits. "Wait a minute," he said, pulling back to see Five's face fully, "you are that Quintus chap everyone's gone on about, aren't you!"

The man's feet gave way, and he landed in the chair at Five's table. This chair, which had garnered countless profits for Five, did not deserve such a disgrace. He tamped down the sudden urge to dump Russell onto the floor.

"Can you beat this man with a sword?" Russell asked, waving the hand not holding a flask towards Garfield.

Of course Five could. Then it dawned on him what their quarrel had been about. He measured shit-with-a-sword Garfield against Russell, who could barely stand upright, let alone hold a weapon.

"Oh, hell no," Five said, pushing his chair back.

"You're him! You could!" Russell said triumphantly. "I'll even pay you the money I owe Garfield. All it takes is a quick errand to liquidate the funds." He slouched dangerously close to the floor.

Obviously, Russell had lost his ability to think clearly. If paying his debt money to someone else to remove said debtor was Russell's way of fixing his problems, no wonder his estate was in trouble. The man failed to grasp the table's edge as he lolled the other way. How did Russell's tongue have enough control to say 'liquidate' coherently?

"Don't listen to him," Garfield said, as if he had tired of the conversation already. "He's promised his estate to half of England by now. You won't get a shilling."

"Why are you antagonizing him, then?" Five asked over Russell's head, who was easing himself back into a proper sitting position.

"The old man promised me Avonburgh weeks ago. We have a signed contract. I couldn't give a fig's faddle about him and his current circumstances. Missing daughters usually turn up once they run out of funds. All I want is what's due so I can settle accounts and turn the estate for profit. I thought if I dealt a heavy hand, he'd surrender. But the man's got bats in his belfry."

Five's head spun with this new information. Besides Garfield sounding as if he had a solid plan, which surprised him more than he'd care to admit, if Russell had promised Garfield the deed to Avonburgh, then what had he negotiated in London? And who had he bargained with?

Garfield sat down at Five's table, which was now way too crowded, and said, "Look, Russell. If you give me the deed, we shall settle everything here, and I will withdraw my challenge. We could end this right now."

His words didn't seem to deter Russell's enthusiasm to strike up a new deal. The older man swayed in his seat, grabbing Five by his jacket, shaking him intently. "I'll write you an IOU right now if you like. You could end this for us! Take him out. Put him down." His eyes lit up with a dangerous glow. "That's it! That will solve all of my problems!" He turned to Garfield and threw down his glove. "I accept, Lord Garfield. On my honor, I accept! And here's my champion!"

"Wait a damned minute!" Five said, while at the same time Garfield exclaimed, "What, him? He has no interest in this matter!"

Oh, but Five did. He had too much interest in this matter. While Garfield was still angling for Avonburgh's assets, he clearly had lost interest in Saira as part of the deal. But if the estate, hurling downhill into bankruptcy, got transferred to Garfield's name, it would put Russell out on the streets with Saira as his only remaining asset. What would stop Russell from trying to marry her off again when his debts came due?

Five was all too familiar with this playbook of crazy old fools who plowed through entire worlds and destroyed everything in their paths to get what they wanted. At least three times, (and by proxy, a fourth) his adoptive father had initiated the end of the world and used his unearthly powers to bend the laws of natural order to recover the woman he'd lost.

George Russell had no such ability or alien influence, but what little power he had, he wielded with just as much disregard. Five didn't need to get involved in that man's affairs. He really shouldn't. Russell was a damnable man, but win or lose, Saira's future was inextricably linked to his fate.

"Quintus! You can't seriously consider this!" Garfield exclaimed, alarm clouding his eyes. "Think about the consequences!"

Yeah, Five was thinking about it. He weighed Garfield's aghast face against Russell's gleeful, shaking hands. Maybe it was time to admit that subconsciously, he had been slowly altering his plans for a future he had never imagined. Maybe, if he dreamed big enough, a future where he and Saira could be together, was possible. Maybe even attainable. He hadn't voiced any of this out loud. Not yet.

Suddenly, Five had much to discuss with Saira, wherever she was. But first, Daniel had to finish whatever the hell he was doing. In the meantime, Five had to figure out whatever the hell this was turning into.

"Garfield," Five said slowly, "what would you do if Russell signed over the estate to you right now?"

Garfield's smile turned predatory. "I'd auction it off and be on my way to Capel Court to invest in something with teeth!"

"And what would happen," Five asked, drumming his fingers on the table, "if Russell's other debtors came around later with a duplicate deed for the estate?"

Garfield sputtered. "But there's only one… there can be only one deed… that would be…" He eyed Russell with suspicion. "How many vowels did you issue on Avonburgh House?"

Russell's eyes drooped, his head hanging to one side. He held up two fingers, then a third… added the fingers of the other hand, and then, having nothing to prop himself up with, slumped over in the chair. Neither Five, nor Garfield stopped him from sliding to the floor.

"Who is legally responsible for the notes after Russell dies?" Five asked over the listless body.

"Next of kin," Garfield said without pause.

"And if the estate is liquidated before the notes are settled?"

"It's still the responsibility of the next of kin to settle. I've a cousin, twice removed, who my uncle bailed out of debtor's prison for his father's old accounts, after the estate fell into bankruptcy," Garfield said thoughtfully. "What are you getting at?"

"You can't have the estate, no matter what he promised you."

"But…" Garfield scanned the room, beads of sweat forming on his brow. "Russell's estate is the only thing that was going to be truly mine." His eyes pierced through Five's stare. "And after his very public announcement, everyone here is expecting us to fight for it."

On second thought, maybe an illegal duel wasn't exactly the right play. Five searched the room for Daniel, but the man must have slipped out to meet with the Constable. The Market Street merchants, the baker, the haberdasher, who had sold him the hat, the coachmakers… the mercer, even, who had sold him Saira's fan… all nodding and placing wagers… they knew him. They knew Saira. They knew George Russell and his affairs. If he backed out now, bets would be thrown. None of these people cared about Five's best interest, and they would readily petition Sir Newman to get him thrown out of town on behalf of their losses… or into jail… or hanged if any of this got reported.

Never mind that Daniel was attempting to preemptively acquit him for the murder he'd already committed.

"What determines a win in this duel?" Five asked.

Garfield also read the room, realizing that it was too late for him as well. "First blood," he blurted.

"First significant blood," Russell crowed from the floor, "otherwise, it's not a real duel!"

Garfield shrank under the proclamation, which still had Five wondering how Russell could be so wordy and on the edge of passing out at the same time. The man certainly wouldn't survive a duel with Garfield.

Someone would have to run Five through with a battalion of swords before he allowed Saira to spend her life in debtor's prison for the mistakes of her father. This way, when the men with notes showed up on the doorstep, he could make damned sure that Russell would answer.

Five didn't have to save the world again. He only had to save the most important person in it.

And then, he and Saira would talk.

"I'll do it," he said to both of them. Russell poured himself back into the chair with a gleeful grin on his face, and Garfield paled whiter than fresh linens on washday. "I'll be your champion."

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***

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Atop the ridge of Combe Down at half-past sunrise, a man in a pea green overcoat with a tall hat and long cane dug his heel through the damp grass, marking off a section of level ground.

Five didn't know the man, assuming he was with Russell, and attempted to ignore any other distractions by fastening his shoes, and whatever else one did before fighting to the near-death… or 'first significant blood'. He checked the tip of his weapon for stability, opting for the lighter, precision point of the epee' he'd borrowed from the Club, instead of the heavier slashing saber he kept in his trunk of belongings. In this case, the weapon didn't matter. He'd have a clear advantage over his opponent with a blunted walking stick.

Cowering several hundred yards behind him, Garfield was busy with a blade sharpener. In genuine Garfield fashion, he was doing it all wrong. His rapier, which both swished and slashed, looked like it belonged to the reject pile of a first-year smithy's apprentice. From a distance, Five made out the severe pitting and jagged edges, impossible to smooth and sharpen with a stone.

Unlike the ghostly pale complexion of yesterday, Garfield had some color to his cheeks this morning. Though the green tinge made Five think that maybe Garfield had a decent meal and then lost it to nerves. At least, he looked sober.

By contrast, George Russell was drunk.

Not from beer or ale, but the hard stuff. Ape-drunk. Top heavy. On the cut. Dipped way too deep. He hadn't changed clothes from when Five had agreed to be his champion in the coffeehouse. His pronounced cheekbones and sunken eyes told Five that he'd assumed eating was an optional activity. His gaunt frame hung on him like he had opted out for several days.

Strangely, there was an extra carriage on the ridge, packed full of trunks and bags and sacks.

Sarcasm filled in for all the thoughts Five could be having right now. Which was fine by him, since his thoughts would probably get him into even deeper shit than he'd already gotten himself into by agreeing to this duel.

They went something like this:

Splendid day. What a lovely morning mist. Perfect weather to draw blood from a buffoon.

Russell approached him, breathing brandy into his face.

Even better, the sarcasm crooned. An opportunity for a second-hand buzz.

Russell's glassy eyes lit up, and he clapped Five on the back, too hard for friendliness. "I came into a windfall, which I'm splitting with you as a bonus!"

"A windfall," Five repeated. Pins pricked the back of his neck, replacing the running sarcastic commentary with suspicion. "Why don't you use it to pay your debts to Garfield and be done with this business?"

"I owe him twice the value of what's in the carriage. This way, I cut my losses by half. I figure I can borrow from you afterwards to win it back."

"Win it back?" Five didn't mean to turn into a hilltop echo, but suspicion had unpacked and set up residence at the base of his neck. He couldn't shake it if he tried.

"With Garfield gone, my luck is sure to change."

No, this was wrong. This man had no luck. He barely had the ability to stand. "I'm doing this so you can keep your estate and put your life back together, not throw it away on another game of chance. And what is wrong with you? I'm not hacking Garfield up for your convenience, and I'm not winning to fund your losing streak!"

Russell's flushed cheeks turned a different shade of red. "I'm not giving up! When the estate is flush again, I can prove that she can be safe with me. My wife is gone. And my daughter… I've lost them both." He sank to the ground and stared off into the distance.

Five knew a ruined man when he saw one. It was true what Russell said about Saira. She had stayed hidden from sight. Even Five hadn't seen her about town, no sign of her cropped wig and cap. Nor her long, dark braid on Tuesday through the window of the tea shop.

No, he hadn't been looking.

Yes, he was in full denial.

The fact was, Saira had successfully stuck to her part of the agreement and stayed away. Unlike Five, who had been roped into this charade that half of Carraway's Coffeehouse had witnessed. He sheathed his sword and approached Garfield, who was praying, or impersonating a praying mantis, frozen near the trees so people might forget he was there.

Garfield jumped at Five's touch on his arm. "Oh, is it time?" His eyes darted around the field, the blanket of mist clouding the view of the valley below… likewise, providing cover for their illegal activities from anyone looking up. "I don't want to die!" he hissed under his breath.

"No one's going to die," Five said blandly. "That's what the doctor is for."

The man with the black medical bag had just pulled up in another carriage, holding a conversation with the representative from the Fencing Club… wait, was that Chadwick?

At least Chadwick was a competent fencer and would call a clean fight.

"Pick a side." Five pointed to Garfield's face. "You need to look like you've been in a proper fight."

Garfield's brows furrowed. "I thought this was a proper fight."

"Pick. A. Side." Five said, forcing out each syllable like it was a trial by fire.

"Uh, left?" Garfield's answer dangled like a question, and Five had to bite the inside of his cheek to stay a string of expletives over his opponent's spinelessness. Archibald Garfield had seemed more menacing at Harrow's, when he'd been half a foot taller and had pockets lined with gold. This man was a shell of former wealth and waning influence. Five didn't know Garfield's story, and presently had no more cares to give. But he guessed that this was what happened to a man's false confidence when everyone around him showed up for the explicit reason to watch him die.

Or receive a serious wound. Five would not kill again in this lifetime if he could help it.

"Are you asking me to pick the right side?" he volleyed.

"No!" Garfield said, startled. "The left side, most assuredly!"

"Good man." Five patted him on the back. "Let's do this."

They counted paces, with Garfield ineptly catching his blade on his scabbard at the draw. Five had to make this fight look genuine, or the witnesses would call a forfeit. Knowing Russell, some schmuck would fall for the same trick in another week or two. He needed to keep Russell alive, and the estate in Russell's name.

For Saira.

As they saluted, he heard Russell's slurred words carry through the air. "Look at that flourish! Such a clean swipe. It's as if I've won already!"

Five circled Garfield in the wet grass and lunged, smooth and easy. Garfield parried, maintaining straight toes and a well-balanced stance. Five lifted a questioning eyebrow, which of course Garfield both saw and scowled at, because one didn't wear practice masks at a duel. Maybe all Garfield needed was a well-placed panic to bring out his proper form.

"Scandinavia looks good for tonight," the doctor commented. Russell nodded and tapped the side of his nose, then gestured towards the loaded carriage.

Garfield performed a tentative lunge, straight-faced and steady, like he was actually trying to make a go of it. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he actively defended his left side.

"Hey," Five called out, as if they were at the pub having a casual beer.

Garfield gave him a weird 'what?' expression, keeping his point in line with Five's approach.

"What's the deal with Scandinavia tonight?" Five asked, side-stepping the next thrust.

"Fastest steed in Scotland. There's a race tomorrow, which I'm sure to miss, since I'll have a bleeding face to tend to." Garfield scowled, letting his focus stray from center.

"And Russell's in on it?" Five feinted a thrust, which snapped Garfield's attention and his guard back into place.

"He's always in. All in," Garfield countered, lunging forward.

Five swiped Garfield's tip away, more interested in the talk Russell was giving the coachman. The air was still enough for Russell's words to carry over. "Take it to Evil's 'By the Candle' sale… or no. Try Plura's Great Room on Milson. Whichever gets the most coin."

"Don't you have to show proof of funds before the race starts?" Five asked, doing another lunge and parry. He felt like he was back doing Harrow's warm-up drills instead of engaging in an actual fight. Garfield's chin, however, dripped with his earnest effort to keep up.

"Ascot is eight-hours east," Garfield huffed. "By the time the auction house releases Russell's funds, he'll get a promissory note, and any bank will be willing to back his wager. Don't you know how that works?"

Ah, so Garfield hadn't forgotten how he'd ruined Five's street hustle in London. "I sold Shilling Stocks on Bond Street at market price. I never auctioned them off in lots. You started that rumor, and it shut me down." Five jabbed at Garfield's right side. Garfield retreated in a hasty shuffle, catching his breath, steadying his hold on his hilt.

It was one reason Five had been nervous at seeing Garfield in town. It was different now that Five had Newman's full backing. Garfield could talk all he wanted. His words would mean nothing against a knight's honor.

Russell's words, however, kept grating on his nerves. Maybe he really thought he could win it all back… which he wouldn't. That carriage full of Five's payment was turning into a loan he hadn't agreed to, which would be lost as quickly as it had come. Once again, Russell would land swiftly on his ass empty-handed, or worse, deeper in debt.

The tip of Five's blade made lazy circles in Garfield's general direction as he thought through the carriage rolling off to auction, Russell's mental state, and when the hell Five had allowed himself to be drawn into the business of addicts and conmen.

"How now, Quintus," Garfield called out. "Are we going to do this?"

Five glanced over at Russell, sweating under the collar, but not from nerves. With no one to ground him, Russell would barrel down his road of ruin until he either died, or his debtors killed him out of spite. Oh, hell, the man had another flask. Someone needed to get that man some water. And a sedative. And hide the rest of his money before he ended up on a street corner, wearing nothing but a placard and rotten tomatoes.

Because of Five, he'd be alive today. But what about tomorrow? Next week… next month? If Five won this duel and saved Russell's estate from the auction block, how long would it be before he'd place his bets in the wrong hands, and end up shanked in an alley somewhere?

That was the surest way for Saira to end up in debtor's prison.

"Right," Five said, sounding like Daniel when he thought someone had pissed into his beer. He dropped the pretense of swordplay and swiped his point lightly across Garfield's left cheek. "There's your scar," he said as blood beaded through the slit skin. Instead of retreating, he pulled the wincing man in close, locking their hilts together.

Breathing in his face, Garfield muttered. "This wasn't part of the plan. I'm supposed to bleed. They're supposed to call it. Or do you intend to end me now?"

His voice was shaking, but Five admired the pluck. At least Garfield faced his mortality like a man instead of a mouse.

"The plan changed. You need to win."

Garfield sputtered in Five's face. "Are you daft? He's paying you to win. I never meant it to come to blows, or… or facial scars!" He wiped a thumb of his free hand along his cheek, getting blood on his glove. "Bullocks!"

"Never mind the money. He needs to lose, and then you need to claim the estate as soon as possible. And then fix it." Five spun out, releasing their hilts. Garfield teetered on his feet, and Five patiently waited for him to regain his balance.

"But you said that I can't have it!" Garfield called out. "Because you're protecting his daughter from carrying his debts. Isn't that the reason you agreed to do this?"

Garfield wasn't the idiot that everyone made him out to be. Somewhere underneath all that incompetence lay a man who had been paying attention. Well, maybe Five could work with that.

"You've been to that fancy school. I assume they taught you about managing finances."

"My brother trained to be an accountant, and I admit to taking a few classes…"

Five did a quick parry and thrust maneuver, which Garfield blocked and returned with a decent lunge of his own. Before he retreated, Five danced to the side so Garfield was facing the tree. He gestured to the drunk man who was still drinking.

"Let me guess… your brother doesn't think you can account for your own bar tab?"

Garfield scoffed. "I'm excellent at managing accounts. Better than my brother, who has wasted most of the funds on inept investments. Avonburgh has a lot of potential. Under proper management, I could turn the estate around within a year, maybe two. "

"Then account for Russell. Get him off the booze, or hooch, or whatever. Nurse him back to health and fix his estate." He fake-lunged his tip at Garfield's nose.

Garfield flinched back. "Why should I do anything you say? You'll get the money. And once again, I lose out. I'm always losing. People like you, people who don't deserve to win, are always stealing my opportunities. When this is over, you and I are done."

Five's voice sparked like flint on steel. "Come on, Garfield. Were we ever going to be done?"

Garfield sneered. "That's right, Quintus… or whatever your real name is!"

Apparently, all it took was poking the bear, and Garfield's aristocratic disdain was back with bells and whistles.

"Shall we make this a real duel?" Five sliced the air in between them for emphasis.

"Duress!" Garfield cried. "I can tell them about your Harrow's papers!" he hissed as they closed in for another lunge and parry.

Five sighed. "Fine. Shall I also mention what you and the other boys did on that night when I stole your wardrobe and strung it up on the flagpole?"

Garfield turned as white as a sheet. "You can't!" he exclaimed. "Someone's already got me for that, and I just paid him off!" He looked sideways at Chadwick.

"That's the trouble with secrets," Five said. "No matter which way you turn, they keep biting you in the balls. Don't you want more out of life than being the punchline of this town's jokes?"

Five leapt inside Garfield's guard and knocked their hilts together. When Garfield stumbled back, he swiped another line across Garfield's cheek, right under the first.

"Win this duel, save that man, and after his debts are clear, the estate is yours. No contest."

"Look at him! He's knocking on death's door already! Why should I care what happens to him?" Garfield threw up a sloppy parry to Five's half-speed thrust. Five had to make it look (to Chadwick at least) like they were actually fighting, instead of haggling over terms.

Five didn't know what he was doing, trying to save Saira's father from himself. Actually, he did. He was hatching the worst plan ever, and he was going down for it.

The devil and his inept accomplice.

"You're going to win this duel. Secure Russell's funds, preferably well out of his reach. Then, you're charitably going to allow Russell to stay at Avonburgh House for as long as he lives. And you're going to keep him alive until all of his debts are paid off."

Once that happened, Saira would be free from her father's debts, and she could live her own life. Now that Five had the whole story confirmed, securing her future was more important than saving her home. She was smart and resourceful, and Five had every certainty that she could rely on the people of Market Street to shelter her in the meantime. Once Daniel gave the all-clear on his end, maybe Five could help with that, too. In a flurry of steel, he charged at Garfield's chest.

"Russell is unwell, and I am no doctor!" Garfield finally sputtered, looking like he was surprised he was still standing.

"We're in a town full of doctors," Five countered. "Figure it out."

"But that takes money!"

Five pointed to the carriage with the tip of his blade. "When you win, it's yours, along with whatever Russell promised me in coins. Now aim at the outside of my leg. Or should I run you through right now and save us both the trouble?"

"I won't do it!"

"You will. Take a leg shot." Five shot inside Garfield's defenses and poked at his knee. Garfield yelped like a dog. "Do it like that, only harder. For God's sake, Garfield. Do something noble for once. Maybe then you'll earn a little respect."

Garfield lunged, a half-hearted attempt that barely registered through Five's pant leg. He sighed and batted the sword away. "Harder."

Garfield tried again, and Five swiped his sword away. "Harder!" he insisted, "Or do you want a face full of scars?"

"Why won't you do it?" Garfield asked. "Why does it have to be me?"

"Because you're the one with a title. And you're about to get some serious credibility," Five said.

"What credibility?" Garfield cried, losing some of his foot alignment.

"The credibility you'll earn after you beat me in this duel," Five said. "Now, do we have a deal?"

Garfield's face brightened, and then dimmed. "No… I mean, yes, I'll do it, but shouldn't we... sign something?"

"We're sealing this contract with blood," Five said, and swiped Garfield's right cheek. Garfield cried out, a strange mix of pain and panic. Now his face matched, the sarcasm approved. "Do it now, before I change my mind and run you through."

Garfield slammed his weight into a full lunge that finally had the right amount of momentum. Five gritted his teeth and advanced into it, directing the blade against his own leg, producing a gush of red from his knee to his upper thigh. He pressed against Garfield's cutting edge as much as he dared, and as the pain of shredded skin exploded all over his leg, Five went down.

"Medic!" Garfield dropped the sword and backed away as the doctor rushed in to inspect the wound.

The pain didn't blind him from being fully aware of how the doctor dropped the surgical thread in the dirt. Aghast, and helpless to stop it, he watched as the man shook it in the air, and threaded the needle without a second thought.

"The top part of the muscle is sliced through, but I'll close it up in no time, good sir."

"Ah, hell," Five said, regaining his voice just in time to swear as the needle pushed into his skin.

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"You said it was bad," Saira said softly, "but I never expected this."

Emma nodded silently beside her as the chaise pulled up to Avonburgh House. When the maid showed up on Mrs. Lanchester's doorstep early that morning, Saira bribed the groom at the carriage inn to let her take a two-wheeler and left before the town was properly awake.

She'd already said everything that needed saying to her father. He'd made his decision when he stayed in London, and frankly, Saira had been planning to take care of herself and her aunties on her own for a long time, and Mrs. Lanchester had welcomed them with open arms, even though they had arrived without notice on her doorstep seven days ago. This was just moving the schedule unexpectedly ahead.

But seeing her home for the first time in a week made her heart clutch painfully in her chest.

Wilted dahlia stalks lined the west-end, suffering from lack of care. The large planters on either side of the front door had been removed. The house stood uncomfortably on its foundation, like someone had shoved it aside. The windows were shuttered, except for in the parlor, stark and bare. Even the birds seemed to have vacated the property.

The untended grounds made her physically ache in a way she didn't know she could. Her plan had always been to leave this place, but she hadn't ever imagined the property to look as abandoned as she felt inside.

"How long will he be gone?" she asked tightly.

"Mr. Russell left well before sunrise without a word. Mr. Tinley drove me into town as soon as we saw him leave. There's no telling when he will return."

Saira dismounted and climbed up the steps. She pushed open the doors, which weren't locked, with Emma right behind her. The eerie silence made her pause in the foyer. Her eyes scanned the empty entry hall. Where was the serpent handled vase?

Where was the table?

The usual bustle perpetuated by her aunts was gone. No clanging of cutlery echoed from the kitchen. "Is Cook still here?" she asked.

Miss Emma shook her head sadly. "Dismissed yesterday."

Venturing further in, Saira glanced into the parlor and nearly cried out in alarm when she saw the couch stuffing littering the floor and the linen drawers open and emptied. It looked like the estate had suffered a raid - like the ones back in India suffered by the palaces closer to the front line of the war, when the soldiers grabbed whatever they wanted and burned the rest to the ground in their wake.

In a panic, Saira ran up the stairs and threw open her bedroom door.

Her wardrobe doors hung half on their hinges. The lock had been forced open, splinters of wood where the metal braces had bent apart. The bottom drawers scattered across the floor upside down. Saira picked up a stray glove and found its pair discarded halfway across the room. She had sewn her first Shroud earnings into these gloves. But now they were empty, seams torn apart.

Oh. Oh no.

Saira tore through the drawers, sifting through remnants of last season's trim, spare buttons… The places where her small coin sacks used to be, all carefully counted to match the quarterly rents for Mrs. Lanchester's rooms… gone.

In her rush to pack, she'd taken the smaller sacks, along with whatever personal belongings were essential that she and her aunties could load into the carriage in an hour… and then Mr. Tinley had been kind enough to drive them into town before the next carriage was due in from London. She wished she had taken the time to get it all, but naturally, it was too late for wishes. How much of her money had he found?

Saira slowly turned, unable to stop her chest from seizing control of her throat as it closed up around her small cry of despair. Her writing desk had been reduced to splintered wood, ripped out shelving, destined to the same fate as the wardrobe. The fourth quarter's rent had been stowed in a small paneled compartment behind the bookcase which lay in pieces on the floor.

She rushed to her bed, pillowcases torn open, everything. Overlooking a rolled canvas that had been cast aside, she almost tripped over the pried up floorboards. Beside the splintered wood, mattress stuffing littered the floor. Slowly, as if in a bad dream, her eyes lifted to the huge gash in the side of the mattress. She raised up the covers, tears stinging her eyes.

She'd sewn the down payment into that mattress.

She hadn't yet seen the numbers from her Sittings in London, but she was sure it was a fraction of the money she'd saved over the last four years. A sudden flash appeared in her mind of her father on his knees in the street that night and the look he'd given her. And she knew, without a doubt, what had happened here. In Saira's one moment of charitable weakness, she had shown George Russell her worth.

And just like her worst nightmare, he'd taken it all away.

"Miss Russell?" Emma stood in the doorway, a sober look on her face.

"He…" She sobbed into her chest, air unbearably difficult to suck in. "I don't know what there is to do now, Ms. Emma."

"I hid in my room when he ransacked the house," Emma breathed.

Saira wiped her face with the back of her hand. She hadn't considered what the maid had witnessed, being here when her father ripped apart everything in sight. "Oh no, Miss Emma! It must have been horrible!"

"I suppose he didn't think there was anything of value in my room. Or Mr. Tinley's. Though I took a knife from the silver set. I wasn't sure if there'd be wages this week. I can give it back if you want it…" she trailed off and studied the floor.

"No!" Saira insisted. "Get whatever you can for it. What are you going to do?"

"I haven't thought of it. Even if I asked, I doubt Mr. Russell would give me a letter of recommendation."

Saira remembered how Emma had been so concerned with being blamed for the missing items over the last month. Clearly, it wasn't her fault. But if her father… no. She couldn't think like that. Even after what he'd tried in London. He wouldn't condemn an innocent person for a crime they didn't commit. But she'd been naïve before, and if she thought bad things couldn't happen to good people, she'd be the queen of fools.

"You must speak to Mrs. Lanchester!" Saira told her.

"But Miss, I don't sew. Not even a little. I can barely thread a needle."

"She may have a place for you, and she knows a lot of well-to-do people who might need someone with your skills. My aunties can give you any recommendation you need!"

Miss Emma looked around. "It's a better plan than waiting for him to return. Mr. Tinley has already packed his bag. I can gather my things quickly. I really don't have much."

"It's settled, then. I'll take you back to town with me." Saira looked around the room and sucked in a breath. "I just… need a few more minutes."

"Of course." Miss Emma closed the door, leaving Saira to survey the wreckage of her early life alone.

She set her shoulders determinedly, and decided that this would not be the end. It couldn't be.

"I suppose I should take these," she said to herself, gathering up the papers and letters and… her heart stuttered as she picked up the rolled canvas. It was the portrait of her mother, raggedly torn out of its frame, the one that had been missing from the parlor for weeks. She crammed it in her bag, unable to face it… unable to leave it…

Collections of letters lay scattered across the floor, most of them from Matilda when they were younger. Saira picked up an unanswered invitation to a ball in London. This opportunity, too, had been taken away by him. She gathered the rest of the letters, one by one, placing them neatly into a stack.

The last letter she picked up from the floor had almost remained unseen, having slipped halfway under the bed. Saira recognized the Urdu script, and stared at it, wondering.

Had her father read it? Had he even acknowledged the first promise he'd made on her behalf, or was it forgotten and discarded, like the splintered wood that littered the floor?

Saira's chest felt like lead. Her legs suddenly felt weak, like they were incapable of holding her anymore.

What in the ever loving world was she supposed to do now?

Saira stifled another sob, and then wondered why she was still trying to hold it all in. Who was she deferring to, in this empty house? She allowed herself to let loose a strangled, undignified cry. A shuddered breath. Another cry.

The bed skirts became a big water blur in front of her as she lifted her arms to the sky, not even knowing who or what she was pleading to. Had she reached too far, too fast?

Was she being punished?

Saira felt the despair rush into her whole body, it hurt so much that she could hardly breathe.

Her Gift had given her no warning. Not even a hint that she should have grabbed all the money when she had a chance last week. There had been no raising of hackles when the coach stopped and that man had wrestled her from her seat at swordpoint.

Yes, she'd effectively dealt with Garfield, and she'd successfully navigated a solo enterprise in London, but she'd actively engaged her senses and asked specific questions. Did that mean she was supposed to second-guess every move she ever made? Was that the only way that her Gift could guide her, because that kind of living seemed exhausting at best. Every time Saira thought she was taking a step closer to understanding her Gift more, Life gave her a firm shove backwards.

Conflicting thoughts swirled through her, making her head ache. She felt misled. Betrayed. Curling up in a ball on her wrecked bed, Saira shut her eyes, wishing she could just fall asleep where nothing, not even her Gift could touch her for a while.

What good was her Gift, if it hadn't protected her from this?