Yet, under a dangerous midnight sky glittering with winter, magic, and the anticipation of war, it seems she’s the fugitive once more. 

    High above the streets of the Underbelly, she studies the reckless gap between rooftops sprawling before her and, with a muttered prayer to the goddess Selene, flings herself into the frigid winter wind as if she bore wings.

    She lands on a knee beside a rough-shaven smugger, her a ravaged ship come to shore, Falcon Thames a tower of vigilance. Something stirs in her chest—a flutter—when he perks a brow and offers her a warm hand up.

    Falcon’s fingers slip from hers to graze the lightblade in his baldric as they approach the roof wall. “Not far now,” he notes, tucking his chin into the high collar of his coat.

    “Good.” Gods willing, reconnecting with an ally will put them one move closer to freedom.

    Ophelia has felt the anticipation of seeing the Spellcaster for hours since leaving Rook, since Trix’s summons came as jolting as winter’s fall on Magus. A winter, and summons, as unexpected as the silence now sprawling through the city of pleasure six stories below.

    In the middle of night with snow burying the streets, wind dragging its sharp claws across her skin, the Belly—the Darkwielder’s sanctuary—should pulse like a wild, beating heart. There should be Crats, basking in drunken debauchery, especially here in Ravish.

    “It’s too quiet,” she mutters, unease an unwanted passenger as she surveys the scene, feeling the need to triple check they left no trace to be followed.

Falcon nods, as if between the pricking snow and curtains of magic that cloak the night he can feel it, too.

    “Let’s go,” she says. Her hands numbing at the fingers, she starts to rise just as the wind carries a scream that could cut the cold.

    A man in a gray coat barrels up the street with the fear of the gods in his gait, chased by a dark streak nipping viciously at his heels. With a lurch in her chest, Ophelia realizes it’s a shadow at the same moment Falcon curses.

    Gripping the edge of the roof, she sees the man veer and shuffle on the ice. He collides with the façade of a derelict apartment door that’s rotting at the hinges. “No,” he moans. “No!”

    Under the snow-dusted glow of a gas lamp, an unfamiliar figure in dark clothes steps forward. A Shadowcaster, his silhouette carved with sharp edges. “Crat,” he spits like a curse. “You’ve been coming into our city like you own it, but that’s all changing now, isn’t it?”

    Ophelia starts to her feet, magic humming inside, but Falcon clasps her arm. “This is the Belly, Teacup. We can’t be seen.”

    The man lets out a wailing cry as the shadows lunge. With a crack, the Crat’s cry cuts like the scratch of a song and the man folds to a heap.

    Her nails bite the brick of the roof as the shadows rip back to their caster.

    She has lived in danger her whole life. Run from it. Slept in its midst. More recently, faced it head on. But Falcon is right about the Belly. There’s nothing safe or friendly about the city that’s harbored magic like an incubator. Especially now, with news of the revolution spreading.

    Waiting for the street to clear, she fills her lungs with a shock of winter air and the stench of Ravish—that reek of petrol, perfume, and wet stone. The scent of danger. Lifting her gaze to the sheens of dust that dip and dive in the night, her senses come alive—fully alert—amidst the magic that has no master.

    It’s a reminder of what they fight for. Freedom.

    Four bells faintly chime in succession across the city. “Dawn’s coming,” Falcon notes. “We need to be off the streets.” He pats a hand on the wall, looking through his lashes at her. “Ladies first?”

    She snorts. “When have you ever called me ‘lady’?”

    With his chuckle echoing and the cold nipping, she alights down the rails along the length of the stone façade, her woolen dress and fur cloak billowing. Her satchel, hastily packed before they left Rook, jostles at her hip when she slips to the street.

    She doesn’t look at the dead Crat.

    Keeping their heads down, they traverse in silence the rest of the way to Ravish, the Belly’s eastern-most territory. As is habit, she memorizes the route, drawing a map in her mind of the mazing alleys, the trinket and smoke shops, the canals where boatmen sleep under thick wools in tied-off dinghies.

    When they reach a hotel bricked black and trimmed in gold, she scours the natural shadows, nearly missing the woman on the corner with her arms crossed over a thick coat and trousers belted at the waist to hug her slight frame.

    “About time,” Trix calls, pushing off the lamppost where she’s been waiting.

    Ophelia’s struck by how changed she looks—not just all the leather she wears, but the hard edge in her eyes. She wastes no time pulling the Spellcaster into a hug, but almost right away Trix stiffens in the embrace.

    Pulling back, Ophelia swipes at a rogue tear that’s slipped to her cheek, then takes notice how the Spellcaster frowns, folding her arms like a barricade as if uncomfortable by all the emotion. “Sorry, ” Ophelia says. “I’m just relieved you’re alive.”

    With a rueful smile, Trix shakes her head. “What did I tell you about apologizing?”

    Women are always doing that.

    But Ophelia’s own smile weakens at the sight of the taut lines etching Trix’s face. Evidence the woman’s been bracing against pain, hardening herself.

    Memories of Trix’s twin, Cleo, barrage Ophelia like a battering of snowflakes, pushing a lump into her throat. Trix must blame her. Getting involved with Ophelia got her sister murdered.

    “Wick Sneed,” Ophelia starts, and just his name stirs a spark of fury. “He didn’t hurt you?”

    Trix casts a look down the street as though she half-expects to see him there, sneering in the murk of the budding morning. “I didn’t catch up with him.”

    “I can’t believe you went after him. That was—”

    “Goddamn stupid,” Falcon cuts from where he’s been watching their reunion. Stepping onto the curb, he combs the Spellcaster over, a smirk coloring his lips. “Trix Farrow. Seems you’ve got as many lives as you had cats once.”

    Trix stares with mock loathing at him, as she always has. A flicker of the woman Ophelia began to call a friend. Setting off toward the hotel, she calls, “Unless you two enjoy this bloody weather, follow me.”

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