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Thirty-One: Curtain Call

Some things are invisible to the naked eye. When tossing a stone, it can streak past someone with next to no notice. One also needs to observe when erring in writing. For me, something can only be found with a close look.

For seventeen years, I never set foot in Tolden. The outline of the schoolhouse where I attended classes looks different from how I remember it. However, that is not my concern. It is where I once resided. I remember living in the north-easternmost area of the borough. I examine every building outline of that district...

I would wager that the two joining houses is where I must go._The townhouses that were like the barriers seem to have separated during my absence. I will find out why. I sigh. _I never wanted to return there, but Giffard needs to know. Why must every hero return to their old home when they know that it would reopen old wounds? Why must every hero be reminded of what caused their metaphorical scars?

My civilian image has become all too suspicious now that Nadine knows me. So, I look around as if I sense other people in the public library staring at me. Nobody seems to mind me examining the borough's map. I fold it up and place it back on the same shelf I found it. I feel like Michi can see me through the window without squinting. Three years of us together, and he must have been fast to have the images of the landmarks sink in.

I knock on the townhouse where the bitch lives, and I am not surprised to see the tan Grizzly Bear answer. This time, he wears pinstripe cocoa trousers. I comment, "Wearing your natural colour makes you look naked. That is why I never wear black."

He snorts, "I bloody well 'ope yeh didn't come back merely to condescend me choices."

"Of course not. I am 'ere for Ms Woodward."

He moves aside and remarks, "Be glad you didn't knock during our activities."

I cross the threshold, this time spotting the Rottweiler in the living room of polished wood, a floor with a floral carpet, several small tables, a dark cabinet, and a long grey-green couch. She stands up, showing her beige tweed one-button tailcoat, matching trousers, and a primrose business shirt. She demands, "Whot brings you back to me?"

"An offer", I answer bluntly. "The local paper might have been eager to print the arrest of two of your top agents."

"Top agents?" she scoffs. "They were merely active the longest. I do not believe, either, that the vigilante apprehended them."

I cock my head, asking, "Why not?"

"Whot d-you mean 'why not'?" she barks, prompting me to straighten. She starts to pace. "Rachel's men were slain with a sword; Hazel's men with some spear."

I object, "But there were numerous witnesses. I know where your agents were, knowing where their bodyguards were killed. If no aristo was so repulsed by the sight, they would have noticed something at the Diamond Waterfront. If no commuter acted as if a body was nothing new, they would have noticed something in Troupes' Market."

Still pacing, Woodward retorts, "Then you are aware of the black-market dealers active in Troupes' Market at night. The only assistance that she could find dependable were her bodyguards."

I approach the couch, stopping her pacing, but only for a moment. She switches the line where she moves back and forth. I ask, "Whot about the other bloke?"

"Rachel? She had the same case. You pay some merc as protection, but they don't last."

You are avoiding something, Woodward. I ask, "And how long has--Silas, is it? --been your manservant?"

"Eleven years. And he's better than any 'manservant' for a noble." Woodward straightens herself as if she has just realised what she said, and then turns to me, growling. She approaches me, pointing. "You better not berate either of us, Wolf, or such a remark may be your last words!"

I stare at the Rottweiler calmly. I state, "You should secure some of the Lowell House's funds with yer agents. If oll-a your employees can afford somebody as formidable as your Ursine, others would not challenge them."

She raises her arms, exasperating, "Don' think I don' know of the siege on Ignisater Pillars!" She turns her back on me. "Lady Lowell informed that with the loss of Coombs came the loss of a hundred thousand pounds." She then turns back around, continuing, "Take it from a swindler, Wolf: no good comes from carrying somebody else's money with no intention to spend it. I am no broker, either; the most significant one working for the Lowell House is dead, too."

I suggest, "If I can convince aspiring business people to head to where you prefer to be, would you be able to do the Lowell House a favour?"

Woodward barks, "I have agents fer that! Thanks to the ruinations of their empire, even my guild has begun disbanding. The fact that somebody collected the reward for Oakland and Curry prompted the foxes to resign, and poison their own assistants."

Con artists killing the people who protect them? What has the world of crime come to? I inquire, "How many are left in your guild?"

"I started recruiting other con artists when I wos thirty-four." She flicks her hand a few times and mouths what I think are names. She then answers, "I had at least thirty when we were our biggest. Now, my guild has only fourteen, not counting Oakland and Curry."

I take her hand and bring her close, causing her bear to growl. I say, "Perhaps I look at this incorrectly. I wonder if Silas loves you for your skills or your appearance."

Woodward, aghast, snarls, "My relationship with Silas is not yer bloody business!"

"But I wonder if he feels a connection to you, Ms Woodward. If he would hate for something to happen to you." The Grizzly Bear grabs me from behind and lifts me from the floor. Good answer. I continue, "Loyalty is also fatal. People died in the siege of Ignisater Pillars because Coombs's men were in MacNiadh's way. But there is someone bound to be turned, through interrogation. If somebody is not willing to give up who gave them suspicious materials, their sellers or bosses are safe in a way."

Woodward objects, "I am no fool, Wolf; I bin like this since I wos fourteen." She continues, "I wos born poor and raised destitutely. This is oll I know how to do; residents of the slums will declare the same. Thanks to the Lowell House, I could teach other commoners my profession, just like an ageing fox taught me."

I scowl. "Your employees were once broke, as well? You only have a ring because you wanted poor people to never starve again?"

Woodward approaches me, her bright-brown eyes gleaming. "You know how hard trust is to find, Wolf. We gather criminals among whom my employees can hide. Wha-ull 'appen then?"

I suggest, "It could be for one day, but a party is a way to go unnoticed. In perhaps... a park..."

Woodward says plainly, "Release her." The bear does so, dropping me. When my eyes align with hers, she says, "Speak. Whilst you 'ave me attention."

"There is a massive gathering here soon, yes? I assume that it is the kind for which you wear costumes."

"The carnival will soon arrive in town, and they will indeed reside here in Dreamer Circle."

I suggest, "You could 'ave a peaceful day away from here during the carnival's activities, and your people can do business with a regular market." Woodward looks away with her eyes narrowed, considering.

I have to wait another four days, but I attempt to use that time effectively. I studied the outside of Nimrod and Barnaby, the dreaded corner of the borough. The first few townhouses that I saw were heavily damaged, nobody having bothered to repair them. One had a small patch covered with moss and tendrils. I still could not bring myself to the pair of joined houses. However, I did find residents of the area and watched how they got along with each other. There are families in the district. Though I found two men sparring and a mother successfully defending her cub from a man who was not her husband, I am still sceptical that even the cubs in these houses have been abused. I said nothing to any residents, but they have my interest.

On the first night of the touring carnival, I watch Woodward from opposite the row with the unit where she lives. As I expect, she and her bodyguard walk out the front door. She looks around after closing the door, and then heads west, like I anticipated. She seems to ignore every table, every joined carriage, and every large box. I am correct about luring her away, for the performers and attendees wear masks. I might not discern Woodward or her underlings in this crowd.

The Rottweiler and her bear seem to push aside everyone in the way. I remember to stop behind the occasional chimney, for I can sense her about to look up. For being middle-aged, her hearing is almost as sensitive as mine. I watch her until she makes it all the way to Laughton Acre, known to be frequented by merchants. Then, she stops to catch her breath. Her bodyguard supports her with one arm.

Continuing to watch from a distance, it turns out that her guild members have heeded the call. A selection of small creatures accompanied by hulking carnivores armed with pistols, rifles, cane swords, and even axes. Every wolf, dolphin, and deer to loyally follow their lagomorph and weasel bosses remain stoic, while the latter speak in low tones to each other. Even though I know that the one I want is among them, I fail to discern him from the rest. However, another idea comes to me, for when I get to Woodward herself.

Only when the group separates to go about their own businesses, I seek the distinction among them. Woodward seems so frustrated that she barks a rant to my target, the third agent that the arrested con man gave up. From where I stand, I can tell that she uses up her breath. Michi then alights upon my shoulder, knowing that I have an order to give. I look straight to the park, eying the mink guarded by a red wolf wearing only business trousers and holding a cane. The mink looks up at his bodyguard, and then back at Woodward. I whisper, "Follow him."

I should have known: he has been warned. Woodward knows that Morgan Ashton is next. I watch the mink and wolf head away, followed by Michi. I then follow, as well. You are mine, Morgan. No hiding from Lady Death. Another wound for Woodward.

I find a perfect opportunity to strike at the bitch herself. In revisiting the place that made my mother and step-father feel like aristos, I read for the next performance of a symphony. The performance's title and original artist are all too familiar to me. How ironic: the melodies to beget my musical appreciation before I saw a friend die will play as I finish an enemy.

Only one day has passed. Now, I enter the park in my civilian attire. I have timed correctly about the con artists meeting here. All of Woodward's agents bar the mink are here. I keep out of the Rottweiler's sight, for she could look for the first person that she would blame for her guild now in peril. Whilst I am here, I approach the honest vendor, an ash-grey rabbit clad in a green work shirt and blue business pants with suspenders. However, just by looking, I can tell that the tomatoes, cabbages, and eggplants are too perfect. And yet, nobody would question it. I present a wad to her, and she lifts her body over the counter, asking, "Whot d-you seek, Ma'am?"

I whisper, "I seek a plant lethal for one's heart."

She bares her teeth like a grin. Then, she murmurs, "I sell quite a few variations." The rabbit places herself back to the ground and then bends over in front of her table. She picks up one box at a time and places them atop the open crates of ersatz vegetables. Each of them contains a substance. The first appears to contain parsley. The second has what looks like flour. The third box contains jars of liquid. The powder is the one with my interest.

I motion for her to re-approach me. The rabbit does so. I mutter into her ear pointing straight upwards. "I wish to purchase a large amount of your... Trumpet..."

She asks, "How large?"

I pull out an etched iron flask. She takes it, and then looks up with her eyes wide as if I had just bared my teeth at her. The rabbit then states, "This product does not come cheap."

I stare into her with my one shown eye narrowed. I growl, "Then I wos right to fulfil a bounty hunt first. But I am not here for you, or any black-market dealer."

She informs me, "As long you can pay with pounds and pence."

I give her the notes, and she carefully collects the powder without letting it touch the outside of my flask at all. She counts the bills, and then gives me a few of them back, along with the flask. The rabbit comments, "Enjoy." She then takes the boxes down. I care not what she intends. If she is aware that these people are con artists, she must be wary that they have paid with counterfeit money.

I look thoroughly in the crowd for those accompanied by large men showing off their weapons. As predicted, Woodward and her bear are present. Approaching him head-on would be a waste of valuable time--time that she could use to flee from the borough, if not the city altogether. I watch them go about their business, the dog discussing the situation with one of her agents. I know such because a wolf sporting a machine gun and a cane is with him.

I count five other agents--a mink, a badger, a hare, and two otters. Standing in the police's way is seven stoic men, carrying rifles, semi-automatics, canes, and sabres. That is, not counting Woodward and Silas. Still, the police's fight is not with them. Therefore, I must be their executioner.

I head east and into Dreamer Square, where activity bustles. It is their second night and I wonder if anyone to come here last night are here tonight, too. Of my interest is the performers on a small stage. Currently having people's attention is a heavily muscled wolf. He lifts a pair of anvils, followed by two barrels full of apples. In between, the preparation begets drama. He makes a signal, and answering to it is a bear in an old-fashioned suit of armour. The wolf lays on his back on the floor. The bear sits on him. He presses all his fingers, his palms, and his heels into the armour. Then, he lifts her up. The wolf sits up, still holding the bear, and then stands up. That earns him cheers and applause. To follow, I watch a slender fox, sporting only a loincloth, take his place on the stage. He performs a series of motions, twisting his body and limbs. My astonishment matches those of the other spectators. He appears malnourished for his limbs almost matching the shapes of his bones. Still, he displays no signs of weakness. He keeps up with his macabre dance, making shapes that I would find impossible even for a fox.

My eyes remain on him even when they make a transition to another performance. I suddenly wonder what life is like for this class of actor. I pay no heed to the two otters clad in work clothes, throwing numerous objects in the air and catching them, only to throw them back up or to each other. I shove the spectators aside, and then dash between the riser and tent.

Upon reaching the back, I just see the fox pull up a pair of navy-blue trousers. He comments, sounding bored, "Yeh're not allowed back 'ere." He then proceeds to eat a sandwich.

I reply, "I just want to understand."

He turns around, scowling. "There be nothin' ter ask fer clarification. This be the life of a circus performer." He takes nibbles at a time, as if his stomach cannot take big bites.

I object, "But the pain you went through. You look as if you were in poverty and you fell for a lie that yer recruiter would save you."

The fox says, "I won't ask fer help. I be in no danger. I wos recruited fer my condition, and I bin watched by thousands, just like others to go up there." He nudges his head to indicate the risers.

I sigh. "Sorry. I see that kind of shape and deduce abuse." The muscled wolf comes to him.

The fox says, "Nothing is wrong, here. Just somebody breaking the rules." I sigh again. I wish I knew if he is abused, but I am not in Tolden for him; I cannot help everyone. Even artists turn to crime to make a living, but this performer's employer is not my priority.

I tell the bony vulpine, "I apologise fer being irrational." Then, I depart. The infamous conwoman of Tolden has a career that must be toppled. I know somebody that could aid in such a mission...

As it has been days since I last spoke to my friend in police, he has likely been in the neighbourhood for some time. So, in the morning, I was at the train station where I arrived in the borough, asking the staff if they saw an Ursine of my description. As they could confirm that he took a train bringing him here the day after I contacted my ally, I asked around if the vendors saw him. Upon following a chain of leads, I found my way to a townhouse. Thank God that it was not on the same street where I reside.

"Why act like y-never heard of a door?" The bear sees me climb in through a window. He is in the living chamber, the walls decorated with green and yellow wallpaper, sitting in a chair large enough for him. As I ignore his remark, he comments, "I cannot believe where I stand. First, I survive an explosion and coerce a few officers ta keep quiet about it. Then, I find meself at an unusual embassy, which has me under oath ta never speak of whot I saw, to fellow officers. Now, I am under a low profile with a familiar face here ta relay information. Hard ta not coll me corrupt now, wouldn't y-say?"

I reply sarcastically, "Good show t-you, too, Payton."

Getting up from the chair, he continues, "I never pursued criminals in this way before. If you expect me to do the same with another crime clan, I might not be as golden to survive a fatal attack and pretend I did not. Low profiles are for when inspectors go undercover. 'Tis impossible fer somebody of my stature." Even now, he wears no shirt to go with his business trousers and leather suspenders. As he expected only my company, why else would he show the scars on his chest? He paces, keeping his stern eyes on me.

I speak, "I may rely upon a gamble for this, as I expect officers of the borough's police to be bribed by the same people for which they have arrest warrants." He exhales and says no word, remaining stoic. I get close to him to explain, whispering in the bear's ear, "I managed to con the conwoman, Woodward. You won' find 'er or 'er fellow artists in Dreamer Circle at night, but you will be able to find her people at Laughton Acre at night, while the carnival is still in town. I recommend the police form a perimeter; just like Woodward herself, her people 'ave well-armed and loyal defenders by their sides. I counted seven individuals standing in the way to five agents."

After prolonged silence and more pacing, the bear nears me. Not a muscle of mine moves. Wickerson speaks up, "I know you to be no liar, Lady Death. With Woodward's most wanted employees and others, awaiting trial, whot intend you t-do?"

I respond, "If you happen to injure Woodward's bodyguard, you will have my praise. I have intentions for her, but first I need to get her bodyguard out of the way. She will not resist the temptation of great music and young entrepreneurs in the same location."

He points at me, saying, "I will take your word, but I have men to persuade myself. Don' expect me there the second Woodward sets foot in the park. Your endgame will involve me whether you like it or not; don' think I din' see Lowell with a gun on that cat, or his mercenaries on the kittens." How can the vigilante be in two places at once? That is why I need an honest man such as this unrelenting Ursine. If he has nothing to lose, that tips the scale in my favour. He has nobody's safety to risk but his own.

On that night, after seeing the carnival setup for its night activities, I sought out the people that would interest Woodward. I have spent that day in the library and at the markets, looking for advertisements on aspiring businesses seeking potential investors. To somebody such as herself, that kind of person is like her meat. Once she is to learn of a method to rebuild her guild's resources and faith in her, she will not resist. I was out all night, convincing a potential shop owner, a pub's new landlord, and a founder of a new wine distillery, to see Woodward at Tenebra Angela about their aspiration. I told them that she would be there "tomorrow night". That is the night of their first showing, and the final night of the carnival's activities.

"You should 'ave consulted me first!" Woodward barks upon hearing me relay what I was up to. She paces in the living chamber, clad in a teal blazer, turquoise checker-pattern slacks, and lemon business shirt.

I retort, "The idea just came to me right there and then." If my fur were not primarily black, she might see a dark circle under my uncovered eye. As she still displays her distress, I add, "I heard your people got arrested last night"-

She interrupts with a snarl, "No shit!"

I continue, "Then you understand that you still 'ave a chance to restore your guild's faith in you. I question not how you can put other businesses in debt because of yer swindling, but I question what else you kin do to save the Lowell House, if not yerself, from ruin."

She turns, whipping her flappy ears and flailing her blazer. She growls, "I don't give a fuck about the Lowell House anymore! They are on their own now!" I turn away, sighing. Perhaps, she is right. Then again, as much as I promised myself that I would slay Woodward for Jack, I find a line of where to kill someone. The one person I told, who saw me dressed like this, complete with the eyepatch, is dead now. But can I afford to take the chance with informing this woman? Someone who leads a guild of swindlers?

Noting my contemplation, the dog inquires, "Whot makes Lord Lowell so important to you that you used 'is sister to get close ter 'im?"

I answer, "That is olso fer you to find out."

"Christ", she scoffs, jutting her head upward.

Her bear weighs in, "If I may, Golda." He pauses, making sure that he has her attention. "Yer guild consists of only five people. 'Tis only a squad now." I notice something when I focus on him. A white strip is around his neck like a collar, and there is a gap in the fur on his chest resembling a bullet hole. He continues, "I did me bes' ta protect yeh. Your agents' bodyguards died, now having failed to prevent their arrest. I may not be so fortunate should we see the same onslaught again. I worry too much fer yeh. After I get killed and yeh disappear, whot will 'appen? Would you be able to afford a new bodyguard?" Now, I am taken aback. Does he love her? As quickly as my eye widened, it narrows. I drown out the bear's speech about how Woodward may not survive long enough. If it truly is love, being protective is part of it. Rodica moulded her son from the day he was born. I doubt that she held him in her arms after birthing him. She showed him no love that a mother would. She never cared about his well-being; she showed no affection; she showed no concern. Rodica was even willing to sacrifice herself. If she set him up to kill her, to have him envision an apparition, she succeeded.

Woodward snaps me back to reality, stating, "You seem ta currently 'ave deep thoughts."

"Because I do", I admit. "If Silas is so protective of you, I won't be surprised to see him check a drink fer drugs. However, I 'ave trouble believing that he's not taken a bullet fer you yet."

He interjects, "I did get shot twice before. Both times, the bullet and extraction caused minimal damage." I can believe that.

I comment, "And you are still loyal to Ms Woodward."

That prompts a growl from him, knowing what I mean. Woodward says plainly, "She is not worth it... yet." She then turns to me. Pointing, she says, "This scheme of yers better work, Wolf. Otherwise, in our next encounter, I won't coll 'im off." So, he takes orders and takes pleasure in killing.

I watch from one building away, the crowd eager to enter the Tenebra Angela Concert Hall, to listen to the most admirable works of a great Fleisish composer, which were completed by his apprentice. Michi perches on my shoulder as I watch for the middle-aged Rottweiler and her manservant. I turn to him. I wish I could promise him a chance to eat the bear after I kill him, but that will not be the case.

The Concert Hall has the same procedure as the pubs here when one wants to eat. I would wager that Woodward brings her own wine here. It has happened before: I saw people bring a bottle of wine when I was here years ago.

Focusing on my raven friend, I say, "You have been of great assistance, Aibou. You have guided me through treacherous territories and been able to see people of my interest before I did. You can tell me so much without words, but I still fail to understand why you chose me of all wolves with whom to share a vision." He turns his head, focusing on the shifting crowd below. I do so, too. I continue, "Michibiku... Everything has been practise for one man. After he dies, will you convince me that I still have a purpose? Or will you be done with your tasks and return to Seikat?" Having known all along my confidence in slaying Giffard, he must have convinced himself that he is a critical component in drawing him out, locating my targets and the places that they owned.

Silence is the answer. He needs not caw this time to alert, for I can discern the bitch and her male whore the second that they reach the crowd. The Grizzly, clad in black dress pants, a black tailcoat over a white dress shirt with raised collar and a black bowtie, pushes aside everyone in his reach. The Rottweiler is close behind, wearing a sleeveless golden gown with a voluminous skirt, a chainmail belt, and linked metal plates for sashes. The whole bloody masse can hear the vain accessories jingle.

That is when I begin to climb down. I need not walk far, but I will need to subdue the outdoor guards. Of course, I remember not much about this place. However, I have a good idea of approach. The only other aspect to regard is whether the entrepreneurs also took the bait. Two sides being each other's bait: what a mad scheme I have conjured. I give two guards a fair beating to incapacitate them, before I enter the backdoor--

And Leigh-Anne was on the point. I find myself at backstage, just hearing the musicians rehearse. Though they could only be practising basic chords, I admire their sounds. I then climb up a board meant for a backdrop. Perched on edge, I look out on the stage where the risers are already arranged. A few musicians are already in their positions, reading over their sheets and playing specific sections. No sign of the conductor yet, though. I then look to the rest of the auditorium as if upon the horizon. Only a few of the many silhouettes in the scarlet myriad are distinct, and I make out formal suits and gowns, complete with chains and metal epaulettes. If not on the higher floor, Woodward and Silas will be at one of two round tables nearest the stage.

Like a tightrope, I tread the edges of the backdrop boards, and then climb down, passing all performers undetected. Next is where they keep the wine. I doubt that they have a cellar if some bring their own. Next, I passed what might be a prop room, seeing hung costumes and labelled boxes of cluttering junk. I go up the stairs, and those to pay me heed just stare. It turns out that some are wearing decorated masks, as well. Do these people know of the vigilante? Or are they mentally condescending my choice of wardrobe? I watch for the barkeep from the etched-glass railing for a good while, before he is handed a large bottle and ticket. I follow him to a small room next to the stairs.

The walls of this room are taken up by shelves, occupied by alcohol bottles with ledgers at the front. I examine them, and find the one labelled "Woodward, table 1." Good. You're here. I take the wine bottle from the shelf and use my hand to pull the cork. Then, I hastily take my flask out of my breast pocket, only to carefully open it and pour its contents into the glass bottle. I use much of the green powder, expecting an extreme dose to work on an Ursine.

In a hurry, I close the flask and pocket it. I make sure to have the cork placed firmly back, before reshelving the bottle. My nose crinkles at the stench that I just gave the wine. I still feel disgusted even when I return to the railing. There Woodward and Silas are, at their round table with a red satin cover that matches the carpet. The Grizzly obviously looks uncomfortable, sitting in something formal, especially wearing a shirt. I can imagine the bitch whispering a promise that she will rip it up when they return to her house, and have him ravish her.

Before long, the curtains draw, and there all the musicians are. The violinists and cellist take up the front row of the risers. The other two rows each have the percussionists and horn musicians occupying half their space. Just the first bars bring back my cherished memory: my mother, my step-father and I forgetting the rest of the world. They have my attention instantly. My eyes are on the stage where the conductor and the troupe work their magic in enticing the listeners. For the whole of the first melody, I watch each violinist jerk or flail their arm in perfect unison. To my curiosity, the cellist's motions do not match those of the other stringers. It is as if she is her own person, unlike the others.

With the end of the melody and the crowd applauding, I return to reality. I look down from the railing where I stand. Silas is still, no doubt, uncomfortable in formal attire. He leans to Woodward as if to say something. For a Grizzly, whispering must be difficult. It might not be the clothing, but something else on his mind. Woodward seems to dismiss it.

The fantasy calls to me with the next melody. Not even five minutes, and the Grizzly already expresses impatience? Then again, Woodward and I have something in common. Even so, she could be a bratty twat from working with the Lowell House. I still listen to the music, but I can tell where I stand that the bear is bored. How queer: a Symphonite having no appreciation for music. It goes like that for the next few minutes: the bear switching positions, his arms lifting from the table and on his laps only the for them to set upon it again, propping his jaw with one hand, his arms folding. He does almost everything with his arms. I discern some vibration of the table, as well. This Ursine continues surprising me. First, he wishes to be anywhere outside of these walls. Now, he makes every gesture that anyone knows.

It feels like only ten minutes as I listen to the various canines and small felines do their wonders with their devices. The conductor's hands work as if he is casting a spell and the band are the charms. They show no sign of stopping any moment soon. Such dedication and determination. I look down for a second, but not at the unbelievable couple. Your practise must take years to be able to produce such elegant sounds. Just like a soldier not becoming such after one lesson in combat. I trained in combat for years, just like you could have trained in those contraptions. I slightly raise my left arm with a fist. In your dominant hand is your sword. In your opposite hand is your shield. To err in your progress is like taking a hit. I spent years honing my skills just like you. I press my fist to where my heart is as if to salute the crew on the risers.

By the time of intermission, the Grizzly waves for someone and snarls a command. I turn to where the stairs are, and a cat dashes from the top, to relay the message to the barman. He hastily goes to the closet with the wine bottles, giving one to the cat, along with a pair of wine glasses. Then, as quickly, that cat dashes back down to the ground floor, presenting the bottle of red wine and two glasses. That would wait, however. Silas says something to Woodward. She sniffs the cork, only to shrug it off. Does she know my scent?

I would have the answer soon. Only seconds after the applause to greet the orchestra back, the Grizzly snatches the bottle and eagerly pulls the cork out. He pours its contents into one glass... but something makes him hesitate. Silas positions the bottle under his nose and sniffs--

Stretching his arm back out instantly. Woodward might be commenting, "It can't be that old." It happens: some red wines go sour with time. Wine either gains or loses tolerability. Silas begins an argument in a wondrously-hushed tone, but Woodward remains calm about the suspicion. The discussion ends as quickly as it began. Now, I can guess the only way he sees to tolerate old and celebrated music. I know this part, and halfway into the melody, he takes a swig of the wine. I see no signs of him hating the taste, but something stands out to him. I am sure of it.

Silas is fast to down a glass, but he leans to the bitch. He whispers what I can assume is a warning. So, that is it: he has a sensitive tongue and the liquid tastes unusual to him. The bear takes the second wine glass out of Woodward's reach so that she does not sample the alcohol. I cannot determine how fast the poison would act. I have used poison on a cultist bear in Agnarge, having laced my stiletto with Belladonna, and he could still stand after a few cuts with the substance making its way into his bloodstream. It will be different. Unless he can vomit the poison out, his chances of survival are low.

Just when the symphony is to reach its critical point, its best-known section, Silas is still so bored that he fills the same glass that he used with the "tainted" wine and swigs from it almost every minute until it is empty. The bear senses it now--

But my attention deviates once the chorus comes in for everyone's favourite part of the symphony. I can still remember it: the stimulation and the wild imagination. My fondest memory. I hope that it was the same for my mother and step-father. If only... Gaston could have heard this...

I shake my head. I then look down at the pair. Now, they are onto me. They probably sussed it out that the she-wolf with the eyepatch set Woodward up. I swiftly back up from the railing. Listening carefully, I discern footsteps. I return to the barrier--

And Woodward is walking away from the table, heading straight for the front door. I turn around, whipping the tail of my coat. I head to the stairs and take the entrance to the prop room, leading me backstage. It is better that I exit from the back. You are mine, Woodward.

I dash around the building, not slowing down at all to catch up to the bitch. I have waited too long for the ruination of the Lowell House. I catch up to the Rottweiler, but I allow her to see me. Wolves are known for their feints. I allow her to sprint away from me and get distant from me. Then, I begin jogging. I manage to match my pace with hers along the lamplit sidewalks, forgetting who might be watching.

Peculiarly, Woodward seems to forget about looking back. No time to think about her experience in chases. Just keep up. I wait until she slows her pace before my jog becomes a sprint. The distance closes between us, my panting consistent and in short breaths.

I tackle her to the ground. She groans and writhes, but I assume that she overplays it. To show that I am not buying it, I draw both of my Khopeshes, the blades pointing from the side with my pinkie. I raise my arms. I thrust downward--

Deliberately missing with both blades, tines against the cement. I growl, "Get up." I listen to only our panting, even when she rolls over, her gown now smeared with dust. Understandably fearful, she slowly backs up from the blades and stands up.

I straighten myself, holding the Khopeshes behind my back. I bark, "Fight me." Woodward is now both fearful and confounded. "Prove to me that you are worth killing."

As confounded as she is horrified, she remarks, "Numerous con artists followed my orders for years, fer the sake of a man with mixed ideals. You came to kill me; I thought you wouldn't hesitate."

Then I better enrage her. I proclaim, "You figured it out before Giffard did, no? I fulfilled the best-known bounty hunts of each borough. 'Twos I who slew the Tirrell sisters. They only attempted t-flee, not fighting me at oll. Like yer employees, they were wise ta seek a protector, but despite their intelligence, they lacked the sense of fighting strategy. Now, look where you stand, Woodward: your guild now wanted criminals no doubt fleeing the city, and your manservant, now falling ill, having consumed poisoned wine." Silence. I can sense that she mentally brings the puzzle's pieces together. Her wide eyes suddenly narrow, her slightly-open mouth clenches, she bares her teeth, and growls. I add, "Now, why are you only standing there? Have the events not aggravated you? Or do you merely have no bloomin' bottle?"

In that instant, the bitch sprints toward me, prepared to punch me. I dodge the sloppy move, and she staggers at the exact moment her arm stretches out with a growl. I merely watch her regain her balance, listening to her panting already.

Woodward steps to me, flailing fist after fist. I back up from each unfocused jab and hook. Just as I thought: her dress is holding her back. That formal wear of hers is not made for fighting. Her dancing shoes are not made for running, either. She still offers me no challenge. Just like Lucia, Woodward can be provoked but would do no damage to a petty criminal. She wisely aims for my nose and my midsection, failing to land a blow. I lead us to making circles in the middle of the road, a few bystanders staying to witness the scenario, the one carriage crossing, managing to steer clear of us.

The Rottweiler's patience thins more and more to the point when she attempts to ram me. That is when I make it serious. I kick straight upwards, hitting her chin and causing her to jut straight up. She staggers for a few seconds, and then drops to one knee. I take it as a feint, and I am right. She stands up, rubbing her chin. She looks at her hand to see the blood from her mouth. Woodward growls and performs a flurry of clumsy punches, all of which I avoid before bringing my left Khopesh straight upwards to cut a line across her right arm. She backs up, pressing her left hand over the slit.

Now, I lift the restrictions. I slash at her again, but this time at her skirt. I tear another line across her skirt, grabbing the metal-mesh sashes with the Khopesh's hook. I end up pulling her toward me. She is taken aback by force getting her right against it. I butt her head, stunning her. I pull the Khopesh from the metal-mesh, and then slash from right to left, on her midsection. Though her blood stains the dress, the wound is not fatal. I step to her, presenting my Khopeshes. I swing both blades downward, managing to tear into the skirt again. Still, Woodward persists in the vain attempt. Before she can prepare for her next attack, I use the hooks of my Khopeshes to snag her belt. With a few good yanks, I undo the link in the centre, bringing the sashes to the ground.

Woodward quickly understands why I did that on purpose. She grabs my wrists, but she is not fast enough for me. I kick her shin twice, and then twist my wrists out of her grip. I swing the blades downward again, but not for the fatal blow. I tear into the fabric yet again, and with the laces' purpose defeated, the formal attire falls to the ground. She wears only bloomers under the dress. I comment, "So, you did intend ter 'ave yer manservant ravish you."

The bitch snarls, "Stop colling 'im that!" She runs, only to stagger, tripping over the rumpled clothing. I wait for her to recover before she does several punches. When she kicks, I perform a spin kick. That brings her to the ground. I await her recovery, which she pretends takes longer, no doubt from the fact that I am not the only one who can see her breasts.

I prepare for her next pointless attempt to strike. She knows that I can kill her, and she knows that I have been holding back. She takes off her shoes, finally seeing them as hindrances. She throws the one in her right hand, missing me. She uses her other shoe as a club, re-approaching me. I lunge aside, and then counter with a slit up her back, making her yowl. With her vulnerable, I cut against her hips, tearing the fabric there.

Aware of it falling to the ground, Woodward lifts a leg, covering her groin, and uses her arms to cover her breasts and midsection. I speak, "Your costume is gone, Woodward. You can no longer hide who you are."

She spits, "Is that why so many criminals killed over the years have been stripped?"

I clarify, "Further torment on their bodies after their demise." She has her teeth bared, and she growls, but she hesitates. I sheath my Khopeshes, to draw my Katana. I hold it in both hands, stand with my left foot pointing to her, the heels aligned, the blade pointing away. "What has a middle-aged bitch such as yerself t-lose now?"

To my satisfaction, that gets to her. All other sound drowns out for that of my heartbeat. I tighten my grip on the hilt as I time her. As she prepares, I swing the blade to the side--

The bitch groans and falls forward. I turn around to the sight of her lying facedown in a puddle of blood, the blade having rent through ribs and making a gap in her midsection. I produce a handkerchief to wipe the blood off, and then sheathe the Katana. I sigh.

I look up, and watch my raven friend alight upon the pavement. I curtsy to him, no words. Then, I walk the way I came to this area. I would wager that he now pecks at my latest kill. He earnt that meat.

Now poses the question: how can I bring Giffard to me? There is still the matter of his hostages. I see only one way: bait.