The sll of a print shop was usually one of Gladys’s favorite things in the world. It slled of sharp, acidic ink, dry paper, and the oil used to grease the heavy iron presses. To Gladys, it slled like freedom. It slled like the secret world she and Lady Ines had built together, page by illicit page.
But today, the shop slled like a trap. She had agreed with Carcel to beco the bait, making sure Ines doesn’t find out about it.
She stood by the counter, her hands clutching her reticule tightly, her heart hamring against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Is the order ready, Parker?" she asked. Her voice was steady, though it took effort.
Parker, the apprentice, looked up from the stack of papers he was binding. He was a skinny boy of nineteen, with ssy brown hair and an apron that was permanently stained black with ink. Usually, he was cheerful. He would crack jokes or ask Gladys if she had brought any sweets.
Today, he did not smile. He looked pale. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, even though the shop was drafty and cold.
"Just a mont, Miss Gladys," Parker said. He wiped his hands on his apron, leaving fresh streaks of black on the fabric. "Mr. Hobbs is in the back. I... I can get it for you."
He moved around the counter, coming a little too close. His eyes darted to her reticule.
"Did you bring the new manuscript?" He asked. He tried to sound casual, but his voice cracked. "Mr. Hobbs was asking. He said we need to start typesetting if we want to et the deadline."
Gladys took a small step back. The hair on her arms stood up. The Duke had warned her. Trust no one. Not even Mr Hobbs.
"Not today, Parker," Gladys lied smoothly. "The author is... delayed. He has a case of writer’s block. You know how temperantal artists can be."
Parker’s face fell. It wasn’t just disappointnt; it was panic. He looked toward the back door, as if he were waiting for a signal.
"But... are you sure?" Parker pressed. He licked his dry lips. "Maybe you have just a few Chapters? A prologue? Anything?"
"Why are you so eager, Parker?" Gladys asked, narrowing her eyes.
He flinched. "I just... I want to do a good job. That’s all."
Gladys stared at him. She saw the new boots he was wearing. They were leather, polished to a shine. They were far too expensive for an apprentice who made pennies a week. She saw the way his hand trembled as he reached for a stack of bound books—copies of a sermon, not a romance novel—and handed them to her.
"Here is the order," Parker said, his voice dull. "Mr. Hobbs said to put it on the account."
"Thank you," Gladys said. She took the heavy package. "Good day, Parker."
She turned and walked out of the shop. She did not run, though every instinct in her body scread at her to flee. She felt Parker’s eyes boring into her back until the bell above the door chid, cutting off the connection.
Gladys stepped out onto the cobblestone street. The London fog was beginning to roll in, thick and gray, turning the afternoon into an early twilight. She walked fast, hugging the package of sermons to her chest. She needed to get to a main road. She needed to find a hackney coach.
She heard footsteps behind her.
Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
Heavy boots. Not the shuffling of a beggar, but the purposeful stride of n who had a job to do.
Gladys turned a corner, ducking into a narrow alley that served as a shortcut to the main thoroughfare. It was a mistake. The alley was empty. The fog was thicker here, swirling around the damp brick walls.
The footsteps behind her sped up.
Gladys spun around.
Two n stood at the mouth of the alley. They were big, with shoulders that filled their rough wool coats. They wore flat caps pulled low over their eyes. They did not look like gentlen. They looked like brute force bought with coin.
"Miss Gladys," the one on the left said. He smiled, revealing a missing tooth. "You’re walking very fast. Why don’t you stop and have a chat?"
"I have nothing to say to you," Gladys said. She backed away, her heel catching on a loose cobblestone.
"We think you do," the second man said. He stepped forward. "We think you have a book in that bag. A very special book. Our employer pays very well for books."
"I have sermons," Gladys spat. "Would you like to read about the sins of greed?"
The n laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound.
"Grab her," the first man said. "Check the bag."
They lunged.
Gladys opened her mouth to scream, raising the heavy package of books as a weapon. But she never got the chance to use it.
A shadow detached itself from the wall behind the thugs.
It happened so fast Gladys almost missed it.
One mont, the alley was empty save for her and the attackers. The next, a third man was there. He moved with a terrifying silence. He wore a plain gray suit and held a heavy walking stick made of black oak.
It was one of the Duke’s n.
The man in gray swung the walking stick.
Crack.
It connected with the knees of the first attacker. The thug howled in pain and crumpled to the ground. The second attacker spun around, reaching for a knife at his belt.
"I wouldn’t do that if I were you," the man in gray said. His voice was calm, almost bored.
Another figure dropped down from the low roof of a shed, landing softly behind the second thug. This new figure pressed the cold tip of a blade against the thug’s neck.
"Drop the knife," the man in gray ordered.
The thug dropped his knife. It clattered loudly on the stones.
Gladys stood frozen against the wall, her chest heaving. She looked at her saviors. They were ordinary-looking n. They had no crests, no uniforms. They were the invisible army Carcel had promised.
The man in gray stepped over the groaning thug on the ground. He tipped his hat to Gladys.
"Miss Gladys," he said politely. "Mr. Vance sends his regards. He suggests you take the carriage waiting at the end of the street. It will take you ho."
"Who... who are they?" Gladys asked, pointing at the attackers.
"Nobody," the man in gray said. He looked down at the thugs with cold eyes. "Just trash. We will take out the trash. Go, Miss."
Gladys didn’t need to be told twice. She ran toward the end of the alley, where a plain black carriage was indeed waiting. She climbed in, her hands shaking so hard she dropped the sermons on the floor. As the carriage pulled away, she looked back. The alley was empty. The n, the thugs, the rescuers—they were all gone, swallowed by the fog.
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