Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hiya, Aunt Taffy!”

Summertime in Misthallery is when the mist is at its thinnest, thankfully not contributing largely to the oppressive heat that drapes like a stifling haze over the town. It’s not often a clear sky is seen painted high over the rooftops, but those few and far between moments are savoured by townsfolk and tourists alike. 

The warm sunshine only makes the grass more verdant, and the greenery feels plush underfoot- not as damp as usual, and not crispened by the heat of the summer. It’s a favourable balance that’s rarely sustained in this town. 

With his arms neatly folded and his shoulders hunched in a manner that makes him look even more bulky for his age, Gus gently swings back and forth on the balls of his feet as he stands in front of what is possibly his most favourite place in the entire world. Aunt Taffy’s sweet shop. 

Aunt Taffy’s expression mirrors that of the sun that beams down upon them from overhead, but Gus knows all too well how quickly that expression can sour when interrupted by the wrong kind of customer. It’s come to Gus’ attention many a time that he will one day no longer be eligible for Aunt Taffy’s customer base, and in an uncharacteristic moment of maturity, he’s simply quite happy to savour these moments as they come. Perhaps the boost in spirit is a result of the unusually stunning weather.

“Hello, my lad, what can I get for you today?” Taffy’s voice can be almost as sickly as the confectionary she’s so fond of selling, but the hint of a sharp tongue concealed beneath the sweetened layers is unmistakable. In her circumstances, it’s an admirable trait, and on that thought, Gus shoves his hand deep into his pocket. The jingling of loose change is a pleasant sound to hear, but the results can be rather dire on the wallet.

“Let’s see…” Gus murmurs thoughtfully, “I would like…a bag of chewing nuts, two bags of fudge, three bags of sherbet lemons, aaand…uh, how about a bag of chocolate limes, too? Please and thank you!”

Taffy is always rather fond of this boy’s manners (partially because she’d been the one to drill them into him over the years he’s spent as her most frequent customer), and she gladly obliges. Fishing around her little wicker basket with a bony hand, she procures bags of sweets by the fistful, dropping them into the patiently outstretched hands of Gus. 

“That’s a large order, son. You best not be eating those all at once, you hear me? It’ll make you sick!” She warns, knowing that the word ‘moderation’ isn’t often in the vocabulary of the children who frequent her stall. For what parental control is lacking in the marketplace, she does her bit to contribute at least a little. Curiously, however, Gus doesn’t seem worried in the slightest.

“Aw, don’t worry ‘bout that, Aunt Taffy. They ain’t all for me, y’know! I got sent out to buy for the others too.” He replies cheerfully, as he begins to fill his empty pockets with the bags of sweets. Once the goods are secured, he drops a large handful of change into Aunt Taffy’s waiting hand. She expertly flips through the coins with a flick of her thumb before offering a satisfied nod. “Well then, you enjoy yourself, son. Come back again, won’t you?”

“‘Course I will!”

With that, the large boy sets off back down the path towards the marketplace. The sweets in his pocket rustle with every footstep, and as he bypasses the produce stalls that line the outskirts of the market, he absentmindedly wonders to himself if fudge can melt in this unusually warm weather. Even if it did, it’d still taste the same, won’t it? He’s sure Badger won’t mind. 

His destination is only a short jaunt away, as are most destinations hidden within the labyrinth of the market. Stacks of cobbled together buildings, all wedged together in uneven rows and thick clumps- even the people who live there know how astoundingly ugly and dishevelled the place can be. It’s a kind of dilapidation appealing only to the tourists who don’t have to see how many layers of neglect can pile up in one place, or how the odd domestic that spills out into the street is watched by neighbours like an evening soap opera. Still, despite the ups and downs, the ins and outs, the cheerful calling to the strained yelling, and the far-too friendly trader who smells like he’s been smoking something suspicious, it’s still home. Nothing can provide the sensation of home to him and his friends more than this. The streets are thin, the alleys are thinner, and the patience vendors seem to have for children mucking about in their business is thinner even still, made evident to Gus by the man who is currently attempting to chase away one of his friends with a broom.

The man, if memory serves Gus correctly, sells small, scrappy electronics. He’s a pretty burly man, with arm hair like sheep wool and a tendency for getting so red in the face that the colour is visible even through his thinning hair. Not somebody anyone would want to mess with, which is a shame, because his friends do so enjoy taunting this particular man. 

With a quick sidestep, his latest victim manages to swiftly avoid being whacked in the side with a deceptively heavy broom handle, and Gus is soon joined by a friend with a thin, wiry frame and a shocking flash of unnaturally bright red hair. 

“That broom handle hurts, Socket. You shouldn’t get so close to him.” Despite the concerning implications of the source of this information, Gus imparts his wisdom with a bright but mellow expression. Socket grins at him with a smile that reaches from ear to ear as he adjusts the chunky goggles that sit upon his forehead.

“Yeah, but if I don’t get up good an’ proper, how am I s’posed to get a look at the good stuff?”

“He’ll never sell anythin’ to you.”

Socket sighs, and the pair begin to walk side-by-side with no indication of their next destination. This kind of aimless drifting is a popular pastime amongst Misthallery's youth. “Yeah, I know that. Not like he’s ever got anythin’ good to sell anyway. I’d be better off goin’ to Scraps.” 

“He’ll charge you more for sure, but hey, at least you won’t get yer teeth kicked in.”

“He shouldn’t be chargin’ me anythin’! We’re mates! Ooh-- but speakin’ of chargin’, I believe you got somethin’ for me!” Socket grinds to a halt, holding out his hand with an expectant smile. Gus tilts his head, silently mulling over the request. The unease bleeds out onto his face.

“Wren won’t be very happy if I give ‘em to you when she’s not here.”

“And…?”

“W…well what’m I s’posed to say to that?”

“That’s the beauty of it, innit? ‘sides which, we didn’t split the cost down the middle ‘cos she was a ha'penny short, so…”

“She’ll never agree to that,” Gus says uncertainly, but forks over a bag of sherbet lemons anyway, knowing he’ll never find a happy medium between the two siblings. They could maintain their balance together pretty well, but getting caught up between them is a tricky situation, and getting out of it is even harder.

Needless to say, Socket is delighted, and he celebrates this by shoving a sickly sweet sherbet lemon into his mouth. He’s quiet for a moment, savouring the taste of a thruppence well spent. Not wanting to feel too excluded, Gus fishes his own bag of sweets out of his pocket. He begins to chow down alongside his pal as the pair of them approach a smaller clearing just outside the centre of the marketplace. A small crowd of people begins to ebb into view, and Socket tucks the sherbet lemon he’d only just started eating into his cheek upon seeing the familiar faces of his usual group, knowing he’s got some explaining to do.

“Socket!”

“Alright, Wren?”

Even with such a monstrous pout on her face, Wren is by far the most angelic looking of all of them, which is massively beneficial to her in many, many ways. Unfortunately, it negates any impact her anger has on people, especially her brother. Her rosy cheeks bulge around her protruding lip, even when Socket generously holds out the bag in front of her. She clicks her tongue in distaste.

“It’s not fair if you start eatin’ them without me!”

It’s a fair claim, and Socket looks perhaps a tad remorseful, but if he ever really regretted his actions, he’d probably stop succumbing so easily to the temptation of sweets. “I only had one!” he reasons, shaking the bag right under his sister’s nose in the hopes of diverting her attention. Still retaining a face like thunder (or, in Wren’s case, a face like a very mild and adorable rainstorm), Wren plunges a hand into the bag and makes a point of taking two sweets instead of one. 

“Oi, aren’t you forgettin’ summat, Gus?”

Despite being fairly tall and definitely conspicuous, Badger seems to have an uncanny habit of just materialising at random right next to people with no warning whatsoever, and if Gus’ temperament wasn’t so mellow, he might’ve jumped. Instead, he simply pulls a bag of fudge from out of his pocket and drops it into Badger’s hands. “Bag of fudge. Minimal damage, though it might’ve melted a bit.”

“Can fudge even melt?” Badger murmurs aloud, wasting no time in enjoying his fair share of the delivery. Melted or not, it's still delicious.

“I’ve never ‘ad fudge that melts.”

“You think it would in this heat. It's really warm out today.”

“Right?”

The other bag of fudge is deposited into the hands of Louis, who has found himself a comfortable leaning spot somewhere in the shade. Badger hops back on the crate he’d previously been perched on, with Louis on his right and Marilyn on his left. Marilyn beams brighter than the sun when Gus hands her the last remaining bag of sherbet lemons.

“Thank you! I’ve been waitin’ all day for these! Needed them after workin’ all mornin’," she chirps, as Gus pulls the last two remaining bags out of his pockets and holds them out for their recipients to take. 

Crow and Nabby, who are both sharing an expertly balanced seat upon a concerningly wobbly barrel, take their share. The moment he takes a hold of the bag, Nabby rolls his eyes and emits a click of the tongue.

“Told you, Gus-- told you plenty of times, don’t put ‘em in your pocket. They melt that way! And how’d they even get this soggy, you were only gone for five minutes!” Always ready with a complaint to share, Nabby has little reservations about saying exactly what he thinks, especially to the faces of his friends. Surely, that kind of tolerance is what sturdy friendships are built off of. 

“It’ll still taste the same!”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just a pain to eat… Look, I'm gonna get chocolate all over my hands!”

“Speakin’ of a pain to eat,” Crow cuts through smoothly, finally managing to get a word in somewhere, “this is the second time you’ve done this.”

Gus’ silence provides a sweet albeit very telling aura of innocence, punctuated further by the way he tilts his head, “Eh? Did… didja not want chocolate limes?”

Crow’s expression is sour, but not angry, and Gus is helpfully assisted in his predicament by Socket, who says through a mouthful of sherbet lemon, “I’d take that answer as a no, mate.”

“When have I ever asked for chocolate limes? I don’t even like ‘em,” Crow mutters quietly, staring down at the handful of green, oval sweets that sit comfortably in the paper bag. They’re almost nauseating to look at. “Nabby, switch with me.”

“What? No.”

“You were just complainin’ that yours were melted!”

“Yeah, but I’m still gonna eat ‘em! I don’t like chocolate limes either!” Nabby holds his own bag as far from Crow’s reach as he can, despite the fact that Crow makes absolutely no move to grab them. Crow simply shakes his head, now resigned to his fate. His disgustingly snot-green fate. 

“Sorry, Crow,” Gus apologises, with a sort of sincerity that somehow just makes the situation that much more irritating, and he kindly offers, “I’ll have ‘em if you don’t want ‘em.”

“Could you be any more unhelpful?” 

With that, Crow pops a chocolate lime into his mouth, but the way his face twists ever so slightly at the tart taste is painfully visible. No point wasting the pennies it cost to get the wrong bag of sweets. It might not taste that great, but it’s still better than no sweets.

“I asked for liquorice by the way. Might wanna remember that for next time.”

“Oh, that does ring a bell, actually…”

“Speakin’ of ringing a bell…”

Crow scrunches up the bag of sweets and shoves it into his pocket. He pulls at the front of his scarf to adjust it comfortably in the warm weather. There’s a pause in the air where the only sounds that can be heard is the slurping of sweets, the licking of sticky fingers, and the crunching of a chocolate lime between Crow’s back teeth. 

“Got somethin’ along those lines recently for our next auction.”

The light, summery mood that hangs in the air shifts very quickly to something stifling and conspiratorial, as it's prone to doing in this small circle of people. No longer are their worries about sweets, but now about business, and they keep their conversations quiet in amongst the stream of people that come in and out of the marketplace. Patrons who file into the bustling streets looking for the acquisition of prized items are wholly unaware that the biggest trove of precious antiques lie right beneath their very feet, hidden in the domain of the Black Raven.

“Is that right?” Nabby murmurs, his face very plain. He’s not uninterested by this news, but a suitable expression has to be maintained in public. They’re all very aware of this by now, and Nabby has by far the most immovable poker face out of all of them. 

“Made of crystal. Thought it was junk at first, truth be told-- looked like somethin’ out of a cupboard at me nan’s house, but it turns out it’s got just a little more worth than that.” The way he speaks about these secretive, coveted items that he manages to get his hands on one way or another is almost exhilarating for his cohorts. Though he doesn’t help with any stalls in the market, nor are his parents particularly business-oriented, he’s got a glint in his eye that suggests he could sell wool to a sheep.

This information is received with some hushed murmurs, mostly out of intrigue, and Gus wonders aloud, “Is it like…expensive crystal?” 

“Nah, it’s nothin’ like that. The value of this item comes out of where it’s been, not what it’s made of.”

“Ooh, I see…”

Badger, having managed to totally cane his sweets in a very short amount of time, shoves the empty paper bag into his pocket, his fingers still matted with sticky sugar residue “So where’s it been then?”

“Well, we’re about to find out! It came out of one of the posh houses,” Crow replies chipperly, pulling the brim of his hat a little further over his face. “Scraps is doin’ a bit of research for it now. With the right leads, we should have a good idea of where it’s come from. If it turns out to be any good, we’ll stick it up on the next auction. Folks love a good story when they're buying.”

“Aw,” Marilyn emits a whine. “Poor Scraps, off doin’ work whilst we’re all eatin’ sweets. Ain’t too fair on him, is it?” 

“Guess there’ll be a bag of chocolate limes in it for him later, then.” Crow replies coolly, leaning back to rest comfortably against the stone wall behind him. He pauses for a moment, before muttering, “Hm...maybe ‘alf a bag.”

Chapter Text

“Cor, it’s proper pretty, innit?”

Marilyn gazes upon the shapely figure of a pristine, sparkling crystal handbell that sits primly upon the table in amongst all the other items up for auction tonight. Touching it has been forbidden for fear of breaking the precious item, but the way the intricate cuts gleam under the harsh lighting from the overhead lamp makes it look irresistible. Louis looms behind Marilyn, watching quietly from just over her shoulder.

“I’d love to hear the noise it makes! Must be so pretty," she coos in adoration for the item, but promptly stands back up to her full height and gazes up at Louis. “Could you imagine if I had one of these for the stall? I’d be rackin’ up customers like you wouldn’t believe!”

“That, or the crusty old bloke from the fish stall would come ‘n have a go at you.” 

Marilyn’s face twists into a pout, and her thin eyebrows begin to crease in disdain, “Ooh, you’re right, he probably would! I don’t think that man has ever had fun in his life!”

“Is this that geezer at the fish stall?”

Badger emits a slight grunt as he carefully clutches a large, square item close to his frame, edging his way through all the clutter in order to find a safe place to put it down. He manages to prop it up neatly against the wall, and he deftly brushes off the strings of cobweb from the front of his shirt. “He threw a trout at me the other day.”

“That’s just a waste of a good fish.” Marilyn folds her arms in a very matter-of-factly manner, but Badger offers a smile, cheekily rubbing at his nose with his finger.

“Nah, not really, I took it home with me, didn’t I? Tasted alright, too.”

Marilyn simply shakes her head, tapping her foot with subdued ire. “Doesn’t know a thing about good salesmanship. Thinks he’s all that just ‘cuz he’s knocked around here for long enough. His fish ain’t even that good!”

Louis smirks, “You sure you’re not bein’ biased, Marilyn?”

Despite the evidence of a guilty shift in her eyes, the grin that grows on her face is wide and sincere. “‘Course not! My family’s produce is always in top condition, and our customer service ain’t half bad either!” Marilyn has a very special way of masking a blunt opinion with a sunny smile, which is probably why she excels in many sales techniques. She could open with the boldest insult, but the sweet smile and the batting of her eyelashes make for a devious distraction, and before you know it, she’s sold you half of her stock.

“As much as I love yer customer service, Mari, we still ‘ave work to do,” Badger reminds her, and that’s enough to jolt her back to attention. Marilyn neatly brushes her thick, curly hair comfortably over her shoulders, ready to get back to work. “We’ve still got to sort all this out into lots. If you sort the artwork, I’ll sort the antiques,” Badger says, giving Louis a nudge before turning to Marilyn. “You wanna do the trinkets?”

“Can do!” Marilyn replies brightly, and Louis slinks off to assemble all the artwork into one manageable collection. Marilyn begins to sift together all of the trinkets left on the table, expertly dividing them into groups based on shape, size and material. For a moment, she finds herself gazing longingly at the crystal handbell again.

“A handbell counts as a trinket, right?” Marilyn ponders aloud. “Though Crow did say not to touch it.”

“Nah, leave it. He wants that coming out at a specific time. He’s put a reserve price on that an’ all.” Badger waves a hand dismissively, and Marilyn’s eyes glimmer with intrigue.

“Is that right? So it is expensive!”

“Well, if it ain’t, then it’s about to be,” Louis cuts in, neatly propping a stack of paintings up against the wall. “Though apparently Scraps did dig up some good info on it. Was in a house of nobles at one point, or somethin' to the effect. It's some collection piece from an artist. Didn't hear more than that, mind.”

“Wow…” Marilyn sighs dreamily. “Ain’t it amazin’ how some things just end up here with us? I mean, sure, we sell ‘em in the end, but antiques travel far and wide in this world. It’s a bit bonkers that some of ‘em pass through our hands.” As the sweet sentiment passes her lips, her work doesn’t cease, and she’s still tirelessly sorting out the rest of the miscellaneous trinkets into neat groups on the table. Louis eyes her with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re bein’ awfully poetic today.”

“Well, it’s true, ain’t it? I like the work we do,” Marilyn smiles, though it’s far more sincere than her usual customer-savvy smile. “We get to see a lot doin’ what we do.”

“Shame it don’t last for very long, though,” Louis sighs, but interrupts himself with a different train of thought, this one more along the lines of the work they’re meant to be doing. “Oh, Badger, when did Crow say he wanted that handbell brought out?”

“Somewhere between the 15-25 lot mark. See what you’ve got to put up before it. You know he’ll want a sharp entrance.”

Louis’ expression is quizzical. “That’s a bit early, ain’t it? For such an expensive item.”

“He’s got summat else up his sleeve, that’s why.”

Marilyn and Louis share a vacant blink, and Badger loosely gestures to a cupboard in the corner as he attempts to wrestle with a particularly heavy chair. “It’s in there. Wrapped up. Be careful, though.”

Without need of any further permission, Marilyn drifts off towards one of the dented and grotty old lockers, where the broken combination lock opens with ease, and she’s met with the sight of a large, rectangular object wrapped in brown paper. Nothing piques her curiosity more than a mystery item wrapped in brown paper. She’s itching to feel it unwrapping beneath her fingers, but she restrains herself and allows herself a polite but sneaky peek of the mystery item by pulling some of the paper aside. If the time she’s spent in this gaff is anything to go by, experience would tell her that this is a painting.

And what a painting it is! It’s a marvellously colourful depiction of a female figure, sculpted out of thick strokes of rich oil paint. The shading is immaculate, the highlights are exquisite; Marilyn is no connoisseur of art, but she can confidently claim that this is a visual masterpiece. It might reek a bit too much of fine art for her cohort’s tastes, but she’s in awe nonetheless.

“It looks lovely!” 

“Yeah, it’s alright, I guess. No idea where he got it from, but apparently it’s pretty famous. At least, in this country it is. Scraps found all sorts of information on that.”

Marilyn emits a small coo of amazement before neatly tucking the paper back to how it was and closing the locker. “Famous, eh? So that’s our ace for this evening!”

“Sure seems that way.”

“I dunno. Stuff of that calibre, proper popular stuff, that can be a bit dangerous for us.” Louis scratches his chin, tacking on, “Not that I’m doubtin’ Crow, but…”

“Well, we’ve not run into any troubles yet!” Marilyn replies confidently, ever the glimmering ray of positivity upon the group. “I reckon we’ll be fine.”

Marilyn scoops up the last of the trinkets, setting them down in the appropriate pile, and wipes a thin layer of sweat from her forehead with a sigh. It’s not the strenuous activity (or lack thereof) that’s making her sweat, but the lamp overhead. It not only serves its function as a source of light, but is the sole heat source for a room that is more often than not absolutely freezing cold. Not much work can be done when your fingers are so chilled they can barely move. 

“Done and dusted!” Marilyn announces, wiping the stray specks of muck from her dress. “How are you boys gettin’ on?”

“Fine,” Badger wheezes, his hands straining to get a good grip on something that looks a bit like a mantelpiece clock. Judging by the way he grimaces, it’s proving to be heavy even for him. Marilyn is always impressed at how such a skinny pair of arms can seem to shift the most cumbersome of objects-- and speaking of cumbersome objects, Louis is dragging out the last batch of artwork from under the table, doing his best to keep them secure under his arm despite how large they are. 

“Jeez. We’ve never had this many paintings before,” Marilyn murmurs, scratching her chin in habitual curiosity. “Stuff like this don’t really just…turn up amongst the rubbish, y’know?”

Louis selects a painting from the pile at random, holding it out at arms length to inspect it, “I mean…I ain’t exactly an expert, but I don’t think these are professional. Maybe someone just chucked out a collection?” Without much else to gauge from it, Louis puts the artwork back down and offers a meagre shrug. 

Marilyn shakes her head in a manner reminiscent of a world-withered mother, and with a sigh to complement. “I dunno how he does it. I mean, there’s plenty to find around here, and fixin’ it up ain’t too much of a chore, but every now and then, Crow just seems to turn up with a proper impressive haul! Somethin’ as fancy as this handbell-- you’d think he robbed it!”

“Excuse me?”

The squeal that escapes Marilyn’s lips is so sharp, Louis is genuinely convinced she could shatter glass. The thick waves of her hair bounce over her shoulders as she jumps, and Badger almost drops the clock he’d been holding. He manages to save it with his knees, emitting a very weak groan that goes sadly ignored. 

Crow pulls his hat a little firmer over his head, lips curled into something between a smirk and a pout as he silently relishes the way Marilyn’s shocked expression slowly grows into agitation. She throws her clenched fists down in a display of anger, but it’s only half-sincere. 

“Ooh, Crow, I wish you wouldn’t do that! You’re about as bad as Badger!”

“Talkin’ ‘bout me behind me back again, are we?” It’s a jovial accusation, but it’s met with a genuine response in the form of Marilyn’s fervent denial. They might tease each other as kids do, but Crow elicits a kind of respect from his cohorts that no adult could ever hope to obtain; something they take very seriously.

“I was just wonderin’ where you got all this from! It’s not often we get real pricey lookin’ items here-- and so many paintings too!” Marilyn pointedly eyes the locker, where their special item of the night is secretively tucked away. Crow folds his arms, a small smile playing on his face.

“Well, I didn’t rob anyone if that’s what you were goin’ on about.”

Marilyn flushes slightly. “I was only jokin’...”

“We actually got pretty lucky, truth be told. Most of this junk is from Highyard Hill.”

Louis pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, “That explains the quality. How’d you get your hands on it, though? The posh folk don’t really appreciate us rummagin’ through their bins.”

“They were clearin’ out a house.” Crow explains, a silent glimmer of excitement in his eyes. “I asked what they were doin’-- all this stuff was just left in the road at the time, and the guys clearin’ the house started tellin’ me about some lady there who’d died. Her stuff wasn’t goin’ anywhere. Seems like she ain’t got family either, so…”

“So you just took it?” Unease is evident in Marilyn’s voice, and Crow shoots her an exasperated look. “I asked first! They said if it would take a load off their shoulders, I could take what I liked. It was all goin’ to be sent off to be sold anyway, and these guys weren’t makin’ money off it, so they didn’t give a toss.”

Badger emits a huff, having finally finished shifting around the heavier objects. “You sure dragged a whole lot back. Not one to pass up an opportunity, are you?”

“I got Gus to help me. I only took some of the smaller bits, mind.”

Marilyn hops up to take a seat on the table, glancing down at the crystal handbell that’s still sitting there. “That lady must’ve been pretty rich. This stuff seems so expensive.”

“Yeah, our customers better not get used to it,” Louis replies dryly, “or we’ll keep havin’ to up the ante. Then we really will have to start robbin’ houses.” 

“Oh, by the way, don’t put all the paintings out tonight. We can keep some of those for the future, since we’ve got a pretty reasonable pile. Don’t wanna give the good stuff away all in one go, do we?”

“How many paintings does one woman even need?” Louis can’t seem to find anywhere to stand without being surrounded by framed artwork. “I know the houses up the hill are big, but they can’t be that big.”

“They’re not all from the house. Those ones there we got from the art society up at the plaza. Turns out every now and then they just leave some of the crappy amateur paintings out back.” Crow loosely gestures to a pile of particularly dismal-looking renditions of still life and figure. 

“You sure it’s alright to just take ‘em?” 

“I mean, they were out back with the bins, how badly do you really think they wanna keep ‘em?” Crow shrugs, as Louis shifts around a cheap canvas painting with his foot. It’s horribly garish, and the brush strokes are nauseatingly thick and blotchy. It's a stark comparison to the application of technique on the painting in the cupboard. “Are we even gonna be able to sell these? They’re a bit… um…”

“Shit?”

“Yeah.”

“I always thought art was meant to be, like… subjective, or somethin’. A form of expression and emotion unique to every artist.” Marilyn trails off, hoping she’s using the correct words to explain her nebulous thought process. It’s a rather sudden display of intelligent comprehension of the finer, more thoughtful aspects of life, which isn’t uncharacteristic for her. Sadly, it does go a bit wasted amongst company who prefer to be a little more realistic.

“Yeah, well, we can’t stick the subjectivity of art up for auction, so we’ll just have to settle for this,” Crow retorts. “If we flog these in between the better pieces, we might be able to give ‘em a better impression.”

Marilyn giggles, kicking her legs back and forth playfully, “What if we painted over some of ‘em? You never know, we might be able to make somethin’ decent!”

“Paint is expensive, Mari.”

“You can buy ketchup for, say, a couple of pennies. What’s the difference?”

“If you manage to flog a painting made of ketchup at our auctions, I will genuinely give you a whole pound.”

“That is a challenge I am willing to accept!”

“Art folks are super pretentious, they’d probably eat that kinda crap up.”

“Here’s hopin’,” Crow murmurs, tugging habitually at the hem of his scarf as he begins to make a slow start in the direction of the door. “Anyway, I’ll let you guys divide this lot up. I’ve got somethin’ else to attend to. Reckon you’ll be alright?”

“Of course! We’ll let you know when we’re done!”

“Brilliant. I’ll see you later, then," he replies with a smile.

Chapter Text

“So what did they say happened to her?”

“I dunno. Reckon she was just old.”

The pale sky over Highyard Hill is slowly becoming tinged with warm shades of peach, indicative of the approaching sunset. This time of day is when the rich, suburban areas of Misthallery are at their quietest, and there’s not much to pierce the ringing silence than the trill of crickets and the odd voice overheard from a back garden. It’s wonderfully peaceful, but Wren finds it a little tricky to enjoy the serenity when she feels so out of place.

She doesn’t come up here very often-- in fact, none of the Black Ravens do. The children of Highyard Hill are aggressively territorial, which Wren can understand to a degree (after all, the Black Ravens are no different), but somehow they can spot a market kid from miles away. Wren had never considered that there could be much of a visible difference between children from either of these places, but clearly there's something that makes her and her friends stand out. It’s not like they wander around wearing rags, covered head to toe in dirt, reeking of every stereotype of poverty that the minds of these spoilt children could conceive. She likes to think she dresses quite smartly. In fact, most of the Black Ravens do, save for maybe Socket, who dresses like some kind of tech hippie, Marilyn, who looks a bit too bohemian for someone so business-inclined, and Badger, who only feels comfortable wearing clothes three sizes too big for him. Those aside, Wren thinks that considering their circumstances, they’ve done very well to keep up with everyone else, but giving credit where credit is due doesn’t happen very often around here.

At the moment, she’s lingering on one of the quieter roads, leaning upon a sturdy stone wall with her chin resting on her hands. Beside her is Socket, who seems to be trying to prop himself as far up over the wall as he can without falling right over the other side. Gus and Scraps are also nearby, peering curiously into the front garden of the house they’ve stopped to stare at. Despite the house now being vacant, the garden is still in very good condition.

“How long’s it gonna be empty for?”

“Till someone buys it, I s’pose.”

Gus reaches up to clasp his hands together behind his head in a comfortably relaxing position, and he rests himself with his back against the wall. “Bit creepy, innit? To think someone died in there just the other day.”

“D’you think it’s haunted or summat?”

“Socket! Don’t say that!” Wren clutches the front of her jacket with a pained expression plastered on her face. Her usual rosy complexion goes three shades paler at the mere implication of the paranormal, and Socket snickers. Despite her shining intellect, even she isn’t immune to a few silly phobias. 

“Well, there’s only one way to find out--”

“Stop it!”

“An empty house seems like a pretty borin’ place to haunt,” Scraps offers, seemingly impartial to the split in opinion. “She was pretty well off too, from what I heard; and from what we managed to scrape from the clear-out.”

“Yeah, we got a load of cool stuff!” Gus chirps, having lent an enormous helping hand in dragging it all back to their hideout. He prides himself on the few reliable skills he has, and his role as the bulk of the group is one he’s settled very comfortably into.

“Aren’t most people who live up here well off? The prices of these houses are no joke, y’know.” Socket reaches up to balance on the tips of his toes, squinting to get a better look at the interior of the house through the darkened windows, but all he gets a glimpse of is his own face reflected in the glare of the light. “This place probably costs more money than I’ll ever see in my life!”

“It’s a swanky neighbourhood, sure, but this lady had serious money.” Scraps can only dream of having such a fortune, but he pauses for a moment, a thoughtful expression etched into his face. “Just makes me wonder where it’s gonna go…”

Wren emits a hum, joining her companion in his contemplation, but Socket tilts his head. “Huh. So what does happen to yer money when you die? I never thought about it before.”

“Prob’ly never needed to ‘cuz we ain’t got any,” Wren tacks on, dryly, but is nonetheless obliged to honestly answer her brother’s queries. “Normally, money just gets split up amongst the remaining family. You remember our old Auntie Em, right? You remember when she died?”

“Yeah, her heart exploded.”

“....right. Well, you remember after that, our mum was yellin’ on the phone a lot? And how she was yellin’ at grandma a lot? And how we haven’t seen that side of the family since?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s ‘cos she wasn’t happy about how Auntie Em’s money was bein’ split up amongst us.”

“We were not gettin’ enough?”

“We weren’t gettin’ anythin’.”

“Oh. So then the old bat from this house-- her money’s goin’ to her family?” Socket gestures roughly in the direction of the house with a flick of his head, and Scraps interjects with a neat adjustment of his glasses.

“That’s the thing, she didn’t have any family. That’s why we were able to have some of the stuff she left behind. That would normally never happen, since her family would decide what to do with it all.”

Socket’s expression is one of suspicion, but he’s enjoying the mystery they seem to have stumbled into. “So what do they do with it then? You can’t just…leave it like that, can you?”

“Well, dependin’ on what she wrote in her will, it’s likely she decided where her money would go when she dies. There’s no tellin’ what she wrote, though-- or if she even wrote anythin’ at all.”

“So you can just write down what you want people to do with your money when you die? That’s nifty. What would you even do with it, though?”

“Well, what would you do with it?” Scraps flips the question right back at him. “Imagine you’re all old and decrepit and you ain’t got any family left, but you got a nice amount of money left anyway. Who or what would you give it to?”

“Hey,” Wren interjects with a slight pout. “This implies that I die before Socket! That ain’t gonna happen!”

Socket is too lost in thought to partake in his usual sibling rivalry, thinking hard on just what he would do in this very specific hypothetical situation. Gus perks up for a moment, having come to his own conclusion, and announces, “Y’know that really, really expensive toffee they sell in that fancy sweet shop in the plaza? I’d buy a load of that.”

“Who would you even give it to? It’s not like you could eat it-- you’d be dead!”

“Hmm. I guess whoever wants it! My treat.”

“Remind me to outlive you, then!” Wren beams, despite the dark insinuation of her words. With the same easy-going smile painted on his face, Gus doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest, and he seems pretty content with this arrangement. Scraps silently notes to himself that these two have the capacity to be just a little more sinister than he’d initially expected, but decides that maybe it'll be pertinent to remember that outliving them both would have its merits.

“I guess…” Socket begins, cutting through conversation around him in order to reveal his grand final answer. “I guess I’d leave it all to the Black Ravens.”

Wren blinks. She doesn’t say anything, but a sweet smile begins to slowly bloom on her face. Socket is still staring into the distance, contemplating his own answer, but he finalises his decision with a firm nod of the head, “I reckon that’s what I’d do, yeah.”

“That’s…actually pretty noble of you.”

“Aw,” Gus grins. “Imagine if Crow was here to hear that. I bet that’d make him well happy.”

“I’m a little annoyed you came up with such a good answer, but I think I’d like to do that too,” Wren beams, her face belying the terse opening to her sentence and the patronising way she pats the top of her brother’s head. “After all, we ain’t gonna be able to do this forever. Wouldn’t it be nice for it all to carry on after we die?”

“I’ve never thought about that,” Scraps admits, “but… I guess it would be. Can’t imagine there would be anyone better at this than us, though.” There’s a mischievous gleam in the bottle-like lenses of his glasses, and Wren titters. “Right?”

“Jeez, this place really makes you feel yer age more keenly, huh? Ain’t we too young for this kinda talk?” 

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

As a sombre mood lulls in the air between them, the peace of their conversation is suddenly destroyed when the horrible crackle of splintering glass echoes around their feet. Wren physically jumps into the air with fright, only managing to get a glimpse of the way specks of glass shoot across the cobblestones beneath them. The noise sends Socket reeling back into the wall, and he emits a panicked yelp. 

“What the--?!”

Scraps squints at the broken neck of a bottle that slowly rolls to a halt in front of them. The sharp edges of the glass gleam with danger, and the amount of fractured shards now littered around them is concerningly numerous. He doesn’t even need to look up to know exactly what the deal is here, and he takes a careful step backwards.

Wren doesn’t think she’s ever seen a group of boys as ugly as the ones that are approaching them now, and she’s seen some real shockers. The marketplace may be home to some of the ugliest mugs in Misthallery, but nothing sours a face more like a spoilt childhood. The way the boys leer at them is beginning to make her sweat. 

“Oi! What are you market rats doing here?”

The boy on the left is so slimy-looking that Wren swears his skin is oozing. He reeks of condescension, and the way his hair is wetly pinned back in a poor attempt to look smart is just nauseating. The boy on the right is no better, either. He’s got the jaw of a powerlifter, wide enough to fit two gobstoppers, and his underbite hangs so far out that his teeth are permanently pressed against his top lip. The moist sweat patches that are painfully visible through the underarms of his shirt are enough to make her gag. She can smell him from here, and she really, really wishes she couldn’t.

Both these boys absolutely pale in comparison to their little leader in the middle. Wren’s encountered this boy many times before, and every time she wishes it were the last. 

Hans has the most obscene proportions she’s ever seen, with a flapping bottom lip, bulging jowls peppered with fat freckles, and a thick fringe cut straight over his eyes. Normally, this might not really look all that bad, but the way his mouth is curled into a permanent smirk, and the way his face flushes with pride when he struts towards them just makes him look like the abhorrent person he is-- and if that wasn’t bad enough, he’s the only son of Chief Jakes as well. It's just layers and layers of enormity with this kid. 

He sneers at them, and the height he has on all four of them makes him feel just that much more superior. “I thought I just asked you: what are you doing here?”

Wren is unfortunately the closest to the boys, which means they’re staring at her expectantly for an answer, but all she can think about is the way the shards of glass are crackling beneath her boots. Out of her peripheral vision, she can see Socket edging his way closer to her in order to get between them. However, it’s Scraps that finally speaks up.

“Very bold of Chief Jakes’ son to be chuckin’ bottles around like this. Woulda been bad for you if you’d hit us.” 

“I didn’t chuck a thing,” Hans retorts, and there’s a cold confidence to his words that gives Scraps the impression that he’s telling the truth; he must’ve gotten one of the other boys to do it for that very reason. Guess he should’ve expected better. Hans may be an idiot in his eyes, but if there’s one thing he knows how to do flawlessly, it’s how to weasel his way out of trouble. He’s very much like his father in that regard, who has also somehow managed to do the same thing following the events of the spectre. It’s disappointing but unsurprising. Rich people really can get away with anything.

“Besides which,” Hans continues, his lips smacking grotesquely around the piece of gum in his mouth. “You lot are the ones causing trouble here. What’re you lurking around this house for? Bet you know it’s empty, don’t you?”

“What would we want with an empty house?” Socket folds his arms, attempting to instil an illusion of fortitude, but his unfortunate lack of height doesn’t do him any favours. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you were trying to break in. Must be a nice change of scenery from the dishwasher boxes you live in.”

“Oh, piss off, Hans.”

“I’d be much nicer if I were you-- unless you want a visit from my dad.”

Socket wants nothing more than to spit venom at him, but all he can do is glower silently at the way Hans’ face folds in with a sickening smirk. He plants his chubby hands on his hips, as if trying to adopt some kind of authoritative stance, but to Socket, he just looks like a self-important idiot. Wren nervously tugs at the hem of Socket’s shirt from behind.

“Socket…let’s just go.”

“This guy can’t have a go at us just for standin’ here,'' Socket argues. “We ain’t done nuttin’! And we ain’t gonna do nuttin’! If I wanna stand here and stare at an empty house, then I’m gonna do it.” It’s very rare for Socket to ever get riled up, but Hans just has this uncanny knack for pushing every button he's got all at the same time. Truth is, he wants to go home just as much as Wren, but he’s not going to let himself be bullied into it.

“You lot are definitely up to something, I can just tell,” Hans declares, and he just can’t help himself from adding that extra drop of pomposity to his tone. “You’re not gonna find anything in there.”

“Nar, it’s an empty house. They cleared it this mornin', tosser.”

“Does your mum know you talk like that?”

“Does your mum know you look like that?”

Hans scowls, and Socket grants himself one victorious smirk, though the fear that his mother may find out what he’s been saying runs up his spine like a cold shiver. He swallows that down. It’s not like Hans even knows who his mum is, anyway. He’s just bluffing. Hopefully.

“Whatever. There’s no point in you loitering around here. The old bat didn’t leave anything behind-- trust me, we checked.” Hans punctuates this odd admittance with an expertly blown bubblegum bubble, which Socket would love nothing more than to reach over and burst in his face. Instead, he’s left squinting at Hans in confusion.

“You…checked? Checked for what?”

Hans raises an eyebrow, as if Socket’s query was somehow suspicious. “Eh? Well, we checked to see if-- wait. Wait, wait, wait...you mean you don’t know about that old lady?” There’s a sickening pleasure to Hans’ voice as he leans over to flash an incredulous smile. 

“You mean the one that just died?” Wren interjects, “Why-- who is she?”

Hans chuckles, shaking his head, “No way, like I’d ever tell you. It’s hilarious you don’t know, though. Guess you miss out on a lot of good stuff when you’re busy crawling through the gutters.”

“Alright, that’s it, I’m gonna--”

Before a fight can break out, Wren is fiercely wrangling all three of her companions like an overworked mother, shoving them all in the direction of home, “That’s it, we’re goin’! The less I gotta see of some snotty, rich brats, the better.”

“Hey, what did you just call us?!”

Before they can even finish their sentences, the four Black Ravens have already sprinted to the end of the street, soon vanishing from view altogether.

Chapter Text

“That guy is such a berk. He seems like the sorta person who waits for us to turn up at the hill so he’s got someone to harass.”

Though darkness has long since fallen upon the market, the alleys are still thriving. Market nightlife is entertaining at best and dangerous at worst, but there’s nobody who knows these streets better than the Black Ravens. Socket’s face is still twisted into a frown, but he’s calmed down considerably since earlier, instead choosing to vent his frustrations to Nabby, who is leaning comfortably against the wall opposite. Wren is sitting on a barrel beside him.

“You’re better at gettin’ under his skin than I am, though,” Socket snickers. “Wish you’d come up there with us more often.”

“Fat chance. I’ve got better things to do than pickin’ fights with the posh lot.” Nabby folds his arms, his answer immediate and pretty much expected. As if keeping things on track in the market wasn’t enough of a pain, being on Hans shitlist is more than he can be bothered with. However, he will admit, delivering a sound verbal bollocking to the most putrid person in Misthallery, bar Hans’ very own dad, is unbelievably satisfying. It’s just a shame it’ll wrap him up in more trouble than it’s worth. 

Wren smiles sweetly, “And standin’ around here all day is any better?”

“It is, actually. Got less of a chance of being arrested, too.”

“Says the guy standin’ guard outside a hidden black market that the police have been snoopin’ around lookin’ for for months.” 

“D’ya wanna keep your voice down or what?”

Socket emits a heavy sigh, backing up against the wall to relax against it. “Whatever. Bein’ rich might sound nice, but you couldn’t pay me to fill Hans’ shoes. Can you imagine havin’ a dad like Jakes?”

“The less I have to imagine that, the better. Bet he spoils that kid rotten, though.”

“Oh!” Wren suddenly perks up, “That reminds me! Socket, tell Nabby what Hans was goin’ on about before we left. The thing about the lady who died.” She slaps the side of the barrel to catch Socket’s attention, and a dawning realisation crosses Socket’s face, followed by a flash of excitement. Nabby raises an eyebrow.

“You mean the one we got all the paintings off?”

“Yeah, we were at her house just now. That’s why we were up in Highyard Hill,” Socket explains. “Anyway, Hans kept goin’ on and on ‘bout the house bein’ empty and stuff, and then he said that he checked the house for summat, ‘cos there’s summat special about that lady! He wouldn’t tell us what it was, though. He just made it sound like it was a big secret.”

“A secret? Huh,” Nabby hums. “I mean, knowin’ Hans, he probably made that up to mess with you.”

“Well, yeah, that could be true,” Wren argues, “but at first it seemed like he thought we already knew! So he sounded well surprised when we told him we didn’t know what he was goin’ on about!”

“Yeah, then he got super arsy about not tellin’ us. Even if it isn’t real, it still makes me wonder what kinda thing he’d come up with.” Socket scratches his chin, letting his mind wander. He can’t imagine any real benefit to Hans making it up, but then even he doesn’t know the full extent of what Hans is capable of. 

“Well, if you wanna know that badly, I’ll pass that along to Crow and see if he knows anythin’. He was the one who found that house in the first place.”

“Ooh, speakin’ of-- how did the auction go?”

Nabby grins, “One of the best we’ve had, I reckon. Looks like you two’ll have enough money to pay your gas bills for the next two months.” 

Socket punches a fist to the air with an enormous grin on his face, “Yes then! I don’t think we’ve ever gotten that much from it before. What a result.” 

Wren claps her hands together and the barrel she’s sitting on sways precariously with her movements. “So they did really well? That’s good! I suppose you’ll be restin’ easy for the next month now too, Nabby.”

“I s’pose so.'' His smile is slight, almost stifled, as he says, “And we’ve divvied up the stuff we got from the house so we’ll have some good items in the next few auctions. Not a bad day’s work, if I do say so meself.”

Nabby decides not to tell them exactly how much they made tonight, but they trust that they get their fair, equal share. The amount of cash that they manage to get away with from the auctions is shockingly high for people their age, but that ultimately means nothing when most of their money goes towards silently supporting their households. Making the money is hard, but spending the money is even harder. It’s an established rule that no parents are ever to find out about the Black Ravens, come groundings, scoldings or even beatings (and sadly enough, when lacking good reason for being so absent, any of these things are liable to occur). Wren finds herself very thankful that she doesn’t have to experience anything too severe, and whilst being scolded for spending money on sweets is tedious (even if the money is actually hers), she can’t bring herself to be mad about it when she’s stuffing extra notes into the gas bill envelope whilst her mother is too dead on her feet to notice. There’s no denying that they’re all facing their own financial struggles, but it’s incredibly tricky to tackle these problems without the supposed breadwinners of the house realising. 

“Well, I dunno ‘bout you, but that’s really made my day,” Socket beams. “I fancy fish fingers for dinner tonight, Wren, whaddya say?”

Wren nods, “Let’s do it! You go put the oven on, and I’ll nip down to the hideout and see if our share’s been counted out yet.” She hops off the barrel, made light on her feet by the good news, and Socket flashes her a thumbs up.

“I’ll tell mum you’re off seein’ yer boyfriend, then.”

“I wish you wouldn’t make it sound like he’s actually my boyfriend,” Wren pouts, her cheeks growing warm. “It’s a good excuse an’ all, but keep that--” she suddenly pulls her hand across her mouth, “--shtum!”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Socket laughs, giving Nabby a cheeky wink. “Just don’t take too long or mum’ll think I lost you again.”

Wren rolls her eyes, and with a huff, she slinks off down towards the hideout.

“Girls really get the best excuses, don’t they? I bet mum wouldn’t let me out a little later if I said I was seein’ my girlfriend.”

“That’s probably ‘cuz she wouldn’t believe you ‘ad one.”

“Oi!”

The secret tunnels and caverns beneath the marketplace are always deathly cold, and Wren can feel the chill nipping at her arms through her coat already. She makes an awkward half jog down towards the auction hall, silently hoping the heat lamp in the back room is warm enough to stave off the icy sensation. How Crow could spend so much time down here is beyond her. Her knees are already beginning to shake.

She bypasses the auction hall quickly, hopping up to the stage and heading into the back room, where she has to routinely battle with the dodgy door handle hidden behind the curtain. The door swings open with a sickening creak, and Wren fluidly steps through to join the person on the other side.

Crow perks up, craning his neck to get a good look at Wren with the only eye he’s able to see out of. Wren shuffles over to join him at the table, and he goes back to flicking through some bills.

“Oh. Y’alright?” is all he says. Wren emits a noise of affirmation.

“Just come to see if you were done divvyin’ up our share. We’re off home now.”

Crow pauses, leaning over in his chair to shift a few items around, before grabbing a thick wad of paper and passing it over to Wren. Wren pockets the money so quickly it almost looks as if she’s afraid of it being snatched out of her grasp. Crow smirks.

“Don’t spend it all in one place, will you?”

Wren huffs, but the slight smile on her face is unmistakable. “‘Course not,” she replies, brightly. “Nabby was just tellin’ us all about how good we did tonight. Ain’t that excitin’?”

“I’ll be honest, I’m a bit giddy ‘bout it all. I had high hopes for this lot, and we got that and more.” The beginnings of an excited smile is pulling at the corners of Crow’s lips, which is a rare treat to see for someone who keeps himself so cool and placid. Wren clasps her hands together, fervently nodding her head in agreement. 

“What a lucky break, eh? Didja end up sellin’ that handbell that Marilyn was so fond of?”

“Got a fortune for that one, an’ all.” 

“What about that proper fancy painting?”

At this, Crow’s face splits into a grin, “Made triple that. Almost hard to believe it.”

Wren slinks around to neatly perch on the side of the table, and she continues to watch Crow divide what would be the share for the other Black Ravens. However, it’s at this point that she’s reminded of the events from earlier today.

“Oh! Oh, so I got some stuff to tell ya!” She claps her hands together and makes herself comfortable, ready to get into her recall of what had happened. “We were just up in Highyard Hill checkin’ out that empty house, right? The one you got all the stuff from! Then who else but Hans shows up, flingin’ glass at us and stuff.”

Crow’s face immediately falls into one of sharp exasperation, and though he doesn’t look surprised to hear the name arise, he does look understandably irate. Wren continues before he can start grumbling about him. 

“So he starts tellin’ us ‘bout how the house is empty, and that we have no reason to be hangin’ around, and that we won’t find anythin’ ‘cuz he’s already checked the house out first!”

Crow quirks a brow, “Checked it out? Why? What’s he lookin’ to find?”

Wren’s eyes begin to sparkle, “That’s the thing, innit? He started talkin’ about that old lady what died, and how nothin’ got left behind in the house, and then he realised we had no idea what he was on about! It was like there’s summat special about that old lady that only people up there seem to know about!”

“And you believed ‘im?”

“You had to have been there,” Wren pouts, “It was very convincin’. He refused to tell us what it was, though. Then he said somethin’ about us crawlin’ around gutters.”

“Twat.”

Wren nods, “Mhm. Nabby said he was gonna mention it to you, but I figured I’d do it now whilst I’m down ‘ere! So, whaddya think? Ain’t that interestin’?”

Crow sits back in his chair looking contemplative for a moment. “Could be. I ain’t heard anythin’ about it, but it don’t mean I can’t ask around for you.”

“Aw, you’d do that for me?” Wren jovially teases. Crow smiles.

“I mean, we did just flog ‘alf her stuff. Might as well find out who she was as well. Can’t see how it would hurt.”

“Yeah, that little lot she left behind was super fancy, even for Highyard Hill,” Wren murmurs, kicking her legs back and forth as she stares off at the wall. “Funny, that.”

The room is momentarily bathed in a warm silence, despite how chilly their surroundings are. Crow silently carries on working, and Wren is happy to just exist there. She’d offer to help, but when he’s this deep in work, she knows she’ll just get in his way. They’re both content with just sharing a space without needing to exchange a word, and that’s something the Black Ravens can all share amongst themselves. After a short while, however, she can’t resist the temptation to break the silence.

“How much longer are you gonna be down here?”

“Why?”

Wren glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Well, the other night, you stayed here after I went home to bed, ‘cos you were finishin’ up some stuff.”

“Right.”

“And I came back down in the mornin’-- the early mornin’, mind you, and you were still here. I know you’re always somehow up before the rest of us,” she cuts herself off with a shy giggle, “but workin’ all throughout the night ain’t good for you, if that’s what you’re doin’.”

Crow doesn’t move, but Wren watches the way his eye flits up sharply to meet her gaze. His face remains passive, but there’s the slightest hint of softness that tells her he’s not irritated to be called out on this. There’s a good chance he did go home that night, but they both know that’s not the real point she’s making. 

“You don’t gotta be worryin’ so much, y’know. You can leave that to Marilyn,” Crow jokes, but his tone of voice is plain. 

Wren doesn’t need to be told that. She knows damn well that even if she does worry, he won’t give up an inch if he doesn’t want to. The same could be said for most of the other boys here too. Keeping up a mask of stability is necessary for them all at one point or another, donned to maintain an illusion of normalcy, but boys can be so stubborn with it, and before they know it, that stoic facade is glued to their faces. Wren relents that as one of the few girls, she’s in a position where breaking that wall and exposing something vulnerable isn’t an uncommon or discouraged course of action. However, it does just make it that little bit harder to be surrounded by boys who are balancing far too much upon the foundations of strength they’ve built in order to keep themselves surviving in the world they find themselves in. 

She doesn’t know a good way to put this point across without appearing like a girl prone to fretting over the smaller things (it’s an assumption she’s beginning to get a little irritated by), but she knows how vital it really is to them all. More manipulative than she would ever have anyone believe, Wren has figured out her own methods of worming her way into the closely guarded aspects of her friends, exploring where the weaknesses lie and covertly reinforcing them with just a little support, but Crow is by far the hardest to manage.

They’re the smartest duo of their group. They both know that, and as long as they’re as intelligent as they are, they’re locked in a stalemate of conflicting interest. Wren can’t blame him for that, really. They’re all byproducts of poor circumstance, failed marriages and strings of mistakes made by the people around them. As fun as playing black market can be sometimes, they never truly forget what the point of it really is. However, it’s concerningly easy to lose yourself in it, and to forget that what’s left on the outside is still festering away.

“You’re too tough for me to crack, aren’tcha?” Wren giggles, but it’s openly hollow and facetious. Coming out with things up front is generally the way to go with the others, but any indication of true self-awareness to Crow is just a silent reminder of where they really find themselves. She thinks it’d be something she liked the most about him, if it didn’t feel so bleak.

Crow emits a quiet noise of amusement. “Not like you to give up, though, is it?”

“Never said I was gonna give anythin’ up.”

“I’ll be fine, by the way.” At this point, he looks up to face her, and his expression is just teasing, “Since it’s written all over your face.”

That’s not what she was looking to hear, and he knows that, and she knows he knows that, and that’s how this works for them. 

Wren quietly steps down from the table and plods over towards the door. She pulls it open, clutching the frame of the door tightly, and offers one last look back. Crow tilts his head to the side, but with his fringe in the way, she can see nothing of his face or what he’s looking at. For all she knows, he could have just gone right back to work, staring down hard at the mess of papers on the desk, but he’s not that kind of person. Her face remains intense, and for just a moment, she pours every single thought and emotion she has about his situation into her plain expression, just hoping that he’d at least be able to read that much. Some things just don’t need to be said, but that doesn’t mean she’ll give up.

He reads it loud and clear. Even if he doesn’t like it, he knows she understands.

Chapter Text

The next morning is warm, and the harsh sunlight that streams through the cracks between buildings covers the marketplace in an orange glaze. The sky is slowly turning blue and the air is growing warm. It’s by far Marilyn’s favourite time of the day.

Work starts early for her. To say she's ‘helping out’ at her parents' stall would imply that this work is voluntary, which isn’t quite the case here. However, she doesn’t exactly get front-loaded with all the work either. She’s a valuable addition to the stall, sometimes even a necessity, and she works as hard as she can to make the time off she gets non-negotiable. Perhaps it’s not the best arrangement for someone of her age, but that’s just how things go in this part of town.

Marilyn is currently kneeling over two boxes of tomatoes, and she’s shifting them from one box to the other in order to fill the box up entirely. The half-empty crate she’s left with gets kicked under the stall for stocking up later. With a loud grunt, she manages to lift up the box of vegetables and slap them down onto the counter. With a little adjustment here and a little shift there, the tomatoes have found themselves displayed neatly next to a thin tray of plump, juicy strawberries. 

It had been a little guilty pleasure of hers when she’d started helping out for the first time. Merely a way to satisfy a childish urge to make things pretty whilst her parents had been away from the stall; she would sneak out front and shift all the boxes around. Red fruits and vegetables go all the way to the left, and blue to the right. In between them would be a dazzling array of produce displayed specifically in the colours of the rainbow. She had thought it would look pretty, and to her surprise, her parents had considered this might improve the look of their stall. Sure, it’s all subliminal, and back then, Marilyn wouldn’t have considered the business benefits, but it brings her joy nonetheless.

The market isn’t quite bustling yet, and most of the people out and about at the moment are shopkeepers and vendors all setting up their stalls, so Marilyn doesn’t need to bust out her best sales chants right now. Instead, she lingers behind the counter and stares off into space, awaiting the right time to strike. 

The perks of her stall being positioned where it is is that at least one of the Black Ravens will turn up sooner or later to keep her company for a little while. Most of them pass by on their way to do whatever it is they need to do, but Louis tends to hang around for a good hour, and sometimes Gus too.

The first familiar face to pass her by is none other than Crow, but judging by the weight to his step, he’s got somewhere to be today. He slows his pace once he reaches the stall, intaking Marilyn’s sunny expression with a placid smile. He offers her a polite little tilt of his hat, and Marilyn wonders if he’s being well-mannered on purpose, or if he’s forgotten that he’s not talking to someone he’s trying to wangle something out of.

“Good mornin’,” Marilyn beams, “You look in a hurry. What’re you up to today?”

“Off to Highyard Hill,” Crow replies, absentmindedly tugging at the hem of his scarf, “I’ve got some things to track down, and since I had a free moment today, I figured I’d oblige Wren a bit.”

Marilyn rests her hands upon the counter, leaning over a box of cucumbers to speak to her friend, “Ooh! Is that about the old lady that died? Somethin’ secret about her, right? Very spooky!”

Crow looks just the slightest bit taken aback, but it’s soon washed over by something bland, “How’d you even find out about that so quick? You were at home last night!” 

At this, Marilyn taps her nose with a suggestive smirk, “Come on, Crow, you should know better than that by now! Nothin’ gets past me. I’m privy to all, even if I’m not there in person.”

“That would be quite horrifyin’ if it weren’t so useful.”

Marilyn can only grin, and Crow’s pace is growing quicker now that he’s reaching the end of her stall. “Alright, I’ll see you later then.” He gives her a nonchalant wave as he begins to walk away, leaving Marilyn to call after him.

“Don’t forget to come back and tell me what you’ve found!”

“What’s the point-- you’ll probably find everythin’ out before I do!”

They part ways, both sharing a quiet laugh as the morning begins to roll into full swing. The tan hues of the sunrise are slowly becoming brighter, and the pathway winding around the market outskirts is peppered with shades of yellow gravel. Soon, Marilyn’s voice will be ringing out across the marketplace, attracting customers far and wide.

People unaware of how the market actually functions would assume its inhabitants are rather lazy, if only through a very misguided belief about the impoverished people who live there, but that's not at all the case. The market mornings start early, and there’s no way around that, because when you need to make the money, you need to do it properly, and anyone who’s managed to keep their stall afloat for more than two months would know that you can’t cut those corners. Marilyn does wish the negative associations of her home wouldn’t paint her as a useless freeloader in the eyes of other townsfolk, especially those living up in the posh, suburban areas. She's known to be a hard worker by her customers. If those who looked down upon her could see her working as tirelessly as she does every day, maybe their opinion would be swayed. Not that it does her any favours, though. The term 'market rat' is a brand for life.

Though that’s not to say they don’t have their fair share of people who are resigned to doing nothing (after all, the market is still teeming with people that Marilyn would prefer to stay miles away from), though why sitting at home and smoking full-time is more acceptable in Highyard Hill than it is in the marketplace is beyond her. Guess it’s a little more tasteful when you live in a big house, and not a crummy little flat above a stall that sells bootleg watches. Marilyn has seen how nicotine-stained the walls of Wren and Socket’s home are, and how the parts of the ceiling fade to patches of dark grey and yellow above the ratty sofa, but she’s also seen how zombified their mother looks when she’s not working one of her two jobs, so if that woman fancies chain-smoking thirty fags in the six hours she has to feed her kids and sleep, then whose business is that but hers?

Marilyn shakes her head of that rather bitter thought as she spies Wren bouncing up the path to come and meet her. Cheerful and chipper as she may be, sometimes she can’t help but get wrapped up in the cynicism of it all. She keeps that mostly to herself, though. Her enormous smile is something of a trademark, and it would dull her shine if it were to falter.

“Wren!” Marilyn chirps. “G’mornin’!”

Wren gives her a little wave, dashing over to the stall as Marilyn finishes ringing up a bag of tomatoes for a customer.

“Hellooo!”

“Where’s Socket? Is he not with you?” It’s a little unusual to see the siblings split up, despite how much they seem to bicker with each other, but even they need their own time apart every now and then. It works out for Marilyn too, as it gives her a short moment of girl time with Wren. Something that happens remarkably infrequently. 

“He’s gone bin-divin’ with Scraps. Thought it was a bit too early to get covered in all that muck, so I ditched ‘em! How’s the stall been?” For a moment, there’s a nice lull in the appearance of customers, so Marilyn is free to chat away to Wren whilst she restocks some of the produce boxes. Wren, generous as always, happily lends a hand.

“Business is always best in the summer, so it’s really good. It’s usually only regular customers this early in the mornin’ though. Ooh, Crow also passed by here earlier too! He’s off up to Highyard Hill.” Marilyn grabs a handful of strawberries, dropping them into the box with a satisfying patter.

“Already? Ain’t he quick.”

“Mhm! I wonder what he’ll uncover…”

Wren flips a bag of apples upside-down, savouring the noise of rumbling of fruit piling up into the crate. The morning sun lays a warm glisten upon them, and she's starting to feel a little bit hungry. “Guess we gotta wait and see. Oi, didja get your share of last night’s auction? I never held so much money in my life!” 

Marilyn kicks an empty box beneath the counter. “Not yet. I was goin’ to pick it up later. I’ve not seen how much it is yet, but I’ve heard it’s a whopper!” Having been reminded of the impressive sum with her name on it, Marilyn silently vows to go straight to the hideout after her work is done for the day.

“You’re gonna have to come up with a really good reason for walkin’ home with that much money on you.” Wren giggles. 

Out of everyone in the Black Ravens, Marilyn is the one who has the easiest time justifying the extra money she seems to accumulate. Unlike the others, she technically has a real job, and disguising these random sums of money as a collection of personal tips given to her at the stall for her hard work is the most convincing explanation. Any money she silently puts towards the household are the notes she slips into the stalls cash box at the end of the day, and it also means there’s nothing wrong with swiping a few carrots and potatoes here and there to give to her friends who might be dealing with a meagre food budget. The rest of her money sits in her bedroom, waiting for the day it’ll be used for something she really wants. 

“I’ll just say I flogged some strawberries to some posh folk-- and that I was really nice about it,” Marilyn jokes. “Though I don’t think they’ll get too suspicious. One of the wheels on mum’s chair is busted, so I reckon they’ll just be happy we can get it fixed now.”

“Aw, you should’ve told us-- we could’ve tried to find you one sooner!”

“That’s alright,” Marilyn smiles, though it’s a little bit flat. “It’s gotta have one of those really special wheels or it won’t work properly. I don’t think it’s anythin’ we could find around here.”

“Well, when you get it, I’ll get Socket to come over and fix it up for you! Just make sure to throw an extra coupl’a strawberries our way, okay?” 

Marilyn savours the time she spends with Wren just a little bit more than she does with anyone else. Of course, that might seem like the typical ‘girls having each other’s backs’ dynamic (which it technically still is), but on top of being especially bright, Wren has the kind of emotional intelligence that Marilyn can happily engage with. That’s not to say the boys lack the capacity to be like that too, after all, they’re all in a very similar boat, but there’s a developed friendship between the two girls that is matched by their shared approach to the world around them. 

There’s also the enormous hurdle they share of growing up, which Marilyn has come to realise is frighteningly much closer than she’d been expecting. Playing Black Ravens makes it seem like getting older is miles away, but when she finds herself having to look down at the notches in her bedroom doorframe, staring in the mirror at the way blemishes are starting to come and go from her face, and feeling the uncomfortable itch of stubble forming on her underarms, she’s starting to get a little daunted. The illusion of a stereotypical innocent childhood had pretty much faded for them all a long time ago, but they can maintain what little normalcy they can scrape together, and Marilyn finds an enormous amount of comfort in being able to confide in Wren. Sure, their childhoods might not be a classic nuclear cocktail of functioning parents, family holidays, regular attendances at school and the only reasonable thing to cry about being the fact that your nice skipping rope broke, but all those nights spent trying to share a small bag of chips amongst six people, impromptu sleepovers used to disguise a night away from domestic drama, and watching the way other children look at you like you’re not even a child yourself are experiences still close to her heart. That’s not to say they’re necessarily good experiences, but they’ve shaped her life in a way she can’t describe. She, too, looks at the other children like they've got nothing in common. However, when she tries to relay what incomprehensible thought this is all meant to represent, Wren is the one who always seems to understand, even if she can never explain it physically. The boys struggle.

“Marilyn…? You alright?”

Marilyn blinks, having not realised she’d been staring out into space for the past minute. The small smile on her face doesn’t quite offset the intensity in her eyes. “Yeah. Just… thinkin’, I guess.”

Wren nods sympathetically. “Yeah, I get it.”

The sun blazes down upon Highyard Hill, growing in intensity as the afternoon approaches, and Crow finds himself meandering around the plaza- the casual placement of his hands in his pockets belie the keen eye he keeps on his surroundings. Not that he’s got any good reason to be vigilant, other than an unpleasant encounter with anyone of an authoritative persuasion. The events of yesterday are probably still fresh in Hans’ mind, so he’ll avoid stumbling into his path where possible.

He’s not got very much to go on other than Wren’s retelling of what she’d heard, and there’s no chance he’ll be able to squeeze any information out of Hans himself. He’ll just have to get a little bit creative with what he’s got, even if that means fashioning a lead out of the barest facts. He’d spent a few hours milling around the suburban areas already, hoping to catch a neighbour or somebody who could tell him at least a tiny detail of the woman who had passed, but all he’d gotten was a few dismissals, a choice glare, and one harsh recommendation to brush his hair out of his face. That had left him with absolutely nothing but less patience than he had when he started.

He stops for a moment, mulling it over in his head as people bustle around him. His thought process is shockingly quick, and before he knows it, he’s got a destination in mind. It’s only a wild idea, but he’s not got much else on him at the moment. He can consider this his last-ditch attempt. 

It goes without saying that most of the establishments around this area of town are quite posh. The shops are nauseatingly expensive, selling items more costly than he’s able to flog off at his own auctions, bar a few lucky breaks. The restaurants are even worse, oozing that kind of middle-class atmosphere that he's never been able to abide by, but there’s a smattering of buildings around here that don’t require a heavy wallet to enter. One of which is Misthallery’s art society, tucked quietly in the corner of one of the terraced buildings. 

He’s never been in here himself, but he’s poked his head in once or twice in the past. He’s not much of an artist, and the one lifelong experience he’s had with art is the guy who sometimes sits under the stairs leading to his flat who draws crappy caricatures of bypassing tourists, and often makes the front of his house smell like weed. The marketplace is more a place for the…experimental artists, and not the middle-aged hobbyists or classic art enthusiasts, and if the paintings he’d gotten from the old lady are indicative of anything, the people inside might have some idea of who she is. 

The foyer is pleasantly cool. He hadn’t realised just how warm it’d been getting outside, and he tugs at the hem of his scarf to loosen it a little, emitting an overheated breath that disturbs the hair that comes down over his face. Now, just where to start…?

The front desk is the most obvious choice, and the way the receptionist's sweet smile sours like curdled milk does not go unnoticed by him. As much as it bring him ire, he approaches the situation with his usual charisma.

“‘ello.”

“Oh...” the receptionist mumbles, “...erm. I’m sorry, but this isn’t really a place for children. You have to be over sixteen to apply for the society.” The way she looks at him from over the counter is apologetic, though slightly stifled. Crow isn't far off sixteen, only a few years, but his face is still soft and unassuming. It gives him a youthful aura that has its benefits, but he does wish he had the ability to lie about it from time to time. He shakes his head before she even finishes her sentence.

“No, I ain’t here for that. I actually wanted to ask about someone who mighta been here.”

The receptionist clears her throat, her voice becoming a little louder. “Sorry, but the records of our patrons aren’t available to the eyes of the public.”

Crow can only smirk upon hearing this. He can commend her attempt to appear more capable of her job, but she’s not fooling him. He shakes his head again, allowing a polite amount of exasperation to bleed into his eyes.

“Thing is, this lady died recently. It doesn’t really matter if she was a part of the society or not. I just wanted to see if I could find somebody here who knew her.”

The receptionist appears baffled, and he can’t really blame her. He doubts this appeared anywhere on the job description, but he figures he’ll keep riding this until he can convince her. Confusion is one of his greatest weapons, after all. “She had a big collection of paintings. That’s why I thought she might've come here a coupl’a times.”

With a quiet hum, the receptionist scratches her chin in thought. “Do you know what she looked li--”

“She lived in that big house down the street,” he quickly cuts her off, knowing that he can’t allow himself to be cornered with a question he can’t answer. “Y’know the one with the really big front garden? It was bein’ cleared out the other day.”

“Oh…! Yes, I know the one, but…can I ask why you need to know? I’m not sure I can really tell you anything unless you have a good reason.”

“Of course,” Crow replies smoothly, already concocting a perfect lie in his head. “Me dad works for the people who were clearin’ her house out. Y’see, she didn’t have any family, so her stuff has nowhere to go. There's a load of paintings there that they’re tryin’ to shift, and it might help ‘em to know who she was.”

“So…they sent you here to find that out?”

“It’s a family business,” he smiles, trying to hide the cynicism burgeoning on his lips. “I’m not askin’ for much. Maybe just a name or an occupation, but I'd prefer if you could point me in the direction of someone who knows her.”

“You mean to tell me they don’t know the name of the person whose house they’re clearing out?”

“Hey, we ain’t part of the funeral service. They just gave us a house to clear. We’re just tryin’ to do right by a dead lady.” He offers a meagre shrug. “Don’t ask me, I’m just the messenger boy.”

She stares at him for a while, but her eyes are too vacant to gauge any kind of suspicion. In the end, she sighs and opens a draw beneath her desk. The delightful sound of flipping paper begins to fill his ears as she says, “Alright, I think I know who you’re talking about. Give me just a second-- but I can’t tell you much!”

“Thanks very much.” 

There’s a long pause, interspersed by shifting paper as she pulls out a few files, flicking through to find the right one. Emitting a noise of triumph, the receptionist finally pulls out a sheet of paper from the drawer and begins to look it over.

“Let’s have a look… Ah, yes. It seems she donated several paintings to the establishment over the past few years. Not many records of her actually being here, though, so I doubt any of the other patrons might know her. I would assume she was more of an art collector than a practicing artist.”

“Donated, huh…? Did she purchase any artwork from here?”

She puts the piece of paper down and politely clasps her hands together, her frame swaying slightly in the wheeled chair she’s sitting in. “Sorry, but the purchasing history of our patrons, alive or dead, is strictly confidential. All I can tell you is that she never attended any of the art sessions or life drawings held here, so my best guess is that she was simply a collector. I would assume the best course of action would be for you to donate any artwork she’s left behind. I’d be happy to organise that for you.”

Crow blinks. His lips pull into a stiff smile. “Good idea. I’ll pass the offer along and see what they think.” As he says this, his eyes shift downwards to the piece of paper still sitting on the desk. They flit across the top part of the document, looking for any indication of a name. Unfortunately, the receptionist snatches it back up before he can read the full thing, and she neatly files it back in the drawer.

“If that’s all you need, I’m sorry, but…well, the owner of this place really doesn’t like children being here.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Cheers.” He offers her a dismissive wave, having not really learnt very much. He could’ve come to the same conclusion if he’d risked making the jump, but any information is better than no information, he supposes- and he’s very good at making do with limited resources.

As he leaves the building, he clicks his tongue in thought. A collector, eh? That would seem more than likely, and the lack of appearance at the society would suggest she wasn’t much of an artist herself, but then what kind of donations had she made? There’s nothing much else to go on, and nobody else to talk to, so he certainly can’t imagine what could’ve possibly made her special. He’d like to say this narrows it down for him, but people can be full of surprises. 

He doesn’t want to stick around and risk being caught asking questions. Spending all day running around bothering people might do the trick, but he doesn’t want to bring suspicion upon himself, especially if Hans is lurking somewhere in the vicinity. That boy is positively desperate to find a reason to sic his dad on him, and he's not about to give him a free chance. For now, it seems like he might just have to retreat. Besides, if the old bag really was as special as he’d made her out to be, then surely he would’ve found out something by now. Then again, Misthallery’s upper class society could be full of secrets. It's just a matter of deciding whether or not this is really worth pursuing.

He sets off at a casual pace back towards the market, having one last option in mind. If that doesn’t work, Wren will simply have to remain disappointed.

Chapter Text

“Hello, son, what can I get for you today?”

Crow smiles at Aunt Taffy, but his eyes are full of silent intent. He makes a point of shoving his hand into his pocket and flipping around the loose coins he happens to have in there, but he’s got other things on his mind. Luckily, purchasing sweets is the perfect front for his little investigation.

Aunt Taffy is more than just the kind lady who the market children buy their sweets from. In her own way, she’s one of Crow’s most valued informants. Sometimes she’s acutely aware of the information she’s giving him, and sometimes it’s accidental, but for as long as Crow has been alive, she’s by far the most trustworthy source of information in Misthallery.

“A bag of liquorice would be nice, thanks-- and maybe a couple of questions too, if you have the time.” He doesn’t have to worry about maintaining an innocent, childlike facade in front of her. Sweet as sugar, but sharp as a whip, he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d had him pinned since day one. Whether it’s the experience of serving kids like him in the past, or the observations made spending years watching him and his friends grow, there’s some things that she’s managed to cotton onto without any real information. As concerning as that might’ve been in the beginning, there’s something deeply comforting about the way she silently hints that he never has to try and fool her. Adults have really only been nothing but hurdles in his path, so an adult that understands that his experience is more than his age would generally suggest is…nice. It’s different.

“I should’ve known.” She emits a chuckle that sounds like raking leaves, “You always get that funny little look in your eye. Here you are, dear.”

She hands him a small paper bag of liquorice, and he returns the favour with a handful of coins. She promptly pockets the cash and cuts to the chase, “So what questions did you have for me? Nothing too nosey, I hope.”

Crow laughs, “Hey, it’s nothin’ to get serious about. I actually just wanted to ask you if you knew a certain person.”

Aunt Taffy’s eyes flash with intrigue, magnified by the thick-lensed glasses she wears. She adjusts her little basket so it’s sitting more comfortably in the crook of her elbow. “A person? Well, you’ve come to the right place, son. I’ve been here all me life, I can’t imagine there isn’t a person in this town I don’t at least recognise.”

That’s exactly what Crow was hoping to hear. Taffy’s sources of information were simply her own life experiences, and what could be more accurate than that? He doesn’t doubt she knows what she claims to know- the only real problem is whether or not she’s willing to divulge. In most cases, she does, but she’s smart enough to try steering him away from things she might consider to be none of his business.

“See, there was a lady that died the other day. Lived up in Highyard Hill. Had a bit of a thing for paintings. Did you know her?”

Aunt Taffy hums quietly, her thin lips pursing in thought as she fusses the collar of her jacket with a spindly finger. “Hmm. Well, I can think of a handful of people who fit the bill, but I’m not up to date on my obituaries, lad, so I’m having a bit of a struggle. You don’t know her name or anything?”

“No.”

She squints down at him for a moment, which is something he was hoping wouldn’t happen. “What’re you wanting to know for? I wouldn’t imagine you’d be familiar with anyone from up there.” 

In the span of a short inhale, an excuse is being fabricated in his mind, soon slyly leaving his lips as he explains, “Some of her stuff ended up down here when they were clearin’ out her house. Artwork and the like, but Marilyn got proper fond of, uh…it’s like a little handbell made of glass? You know how she gets when she finds somethin’ she likes. We were tryin’ to figure out how somethin’ so expensive lookin’ ended up all the way down here, and we traced it to the house it came from.”

At the mention of the handbell, Taffy’s eyes widen fractionally, and this wouldn’t normally be perceptible to the average person, but Crow has a special eye for tells. He knows he’s found something. He doesn’t let this show on his face, though. He can’t use wide-eyed innocence on her, so he settles for an expression of vacant ignorance.

“A handbell…? I know exactly who you’re talking about now.” 

“You do? Did you know her personally?”

Taffy sighs, and there’s a tinge of nostalgia in her eyes, “I did, actually. She didn’t always live up in Highyard Hill, either. Not when we were much younger. She was an artist.”

Crow blinks. That’s interesting. The receptionist at the art society had been rather insistent that she’d been only a collector- had that been on purpose, or had the receptionist just jumped to a conclusion? 

“An artist, eh? That would explain all the paintings.” It’s a bland statement, but he needs to keep the conversation rolling if he wants to get a little more information. It’s a classic conversational tactic for when you want to hear more of the other person speak- just fill your side of the conversation with short reiterations and let the other person fill in the blanks.

“Yes, my brother was rather fond of her. What a shame to hear that she’s passed on.”

“You have a brother?” Admittedly, it’s probably not the thing he should’ve latched onto in that instance, but he’s actually quite surprised. For a moment, Taffy’s eyes flash with something akin to mischief. “I have two, but I tend to keep that one to myself. I’d appreciate it if you did too.”

“What was this lady like then? Nice?”

“She was…an interesting character. Nice in her own right, but very ambitious. Feisty, too. Might’ve been why my brother liked her so much.”

“So, did she sell her paintings? She must’ve been pretty successful to have lived in such a nice house.”

At this, Taffy pauses. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. There’s an imperceptible crease in her forehead that’s barely masked by her hat, but Crow can spy her apprehension by the scrunch of her nose. 

“She was…more of a collector. She painted well, but tended to keep them. I imagine that’s why a few of them ended up down here, though I would’ve thought the handbell would’ve ended up somewhere else. Quite valuable that thing was.”

Now, Crow’s poker face isn’t quite as good as Nabby’s, but he’s careful to hide any trace of suspicion on his face. After all, this is simply a query of curiosity, not an investigation- at least, that’s what Aunt Taffy should be led to believe. What he can’t seem to figure out is why the word ‘collector’ seems to be being thrown around a lot. Who would just keep all of their paintings, especially if they were considered a decent artist? This could simply just be a lifelong hobby, but there’s something hidden here that he’s starting to pick up the scent of. If Taffy was so hesitant at the mention of her success, there has to be something there that she isn’t telling him.

“So what was her name?” Crow inquires, but to avoid suspicion he follows it up with, “It feels a bit weird to keep calling her ‘some lady’.” 

“Effie. That was her name.”

No surname, he notes, and asking probably isn’t worth the risk since that was probably done on purpose. That means this is likely as much as he’s going to get for now. He shoves the bag of liquorice in his pocket and pulls his hat just a little further over his head. The smile on his face is warm.

“Thanks, Aunt Taffy. I think that’s all I really need to know.”

“You know…” she murmurs as Crow turns to leave. “As nice of you as it is to ask, there’s no need for you to go out of your way to honour the memory of a woman you don’t know. There’s more fulfilling things to life than the departed.” It’s a bleak sentiment to come out of nowhere, but it’s followed by a wicked little grin as she adds, “You should save your respect for the dead for when I go! It’s the least you could do.”

“Jesus, Taffy, there’s no need to get like that!” Crow is momentarily bewildered, but there’s some humour he can share in the lightness in her eyes. Guess there’s more to being old than he’s been let in on. “And you better not be dyin’ any time soon! What would we do without you?”

“Now, lad, you watch your mouth,” she warns him, though it’s offset by a chuckle, “but it’s comforting to know an old lass like me is still needed around these parts. Don’t worry, son, I’m nothing if not tenacious. I won’t be going anywhere for a long while yet.”

“I should hope you don’t!” 

“Ahh, I see…!”

Anchoring the liquorice between her teeth, Marilyn gives it a firm tug and tears it in half. Her mouth bulges around the sweet as she furiously begins to chew. 

“So…you think there’s still cause for suspicion?” Marilyn asks, slightly muffled by her full mouth. “From what it sounds, Aunt Taffy might not be tellin’ you everythin’.”

“That’s what I thought.” Crow takes a piece of liquorice from the bag but doesn’t eat it. Instead, he rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, staring off into the distance. From a glance, he might seem absentminded, but that’s far from the truth.

Marilyn has finally finished her work, and the two have found a quiet spot to sit just outside the market centre. They enjoy the sunshine that is now fading from a striking, bright yellow to a dull, hazy orange, and leisurely eat their sweets like there’s not a single thing wrong with the world. Marilyn thinks it’s just the break she needs.

“Hmmm,” Marilyn hums in thought, soon swallowing her mouthful of liquorice. “Y’know, even if she is hidin’ somethin’, that doesn’t necessarily mean you have to go chasin’ it.”

“And ‘ere you were the one who wanted to know what I’d found out.”

“I mean-- yeah, but that’s just curiosity. Do you really think it’s worth goin’ deeper? The lady’s already dead.”

Crow thinks on that for a moment, but he can only really answer with a shrug. He pops the liquorice into his mouth to stall for time, but ends up talking through it anyway. “Dunno. Maybe. I mean, I doubt it’s all that important, but…it’s the fact that it keep gettin’ more suspicious. Call it a gut feelin’- there’s more to her than meets the eye.”

“I’ll admit, your gut feelings are never wrong,” Marilyn admits, rhythmically kicking her legs back and forth against the crate they’re sitting on, “but I can’t imagine what she might be hidin’.”

“There’s just somethin’ not quite right about everything I’ve heard.”

Marilyn giggles, “You don’t like bein’ kept in the dark, do ya? Even if it’s about things that don’t concern you. That’s what this is really about.”

That bold statement draws a sharp glance from Crow, whose expression remains unmoved. Perhaps it’s a little too honest for his liking, but he’s used to this by now. If the world wouldn’t give him a truthful answer, at least Marilyn would. She’s always been a bit like that. Whilst Wren might subtly approach a point, secretly delivering the message she’s trying to send, Marilyn is more the type to pick up the point and start bashing you in the face with it.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I mean…it’s just for curiosity’s sake, right? Just like you said.” He shoves the leftover sweets into his pocket, the bag now being considerably lighter than it had been when he’d bought it. “I’m not desperate to find out. I’m just confused as to why people are acting so weird about it.”

“It does seem confusin’, don’t it?” Marilyn nods in agreement. “And since she’s dead, what’s the point of hidin’ anything? You’d think Aunt Taffy had a reason for it.”

“I do think that. I just don’t know what that reason is.”

“And you couldn’t find anythin’ out from the neighbours?”

“Nah. I mean, they clearly didn’t give enough of a toss to bother answerin’, but I also got the feelin’ that they really didn’t see much of her. The old gal probably didn’t leave her house very much, if at all.”

“Maybe she was shy.”

“Maybe she was hidin’.”

“You really do make your own reasons to be suspicious, don’tcha?” Marilyn shakes her head in fond amusement, “Though I s’pose we wouldn’t have been able to get this far with the Black Ravens without it.”

“It pays to be cautious.”

“It pays to wind yer neck in, too.”

Crow blinks. “Are you sayin’ I should just forget about this?”

“I mean,” Marilyn taps her chin, staring up at the sky with a vacant look in her eyes, “That ain’t my decision to make, but I can’t see what it’ll do. Sure, it might not hurt to find out, but it might not hurt to not find out either.”

“Is that right?”

“Just…call it a gut feelin’.”

He stares at her. Even with such a wide, easy-going smile on her face, there’s always a crease to her eyes that suggests a burden of thought. It’s not like a random mystery crops up like this everyday, nor do they really go out looking for things to investigate either. In Crow’s case, he’d been led in by an interesting tidbit, fuelling a casual curiosity he’d held for the source of a very recent stroke of luck for him, but that had been stoked further by a slight stumble he hadn’t been expecting. He’ll be honest, if Taffy hadn’t paused the way she had, he probably would’ve thought to drop it all. Naturally, of course, this is all Hans’ fault. 

He emits a small sigh. “Go on. Tell me what you really think.”

“I think this one might turn out to be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah-- or maybe I’m just not in the mood for mysteries anymore. Again, it’s your choice, not mine,” she says with a sunny smile, and Crow can’t imagine why. He emits a small noise of amusement, tilting his head to get a better look at her face. When he does that, Marilyn can almost see the eye hidden behind his fringe.

“What’s with you? You were so keen to find out earlier and now you’ve changed yer tune.”

“Nothin’!”

“Yeah, right. It’s not like you to be so… I dunno. Dismissive?”

“Y’know, when a girl tells you nothin’ is wrong, you should prob’ly take her word for it.”

“Really? I thought you were supposed to do the opposite.”

“It’s not an invitation.”

“It doesn’t need to be.”

Marilyn snorts. What a typical answer. The worst part is that he’s not wrong. It’s not that she’s upset. She’s not angry, she’s not unhappy, she’s just…feeling something different. Something that’s very difficult to describe. She doesn’t even know how to explain it to herself, and that’s the biggest problem.

“Maybe I’m just a bit tired. I worked hard today, y’know.”

“You work hard every day.”

“...so do you.”

Crow smiles, but it’s lacking in humour. He can’t find anything to say, though he can feel something pressing on his mind. Maybe it’s just the urge to find out the things that seem to be being withheld from him. Curiosity is one thing, but there’s a spiteful approach to wanting something that’s purposely being kept out of your way. 

In most cases, he thinks he runs on spite, like it’s flowing through his veins. Surviving in spite of everything that breaks you down. Working in spite of being told you’d amount to nothing. Living in spite of the fact that life has dealt you a shit hand. It makes the payout just that much more rewarding. Maybe it’s not healthy, but there’s nothing else he’s got. He’s thought about that many a night, lying in a bed with broken posts, on a mattress with no springs in it. He thinks on it to spite the drunken snoring coming from the next room over, and now that it’s crossed his mind again, he can’t help but wonder… 

“What do you wanna do?”

Marilyn blinks. Her eyes are wide with a sort of vacant confusion, “What, you mean right now?”

“I mean in general. Like in life. What do you wanna do?”

A small crease begins to form between Marilyn’s eyes, just an inch below the bandana she ties so tightly around her head. Her fingers begin to fuss with the hem of her dress, and if she’s feeling nervous, she’s doing a very good job of hiding it. She tilts her head to stare off in the other direction, and the thick waves of her hair obscure her profile, leaving only the tip of her nose visible. 

“...I dunno. I don’t wanna think about it.”

A tinge of perplexion is evident in the quirk of Crow’s lips. He emits a short hum, but it’s neither an affirmation or a refutation. It’s simply an acknowledgement that an answer has been given. 

“You always said you’d work at the stall. That, or you’d have your own. That’s still a pretty solid plan.”

“So?”

He swallows. What is he supposed to say to that? Not only that, but the word imbued with such a terse tone strikes like a flash of lightning, shocking him in the same manner. When did the conversation get so…heavy? Even though the sun is shining, it feels grey and cloudy, and it’s a very horrid realisation to come to for Crow. Not because he’s never had a conversation like it before, but because this is Marilyn. She’s a ray of sunshine in her own right. This kind of dull mood is what he gets at home, and it’s not something he often finds with his friends. It’s not something he finds with Marilyn.

“I mean…if you don’t want to do that--”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m not. You are.”

Playing emotional 3D chess with Wren is one thing, but this is another level. Marilyn plays by different rules entirely, and he hasn’t got a clue what they are. He really doesn’t know what to say, and the only reaction he’s having is buried somewhere deep in his chest. His mind is left concerningly blank. 

Marilyn shifts and hops off of the crate. Standing at her full height, Crow notices she’s actually gotten a little bit taller. Her hair has gotten longer too. She’s staring far off into the distance, as if she’s searching for something, but it just seems to him like a reason not to have to look him in the eye. Somehow, he gets the feeling he doesn’t want to see her either.

She moves to leave, but after taking a few steps, her foot hovers for just a moment. Her arms are tucked rigidly by her side. She looks cold.

“Despite what people say about what we do… The kind of lives we’re living now-- these lives are made for kids.”

He has no idea what she means.

Chapter Text

“Okay, how about…one bag of fudge and two bags of sherbet lemons.”

“How ‘bout two bags of fudge and one bag of sherbet lemons.”

“No.”

“Chewin’ nuts, then.”

“ No. ”

“Alright then, how ‘bout one bag of fudge, one bag of sherbet lemons aaand…one bag of cinder toffee.”

“Alright, how ‘bout we don’t split it and I buy two bags of sherbet lemons with my money, and you can spend your money on whatever.”

“I ain’t got enough for a whole bag! I’ve only got a farthing.”

“Get a lolly then.”

“No way, she’s only got orange flavour left and she don’t get more in ‘til next week. I hate orange flavour…”

“Well, tough, those are your only options.”

“Alright, alright, you got it.”

Badger drops a few coins into Nabby’s open palm, which he quickly shoves into his pocket with a firm nod. The two boys begin to make a move towards Aunt Taffy’s stall, breaking out into a leisurely stroll. Inhabitants of the marketplace tend to take the back roads to avoid the tourist traffic, but out in the open they’re easily able to weave in and out of the crowds whilst maintaining conversation.

“Y’know what I miss? Rhubarb and custard sweets. She ain’t sold any of ‘em for months now. What’s with that?” Badger’s voice is quiet amongst the bustling of people, but Nabby is used to it and picks up the words easily. 

“Dunno. Maybe you should ask her to get some in- or make ‘em yourself.”

“If I knew how to make ‘em myself, I would.”

“If you knew how to make ‘em yourself, maybe she’d hire you.”

They laugh, swiftly sidestepping a small group of people. Badger stumbles a little, tripping on the way his trouser legs pool at his ankles and wrap around the heels of his shoes. Again, with the too-big clothes. Nabby knows you can’t be picky with what clothes you get sometimes, but taking them in a bit when they’re this big isn’t that hard, and Marilyn’s a dab hand at sewing too. Though, on that thought…

“How’s that money treatin’ you?”

“Well good. Really, it’s a breath of fresh air not havin’ to worry about it for a little while.” Badger smiles, tugging habitually at the neck of his jersey. “Bet the electricity guys will be surprised an’ all.”

“Prob’ly wonderin’ who’s moved in that’s payin’ all the bills on time.”

“I swear they just send us the bill and the late warnin’ notice at the same time just ‘cos they know what we’re like.”

“Does your mum even know you still get bills? She’s definitely not payin’ em.”

“I think she just thinks the bailiffs ain’t found us yet, and she’s not gonna bother payin’ em until they do. Jokes on them, though, we got nowt for ‘em to repossess.”

“Your flat?”

“What, a mouldy one-bedroom flat with no front door? Yeah, I’ll bet they want a piece of that. They couldn’t even give that flat away, let alone sell it.”

“Honestly, mate, you really got the worst house out of all of us. The fact they let people live there is ridiculous.”

“I hate it, I really do, but…I mean, it’s still me house, y’know?”

“Yeah, I get you.”

They walk in silence for a while, slowly reaching the outskirts of the market where most of the produce stalls are set up. The shuffling and murmuring of people within the market is slowly being drowned out by the yelling and chanting of vendors trying to peddle their wares. Nabby glances at Badger for just a moment as they split apart to let a person walk between them. 

“Oi. Not that my place is any better, but…y’know if you wanna stay over sometimes, you can.”

Badger emits a stifled laugh, and Nabby can tell without even having to see it that he’s rolling his eyes. Still, there’s a noticeable upturn to the corner of his lips that bleeds sincerity, as Badger tells him, “Don’t start gettin’ like that, you know I’ll be fine. Besides, it ain’t like you to stick yer neck out that far. You sure it won’t be too much of a pain for you?”

“Oh, do one.”

Badger emits a quiet cackle that sounds a lot louder now that they’re bypassing the biggest cluster of stalls. Though it’s spoken with facetiousness, even such a small offer of solace is immensely comforting. It might seem a shame that Nabby is so terse whenever he has to say anything of real emotional value, but if anything, it just makes Badger feel much more at ease. 

Moseying up the hill towards the market entrance, Aunt Taffy’s stall begins to ebb into view. They cross a path beaten into the grassy terrain over years of cutting through to get to the stall, and to their surprise, she’s already got a customer in line.

“Y’alright, Louis?”

“Fancy seein’ you two here.” He politely steps out of the way, having collected his sweets, and Nabby begins to rattle off his order to Aunt Taffy. Louis plucks a chocolate lime out of his bag and pops it into his mouth. “Have you seen Crow today at all?”

“Nah. Heard he disappeared this mornin’ up to town, but I ain’t seen him.”

“Scraps and Socket found some good stuff today, figured he might wanna know what they got.” Louis holds out his bag to offer a chocolate lime to Badger, who silently refuses with a shake of his head. 

“You’d think they’d take a break since we got such a good haul. Don’t forget, we’ve still got a good amount leftover.” Nabby suddenly appears beside them, and he tosses the bag of fudge over to Badger, who impressively snatches it out of the air. 

“Like Scraps will ever take a break. He’s got a real ambition to rake it in.”

The three boys stand in a small triangle formation on the grass, loitering in a way that boys have done since the beginning of time. Though their responsibilities are often heavy, there’s always a moment spared to mill around, share sweets and put the world to right. Their conversation lulls, and it becomes an exchange of quiet murmurs about their day-to-day lives. The sun is already beginning to set, but there’s a thin sea of clouds looming over them that’s threatening to block out the hazy orange rays.

“Come to think of it, not many of us out today,” Badger mumbles, sadly finishing off his final piece of fudge. “I’ve only seen you two. Where’s everyone at?”

“I dunno, I’ve only seen you lot, Socket and Scraps,” Louis replies. “I ain’t even seen Marilyn today, either. Didn’t have time to stop by the stall, but she doesn’t go home this early, does she?”

“Everyone seems so busy,” Nabby sighs. “What a pain. I spent ‘alf the day hangin’ outside the hideout like a larry before anyone came to see me. Wonder if Crow managed to find anythin’ out about that thing Wren was goin’ on about.”

“Oh yeah, I did hear ‘bout that.”

“Guess it’s been an interestin’ day for everyone but us. Ain’t that just typical?”

“Yeah, but then again, I don’t wanna go gettin’ wrapped up in a loada rubbish. Really not my thing.” Nabby pockets the rest of his sweets, emitting a long sigh. He’s very verbal about his complaints, but he’s by no means lazy. It’s hard to tell if he’s putting up a front to fool people about the black market or if he really is just that impassive. However, it’s obvious that he prefers to avoid trouble where possible.

The other two boys can only offer a hum of acknowledgement, not really knowing what to say in the moment. It’s not like they can deny that staying out of trouble is sometimes the more beneficial action, but sometimes things could get just a bit boring. Not that things are ever really boring in the marketplace, but there’s a difference between being busy and being busy doing something you probably shouldn’t be doing.

On that note, Louis coughs awkwardly, and he fidgets by crumpling parts of the paper bag holding his sweets. He nimbly tears a strip of it away, rolling it between his fingers as he stares down hard at the grass. After a quiet moment, he finally speaks, but it comes out as a low rasp.

“Oi…you noticed there’s a bloke hangin’ around behind us?”

Nabby doesn’t look up. He joins Louis in staring down at the grass, but his lips quirk as he begins to chew the inside of his cheek. Badger, on the other hand, lifts his head to get a glimpse of the man from over Louis’ shoulder. Luckily, what with the scruffy mop of hair that obscures his eyes, it’s impossible to tell what he’s looking at, so there’s little risk of him being caught. Nabby considers this to be vitally beneficial since Badger is very much the type to turn around and look when he’s not supposed to. He can be about as subtle as a brick in the face sometimes.

The only indication of surprise on Badger’s face is a small scrunch of the nose as he spies a man he’s never seen before lingering over by the market entrance. Physically, the man is comparable to a ruler. His shoulders are sharper than Badger’s ever seen, and his whole figure is rectangular with a stiff posture to top it all off. He’s not quite as broad though, so he doesn’t look so much threatening as awkward- but if that’s not the strangest thing, the fact he’s wearing a pristine black suit is what arouses Badger’s suspicions the most. He lowers his head again.

“Bit fancy lookin’ ain’t he?”

“Definitely not a tourist-- not dressed like that he ain’t.”

“A copper, maybe?”

“Looks a bit obvious, don’t it? I know the coppers ain’t bright around here, but this is ridiculous.”

“Well, he’s definitely not undercover, that’s for sure.”

“Not if his cover is pretendin' he’s part of the secret service.”

“Louis, how long has he been there?” Nabby folds his arms. The appearance of this man is blatantly suspicious, but he’s got no idea what kind of suspicious it is. There’s no shortage of questionable activity within the market, their little business being the most notable example, so it’s a matter of discovering whether or not they’re the targets here. Of course, this could just have nothing to do with them, but it always pays to be cautious.

“I dunno, I only just noticed him now. Is he still there?”

“He ain’t movin’. He’s just…standin’ around.”

“Should we keep an eye on ‘im?”

“Hmmm…”

There’s nothing particularly suspicious about three boys standing around having a chat, but they make an effort to keep their heads down regardless. However, it’s a little hard to have a real conversation when the atmosphere feels so tense. Badger mutters quietly to himself under his breath, if only to help emulate the illusion of a conversation taking place, just in case the man was watching them closely.

“Let us know when he starts movin’, won’t you?” Nabby’s eyes flit upwards to glance at Badger’s face, which remains unmoving, save for the way he mouths an affirmative. 

This isn’t an unusual scenario to find themselves in. Though they keep their business as secretive as possible, there’s been rumours of a black market in Misthallery since long before they were even born. Sometimes it even pays to help perpetuate rumours like that, because who would really believe such a rumour from a kid? There’s a happy middle somewhere between keeping such a secret well hidden and helping spread rumours to make it sound as unbelievable as possible, and they’ve been able to maintain that for quite a while. It’s just unfortunate for them that the marketplace attracts a lot of other reasons for the police to come sniffing around. It also doesn’t help that the majority of the police force tend to look down on them like specks of dirt on a clean carpet. One strike for being poor, another for being kids, and they’re pretty good at coming up with a third strike on the fly whenever they feel like it. 

Nabby can’t count how many times he’s been scolded for loitering, and it’s difficult to provide a good excuse for standing around without divulging the fact you’re trying to keep something hidden. It also doesn’t help that his sharp tongue gets the better of him, and before he knows it, he’s trying to remedy a particularly brutal insult. He doesn’t know how Crow possesses the patience to be so polite to them, especially when he’s pulled aside the most. Having to perform such a tedious display of innocent ignorance time and time again is frustrating, but there’s something Nabby appreciates about the string of foul words that spew from his lips the moment the police are out of earshot. He reckons that’s just his way of getting through it.

Badger, on the other hand, is the absolute opposite. For what skills Nabby and Crow have with quick wit and smooth lies, Badger does not. It seems so strange for such a tall and athletic boy to be so cripplingly awkward. He could easily hold his own in a fight (and has done before), and he far surpasses everyone in terms of strength and stamina, yet when it comes to talking face-to-face with people he’s unfamiliar with, he just clams right up. Of course, the police despise this and tend to view it as some sort of obstruction of justice. It’s a good thing Badger’s quick enough to outrun them all, because any attempt to explain himself just makes him look that much more suspicious.

Unfortunately, this little problem of his tends to land him and his friends in undesirable situations. The best example of this is the way that the man lingering by the gate is now approaching their little group outright, and Badger would love nothing more than to say something, but the intent in his step is making him lose his voice. All he can do is open his mouth silently and grimace as the sounds of grass-crunching footsteps draw nearer. The sigh of exasperation that comes from Nabby makes his heart sink just that little bit more.

“Can we help you?” It’s by no means a friendly greeting, nor is it ever meant to be one. Nabby looks up at the man with pure ire in his eyes, and doesn’t even bother to hide the fact that he’s clearly in no mood for talking. This kind of confidence is very good at deterring people seeking conversation, and it’s twice as effective on adults who aren’t expecting these children to be so standoffish.

The man’s posture seems so uncomfortably rigid that it’s beginning to give Badger a backache just looking at him. He silently wonders if the man’s shoulders are just as square beneath the padding of his blazer. His wide jaw suggests it would be in perfect proportion if it were true. 

“Are you kids from this area?”

“Yeah, so what?”

The man doesn’t seem so much perturbed by such an unapproachable display, but bothered by something else instead. He neatly pushes his glasses further up his nose. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard rumours of a black market operating here, have you?”

At this, Nabby immediately breaks out into a raspy laugh, “You’re here for that?! I didn’t think adults actually believed in that rubbish. You realise it’s just a rumour, right?”

“Yeah,” Louis chips in. “That rumour has been goin’ around the place for decades. Besides which, there’s nothin’ here worth sellin’ that you can’t buy at a stall. It’s junk for miles and miles.”

“Not unless you’re tryin’ to buy, like…illegal stuff or whatever. In which case, if you take a left over there and go straight on, there’s a guy who sits by the bins who might sell you somethin’.”

“He looks like a drowned rat, you can’t miss him.”

“Follow the smell of chips and piss, you’ll get there.”

“He also might try and just beat you up, so…y’know, be careful.”

“We didn’t tell you that, though.”

“Yeah, don’t tell him we told you that.”

Badger remains silent, but he’s always enjoyed watching these tag-team conversations play out amongst his friends that never fails to confuse and mystify people who come and try to get answers out of them. In no time at all, Nabby and Louis have dominated the conversation and not left any space for the man to get a word in edgeways. It’s a fun tactic, but can have awful results if played on the wrong kind of person. Lucky for them, the man just seems baffled as he begins to wave a hand dismissively.

“N-No, you’ve got the wrong idea, I’m not here for anything like that.” He seems slightly put off by their description of a man who is in reality actually quite lovely, but has a fight or flight (but mostly fight) reaction to anything that looks him in the eyes. He’s good for a laugh, but they know how to handle people like him. Strangers to Misthallery, on the other hand, do not. He proves to be useful for scaring these people away.

“Oh. So what are you here for?”

“Are you actually here to find the black market? I really don’t think it exists.”

“Maybe it’s just really well hidden.”

“You think they sell super expensive stuff? That sounds more like a place for Highyard Hill than here.”

“Tell us if you find it, though, sounds like a laugh.”

It’s becoming evident by the way the man’s face is starting to droop that he’s struggling to keep up with such a fast-paced conversation, and all he can do by this point is shake his head. It takes a few meagre attempts to talk over the two boys, but finally he’s able to say, “Forget about it. I’ll find what I’m looking for.”

With that, he turns on his heel and stalks off. It’s not the most reassuring end to a conversation. Nabby is left with a look of uncertainty plastered over his face, and he’s not the only one either. They wait patiently until the man is out of earshot, and they watch him up until he disappears into the market centre. The silence between them now is a stark contrast to the lively conversation they’d been having before, but that had really all been for show.

“...do you think he’s gonna be a problem?”

“He won’t find anything,” Nabby mutters, “but just to be sure, I’m gonna head back and keep watch. If either of you two find Crow, you should prob’ly tell him about this.”

“Alright.”

Chapter Text

“Yeah, that’s suspicious alright. Did he ask you anythin’ else?”

“Nah, we pretty much ran circles around him ‘til he got bored. He said he’d find what he’s lookin’ for, and then left.”

The only trace of daylight left in the sky is the warm, amber glow at the very edge of the horizon, barely seen through the stacks of buildings that make up Misthallery. It’s like a drop of light in an ocean of ink, and the illuminated surroundings prevent the twinkling stars from being seen- at least from where Crow and Louis are standing. The railing that’s propping up Crow’s elbows is bleeding a cold sensation through the sleeves of his shirt as he tilts his head back to look up at what little he can make of the sky. Louis, with his hands hidden deep within his pockets, takes a lazy perch against the wall behind him. 

They often pass each other on the stairways that wind around a few of the centremost buildings, both residing in flats on upper levels, so it’s not unusual for them to be loitering around by the railings, watching the world go by beneath them. It’s a remarkably quiet night, and the mood is cold but relaxed. Crow glances over at Louis, but his eyes are obscured by the light reflected in his glasses.

They have quite a lot in common, and though they tend to enjoy a leisurely chat whenever they bump into one another, they’re not particularly close. Their houses are in the same area, they both live with fathers with obnoxious spending habits, they’re both strikingly intelligent, but their worldviews are quite different. Whilst Crow works to expand and improve the tiny corner of the world he’s able to call his home, Louis has always set his sights on something far greater. Perhaps not greater in scale, but greater in perspective. 

“You don’t need me to tell you to keep an eye out, do you?”

“Nah. Nabby seemed sure that the bloke wouldn’t find anythin’ anyway. We’ll be alright.”

“And this bloke wasn’t a copper?”

Louis’ expression shrivels slightly as he recalls the experience. “Somehow, I really don’t think so. No uniform, nothin’ to suggest it, but the guy was wearin’ a suit. You don’t wear a suit if you’re goin’ undercover to the market of all places.”

“Independently hired, I’d wager.”

“Like a private detective?”

“Yeah, but probably not as impressive.”

Louis snickers. “Yeah, maybe not.” He shuffles his feet for a moment, finding a comfortable leaning position, and Crow can see the way the soles of his shoes are slowly peeling away, revealing hole-ridden socks beneath. Louis doesn’t see the way Crow’s eyes flit over his form, but it’s not like any of it is forbidden knowledge.

“D’ya want some duct tape for yer shoes?”

Louis lifts a foot to inspect the damage, and the sole of his shoe hangs almost halfway off. “They do need patchin’ up again. Maybe not duct tape, though. That doesn’t go down well with the Highyard lot. I’m not lookin’ to be the centre of attention.”

“Could sew ‘em if you get a thick enough needle.”

“I was gonna see if Marilyn would do it, but I ain’t seen her today.”

Crow goes quiet. He says nothing, and turns back to stare out at the clusters of buildings around them that sit like precarious stone pillars. The lights in each one of them are dim but warm, and they emit a homely haze that shrouds the entire market. It’s the quiet comfort found here that makes him appreciate this place, but the wind is still bitterly cold.

“Speaking of,” Crow finally murmurs, fishing around in his pockets. “Marilyn didn’t come to collect her share today.” He pulls a small roll of cash out and passes it over to Louis, who gingerly accepts it. “You wouldn’t mind puttin’ that through her front door when you get the chance, would you?”

“Sure. Doesn’t seem like her to forget, though.”

Crow winces internally, and he tugs at the hem of his scarf, pulling it up to obscure the lower half of his face. “Um. Yeah. I don’t think she was havin’ a great day today. Wonder if that was my fault…”

Louis rolls his eyes with a long sigh. “What did you say to her?”

“Oi, don’t make it sound like I was bein’ all…” Crow gestures awkwardly with his hand, “...insensitive. The conversation just got a bit…weird. Guess she’s havin’ second thoughts about what she wants to do with her life.”

Louis thinks on that for quite a while, and there’s a short moment where the breeze picks up between them before he finally gives a response. “I think I know what you mean. She’s been thinkin’ a lot more about that nowadays. I mean, not that it hurts to keep the future in mind, but…we’ve still got at least a little while to go before it becomes…real-- and that’ll set in quicker for us than it will for anyone else.”

Crow glances back at Louis, and the way he’s chewing the corner of his lip is tactfully obscured by the fabric of his scarf. This is a prime example of Louis always searching for the bigger picture, and Crow had always boiled that down to him being the eldest of their little group. After all, it makes sense for the eldest to have sights set on things a little further away than what can be seen by the youngest of their group, but by the time they’re able to climb up to that level and share the same sights, the goalposts have moved. 

He also makes a good point- the harsh nature of reality had been instilled in every one of them long ago, and circumstances permitting, it seems more than likely that they’ll not so much grow up to adulthood than be forcibly yanked up. They’ve all had a taste of what it’s like to have to try and keep a house together, and with nothing but sheer willpower, a touch of craftiness and the ever-useful power of duct tape, they’ve managed to keep things stable for this long.

Crow looks down at the paint-crusted railing in front of him and begins to pick away the loose flakes, allowing them to fall down to the ground below. Maybe that’s what Marilyn had been driving at when she’d said that. It had been the one thing he hadn’t been able to wrap his head around.

Maybe the life they’ve been living, one that mirrors this warped perception of adulthood on so many levels, really is just a life only kids can lead. Which means, when the day comes when that life is ripped from his hands one way or another, he won’t be able to go back- but how does that make sense? None of what they do is normal for people their age, none of what they do is even remotely healthy for people their age, and for years now they’ve been walking upon a very thin line with nothing but trouble waiting below. They’re used to it. How could they do anything different?

He hates thinking about it. He hates thinking about it because he doesn’t know enough about it, and the fact that he’s confronted about it by Marilyn of all people is deeply unsettling. Living here is all he knows, and the same can most likely be said for the rest of them too. It’s hard not to call a kid like him ambitious, but the idea of losing what he’s built to time and age makes it difficult for him to reach out and grab whatever is waiting for him beyond that.

Maybe Marilyn is trying to figure out how to do that herself.

“So…what ‘bout you, then?” Crow’s tone of voice is casual, but there’s something sharp lying deep beneath it. “You’re, what, fourteen now? Almost fifteen? You must have the best idea out of any of us of what you’re gonna do.” He tilts his head to shoot a knowing look at his friend, despite the fact he knows a lot less than he’s letting on. Louis remains quiet for a moment.

“...don’t tell Marilyn this, but…I think I’m gonna leave.”

Crow blinks, but he’s not exactly surprised. Still, his heart sinks just a fraction. Perhaps not out of dismay over the idea of losing proximity between them, but…something about the way he says it just doesn’t feel very good.

“Yeah, that seems about right for you.” 

It’s not an encouragement, nor is it discouraging his idea. It’s the blandest of acknowledgements, and it’s the only thing Crow really has to respond with at the moment. He can’t really work up an emotion from any of this, other than whatever the slight nauseous feeling bubbling beneath the surface is supposed to be. This isn’t to imply that he fears change, but there’s something about this that feels more permanent, even if it won’t be in the end.

“Y’know, it’s fine if you don’t wanna leave. Whether it’s now or later.”

“Who said it wasn’t fine?”

“Nobody, but I don’t wanna make anyone feel like they gotta come with me. I mean, I’d miss the company, but…y’know.” Louis gives a meagre shrug, but there’s a fond smile on his face that tells Crow he’s serious.

“You’re a regular Luke Triton, y’know that?” Crow rolls his eyes, resting his chin on his hand with a flat expression, “I mean…you’re still not leavin’ for years yet, are you?” Luke had set off remarkably quickly after the events of the spectre, having not returned once since he’d gone. Crow had been impartial to him from the start, but by the fall of the spectre, he thinks they might’ve made decent friends had Luke stuck around just a little longer.

“I wouldn’t say so. I’d give it two or three years. You might’ve gotten bored of playin’ black market by that point, who knows?”

Crow remains silent, but continues to pick away the flakes of paint from the railing. Each one pricks at the sensitive skin beneath his fingernail, leaving a lingering sting that’s exacerbated by the cold air that’s dropping in temperature by the minute. He’s trying to maintain a passive expression, but he can’t help but feel so physically tense that his features crumple, and a frown is so deeply etched into his face that his eyes are like slits.

“...what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It don’t mean anythin’. Forget I said it.” Without looking at him, Crow can hear the way Louis shrugs by the rustling of his coat, and somehow that only serves to irritate him further. He doesn’t offer the other boy any kind of look, he just keeps his gaze firmly rooted to the railing, ignoring the way specks of blood are pooling beneath his fingernail.

“Yeah, I think I will.”

Louis says no more. With nothing but the twang of footsteps on metal to be heard, he silently turns and walks away. Crow doesn’t bother to watch him leave.

Chapter Text

“Urgh! Socket, why is my toothbrush wet?! You used it again, didn’t you?”

Wren’s furious expression is reflected in a misted bathroom mirror as she flicks stray droplets of toothpaste and water from what is supposed to be her toothbrush. The pout on her face is monstrous, and from the other room, she impatiently awaits a good excuse from her brother. Said brother's response is lacklustre.

“Not my fault we have the same colour toothbrush.”

Unfortunately for him, it’s not the answer Wren was hoping for, and she barrels out of the tiny bathroom and almost runs headlong into the doorframe of their shared bedroom. Her normally rosy cheeks are flushed a bright red as she begins to wave the toothbrush in Socket’s face.

“I put my toothbrush on the right side of the sink, and your toothbrush goes on the left! This is why I keep catchin’ your colds! It’s gross!”

Socket looks up from where he’s sitting on his bed, trying to put his socks on. He can see that Wren is noticeably displeased, but all he’s got to offer is a useless shrug. “Oops.”

Wren folds her arms in an admittedly adorable display of aggravation, and she stomps her way back into the bathroom and begins to rinse the toothbrush thoroughly. Socket manages to get his socks on with minimal injury and rolls off the bed to look for his goggles.

Their room is pretty small, but it’s made even smaller by the absolute mess that covers every inch of the floor. They have two single beds that sit only inches apart with no room for anything to stand in between, and that takes up a good two thirds of the room, with a broken set of drawers and two bedside tables taking up the other third. Socket’s bed is an undeniable mess; he’s managed to kick the duvet out of its covers, and the thin sheets just lie crumpled over his mattress whilst the duvet itself makes a nice home on the floor like some sort of makeshift rug. Wren’s bed isn’t much better, but at least she’s managed to keep the duvet covers on. However, the stains of nail varnish and pen that cover the sheets are unmistakable. There’s also a noticeable dip in the middle of her mattress where the wooden slats that keep the bed upright have been broken, but she pins the blame for that on Socket.

Socket has to wade through a sea of discarded clothes on the floor to get to the drawers, during which he accidentally steps on something of Wren’s which is now probably broken and out of his control. He snatches his beloved goggles from the top of the dresser and peers into the drawers, shifting around the remaining clothes that are balled up inside. The middle drawer from the dresser is missing entirely, sitting broken on the other side of the room and being used as some kind of tray, and the top one has collapsed onto the bottom one, preventing it from being opened properly. There’s nothing in here that he thinks needs washing, so Socket shrugs and considers his morning routine finished.

He steps out through the doorway and peeks into the bathroom, where his sister has finally gotten around to brushing her teeth, but when she catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, she pouts. Socket can only grin. 

He bypasses her quickly and slips into the small kitchen that sits opposite their bedroom. A slightly folded piece of bread is snatched from the bag left open on the counter, and Socket shoves half of it into his mouth, feeling the crunch of where the corners have gone a bit stale. Wren absolutely hates stale bread, which is fine by him because it means that he’s almost always guaranteed the leftover slices.

Finally, he pops his head into the living room whilst Wren finishes up her morning rituals. He stands there for a moment, managing to stuff the rest of the bread into his mouth as he stares at the woman curled up on the sofa, wearing a dressing gown on top of work clothes. She’s fast asleep, evident only by her soft breathing, and Socket watches her wordlessly whilst he attempts to chew down his mouthful of breakfast. He doesn’t realise the bathroom tap has been running loudly until Wren finally turns it off, plunging the flat into silence. 

He looks over his shoulder as his sister shuts the bathroom door behind her. His cheeks are still bulging with bread, and she sighs. “I bet you left the bread open again, didn’t you?”

“You sound like mum,” Socket manages to garble around the hefty blockage of carbohydrates in his mouth as they begin to head for the front door.

“No, I don’t!”

“Did you pay the money for the gas bill?”

“I did it yesterday.”

“Alrighty.”

The chain lock rattles when the door shuts behind them, and they have to wade through a flat pile of junk mail left on their doorstep before they manage to make it out onto the street. The early morning air is pleasantly warm, and the sun casts a soothing glow upon their faces, sending their silhouettes spilling across the path.

On mornings like this, there’s really no need for them to be anywhere. They normally start their day off with a leisurely wander around the area, and whatever the day has in store for them will crop up sooner or later. It’s a lot of freedom to have for kids their age, and sometimes it can prove to be really quite boring. 

Unlike most other kids, school hasn’t really been much of a permanent fixture for Wren and Socket, or any of the other market children for that matter. That’s not to say they’ve never been to school before, it just hadn’t lasted very long. For one reason or another, Misthallery has always been lacking in educational facilities for children, with the only useful building in town being the local library. Whether it’s the real reason or not, Wren has heard that there hadn’t been much need for them in the past when most of the locals were able to afford tutors for their children. This is still true- children living up in Highyard Hill are privately tutored either by their parents or whoever their parents can afford to come and teach them. That’s why in more recent years, day schooling had been offered by the local library, where children could go to get schooling without having to shell out serious money. Wren doesn’t know if these classes still go on- she and Socket had ditched them ages ago, having only ever turned up for three or four lessons in total.

She could justifiably argue that she’s doing something far more productive with her time, seeing as they’re all joint-running a genuinely successful business, but that’s not a reason she can just bust out to people when they ask why she’s playing hooky.

Wren ponders this as she glances over at her brother, who is humming quietly to himself and staring off into space. He doesn’t really give much of a damn about what happens, so long as they’re having fun and still have a roof over their heads by the end of it. She can’t help but sigh, wondering if he’ll ever develop an inclination to take anything seriously, but being the eldest out of the two of them, she has a certain leniency towards it. In her own way, she likes to make sure he’s enjoying himself without too much hassle, and in return he repays her by playing the protective brother role every now and then, as well as being a decent partner in crime. Having shared secrets that elude their family keeps their blood thick.

“Wren, you wanna go to the bakery? I kinda want… a sausage roll.”

“A sausage roll?! You’ve just eaten a load of bread! Too many carbs will give you a stomachache, y’know!”

“No, too many carbs will give you a stomachache. I’m indestructible and I feel like a sausage roll.”

Wren rolls her eyes. She doesn’t doubt his words, her brother has one hell of an appetite. Plus, what with the little extra cash in hand, they could definitely afford it. Maybe she could get a gingerbread man- and at this early in the day, they’d still be warm and fresh from the oven! Thinking about it for all of three seconds has convinced her entirely that this is a very good idea, and a merry smile has already worked its way onto her face. With a spring in her step, she quickens her pace. 

“Alright then, let’s go!”

She moves about five steps before she realises her brother has stopped, and she peers over her shoulder to see what he’s up to now. For whatever reason, he’s frozen in front of a pokey little shop that’s half a grocery stall and half a tobacconists. Wren tilts her head to gauge his face, but Socket’s expression is blank and unreadable. She blinks.

“Socket…?”

As if snapped out of a daydream, Socket’s face snaps up to meet her gaze, but he almost looks dizzy as he mumbles, “Wren…? C’mere.”

She wants to ignore the lines of concern etched into his forehead, but it’s impossible. Rarely does he ever pull a face like that. She makes a small jog towards him with shaky legs, and before she’s even stopped, he’s urging her to look at something, jabbing a stubby finger at a pile of newspapers sitting on the corner of the stall. It takes Wren a moment for the printed headline to process in her mind, and with every word she reads, her face grows a shade paler.

“Well, this lot I can fix myself, it won’t take too long. Clocks like that are a bit tricky though.”

Crow emits a small hum, tapping his finger against his chin as he contemplates Scraps’ proposition. The haul of junk from yesterday sits in front of them in a large pile, and Crow has Nabby and Badger peering over both shoulders to get a look at it all. In amongst the pile are a few items that might require the care of more experienced hands; Scraps is a dab hand at fixing things up, but even he’s got a lot to learn. After a short pause, Crow shrugs, but the smile on his face is pleasant, “Don’t worry about that, then. There’s a clock shop up by the plaza; the owner offers me a little favour.” He swivels to Badger, who is standing on his right. “Reckon you can get it up there for us?”

“Sure.”

“Sorted.”

Scraps pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as he says, “Well, that takes care of that, and as for the other stuff, I’m sure I can--” 

He’s suddenly cut off by the unusual sound of distant screeching and wailing, and unless he’s mistaken, he can make out an accompaniment of thunderous footsteps as well. The thought is succeeded by the wildly unexpected appearance of Wren and Socket, who come sprinting down the alleyway to meet them. Wren is clutching a thick bundle of paper in her hand, and she’s running so fast that her arms can barely keep up with her. Socket ends up skidding on a particularly slippery portion of ground, and by the time they both manage to screech to a grinding halt, he’s on his hands and knees. Neither of them can get words out through the heavy, exhausted panting. Wren tries, she really does, but it just sounds like she’s hyperventilating. Crow glances over at Nabby, and the two share a mutual look of silent concern.

“It’s…it’s… I just… hold on…” Wren clutches the front of her jacket tightly, as if it were to help restore her lost breath. Socket looks like he’s about to puke, and before Crow can ask just what the hell’s gotten them so worked up, Wren pushes the crumpled up newspaper into his face.

“What’s this…?”

“Read it! It’s… whew … it’s today’s paper! Look! ”

Wren, still red in the face, manages to tap the point of interest on the paper, and Crow squints for just a moment as he intakes the words. That expression of perplexion lasts for about a second and a half before it’s swiftly replaced by something far more unsettling. His lips pull downwards into a rigid grimace. He’s unable to swallow down the lump in his throat. The usual cheeky glimmer in his eye is gone, and what’s left behind is hollow dread. 

He allows Nabby to snatch the paper from his hands, but the effect on him is much the same. The headline is written in striking, bold, black letters, and the grainy, printed image beneath is all too familiar. Perhaps that wouldn’t be so unusual, considering the article is on a rather popular piece of art in the country at the moment. It wouldn’t be considered too suspicious for someone to recognise the poorly-printed monochrome rendition of a reasonably known masterpiece, painted in delightfully thick brushstrokes; it’s a stunning depiction of the female form. Not really his type of painting though. He’d think it’s more up Marilyn’s street. After all, she’d expressed that herself when she’d seen that very same painting wrapped up in the locker in their hideout. Their secret ace that had helped set a groundbreaking record for their most successful auction in history. A painting that, according to this paper, had been sold very recently in their area…

…and a painting that, according to the very same article, was a forgery.

“Wh…what is this? This isn’t-- no, hold on, this can’t be the same painting we sold!” Though Nabby is in utter disbelief of what he’s reading, the way his eyes are bulging only suggests that he fears the worst-case scenario has crept up on them. “I mean, sure, it was reported nearby, but--”

“It has to be,” Crow cuts him off flatly. “We only sold that painting the other day, and the time difference is too convenient. What are the chances of two of the same painting being sold in a nearby area at the same time-- and a forged one at that?”

Even having caught her breath back, words are still utterly failing Wren, and the way her cheeks ripple around the pained expression on her face makes it look like she’s about to start crying. The newspaper has long since been snatched out of Nabby’s hands, having been shared between Scraps’ and Badger, who are both startlingly silent.

“This…this is bad, ain’t it? They’re sayin’ it’s a fake!”

“It’s worse than bad,” Crow mumbles through his fingers. “If it’s enough to make the papers, they’ll be tryin’ to track down the ones who sold it.”

Wren gulps, “You mean…us?”

Badger quickly snaps his fingers, verbally stumbling as he attempts to connect a thought to a memory, “Oh, that-- the guy from yesterday! The one in the suit, he must’ve been lookin’ ‘round here ‘cos of this! That must be it, right?”

“Honestly, it don’t matter if he was or not,” Nabby grumbles. “We’re still in deep either way. If they manage to trace it back to us…”

“We have to clear out the hideout.”

Wren is wringing her fingers so tightly that her knuckles are turning stark white, which perfectly compliments her pale face, “Wh-what? If we go back down there, what if they catch us?! I bet they’re just waitin’ to see who goes down there! Whoever bought the painting from us must know where to go!”

“But if we leave everythin’ down there, it’ll just incriminate us! If that place turns into a crime scene, we’re done for. Damn it all!” Crow grits his teeth, feeling the beginnings of a headache starting to come on. He harshly rubs the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut in the hopes that it’ll help him think of a better solution.

“Did you know the painting was forged?”

“Of course I didn’t!”

“Fine, but did you tell them that it was the genuine article?”

Crow pauses, and though his expression is by no means relieved, it indicates sudden enlightenment as he murmurs, “I didn’t. I didn’t say that at all.” 

“So if we get caught, we could just…claim it’s a mislabelled replica!”

“That’s if we get caught, and if we get caught, that bloody painting will be the last of our worries.”

Wren hangs her head sadly, but Crow knows her well enough to know she’s not given up hope yet. She’s one of the smartest minds they have. If he gives her enough time, she’s sure to come up with something useful. In the meantime, he’ll just have to suss out the most effective method of damage control. It’s taking all of his self control not to start chewing on his scarf out of nerves.

“Nabby, you seen anyone near the hideout recently?”

“No. I ain’t even seen that guy from the other day- at least, not out in the open I haven’t.”

“Why don’t we just burn the place down? That’ll just get rid of everythin’!” Socket, having recovered from his exhaustion, begins to fuss with the hem of his shirt, tugging at the stretchy fabric. His mouth is pulled out in a long, thin line, barely concealing the way his teeth are beginning to chatter. He’s by no means a coward though, regardless of what his face might lead anyone to believe. This is a situation that none of them have ever wanted to face. Playing cat and mouse with the local police is one thing, but having one of their auctioned items in the regional paper is dangerous.

“ No! Are you stupid?! We’re not burnin’ down the hideout!” Crow snaps, glaring daggers at Socket. He’ll accept being called selfish for such a demand, but he’ll be damned if he has to burn down the only other home he’s got. It’s become such an integral part of his life that without it, he’s not sure what he’d do.

“It’s dangerous, but it ain’t a bad idea,” Wren suddenly cuts in, but her voice is shaky. “Let’s move what we can and then burn the rest down there. If we keep it contained to the storage room, we can control it. After that, we lock up the hideout properly.”

“Are you serious?!”

“That…that could work. Some of that stuff we won’t be able to get out! We’re gonna have to leave it.”

Crow emits an exasperated sigh. It’s teeming with obvious frustration, though it’s hard to tell who he’s frustrated by at the moment. He’s not shaking like Wren and Socket are, nor has he utterly clammed up like Badger, but the palms of his hands are beginning to feel clammy, and his skin feels cold, despite the fact he’s sweating.

“Crow…? What…what do we do?”

“Would you shut up a second?! I’m tryin’ to think!”

He emits a low growl, pulling the brim of his cap down as if trying to cover his face, but seconds later he throws his arms out in a gesture of resignation. He’s got nothing else. They’ve got nothing concrete to work with, so every move they make is one that could land them in the deepest of trouble. It's just a matter of how long their luck will hold out, and how quickly they can get the job done. Wren had pretty much hit the nail on the head the first time around.

“Oh, bugger it. We’ll go with Wren’s idea. Badger, you fetch the others and bring ‘em here. Say nothin’ to anyone, and if you see anyone who looks like they might be a copper-- even if it’s just a hunch, just run. Got it?”

Without a single word, leaving behind only a sense of diligence, Badger breaks off into a sprint and is out of sight within seconds. Wren nervously hops from foot to foot, but she looks more than ready to get this plan underway. Crow throws the loose drape of fabric from his scarf securely over his shoulder and begins to stalk off towards the hideout. Something is muttered quietly as he’s leaving, and to anyone from this distance it would be inaudible, but his comrades catch every word of what he says.

“It’s a right pain, but it looks like we might have to dress up for this one.”

He leaves them to it. They’ll know what to do and where to go. Ringleader he may be of their group, but they’re more than competent, and with all their necks on the line, there’s no doubt about the severity of the situation.

It’s not an immediate priority, what with the way things are going, but as he storms off, he just can’t help but think about that old lady. After all, the painting came from her house, but did she know it was forged? A woman with her kind of money could probably buy the real thing no problem, and if she could claim to be a collector of any calibre, surely she could get it appraised if she couldn’t tell the difference herself. He can’t quite seem to find the fault along the lines of this utter mess he’s found himself in, and even though there’s no reasonable way he’ll find out any time today, he just can’t shake it from his mind.

Maybe Wren was right about her.

Chapter Text

Crow doesn’t think he’s ever moved so quickly in his life. 

It’s a mad rush to get down to the hideout, and on his way, he has to prioritise just what needs to be taken first. Whatever leaves the biggest trail behind them has to be totally erased, and at the top of the list is the admittedly copious amounts of paperwork. Whilst it pays to be meticulous and organised, and this is as legitimate a business as you can get whilst being totally illegitimate, this is the first time he’s ever had to curse his own good methods.

“Sod this, let’s just dump it in the water! It’ll ruin the lot, won’t it?”

Crow turns around and drops an enormously heavy pile of paperwork into the hands of Nabby, who stumbles slightly under the weight. “It’s better than burnin’ it all, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m sorry, I just got caught up in the moment! It’s hard to think rationally when we’re in such a mess!” Wren whines, hurriedly shrugging on her Black Raven costume with a wilted expression on her face. Whilst doing this, she’s also trying to simultaneously shift things out of the back room and into the hands of the others, who are methodically moving and hiding items in order of how easy they are to conceal. At this point, they’re having to resign themselves to the fact that not everything will make it out of the hideout no matter how hard they try.

Crow manages to sift together the most important documents that he plans to keep, all of which are tucked into a rope-bound book and tied together securely. He places that aside and begins to pile together all the miscellaneous papers. Wren lends him a hand.

“Y…y’know…they might not even find this place! We’ve made it this far…”

“Yeah, but none of what happens down ‘ere has ever made the papers. Bein’ spread around like some urban legend is one thing, but this is way too public.” Crow roughly flips through a pile of papers so quickly he’s beginning to get cuts on his fingers. Wren is working equally fast, but still can’t help but spare a moment to glance over at him with a glimmer of concern in her wide eyes.

“I suppose if the person who bought it found out it was a forgery, they’d wanna make us pay for it, right? And that person would know where we are…” Wren ends that thought with a little whimper, finding it unbearable to think of what would happen should they get caught. She’d never thought she would be in a position to be grounded for life, but this really seems like it’s going to be it if her mother catches wind of any of this.

She pushes a pile of paper across to Crow, but he seems oddly motionless, and the faraway look in his eye is setting off alarm bells in Wren’s head. She grabs his shoulder, leaning in close to his face. “Crow…? There’s no time to stand around! I know it’s scary, but--”

“No-- hold on a minute. You’re right,” he clicks his fingers, “The person who bought the forgery would wanna make us pay for their loss, that’s a fairly reasonable response. Of course, we didn’t actually claim it was genuine, either.”

“What are you gettin’ at?”

“If this person really wanted to just get us back for sellin’ ‘em a dud, why put it in the papers? They would know exactly where we are, and it would be much more beneficial to work with the police in secret, right? That is, if they don’t just come ‘ere themselves to sort it out.”

A lightbulb goes off in Wren’s head, visible by the dawning realisation on her face. “Oh! That’s right! The only reason you would need to draw public attention and alert the police would be if you didn’t actually know where it was bought! Otherwise, the police definitely would be all over this place by now!”

“Exactly. Which means the person who purchased the painting from our auction ain’t necessarily the person who has the painting right now.”

“So you think somebody bought it and then resold it as the genuine article?”

“That, or they were buyin’ items for a client and attendin’ the auctions as a proxy. Either is plausible, but there ain’t been any news of any arrests made. It’s hard to say.”

Wren gives him a firm nod and a smile, scooping up all the leftover stray papers into one big ball. “So this might give us just enough time to clear the place out! That way, if they do track it back to here, we’ll be alright!”

“It’s fine if they find out this place was the black market. We just can’t let ‘em find out that we were the ones behind it. We can afford to leave a few things here, just make sure they can’t get anythin’ off of it.”

“Got it!” Wren wastes no time in scampering off, and she’s already mentally taking note of the heftiest and most cumbersome items in the room, prioritising which ones will have to stay. Through doing this, they might end up losing a good amount of stock, but that’s the least of their worries right now. Crow can’t help but bitterly think how lucky they were to get so much money from the last auction, considering they probably won’t be able to hold one for some time. It’s just typical for him. When something inexplicably good happens, there’s always something equally bad lurking around the corner.

He tucks the book under his arm and leaves the rest of the papers for Nabby to deal with. Stashing this will be no problem, and he takes a moment to pull his own black robe on, tugging the hood over his head so as to obscure his face. Knowing all the back roads and secret routes within the market makes it fairly easy for them to get around the place whilst avoiding the crowds. After all, being spotted in such a dramatic costume would definitely raise some suspicions, but it’s better than walking around with his face on display. After all, if he gets stopped even for a brief questioning, then he’ll be shit out of luck. He’s fortunate enough that Socket spotted the paper so early in the morning- the market won’t be busy for a few hours yet. Maybe getting away with this might be a smoother ordeal than he was expecting.

He bypasses Wren and leaves the back room, passing through the auction hall and out into the main cavern where he finds himself extremely impressed. He isn’t one to withhold praise from his friends, he can give credit where credit is due, but this is a new level for him. The entire place is already empty, save for the wooden stalls and stands that had once held items of flimsy value. In less time than it’s taken for him to organise all the paperwork, they’ve cleared the place out. He can only smile as he makes a speedy jog past Louis and Badger.

“You’ve seriously outdone yourselves, boys! I owe you!”

They’re too out of breath to respond with anything but withered smiles and a weak thumbs-up, but the sentiment is understood. Darting into the stream of light coming from the overhead manhole, Crow clutches the book close to him and hurriedly pulls himself up the ladder, creeping out onto the overground. After making sure there’s nobody around to see him, he slips out of the tiny alcove and begins to sprint towards his home. 

The sun is growing warmer by the second, and running around in a huge, black sheet of a costume isn’t making him sweat any less, but he doesn’t stop for even a single second. Within about a minute, he’s already scaling the metal stairwell up to his flat, and he grinds to a screeching halt in front of his front door, feeling the soles of his shoes being practically worn away by the friction. He holds his breath and gently pushes down the handle. 

He only allows the door to swing open the tiniest fraction, managing to wriggle his way in before very slowly and very quietly pushing the door closed. It’s become such a force of habit now that he does this with the doors in the hideout, even when he has no real need to be silent. Grip the handle, hold it down, nudge the door ever so slightly into place until you hear the faintest of clicks, and then slowly pull the handle back up until it returns to its original state- only then can he let go of the handle entirely and walk away. Not a single sound is made. He’s so used to it that he’s able to time how long every step takes, and he hadn’t thought it was very noticeable until the others kept pointing it out.

He’s memorised every floorboard in the hallway too. He knows which ones creak and which ones don’t, which ones might make you trip over in the night and which ones are missing entirely, showing nothing but the dull stone foundation beneath. The path back to his own room, the first door on the right, is like an intricate waltz, and he uses these floorboards to his advantage. Every movement he makes in this place is silent, and it’s something he’s practised for years and years. Erasing every shred of presence until his existence in this house is nothing more than a ghost of somebody who used to live here.

As he slips into his room and slowly begins to close the door, even now knowing exactly which part of the door hinges creak the loudest, he takes one quick moment to peer through the slim gap in the doorway just a little further up the hall. That door is always left wide open, offering a bland view of peeling, landlord-white wallpaper, the sweating of cigarette smoke residue bleeding through the ceiling, and the tattered armchair belonging to the only person left in the world he legally has to call family.

The chair is empty, much to his delight.

He shuts the door behind him and immediately throws back his hood, scrambling across the room to his bed. One of the bottom posts is broken, which leaves his bed at an odd downwards slant, and he’d been forced to remove half the springs from the mattress after the sharp ends had worn through the fabric and begun to leave tears in his clothes. The only blankets that lay strewn across the bed are two thin mattress covers, a duvet with no stuffing inside, and an old fleece blanket from his infancy, having worn out in colour and comfort over the years. He shoves these blankets aside, and with great difficulty, hoists up one end of the mattress.

There is no place in this house more sacred than the hiding spot beneath his mattress, especially since the bed is so dilapidated. From the outside it seems unlikely that there would be anything of value stashed away here. Not that he reckons there’s anything here worth anything to anyone but him, bar the small wad of cash he keeps tucked away. There’s about two whole pounds there, all tied up in a neat little roll which sits next to a torn-up copy of an old newspaper, a crumpled up hospital note, an empty bottle of medicine and a small silver medal depicting the head of a raven.

He tucks the thick book under the newspaper, concealing it from view, before placing the mattress back down and adjusting it to its original position. With that finished, he stands back up and emits a breathless sigh.

His room is always silent, but never tranquil. It feels like the halfway point between day and night when he sleeps here. It’s like a short rest between shifts of work, and he never spends any more time here than he has to. It’s more like some kind of earthbound purgatory than a real house that’s made to be lived in, and he can say he doesn’t really mind that, but what does he know? If this house had been more inhabitable, he might not have ever wound up forming the Black Ravens. Then where would he be? 

Granted, he probably wouldn’t be rushing around right now trying to avoid getting nicked for running an illegitimate business, but he thinks he prefers it.

Speaking of, he pulls his hood back down over his head, obscuring his identity once more as he pushes open his bedroom door with expert technique, being careful not to make a single noise as he leaves the house. He skids down the stairs, out onto the street, and darts into one of the thinner alleys nearby where the cover overhead prevents the sun from shining upon him. There, he waits for just a moment, peering out to see if the coast is clear. There’s only a couple of people walking up this street, so he’ll just let them pass by, and then he’ll be on his way.

“Ahem… mind if we have a word?”

For a moment, he thinks his ears are playing tricks on him, because there’s no way he’s just heard a totally unfamiliar male voice from just over his shoulder, practically whispering into his ear. That can’t be possible, and yet he can feel his blood running cold as he gingerly turns around to find that it hadn’t been his imagination.

Nothing hikes up his heart rate like a flash of standard issue police-uniform blue, and it’s not often he comes this close to it either. The man behind him has been standing so close that when Crow turns around, he’s at eye level with the buttons on his jacket that are only inches away from his nose. He swallows thickly, and for a moment, he thinks he’s going to vomit. The guy isn’t alone either, which is absolutely dire for him because now he has two hulking police officers looming over him, and just as one of them reaches out to clamp a hand on his shoulder, he topples backwards and begins to scurry away.

“Oi! Get back here!”

There’s no way he can look back when he’s being pursued, and he fears with every step he takes that something might just snatch him from behind. He’s never felt so heavy in his life. He’s running as fast as he possibly can, but he feels so slow, and his legs feel like they’re lined with lead, weighing him down and keeping him in place. His knees are beginning to ache, and he’s definitely twisted an ankle, but the adrenaline keeps him going. Before he knows it, he’s already heading towards the outskirts of the market.

He hasn’t got time to muck about with making a decision, but there’s such a huge conflict in what the correct choice to make is here. If he keeps running at this pace and leaves the market altogether, he might be able to outrun them entirely and escape without being caught. On the other hand, if the police are now present in the market, then there’s also a very good chance that they may be pursuing the others as well- that is, if any of them have been found yet. If that turns out to be the case then their trick will be revealed, which is a disaster for him. If he stays, he might end up unwittingly leading these two idiots to his friends, which also definitely can’t happen. He’s got no way of communicating with them right now, so all he can do at the moment is lead these two as far out of the way as he can.

It’s easier for him to weave in and out of obstructions, such as people standing in the way and the clusters of stalls peppered around the area. The two policemen don’t have it quite as easy, which is already slowing them down, but they’re not letting up yet. If they’re as determined as Crow thinks they are, then he’s going to lead them right out as far as the bridge to town. 

It’s at the point where Crow bypasses a fish stall, deftly kicking over an empty crate in a bid to obstruct the police further, does he get a glimpse of someone travelling at an equally fast pace a few rows across the market. The large black hood and elongated mask is unmistakable, and he knows this is becoming a worst-case scenario. He doesn’t know who the other Black Raven is, but they’re having just as tough a time of it as he is with two more policemen on their tail. If he can round all four of them up, it might make their job harder, but Crow's life easier.

So, with his mind made up and a plan that’s only half cobbled together, Crow manages to skid a perfect hairpin turn, barrelling down the slim path between the stalls before he’s able to catch the eye of the other Black Raven. With a group so in tune with one another as they are, the other Black Raven wastes no time at all in understanding what Crow has in mind.

They manage to merge in the same way raindrops cascading down a window pane slowly group together, and their unwanted company manages to do the exact same. With two people running together, and four policemen on their tails, they make an immediate beeline for the market entrance. Their hurried footsteps almost sound like hoofbeats against the dirt path, the soles of their shoes wearing away the withered grass beneath them, and as they drag themselves up the hill towards the rope bridge, Crow can’t bear to spare even a single glance at Aunt Taffy who watches them run past. 

Escaping the market is one problem, but the rope bridge is another. It’s not that he ever really minds the bridge, it’s been sturdy enough for the entire time he’s lived here and it’s never struck him as flimsy or on the verge of decay. Two children running across it is like nothing at all, and being a lot more reduced in size, they can almost get away running side by side. Four policemen, however, are going to have a much harder time getting across, and that is by all means an advantage for him, but when he begins to feel the slats of wood beneath his feet tremble like liquid under the weight of four men running as fast as they can, he starts to feel distinctly nervous. The splitting sounds of taut rope being stretched even further is almost nauseating, and he swears he can feel the planks splintering with every step. He boils that down to just his vivid imagination in the moment, and vows not to look down until he reaches solid land.

Once they reach the end of the bridge, it’s their perfect opportunity to disappear into the trees. The rustling of bushes around their legs will only serve to give away their position, so once they’re out of immediate sight, the other Black Raven begins to scale one of the larger trees, but not before grabbing Crow by the hand and pulling him all the way up with an impressive amount of strength. Crow stumbles forward, doing his best to keep his feet planted on the slippery bark of the tree branch and trying not to get tangled up in his own costume. The yelling of the policemen becomes much louder as they approach the dense clusters of foliage, and the two Black Ravens hold their breaths, silently clinging to one another and not daring to make a single move. It’s stifling, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s starting to get a bit too warm. Crow’s hand aches from holding his entire weight on it and his knees are shaking. The other Black Raven is trying to keep themselves precariously balanced upon the tree branch, and also trying to keep a solid hold of Crow to prevent them both from falling. Crow still can’t tell who the other kid is, but if it’s one of the boys, he’s going to feel a bit bad for almost punching him square in the crotch whilst trying to maintain his balance. If it turns out to be one of the girls, then he has some serious apologising to do, but for the time being, they're forced to keep quiet.

To his utter delight, the voices of the policemen begin to fade away, but they’re definitely not out of the woods yet. Coming down now would be a bad idea, so whilst they wait and try to gauge the distance of their pursuers, they begin to shed their costumes and readjust their positions. It’s not much in such a dire situation, but being able to sit properly would be nice. Crow manages to shrug off part of his costume so it sits comfortably around his shoulders, and he emits a much-needed sigh as he finds a comfortable perch on the branch, leaning up against the trunk of the tree. The other Black Raven does the very same thing, finding a nice spot to sit in a split between branches. Through his lack of breath, Crow still manages to speak.

“...christ. Y’alright Badger? Shoulda…whew…shoulda known that was you.”

Badger can barely get his words out, and he’s trying not to pant too loudly as he replies, “Didn’t…didn’t think you could run so-- so fast. That were… that were way too close…”

“You’re tellin’ me! Can’t believe I let ‘em sneak up on me like that. What ‘appened to you?”

He gives Badger a moment to get his breath back before he has to explain. “I dunno, we just-- I were outside puttin’ the last of the stuff away, and suddenly the others had scarpered. I ran away, but those two coppers kept chasin’ me, and then I bumped into you.”

“What about the hideout?”

“No clue. I mean, it were pretty much empty by the time you left anyway, so I doubt anyone else were down there for too long. So long as the others can stay hidden, I think we’ll be alright.”

As nice as that is to hear, it doesn’t quell Crow’s anxieties in the slightest. Now that his exhaustion is slowly ebbing away, what takes its place is frustration instead, becoming evident by the scrunch of his nose. He grits his teeth hard enough to chip a tooth, and it draws blood when it catches the inside of his cheek. Realistically, it’s hard for him to be solely responsible for this entire mess, and though he’s absolutely certain that something out of his control had happened somewhere along the line that had screwed this whole thing up, he still can’t help but feel like this is his fault. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but if they can all get out of this in one piece, then he’ll be happy. He just can’t figure out what the hell had actually happened here.

He rests his head in his hands. His breath is coming back to him now, but his chest still burns and his hands are still clammy and cold. It takes him a moment to realise he’s actually shaking, now that the chase is over and the adrenaline is subsiding. Badger watches him quietly, and though he doesn’t really want to interrupt, they don’t have all the time in the world here.

“So… what do we do now?”

Chapter Text

Marilyn emits a shrill squeal as she almost collides headlong into a wall. The soles of her shoes squeak as she grinds to a halt and she hurriedly scrambles around the corner, hoping that making a number of sharp turns might help shake off the single policeman that’s attempting to chase her down. The palms of her hands are covered in scrapes and grazes, and the stinging sensation might feel exhilarating if she wasn’t in such danger. 

She hadn’t meant to lower her guard, and in that single moment she’d been looking elsewhere, she’d been accosted by a rather wiry-looking policeman with horribly long legs. Naturally, it's resulted in a pursuit that has left Marilyn breathless and wondering just how long she can go on like this for. She makes another sharp turn into a narrow alleyway full of bins. If she can just get to a place where she can safely hide, she’ll be able to ditch her disguise and return to her stall if need be.

It’s the only reasonable plan she can come up with, but she can’t help but worry about the state of her friends. She hasn’t crossed paths with anyone yet, and it’s beginning to make her feel nervous. Glancing over her shoulder, the policeman behind her still isn’t letting up, and the way he runs with leaps and bounds is really quite frightening. She’s seen spider crabs that look more attractive than this guy, but a spider crab could easily be outrun. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for her pursuer. She grimaces, gritting her teeth as she begins to put as much power into her stride as possible. If she can run as fast as her legs can take her, she’ll be able to reach a safe haven before he has a chance to catch up.

With that hope in mind, she speeds her pace, ignoring the aching of her ankles and the numbness of her toes. The buildings seem to race past her like a big blur of bricks, and with the wind whistling in her ears, she makes an almighty sharp turn, hoping the large gait of the policeman would slow him down just a few seconds. The stones in her shoes are pricking at the soles of her feet, but she runs through the pain and swings around one final corner before disappearing into one of the nearby buildings. 

There’s no guarantee the policeman won’t open the door, so she sheds her costume and shimmies further towards the back of what is a small, unused storage room that connects to an empty and dilapidated storefront. The chink of light that beams through the gap under the door momentarily flickers as somebody walks past, and Marilyn clamps a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from making even a single noise. Her heart is thumping so loudly in her chest that it’s beginning to give her a headache, and her knees quake as she slowly backs up against the furthest wall. The anticipation is unbearable and Marilyn is frozen in place for a few minutes.

Once the chink of light goes undisturbed for a little while, she begins to relax. Even the softest of breaths feel deafeningly loud, but she allows herself to slowly recover from the harsh exertion of energy. She’s so warm, her skin feels burning hot, and there’s a thin line of sweat collecting under her bandana. Staying here to catch her breath and cool down for a few moments feels like the best plan for the time being, but she almost shrieks when something hisses at her from the corner of the room.

“Psst! Hey! Marilyn, is that you?”

She blinks, and a budding squeal suddenly dies in her throat with the recognition of what seems to be a very familiar voice. Squinting through the darkness of the room, Marilyn swears she can make out a lanky figure with a mass of curly hair piled on top. The sliver of light that hits the room sends a faint sheen across a pair of glasses.

“Louis?! Oh, thank god, it’s you! You…you really scared me there for a moment!”

Louis creeps out from the very corner of the room where he’d been obscured by a wobbly pile of boxes and sheets of cloth. His Black Raven costume hangs loosely around his shoulders, with the mask pulled down to reveal his rather elongated features. A heavy breath escapes him.

“Did anyone see you?”

Marilyn shakes her head frantically, sending her thick hair splaying out over her face where it sticks to her cheeks, “No! I mean, I had one guy chasin’ after me, but I think I lost him. What about you? Where are the others?”

He shrugs. “Not a clue. The markets crawlin’ with coppers now, it’s way too dangerous. I got split up from Badger earlier. Crow never came back to the hideout, so we had to ditch everythin’. I managed to outrun ‘em and I’ve been layin’ low here ‘til somethin’ happens.”

Marilyn swallows thickly, resting her head against the wall behind her with a forlorn expression. “What happened…? I thought we had enough time. They just appeared out of nowhere!”

“I really couldn’t tell you. The hideout is pretty much cleared out though. Now it’s just a matter of whether or not they’ll be able to catch us.”

“Was there anyone still left in the hideout?”

“Last people I saw down there were Nabby and Wren.”

“Should…should we stay here? What if they need our help?”

Louis shakes his head, but even he doesn’t seem convinced. “If we make another appearance, we’re way more at risk of incriminatin’ ourselves. Maybe… I think we should ditch the costumes now and head out.”

Marilyn can’t help but shiver, despite the fact she’s so warm from all the running she’s had to do. Though she’s looking to Louis for an answer, her eyes seem to plead something silent. “Are you sure? I mean…yeah-- yeah, of course blendin’ in would be the best idea now, but…”

Louis begins to pull off the Black Raven costume, bundling up the mask within the expansive black fabric. “Let’s stash ‘em in here and walk up out the front. We’ll head to your stall, but pass by the hideout on the way back and see what’s happenin’. How does that sound?”

Marilyn still looks deflated, and she silently wrings her hands to help expel the trembling nerves that are eating away inside her. She knows she can be stronger than this, she’s normally so much more resilient, but the way she’s been weighed down over the past few days is just making it harder to bear the situation on her shoulders. She looks up at Louis, who has a huge amount of height over her, and tries to settle her own heartbeat with a deep breath. 

With a despondent smile, she shimmies over towards him, and in some replication of a hug, gives his chest a gentle headbutt. His coat is ratty, and the fibres of the fabric are thick and itchy, but it’s warm all the same. Louis sways back a little bit, but he’s not too surprised by the sudden gesture. Balancing his costume in one arm, he manages to free a hand to gently pat the top of her head as she leans against him. As much as he’d like to stop and appreciate this moment, they’ve got bigger things to deal with right now.

“We’ll be fine, Mari. We’ll figure out what to do once we get outta this. Here, gimme your costume, I’ll stash it with mine.”

Marilyn nods silently, balling together her cloak to give to Louis, who manages to push one of the crates open with a heave. He slips the two costumes into the crate and pulls it shut, making sure to cover it further with one of the dusty sheets left nearby. He can come back to retrieve them once the police begin to disperse from the area, but for now, he grabs Marilyn’s hand and the two head further out towards the building’s entrance together. She does her best to put on a brave face- after all, she’s meant to be the easygoing one of them all. It doesn’t feel right to be so lacklustre about this, but the situation is throwing so many uncertainties her way that there’s little else she can do but hold tightly to Louis’ hand.

They scramble up to the empty storefront, and once they reach the open street, they immediately grind to a halt and adjust their demeanour accordingly. There’s no need to look panicked or concerned. For the people they’re pretending to be, it’s just another normal day, though with a few more police appearances than normal. That’s all. Marilyn lets go of Louis’ hand and straightens out the folds of her bandana before patting out her dress so it hangs comfortably. Nothing dishevelled, nothing abnormal, just totally bland and average looking. Now it’s just a matter of how good their performances are when confronted with questions. 

Looking at their surroundings, Marilyn begins to piece together the route she must’ve taken on her escape. They’re in the northern part of the market now, and that’s only a short jaunt from the hideout. If she’s ran as much as she thinks she has, she must’ve lapped the whole market at least once. No wonder her legs feel like they’re going to snap.

“The hideout is…thataway. Lessee how close we can get…” 

Louis outstretches a finger in the direction of their hideout before shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets and striding off. Marilyn takes a moment to adopt a much more cheerful expression, with a wide and unsuspecting smile, but the crease in her forehead is still very much evident. Luckily, it doesn’t make her look in any way guilty. It just gives her a perpetual look of total befuddlement, which can be beneficial in many ways.

It takes about a minute and a half to get to the hideout from where they are, and the closer they go, the more policemen they see milling about the area. In a bid to keep themselves just a little more concealed, Marilyn grabs onto Louis’ arm and pushes them closer towards the edge of the path where they can effortlessly mingle with the shopkeepers all standing out front, wondering what in the world is going on to warrant this much police intervention. On the other side of the road, one policeman is attempting to perform some kind of investigation by interrogating a potential witness. Unfortunately, seeing as the witness is one of the many nosy shopkeepers on this street, the roles seem to have switched somewhat, and the policeman seems to be giving out more information than he’s getting. 

“You don’t think Jakes is out here do you?” Marilyn whispers, knowing that had this scenario played out before the incident with the spectre, Chief Jakes would’ve been first on the scene with enough pent-up resentment for the grief they’ve given him over the years to arrest all of them on the spot. They all know he’s just been looking for a good reason to get Crow off the streets, but they’ve been cunning enough to avoid giving them a chance to find anything incriminating. That is, until now.

“Is he even allowed on cases like this anymore? I mean, I know he got reinstated at the station, but he must’ve fallen a few notches at least,” Louis mutters in response, but only half-hopeful. Nothing boils his blood more than a bent chief constable turned criminal cohort being virtually let off the hook for his skeevy misdemeanours, but rich people do what rich people want, he supposes. Sure, Jakes might not be held in the highest esteem as he once had been, but he’s still enough of a threat for them to remain on guard. 

They stop just a little ways away from the small arcade that houses the entrance to their hideout, and the amount of policemen lurking around down this stretch of shops alone is deeply unsettling. There’s no way they’ll be able to get any closer, and it’ll look suspicious if they even attempt it. For now, they can only linger in the open doorway of the shop behind them and observe from this distance. There’s little that can be seen through the gaps between the people, and Marilyn has to squint to be able to make out even a glimpse of the open entrance.

“I can’t…I can’t see anythin’-- there’s so many of ‘em!”

Louis lets out a small hiss, warning her to keep her voice down. He doesn’t know how much longer they’ll go unnoticed, but it seems like these policemen are intensely occupied with something. He can hear the distant echoes of voices coming from the spacious caverns below and it’s beginning to make him feel sick inside. It’s hard not to worry about the state they’d left the hideout in; whether or not they’d left anything behind that would paint them as viable suspects. Those thoughts begin to bubble and brew as he's able to hear the clamour that’s slowly growing louder and starting to surface. 

Then, the crowd of men begin to shift and move like some kind of viscous fluid, and there’s a distinct yelp that rings out that hits their ears in a nauseatingly familiar manner. As people begin to part, and gaps are left open for eager eyes to intrude, Marilyn’s vision is filled with flashes of a dark-green, woolly coat and bright, auburn hair tied into pigtails. The shrill yelling is accompanied by wild thrashing and kicking against the restrictive grip of two policemen, as a long, black robe is torn away to reveal the little culprit hiding behind the mask.

“Wren!”

Louis suddenly clamps a hand firmly over Marilyn’s mouth, pulling her further into the shop. Marilyn can do nothing but let a squeal die in her throat. She’d love to think that she’d simply been mistaken in what she had seen, and that maybe the stress of the situation had resulted in her eyes playing tricks on her, but the way Louis’ hand over her lips is trembling ever so slightly tells her exactly what she needs to know, even if she doesn’t want to know it. She reaches up to pull away his fingers.

“Wh-what do we do?! Louis, they’re gonna arrest her! We have to--”

“Shh! Just…I-I don’t know, if we go out there now, they’re gonna nick us too!”

“We can’t let ‘em take her! We…we have to-- we have to, oh…I don’t know!”

Louis emits a low groan, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Kgh... I-I really don’t think there’s anythin’ we can do right now. We have to just… I mean, they’ve already seen her face.”

“What?!"

“The less of us they catch, the better. If it’s just one, then-- look, stop lookin’ at me like that, I hate this just as much as you do! I don’t wanna leave her behind either! You know if I could think of a way to get her out of this, I would!”

Marilyn can’t really find anything to say, but the harsh glimmering of her eyes that may very well precede tears speaks more volumes right now than words ever could. Still shuddering, Louis sighs and puts a hand on Marilyn’s shoulder.

“I’m just… I can’t let you get caught up in it either. It really helps nobody if we all jump in and get nicked, and I’ll bet that’s exactly what they want us to do. Wren prob’ly knows this too! So for now let’s just…”

“... let’s just plan how we’re gonna remedy this.”

Though her eyes are still teary, there’s a firm, decisive crease to her brow that Louis very much appreciates. Though he can’t feel at ease with the situation, seeing this determination fills him with just a little bit more confidence. He gives her a solemn nod.

“Exactly. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

A few hours pass by. The market is positively swarming with policemen, and the hideout is now so riddled with these pests that there’s no chance the Black Ravens will be able to go back down there for some time. For now, the hideout would simply have to get left behind. What’s more important at the moment is regrouping in a safe location where they can all collectively catch up on what’s been going on. The sooner they’re all on the same page, the better.

They congregate just by the bridge leading into town. Over the course of a couple hours, each of their group appears one-by-one, all looking distinctly nervous and lacking their usual excitement. Crow and Badger both share a perch upon a crate that’s now hiding their costumes, sitting back-to-back and trying their best to look as innocent as possible. It’s a little difficult when Badger can’t keep his breath steady, and when Crow keeps habitually nipping at the hem of his scarf with his teeth. They keep a keen eye on the single pathway that leads up into their misty little hamlet, hoping that they won’t have to see that vile shade of policeman blue for a good while.

First to appear had been Scraps, who had somehow managed to slip out entirely unnoticed once the raid had begun. He’d ditched his costume quickly and spent a good hour lingering on his front doorstep, observing what little he could from a safe position. 

Next had been Gus, and the poor lad was so red in the face that he was hardly recognisable. Crow couldn’t tell if it was because he’d been running so fast or crying so hard, and Gus had looked at a total loss of what to do. He’d stumbled over the bridge, doing his best to keep his lip from wobbling, and nobody could blame him for that. 

Following Scraps and Gus had been Nabby, and whilst pessimism is a beloved vice of his, he did not look happy in the slightest. Crow distinctly remembers Nabby having still been in the hideout when he’d been accosted by the police, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask what had happened upon his arrival. Nabby didn’t seem to care much for sharing that information either as he’d simply sat down on the grass and taken a quiet moment to process what had happened.

Then came Louis and Marilyn, both red in the face and still partially clinging to one another, but Marilyn had broken free once they’d reached the bridge in favour of racing off towards her friends. However, she’d stopped suddenly once she’d hit the grass, and Crow couldn’t help but feel that the way her shoulders had tensed up, giving her such a uniquely uncharacteristic sharpness to her figure, was so familiar somehow. Louis lingered behind somewhat, staring pointedly back at the shroud of mist veiling their town. 

This leads them to now.

Crow supposes it’s best nobody says anything yet. It would be much more beneficial to wait until they're all assembled before they start detailing their experiences and sharing crucial bits of information. None of them seem to know what to say at the moment either, which is understandable. The atmosphere feels so cold and tense, it’s unfamiliar for them all, and it’s hard to figure out the best course of action.

Crow could say pretty much anything at this point, but he’s stuck mulling over just how he wants to approach this. Luckily, being his trusty second-in-command, Nabby has a lot less reservations about saying exactly what he thinks, so he decides to snatch the reins up on this one. 

“So…that was, uh… for lack of a better term, an absolute nightmare.”

At this, the entire group seems to deflate. It’s as if they’d all been withholding absolutely everything until that pivotal moment where they could finally just unload it all. Crow can feel Badger leaning back a little further on him, but he doesn’t mind in the slightest. Had it not been for him, he might not have made it up that tree in time. Gus seems to have calmed down considerably, but he doesn’t look much in the mood to talk. Scraps appears understandably irate.

“I thought we woulda had enough time ‘fore they came down on us! It was almost as if they were waitin’ for us…” Scraps rubs at a smudge on his glasses with his sleeve, but judging by his exacerbated frown, he doesn’t seem to be getting rid of it. At this point, it’s the little things that will prove to be the biggest irritants for them right now. The pent up exhaustion, confusion and fear will no doubt expel themselves in the form of anger and sorrow, and they’re all going to have to deal with it without making the damage any worse.

“I think we got lucky enough as we did,” Crow mutters, “They’d only caught us at the very end-- had they been any sooner, we’d all be in the nick by now.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. That was far too close for comfort.”

“Come to think of it, Wren and Socket still ain’t shown up.”

Though it’s imperceptible, the mere mention of Wren’s name sends a horrid trail of goosebumps over Marilyn’s arm, and she harshly rubs them away with the palm of her hand, making a point of not even glancing in Louis’ direction. She suspects he’s having a similar reaction. Before she can even contemplate the idea of telling them everything they’d seen at the hideout, the conversation has already swiftly carried on.

“We’ll wait for ‘em. They’re prob’ly tryin’ to figure out where we’ve gotten to.”

“Socket is a bit directionally challenged…”

“If they’ve managed to stick together, I reckon they’re just fine. Let’s just wait here for now.”

Marilyn wants to cry. Even though Louis had been right, and that running in to try and drag Wren out of danger would’ve just gotten her in trouble as well, she doesn’t like how the situation has been left. It’s made even worse by the fact that she doesn’t know where Socket is, or what he’s even doing. If he’s been made late on account of trying to track down his sister, she thinks she’d much rather have the ground open and swallow her whole instead of having to bear the responsibility of telling her dear friend why he’s down a family member.

She keeps that to herself. Not because she wants to, but because for some reason, her mouth just won’t open. Her lips struggle, but they’re glued together so tight, and any attempt to push even the tiniest sound from her vocal chords is met with total failure. She shudders, and when Crow begins to look over every member of their group, she has to glance away at the floor once his eyes fall upon her. 

“So…they didn’t see any of us, right? Everyone here managed to get out of it alright?”

There’s a meagre chorus of affirmatives given, which is about as much as he can ask for right now. The little nod Crow offers is one of acceptance but not satisfaction. 

“Then we should stay as low profile as we can for the next few weeks. We’ll…we’ll see what crops up in the papers, see how the police handle the hideout, and just… um…”

He doesn’t know. For all of his quick thinking and impressive intelligence, he’s just a little too shaken up to formulate a proper plan. He’s not sure what he should do. It’s something that requires just a little bit more thought, and though he’d like to rattle off a clever-sounding plan to reassure his friends, he just can’t do it. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Nabby agrees quietly, if only to help fill in the terse silence that their meagre conversation is swimming in. “So long as we just stay as far away from all this crap as possible, we’ll be fine. Easier to leave it alone.” That’s pretty much his plan for anything remotely inconvenient, so hearing such a course of action from such an expert complainer somehow helps quell the nerves. Crow feels a little less on edge about not doing anything.

“Let’s just make sure we all have a story to tell should we ever get--”

He’s suddenly cut off by the sound of thunderous steps upon flimsy wooden planks. For a moment, he feels his heart stop completely, but when Socket’s shocking colour palette appears in his peripheral vision he emits a sigh of relief unlike any other. Socket screeches to a halt, digging his heels into the dirt, and almost keels over on the spot. Crow blinks.

“Socket, where’s...Wren?”

Despite neither of them saying a single word to one another, Louis takes one small step in front of Marilyn, and the way he pulls an arm back to reach out to her tells her that he’s planning to take care of this himself. 

Socket huffs, planting his hands on his knees as he tries to pull himself together enough to speak. In the end, he gives up even trying to appear rational, as he flails his arms wildly. His forehead is dripping with sweat.

“You…you tell me! I can’t find her! She ain’t nowhere! I checked-- I… I had a-- I had to run, and she-- she… I don’t know where she was, and now I can’t--”

Crow hops down from the box, holding his hands up in order to calm Socket down a little bit. “Woah, woah, hey. Hold on. I’m sure she’s fine! Just relax a second.”

“No! I… I ain’t gonna relax, I gotta find my sister! You-- you were with her last, right? What happened?!”

Crow begins to frantically shake his head, “No, I wasn’t, I left the hideout to go back to mine! When I left, it was just Wren, Nabby, Badger and Louis down there.” The aforementioned Black Ravens all perk up one by one, except for Louis, who tries to bite back a nasty wince. The conversation is moving along so speedily that he’s finding it hard to pick a time to bring up the news to everyone. It’s made slightly worse when Nabby pushes himself onto his feet with an unpleasant expression.

“Oi, don’t go pushin’ it onto us, now.”

“I ain’t pushin’ anythin’ onto you, I’m just sayin’ that--”

“The police got her.”

Marilyn appreciates poor comedic timing just as much as the next person, but this is resoundingly awful, and she almost wants to punch Louis. She probably would if she wasn’t already privy to what he’s about to reveal to their group. Crow, on the other hand, looks as if he’d been punched already, and Socket looks as if he’s about to just start swinging at random. She doesn’t dare gauge the reactions of the others, instead keeping her gaze firmly trained upon the back of Louis’ heel. 

“…she what?! ” 

Louis takes a careful step backwards. “We… I mean…we saw her. We got chased by the coppers, and when we decided to check out the state of the hideout, we saw her bein’ dragged out. No costume, no nothin’. I think they hauled her awa--”

“Wh-- who’s we?!” Crow demands, his voice just a little too loud for the passive demeanour they're meant to be maintaining, but it only serves to make his shakiness more evident. He takes a trembling step towards Louis, who doesn’t move a single inch in response.

“Me and Marilyn. We met up at the old storefront.”

Crow has to step to the side to make out Marilyn’s tiny frame hiding behind Louis. She’s furiously biting at her thumbnails, and her face is impassive when she finally locks eyes with Crow. She doesn’t like how wide his eye is. It doesn’t feel natural for him. He puts a hand to his face in quiet despair.

“Wh…why did you even-- no, just… you didn’t even--”

“The place was swarmin’ with coppers, we couldn’t just charge in there!” Louis begins to argue, knowing exactly what is going through Crow’s mind. “Don’t be an idiot, you know that it was the best course of action.”

Louis barely has a chance to finish his sentence before Socket, having been eerily still for quite some time, lurches forward to punch him square in the gut. Louis emits a wheeze, clutching his stomach as he attempts to keep himself on his feet. Before Socket can even think about dealing another blow, Marilyn has thrown herself between the two of them, and Badger has moved to grab him from behind. However, when he puts a single hand on Socket’s shoulder, Socket violently shakes it off with gritted teeth.

“You-- you seriously think the best course of action was lettin’ my sister get nicked?! Are you out of your mind?!”

“At the time, it was all we could do!” Marilyn yells right back at him with a deafening voice to be reckoned with. Socket doesn’t recoil in the slightest, but the way the corners of his mouth prick outwards in agitation is slowly beginning to fade. He just looks pained, and Marilyn, for the life of her, cannot blame him in the slightest. He has every right to be mad, and she’s just as mad for having sat by and watched, but she can’t fight the fact that they couldn’t have done anything. 

Nabby huffs. He can’t even bring himself to look all that irritated. “I hate to say it, but she’s right--”

“You were in the bloody hideout with her! Why did you leave her behind?!”

“Oi, I didn’t--”

“Since you seemed to make it back out here okay--”

“Would you just--”

“--you’re such a prick! ”

Crow finds himself being pushed between the two of them before yet another fight can break out, and both Socket and Nabby are seething. Socket’s balled up fists are twitching, and Crow is very wary that if he’s not careful, he might be the one winding up with a broken nose, especially now that Socket has his sights set on him. Socket’s never been one to have a quick temper, but it’s no surprise that he’ll fly into a rage if his sister is threatened- and speaking of Wren, that’s yet another hurdle thrown in their path that Crow is going to have to plan around. Before Socket can raise his voice again, Crow cuts through the clamour.

“Listen, we’ll get her back. Don’t start havin’ a go or you’re gonna say somethin’ you’ll regret. If we can just stay calm, we can-- will you stop fucking hittin’ me?! I said we’re gonna to get her back!”

“Yeah, and when is that gonna be?! What am I supposed to tell our mum, huh?! You reckon I should just turn up and say ‘Oh, yeah, hey mum! Sorry, but Wren got arrested today ‘cos of the fact we’ve been helpin’ run an illegal business that’s now in the paper for sellin’ forgeries!’ That’ll go down a right treat, won’t it?”

“Stop bein’ a--”

“No, you stop bein’ a twat!”

“Will you both just pack it in?! ”

Marilyn is coming very close to slapping every boy within four metres of her regardless of their involvement in this brawl. Her nerves have slowly become numb, and if she doesn’t step in and fill Wren’s shoes here, things will just get messier than they need to be. With a grip like iron and an expression twice as fierce, Marilyn wrangles Socket by the shoulders and forcefully pushes him towards Badger. 

“ You stay over there with him before you get your arse kicked,” she angrily demands, before outstretching a finger in Crow and Nabby’s direction. “You two are going to come with me and we’re going to think of the quickest way to get Wren out of the station. Louis, you-- Louis? Oi, where are you going? Louis!”

Without a single word, Louis is already halfway across the bridge and heading back to town. Marilyn could call after him all she likes, but he has no intention of stopping. His sudden decision to leave snaps Marilyn out of her strict and severe attitude, and she falters for just a second, left open-mouthed and crestfallen. Luckily, her outburst had settled the group enough to make good progress, despite the fact half of them are still glaring at one another. Crow sighs, pulling his hat further down over his head and pointedly ignoring Louis, whose silhouette disappears into the distant fog.

“Yeah, alright. I think…I think I might have somethin’. Oi, Scraps.”

“What?” Scraps has said nothing during this entire debacle, much like Gus who stands beside him with a forlorn expression on his wide face. Both of them have wisely removed themselves from the fighting, but it’s hard to gauge where either of them stand.

“Go up to Barde Manor for us, will you?”

“Alright. C’mon, Gus.”

Not needing to be told twice, and most likely looking for the quickest route out of this horribly tense situation, Gus obediently follows behind his bespectacled cohort and the two of them awkwardly shift between the group to get to the bridge. Socket has silently decided to go and sit by himself on the crate by the canal, and he makes a point of sitting with his back turned to everyone else. Badger lingers closely behind him, but clearly has no real idea of what to do. He supposes his job for now is making sure Socket stays out of trouble. 

“Go on, then. What’ve you got?” Nabby mutters, clearly still sore about how things had gone down. Crow momentarily bites his lip, trying to smooth over the bigger wrinkles in what is still a very basic plan in his mind. He’s still unsure of it, but this is the best way to start things off.

“We’re gonna have to wait until it gets dark. I’ll take the fault for this one, so just leave it up to me. I’m just gonna need you lot to do a few things first…”

Chapter Text

Jail is just as cold as Wren had imagined it would be.

It doesn’t help that the police station building is a little more archaic than most. The cells aren’t nearly as clean and bland as the ones she’d seen on TV. Real life is certainly proving to be quite a bit different than the average prison drama. Her expectations had been low, but this is just ridiculous.

The cell door she’s staring at is heavy, though rusty and brittle, and with a large, barred hatch in the middle that appears to be permanently jammed open. Being able to see people walking up and down the corridor sure does make her feel a lot less lonely, but it’s humiliating in equal measure. Every policeman who passes her by ends up having to take a second glance at her, no doubt silently wondering what an adorable little girl is doing locked up in such a crusty cell.

Somehow, the door is the least offensive part of this whole room. There’s absolutely no flooring laid down in here, so the soles of her shoes are tapping against the bare foundation of the room. Her boots are warm, but her feet are still freezing cold, much in the same way her underarms feel disgustingly damp, but her shoulders still shiver. Never had her body temperature been so fickle before. It goes without saying that there’s no radiator in this room whatsoever. There’s only a tiny vent right above the door, which is far too small for her to even imagine fitting through. 

Wren silently slips off of the solid, concrete bench she’d been sitting on and plods over to the door, where she presses her face up against the bars and stares longingly out into the empty corridor. There’s nothing much to look at but a dull stretch of wall and an even more boring ceiling pattern. If she cranes her neck hard enough, she can just about make out a television monitor sitting on the security desk at the very end of the hall. If her eyesight serves her correctly, the screen is simply showing camera footage of the adjacent corridors. It’s not entertaining in the slightest, but keeping an eye on it at least makes her feel like she’s doing something worthwhile. There’s not much she can do for herself stuck in here.

She can at least take pride in the fact she’d clammed up entirely during the initial interrogation, hence why she now finds herself in this cell. She’s always known that the golden rule is to say absolutely nothing, so even when she’d found herself nose-to-nose with the ugliest mugs Misthallery’s police force had to offer, she’d buttoned her lip and stared them down. This could very well land her in an enormous heap of trouble, but now that the situation has become so dire, there's no way they can escape without someone taking the fall for it. Not that she wants to take the fall for anything, but she doesn’t feel even remotely inclined to rat out her friends. Risky a business as this black market may have been, it had offered her more than she could’ve ever imagined, and Crow had given her so much. With the opportunities to pay her household bills on time, and to fill in her mothers shoes where need be, she feels like she has a lot to thank him for, and her silence here will speak volumes on that the most.

Despite that, Wren can’t help but think to herself that it would be really quite nice to have at least somebody to chat to.

Before that thought had even finished, she’s suddenly sent reeling backwards from the door when a chubby, freckled face appears in the open hatch to jeer at her. Her nostrils are assaulted with the scent of strawberry bubblegum and stick-deodorant masking pubescent horror.

Never had she’d wanted to rescind a wish so badly in her life. This might’ve been funny if she wasn’t in jail right now. She might’ve even felt like laughing. Instead, she spins on her heel with a firm pout and returns to her seat on the bench. The face in the hatch doesn’t move, but the smile widens immensely.

“Never thought I’d see the day!” Hans begins to chortle. “They finally got one of you market rats behind bars! What did they get you for? Stealing? Loitering? Did you forget to pay your rent on time? How much do those shabby little shacks cost, eh?”

Wren has to forcefully remind herself to keep her lips zipped, but the pout on her face is growing so immense that her bulging cheeks are almost comparable to Hans’ flapping jowls. Hans shakes his head, folding his arms as he leans heavily against the door. If fortune smiles on Wren today, maybe his weight would bring the whole door down. Now that would make for a thrilling escape.

“No, no, don’t tell me, I already know. They nicked you for the forgery, didn’t they? They found you at the black market! I’ll be honest, I was convinced that place didn’t really exist, but dad always told me it was real. Looks like he was right! He must’ve known all along.”

“Oh, yes, I’m impressed he managed to figure it all out whilst he was busy killin’ Evan Barde and destroyin’ Misthallery,” Wren deadpans, unable to hold her tongue any longer. Upsetting Hans definitely won’t do her any favours in this place, but she can’t help but relish in the way he stumbles back, as if physically assaulted by this accusation. He clenches his fists.

“H-he didn’t! He just changed the will is all! That’s what they said happened! He didn’t kill anyone!”

“Uh-huh, sure. So, how much did he have to pay to get off the hook? Charges like that cost a pretty penny, or so I hear. Can’t say I’m much in the murderin’ business myself, bein’ but a humble market rat.” She can bring herself down as low as she likes, but she’ll never get anywhere to the depths of Chief Jakes. The fact he can still walk around and call himself an officer of the law despite having been called out by the infamous and incredibly dashing Professor Layton is a testament to how deep the corruption runs, even in such a tiny little town.

“He didn’t murder anyone! He was--he was just doin’ it all so we wouldn’t get hurt! So that Descole guy wouldn’t destroy our town!”

“Except people did get hurt. And our town did get destroyed.”

Hans has nothing to say to that. All he can do is jibber to himself in a feeble attempt to prove his fathers innocence, but Wren wouldn’t buy that if it was 90% off. Still, despite how grotesque this boy is, she can’t help but feel sorry for him. It’s a lot easier for her to watch this from the outside and make a judgement, but Hans is Chief Jakes’ kid. Not that she can ever attest to feeling so strongly for her own father, but there is some struggle to be had when a beloved relative commits atrocities. She wonders how long it’ll take him to come to terms with the truth. She wonders if he’ll ever come to terms with the truth. As long as they have the money to obscure justice, she supposes that day may never come. 

“Alright,” she finally says, and remarkably softly too. “You can believe that if you like. I s’pose he is your dad, after all. I guess I can’t judge you for wantin’ him to be innocent.”

Hans stops quaking, but he seems visibly taken aback. His eyes narrow as he inspects Wren closely, searching for anything that would tell him what she really means by those words. He gets nothing out of that. Instead, he calms down a little, but remains silent. Wren doesn’t care to imagine what kind of snide remark he’s trying to concoct in his head. It makes no difference to her.

“W-Well…yeah! He is innocent! He’s…not that kind of person, you know? He…he wouldn’t do that.”

Wren had thought it impossible for a boy like him to tug at her heartstrings, but here she was being proven wrong. She can’t even bring herself to call it pathetic. It’s just tragic, and unfortunately very familiar to her. She ponders that for a short while, and punctuates her silent decision with a sigh.

“I mean… I guess I know what it’s like.”

“What?”

“Y’know. Thinkin’ someone is all that, when they’re actually just…not. I had that with my dad too.”

Hans squints at her, processing her odd admittance. He emits a laugh, albeit baring his nerves as he does so, and adopts his haughty posture once more. “I mean, you live in the market! What else could you expect! What did he do, rob people? I mean, like father, like daughter, right?”

Wren’s face doesn’t move an inch as she plainly states, “No. He used to hit my mum.”

She might’ve relished in the immediate regret that warps Hans’ features if it wasn’t so utterly depressing to have to hear. How easy it is for him to make assumptions and jokes at her expense without ever realising the severity of what actually happens to people he deems socially below him. Guess the kid needed a wake-up call at some point in his life. 

It’s not like she could ask for much more, but he scratches the back of his head awkwardly and mutters, “Wow, that’s… bad. Um. Sorry for your mum, I guess.” It’s a shallow enough gesture, but Wren decides she isn’t done. She doesn’t just relive her own past for any man on the street to hear, and she certainly isn’t obliged to share even the slightest detail for a boy like Hans, but just this once she thinks she’ll keep going. 

“Y’see, I thought the world of my dad. He wasn’t around a lot though. He spent a lot of time out and about, but he would come back home to see me and my brother- that was nice. He always called me a princess and tried to treat me right. Well…I dunno if it was even ‘right’ lookin’ back on it now, but… I guess I can say that…he tried.”

There’s really nothing Hans can say to any of this. It’s not like he asked for a backstory, but even someone as imperious as him can’t just interrupt something so genuine- especially not after he’d stuck his foot in his mouth. As much as this is deeply unpleasant to listen to, he remains quiet. 

“I had no idea that he was basically swingin’ at my mum every chance he got, tellin’ her if she tried to kick him out or move away with us, he’d make her pay for it. I had no idea until Socket caught him hittin’ mum and tried to step in between ‘em. That got him a black eye and a concussion.”

At this point, Wren finally looks up to meet Hans’ eyes. Her expression is soft, despite her unfortunate tale.

“It hurt to think all this time he’d been doin’ stuff like that. Even though I really wanted to believe he was a good man, how good is a guy who beats up a kid, huh? Socket never did nuttin’ wrong. He just wanted to protect our mum, so…I had to cut my losses.”

“Even though he never hurt you?”

“Y’know, sometimes I wonder that if I was a boy, would he have tried to hit me too? What makes me and Socket so different? We’re both his kids. We both wanted a dad that loved us. Besides which, it doesn’t matter if I’m not the one gettin’ hurt. My brother means the world to me. If anyone hurts him, then they’re gonna have to answer to me.”

She folds her arms and gives a firm nod of the head, having sufficiently made her point. Hans watches her for a moment, but Wren can’t gauge very much from his vacant expression. He leans back up against the door, and there’s a short moment before he speaks again.

“But why was he hitting your mum though?”

Wren’s eyes flash, “Why, do you think she did summat to deserve it?”

“No-- no, no, no, that’s-- that’s not what I’m saying at all! I just…I just don’t really get…why.” He’s very quick to backpedal, but his frantic response tells Wren he’s at least being truthful. However, she can only shrug.

“That’s just the thing, innit? I got no clue. Even though he’s my dad, I guess I came to realise that…I really don’t know as much about him as I thought I did. After all, he’s…he had a whole life before I came along, didn’t he? He ain’t just my dad. He’s a whole person. A person I actually don’t really know that much about.”

She places her hands on her knees, gently kicking her legs back and forth. It’s not much of a painful memory for her anymore, but she remembers those countless nights after he’d fled their home where sleep had eluded her. Sitting by the window, watching her brother sleep in the bed next to hers, she’d revisited those events time and time again in the hopes of having the epiphany that would explain it all. That epiphany had never come, and soon after, she’d grown to accept that. Perhaps it would be better off for her if she knew less about his motives. It would certainly lighten that feeling of betrayal that sits on her shoulders. 

Regardless of how she feels about it now, his absence had left a large hole somewhere in her life, whether that was for better or for worse. Every now and then, she’ll wonder if Socket still thinks about him, but it’s something she’ll never bring up. That’s for him to talk about.

“I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. I had to choose between my dad and my brother, and I made a choice. I’d just be thankful that you don’t gotta make a decision like that, no matter what your dad did or didn’t do," she smiles sweetly, and treats herself to just a little condescension, seeing as she’s stuck in here with not much else.

She feels perhaps she might’ve been a bit too harsh in saying that, seeing the light fade from Hans’ eyes and the life drained from his expression. Then again, how bad could she really feel for a boy who calls her a rat and belittles her every chance he gets? If only for this one chance, she’d like to be the one to come out on top. 

And if it makes him think twice about the state of his family, then that’s just an added bonus, she supposes.

He glances up at her, arms folded tightly, and mutters a very quiet, “Whatever.”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it? I have bigger things to worry about than that.”

Hans snickers, and that hint of malice has returned to his tone. He’s probably set on edge by Wren’s words, but this doesn’t grate on her in the slightest. If anything, she’d been expecting it. “Yeah, you’re still in jail, y’know.”

Wren emits a hum before beaming, “Well, since you prob’ly know so much about police work, what do you reckon they’ll do with me?”

“E-eh?! What-- what’re you asking me for? How should I know?” He’s wildly taken aback by her suddenly chipper demeanour, and if Wren is lucky, it should distract his suspicions long enough for him to have a slight lapse in judgement.

“I mean, you are the son of a policeman. Surely you know how this place works, right?”

“Of course I do! I-I just… um. Hmm.” He takes a moment to scratch his chin, now seriously considering Wren’s position. “I guess… they’ll take a few days to search your little black market hideout. They’ll also keep interrogating you until you spill, so no point dragging that out any longer.”

Wren figures she’ll be the judge of that.

“They’ll try and determine what involvement you had with the forgery, since that’s what you’ve been arrested for, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they chucked a few charges on top of that for your little black market scheme either. That means they’ll be coming after your mates, too.”

Wren dismisses this point quickly, having concocted a mini endeavour of her own to bide her time in this cell. She sits back against the wall, shifts herself to get comfy, and says brightly, “So…about the forgery!”

“What about it?”

“Well, say I sold a forgery-- and this is just a hypothetical, mind! Say I sold a forgery, but…I didn’t know it was a forgery. What would happen then?”

Hans quirks a brow, suspicion evident on his face. “Well…it depends if you claimed it was the genuine article or not. If you don’t claim it as the real thing, then technically you could get away with that. It probably wouldn’t hold up very long in court anyway.”

Wren beams, “I see, I see! That’s very interestin’. So…if that’s the case, would they try and track down the real creator of the forgery?”

“Um. I…don’t know. I guess if someone wanted to launch an investigation into it, they could go that far. In this case, they’re arresting you for selling forgeries. It doesn’t necessarily mean that was the intention of the original creator. You could’ve just, I don’t know, taken a replica from somewhere and tried to fob it off as the real thing.”

“So it’s more or less down to the person investigating it, right?”

“I’d say so, yeah.”

“ Very interestin’. Cheers for that!”

Hans blinks. He scratches the back of his head and quietly mumbles, “Why do I get the feeling I shouldn’t have told you any of that?”

“I don’t see how it should hurt! I’m just preparin’ for my defence is all!”

“It doesn’t matter how you try and dress it up- even if you don’t get in trouble for the forgery stuff, you’re still gonna get in trouble for an illegal business.” Hans has no idea why Wren seems so cheerful all of a sudden. It’s not like he’s trying to scare her here, but surely she must see the severity of her situation. Wren, on the other hand, continues to smile.

“Oh yeah? I wonder how they’ll charge a kid for runnin’ a black market. That is, if they can find proof I was ever actually involved.”

“They literally caught you at the scene! You were wearing that costume!”

“That don’t mean a thing. Sure, it ties me heavily to it all, but it ain’t proof that I sold anythin’! I could’ve just been pretendin’! Grounds for an arrest but ain’t grounds for a conviction!”

“You’re…you’re crazy, aren’t you?”

Wren honestly doesn’t know how far she’ll get with this. Should this somehow go to court, she can’t imagine what punishment they’re going to dish out on a kid like her. How many people would really believe a child would be working for a black market? How many people would really believe that the black market is run entirely by children? There’s no telling what direction they’ll take a case like that in, which is by far her biggest question. How far are they really willing to go to unearth their scheme? 

She needs to make a plan of her own, should her cohorts fail to bust her out of jail, and having gleaned this much information from Hans’ answers, she thinks she might be able to skirt her way around this one with minimal damage. If fate smiles upon her, they might not even add the black market charge, since they’re primarily investigating the forgery. It’s all a matter of keeping on top of it. For now, she’ll keep a cheerful face on and play the innocent card as much as possible. It’s hard to ignore the way her knees are trembling, but she can’t let Hans see that. As scared as she is to be here, now is the most vital time to keep a clear head. If she can do that much, she thinks she’ll be able to slip out of here in no time.

Though she would much rather her friends come and get her, preferably within the next few hours.

Chapter Text

In the quieter, suburban areas of Misthallery, the songs of the canal play louder than any tune the birds have to offer. Much like the imperceptible rustling of trees and the whistling of wind, the ears of the people that live here are so adjusted to the background noise of trickling water that it barely registers anymore. That’s why it’s strange for Socket to be hearing it so loudly today.

He’s sitting on the edge of the biggest canal that wraps around the town, allowing the tips of his shoes to gently graze the water’s surface as its subtle waves lap against the brick formation his legs dangle over. His shoes are flimsy, so his toes are beginning to get wet, but he can’t bring himself to care very much.

Badger, sitting next to him, keeps his legs folded and away from the water, but rests comfortably back on his hands. Neither of them have said anything since the group had dispersed, and as Socket had lingered, moving slowly from place to place, Badger had silently followed. He doesn’t want to risk saying anything inflammatory, nor does he think Socket is particularly in the mood for talking right now, but since he hasn’t been told to piss off, he suspects Socket might actually want the company. 

The patches of grass around them are becoming barer, having been pulled up in thick tufts by Socket as he absentmindedly stares out over the bubbling canal. Every now and then, he’ll lace his fingers into a clump of grass before aggressively tugging it out and then tossing the stray blades aside. Badger doesn’t know how, but that seems to be one of the most therapeutic activities for people their age to do. Whether it’s to curb boredom, frustration or loneliness, ripping up the grass sates a nagging itch that pesters idle fingers. He watches the way Socket feels around for a patch of overgrown grass, but falters when Socket glances up to meet his gaze. He’s no good at this.

He thinks he’d like to say something, but even if he could figure out what to say, there’s no guarantee his voice would let him. For now, that’s not too much of a problem, as the thick silence is finally broken through by Socket instead.

“D’ya reckon Louis’ mad at me?”

Badger can only shrug. He doesn’t want to go ahead and say yes, but that really is the only viable answer at the moment. “Maybe.”

Socket looks away and huffs, though not out of frustration. If anything, he seems visibly lost on what to do. It doesn’t help that everything is up in the air right now, and Badger suspects that letting him rejoin the group might spark more trouble, even if he does appear to have calmed down.

“I just… I just dunno, like… I dunno how he can just say all that so easily. That leavin’ Wren behind was the only thing they could do. I mean, even if that’s true, I don’t… really…” he trails off for a moment, but his lack of words serve to explain a great deal to Badger, who routinely struggles with silence.

“And bloody Crow, too-- if he had any idea what it’s like, he prob’ly wouldn’t be actin’ like…like such a… prat. Sometimes I think him havin’ no good family makes him act like a bit of a psycho.”

Badger winces. “Um. I mean…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know it’s an ‘orrible thing to say. He ain’t really a psycho, he’s just…I dunno. Both him and Louis could just make that decision so easily. I dunno how they can do it. It’s like they don’t even have to think about it.”

“You don’t have to worry. I mean…if anyone can get Wren back, it’ll be Crow.”

“That ain’t the point, though.”

“I know. It ain’t like they don’t care ‘bout her. Like… I think Wren would agree with ‘em.”

“Well, she is the smart one,” Socket flops back onto the grass, folding his arms beneath his head as he squints up at the cloudy sky above. His eyes prickle at how bright it is, but there’s nowhere else he’d rather be looking. Badger joins him.

“I mean, I knew stuff like this might happen. I guess I thought we’d just… be too good to get caught.”

Hearing that out loud really puts their situation into perspective for Badger. After all, for them, the black market was almost like some kind of game. More like playing shop than actually running one. The process of picking up rubbish, remodelling and refurbishing it, then selling it on to somebody who actually wants it is so natural to them by now. Nobody’s getting hurt (well, not really), they’re getting the money to support their families, and the acquisition of a tight-knit group of friends is just an added bonus. They’re so used to having done this with no major hurdles that he’d temporarily forgotten how risky their business really is. Maybe he’d also thought they were too good to get caught. Too good to get in trouble. 

“It don’t really seem like summat we should get in trouble for, does it? I mean…we’re just sellin’ junk to people.”

“Yup- and one of those pieces of junk just ended up pissin’ off the wrong rich person.”

“Yeah, innit.”

There’s a long lull in the conversation, but the mood feels a lot lighter than before, even when Socket finally mutters, “They still shouldn’t have left Wren in the hideout on ‘er own, though.”

“Yeah, maybe not.”

“I’m still mad about it.”

“I know you are.”

“D’you reckon I’m, like… makin’ a big deal out of it?”

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

“Alright.”

Though he can admit he probably shouldn’t have punched Louis, Socket doesn’t yet feel too inclined to apologise. He decides an apology will be in order so long as they get Wren out of police custody, but he doesn’t want to even think about what will happen if they don’t. The fact the very thought of the worst-case scenario doesn’t immediately enrage him suggests to him that he’s becoming tired. He’s spent all morning running through the market and even further out into Misthallery, and after having almost started two fights after yelling his little lungs out, he realises this is the first time all day that he’s stopped to just calm down. 

He wants to cry. 

In his mind, lying back and staring at the sky is the best way to obscure the way his eyes begin to glimmer and his jaw begins to tremble, but he ends up resting an arm over his face just for good measure. Badger wouldn’t say a word if he did start to cry, but that almost feels worse than if he did say something. He resigns himself to biting his lip and hoping that Crow wasn’t lying to him when he said he’d rescue Wren, now that he’d lied to him about them not getting into trouble.

With Scraps and Gus taking care of errands up at Barde Manor, Crow immediately heads for home with both Nabby and Marilyn in tow. He didn’t think he’d need to grab that book again so quickly, but he’s better with it than without it. 

They’re careful to avoid the bulk of policemen still lurking around the marketplace, taking the quieter back alleys to reach Crow’s flat, but still remaining incredibly vigilant. Crow strides with intent, but tries not to let the direness of the situation show in his step. This can prove to be difficult when his movements become more frenzied as tensions run high. Nabby, on the other hand, remains about as slow and steady as a slug, come rain, shine or scandal. It’s why he’s the best for guarding their hideout, as he has a knack for looking like he’s meant to be wherever he’s standing, and without arousing an ounce of suspicion. Marilyn is good at remaining cool under pressure, but she’s never had to succumb to pressure like this before. That’s why even though her face is placid and her pace steady, her anxieties shine through with the way she’s biting her thumbnails down to the roots. Crow has never seen her look so unsettled before. 

Luckily, they reach the flat stairway without bumping into a single officer, and Crow hurriedly scrambles up the stairs to his front door. Knowing that nobody else is allowed into the flat but Crow, Marilyn and Nabby slowly mosey up the stairs behind, content with waiting outside. Crow opens the door a fraction, slips in, and silently shuts it behind himself. Nabby takes a moment to lean against the railing behind him.

“Huh…what a mess this is.”

Marilyn hums in agreement, looking very forlorn. She doesn’t say anything, which prompts Nabby to continue.

“I knew we’d trip over somethin’ sooner or later, but I didn’t think it’d be this bad. I hope Crow has a good idea, or Wren’ll be sleepin’ in the clink for a while.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What?”

Marilyn frowns, “We’ll get her out of there. We…we have to. Crow will think of a way.”

Nabby shrugs, but his gaze is one of intense confusion, “I didn’t say we wouldn’t be able to do it! I’m just…ah, forget it. Besides, she’s a kid. I doubt they’d be too harsh.”

“Not unless Jakes worms his way into the case. He’d have the guillotine out before you can say the word ‘guilty’.” Marilyn replies dryly. It’s meant to be a joke, but under these circumstances it’s a little too accurate for Nabby’s tastes. “Why does he hate us so much? Both him and that kid of his.” 

“Because we pretty much embody everythin’ he hates,” Nabby grins, extending a hand to facetiously count on his fingers. “We’re smart, we’re kids, and we live in the market, which means he automatically assumes we’re dole scum. The idea of people like us doin’ anythin’ remotely out of line gives him a free ticket to put us in our place. Guys like him really get off on walkin’ all over us. Bit of a power trip, innit?”

“Guess the same goes for all the other posh folk in town. They don’t know a thing ‘bout us, do they?”

“Nor do they care to, which, to be honest, I’m fine with. I don’t want people like that thinkin’ they can stick their noses into my business.” There’s a weird line drawn between being condescending and being patronising, and very rarely do the wealthy folk of their town end up walking that line without falling off either side of it. In the end, Nabby figures he has to decide if he’d rather be spat on or pitied. Naturally, he’d prefer neither, so he’ll stay away from it all if it’s all the same to everyone else.

“It’s like they live in a completely different world. I dunno if I could--”

Marilyn is suddenly cut off by a loud noise coming from within the house. It had taken her by surprise, so she hadn’t been paying enough attention to hear what it actually was, but it had sounded like a thumping noise. One that rattles through the walls of the house and shakes the loose window panes. Marilyn glances over at Nabby who is eerily still. Neither of them say a word, silently anticipating another sound.

It happens again, and then is followed by a thin, crackling noise, like something splintering or breaking underfoot. Marilyn winces, clenching her fists tightly. Only the slightest hint of a voice can be heard from within the house, but it’s so muffled that she can’t make out a word of what is being said. That’s fine by her, though. This is something she’d really rather not have to hear. 

“Um…” Marilyn murmurs, “Should… should we…? Can we--?”

“I think we should just leave it.”

She doesn’t want to just leave it. Leaving it is how they ended up in this mess to begin with, but once again, something tells her that this really is the only helpful course of action. Stepping a single foot into that house would put her in an immense amount of trouble, and not only her but Crow as well. Both she and Nabby are familiar with his predicament, but it’s never something they could get used to.

Their conversation has been thoroughly destroyed, and they can only stand in meagre silence as they wait for the thumping and banging to stop. Marilyn bunches up the hem of her dress, clutching it tightly between her fingers, whilst Nabby stares off at the portion of the market the stairway overlooks. 

After all, if they could reasonably do something about it, they would. That’s all they’ve ever tried to do.

Nabby detests such awkward silences, and just as he’d figured out what to say to reignite the conversation, the front door bursts open. Crow, with the book tucked neatly under his arm, slams the door shut behind him and speeds downstairs so quickly that neither Marilyn or Nabby get a chance to even look at him, let alone speak to him. All they can do is hurriedly follow behind him as he stalks off towards the market entrance.

Marilyn holds her tongue up until they find themselves in quieter surroundings, but Crow doesn’t slow his pace in the slightest, so she’s forced to hiss at him as she tries to maintain an awkward speedwalk. “Crow! So what’s the plan?”

“I’ve got a record of who I sold the paintin’ to. It was definitely a proxy.”

“A proxy?”

“Y’mean someone bought that in someone else’s place?”

“Exactly, but it means I don’t yet know who actually received the paintin’. It’d help me to know who paid for it, but that’ll have to take a bit more diggin’.” Crow soon begins to slow down once they reach the bridges that connect the market to the main town, allowing Marilyn and Nabby to properly catch up. 

“Hold on, you’re not gonna go and, like… talk to this guy, are you?”

“It’ll have to wait for the time being anyway. Right now, our priority is gettin’ Wren out.” The little group grinds to a halt between a clearing of houses, shuffling together to form a conspiring triangle. Marilyn nods firmly. “Right. So how are we gonna do that?”

Crow pulls the brim of his cap further over his face, now obscuring his features entirely as he explains, “I set Scraps and Gus on that, don’t worry. Nabby, I’m gonna need you to stand ‘round the station for a bit. It’d be good if you could get some information, but I just need you to sit and watch to see if they end up releasin’ Wren themselves.”

“Alright, I can do that. You’ll owe me if they drag me in for questionin’, though, mark my words,” Nabby warns him, albeit rather mockingly, which suddenly seems rather bleak for the situation they find themselves in. If he could catch even a glimpse of Crow’s face, he’d assume the other boy was simply rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. Just…be careful. We’ll meet you there later on.”

Nabby soon breaks away from the group and begins the long and lazy trek up towards the police station, maintaining his usual snail’s pace. Marilyn watches him up until he disappears out of sight, and then turns back to Crow. Now that it’s just the two of them in this empty space, she suddenly feels a bit uneasy. Crow is flicking through his book, lingering on every other page, but Marilyn has no idea what he could be looking for.

“Crow.”

Crow doesn’t look up. He doesn’t emit even a single noise of acknowledgement, and that’s how Marilyn knows he’s listening.

“What’s going to happen after all of this? If we get Wren out…what then? We can’t just keep her hidden forever.” Wren may appear naturally unassuming, but this is still a small town, and most faces are easily recognisable here. She wouldn’t be able to last very long without being caught again, and keeping her indoors until she grows up a bit more just isn’t feasible.

“Don’t worry, I… I think I might know a way to get the police distracted.”

“That won’t last!”

“It will if things go the way I want ‘em to.”

“But they won’t!” Marilyn huffs, throwing up her hands. “This is exactly why-- look, nothing has gone our way today, there’s no way you can just say they will now! That’s…that’s just not good enough!”

Crow looks up sharply, and for the first time since he left the house, Marilyn can make out a thick, purple bruise that’s blooming across his jaw. His eyes are narrowed, but he seems more tired than anything else. There’s so much he could say, but his lips are pressed into a thin line. Marilyn’s hard gaze quickly softens.

“I just…this is cuttin’ it too close. I don’t like it. I know we can’t do nothin’ else, but…we can’t keep doin’ this. I can’t keep doin’ this. Between Wren bein’ nicked, Louis’ runnin’ off, Socket goin’ absolutely spare--”

“I know.”

Marilyn emits a ragged breath. “D’you really?”

“Of course I do! I can’t let any of you take the fall for this. I knew that the moment we started the Black Ravens. You’re all…you’re all my responsibility.”

There’s an odd glimmer to his eye that belies his stony expression, and Marilyn can only deflate. It’s not unexpected to hear this from him, but it certainly is…odd. It’s natural that, being the leader of their little group, he takes what they do seriously, and he cares deeply for the wellbeing of them all, but when things are normally going so well for them, it doesn’t occur to her that this can prove to be an intense weight on his shoulders. Now that they’re really in the thick of it, she’s beginning to see how everyone works under pressure, and though Crow’s fortitude is incredibly impressive, this might be the first tiny crack she’s ever been able to spot. One that runs from his shimmering eye down to the bruise on his cheek. 

Whatever cracks may lie hidden away on the other side of his face don’t bear thinking about.

“You were right when you said that our lives are meant for children, but… it’s all we got.”

“It’s all you’ve got.”

Crow blinks. He stares at her for some time, with no idea that she’s holding her breath. After a moment, a dry smile pulls at the corners of his lips. His eyes flit away to the stony path before them that leads down towards the bridge into Misthallery, obscured by a thick sheet of fog.

“Yeah. Okay,” his shoulders tremble with a stifled laugh. He says nothing more than that, and Marilyn is left silent. The mist seems to be growing thicker by the second, seemingly mirroring their own dire situation. She wants to say something, but he’s purposely left the conversation at a dead end. She despises the way he does this, knowing that anything she says now will be anticipated by him, if only because she’s managed to take him by surprise for the first time in a very long while. Her silence prompts him to continue, and as he tucks the book back under his arm, he turns away to stalk off down the path.

“Go find Louis. You two can decide what you wanna do from there.”

Marilyn wants to yell at him as he walks away, and for many reasons, but she can’t bring herself to do anything more than stand there, tensing the muscles in her legs so hard that it makes her knees ache. Her jaw aches too, preceding the welling of tears in her eyes, which she roughly wipes away before it becomes too visible.

Chapter Text

Even when the fabric of his coat is heavy and damp, and his hair is curling wildly from the moisture, Louis can appreciate the layers of mist that shrouds the little town- if only for the benefit it provides in obscuring that which doesn’t want to be found. The weather seems to change as the rhythm of the mood does, and when Louis finds himself having skulked further towards the larger canals on the outskirts of town, he takes a seat at the water’s edge where the mist is thickest.

Misthallery truly does offer solace to those who don’t wish to be bothered, but where the climate is tenacious, his band of friends are even more so. That’s why he has a funny feeling that someone will turn up sooner or later- it’s just a matter of who it is. 

His stomach still hurts. He’d walked off the worst of it, though it had been more of an awkward stumble as he’d clutched the spot where Socket had punched him, trying to conceal his injury from anyone passing by who would look at him twice. It now sits like a stone in the pit of his stomach. Heavy and dull.

He can’t say that he’s not upset about it. There really was nothing he or Marilyn could’ve done without getting themselves caught up in the trouble as well, and it’s better to have more heads on the outside than on the inside. He knows deep down that he couldn’t have expected any other reaction from Socket, but that doesn’t mean he has to stand there and take a gut punch for him. Not when his patience is fraying and his nerves are running thin. He’s got enough on his mind at the moment without all of--

“There you are.”

He’d been expecting it, but somehow he’d hoped it would be someone else.

There’s a faint sound of shoes scraping against the brick paving as a huge mass of curly dark hair ebbs into Louis’ peripheral vision. Marilyn quietly takes a seat beside him, patting out her dress so it lays comfortably across her knees. The tips of her shoes reflect upon the surface of the flowing water beneath them, showing only the faintest glimmer of colour. Louis’ eyes rest upon that spot for a while.

“You okay?” There’s no better way to start off the conversation, but Louis still can’t formulate a concrete answer, despite having mulled it over for a while. The only response he can offer is the old reliable.

“I’m fine.”

Lying to Marilyn is a futile endeavour. If she’s looking for the truth, then she’s going to get it one way or another, but Louis reckons it’s at least polite to maintain pleasantries for a little while. Marilyn watches him carefully, her gaze settling on the outline of his eye that she can make out from behind the thick-lensed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sure you are. Socket punched you proper hard, didn’t he?”

“S’alright.”

Marilyn tilts her head. The playful expression on her face belies the redness around her eyes, but Louis doesn’t bother to comment on it. He’s sure she would prefer it that way.

“Can’t really hold it against him, can we? I still can’t believe Wren got arrested. S’like a really bad dream.” Marilyn murmurs quietly, unable to go as far as to fake a more cheerful tone of voice.

“I’m sure Crow will come up with a plan. He always does.”

Louis is suddenly surprised to hear Marilyn emit a scoff like a spitting geyser. “Yeah,” she mutters, “Mister I’ve-Got-a-Plan-For-Everything.” She folds her arms with much more force and energy than is necessary. Her expression admits a desire to channel that energy into something more destructive, but it only takes a second for her to recoil. 

Louis blinks, taking in how Marilyn’s round cheeks slowly grow pink. She pointedly looks away and runs a hand through the wild waves of her hair. “Um. That was… never mind.”

“Wow. Where did that come from?”

“N-No, I wasn’t-- I’m not… I didn’t mean that. Not… not really, anyway.”

“What, did the whole group fall apart whilst I was gone?”

“No. Just… just me. I was just-- me an’ Crow were talkin’. I think… I got a little heated.” Marilyn’s hands drop to her lap and she finally dares to take a glance at Louis, who only stops to look over at her every now and then. 

“What about?”

Marilyn slips her hands down so they’re comfortably squeezed between her thighs, gently kicking her legs back and forth as she attempts to explain the situation as coherently as possible. It’s proving to be a difficult task now that she realises she’s somehow fuzzy on the details despite having been there at the time.

“It’s just… well, how am I supposed to just let him take care of everythin’? I can’t say that we’re in this mess ‘cuz of him , but… it’s hard to believe everythin’ will be alright just ‘cuz he says he has a plan.”

Louis says nothing.

“And he never says what he’s gonna do either-- when he gets it in his head that he can make everythin’ go away, we’re just left in the dark. Why can’t he tell us? Does he think we’re gonna get in the way or somethin’?”

“He’s always been like that. The moment he gets put in charge of somethin’ serious, he tries to do it all himself.”

“It’s not just that, though…” A deep crease etches its way into Marilyn’s forehead. “It’s like… he thinks he can get away with anythin’. This is the first time we’ve ever really gotten in trouble. I don’t want Wren to suffer just ‘cuz he thinks he can do it all.” She emits a heavy sigh. 

“I guess it’s ‘cuz he’s always the one they’re after. The police, I mean. Out of all of us, he’s the one they’re most familiar with. They know he’s smart, so they see him as a threat. The rest of us are just… his lackeys, I guess.”

Marilyn’s eyelashes flutter as she blinks slowly. “As much as I tell myself that that’s not the case… sometimes it really does feel that way, don’t it? For someone like Jakes, we’re prob’ly just a means to get closer to him.”

“You know Crow doesn’t think of us like that though, right?”

“W-Well, yeah…! But… I dunno.” Marilyn begins to kick her legs back and forth with a little more energy, “I really don’t know. Maybe it’s just… a lot to think about. I dunno where to begin.”

“Yeah,” Louis replies gently, “I know what you mean. I guess we all have a lot to deal with.” He doesn’t want to tell her that he’s been planning on moving away in the nearer future, but he’ll let them connect over the many burdens placed on their shoulders for now. Still, when he sees Marilyn staring tearily down at the canal water, he can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. 

As if making up for it, he reaches out to soothingly stroke her shoulder. “It’ll be alright, though. If I know Crow, he doesn’t promise things he can’t deliver on. He’s nothin’ if not reliable.”

Marilyn sniffs with a small smile, “I know. I think maybe I’m just, y’know… complainin’ for the sake of complainin’. It really does annoy me, though. The way he thinks everythin’ will just go his way.”

“I know, Mari. Maybe that confidence is just, I dunno… what helps him work things out.”

“It’s just not realistic.”

“Ain’t like you to talk about realism.”

Marilyn emits a humourless chuckle. “Yeah. Guess not. Maybe I’m changin’ too much. Maybe…” 

For a moment, she looks down at her knees with an unreadable expression. “Maybe… I’m growin’ out of this.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t. It’s a bit of a weird thing to be confronted with as the oldest of their group. If anyone should be growing out of this cycle, it’s him. That’s not to say he hasn’t been faced with the idea of outgrowing his cohorts and wishing for a different kind of life for himself, but that’s always been rebutted with the firm friendships and the accomplishments he’s racked up over the few years they’ve been doing this. It’s hard to leave something so incredible behind. He’s not going to sugarcoat it either. As unfortunate as the circumstances that lead to the creation of the Black Ravens may be, it’s still one hell of an achievement for people their age. Running a business with more organisation and success than the average high-street shop is no easy feat, but they’d done it. Through whatever it is that makes their childish dreams come true, whether that be will or magic, they’d gotten there.

Maybe it does seem a shame to leave it all behind, but it’s not like it would last forever anyway. Perhaps cutting his losses would be beneficial when all he can imagine their business doing is either sinking into the ground over time or chaining them together for life. He’s too young to deal with such concrete decisions. Such permanence. Maybe that’s exactly why he feels so compelled to disappear, and he’d just been presented with such a perfect opportunity to do so.

Or maybe that’s just the cowards way out.

He doesn’t know what the stronger action is; to leave or to stay.

Chapter Text

Wren didn’t think the cell could get any colder, but by the time darkness begins to fall upon Misthallery, she finds her teeth chattering a mile a minute, and her shoulders are now permanently tensed in a feeble attempt to help retain body heat. Even with such thick boots and a coat, the chilly, stagnant air of the cell seeps through the fabric like liquid. 

Hans had long since skulked away, leaving her to curl up and hope the endless barrage of thoughts whizzing through her head would generate enough heat to keep her warm for the night. As the light in the cell grows dim, she silently anticipates at least some attempt at communication from her friends. After all, they must know she’s in here. Socket would’ve easily been the first to notice her disappearance, and though the situation she finds herself in is quite dire, she can’t help but worry for him. For the time being, she won’t be around to drag him out of trouble by the scruff of his neck, and the idea of him turning up alone on the doorstep of their flat is something she doesn’t even want to imagine. 

The adrenaline rush she’d been riding after being arrested has now subsided, leaving her positively exhausted and in much need of a proper bed to sleep in. Though it may be cold, she’s so tired she thinks she could fall asleep right here right now. It would certainly help to pass the time. The anxious overdrive exacerbated by the overabundance of thoughts have fried her nerves for now, so there’s not much else she can do.

She props her head up on her arm and allows her eyes to flutter shut. Maybe if she tries hard enough, she can imagine being somewhere else entirely. It’s not this often she’s separated from Socket for so long, and admittedly it’s starting to get a little…. lonely. She can only hope he’s managed to evade trouble.

Her little nap lasts about fifteen minutes before she’s interrupted, but it’s not like she’d even managed to get to sleep anyway, so her brain clocks the faint tapping at her cell door quite quickly. For a moment, she boils it down to her imagination, but the noise is persistent, and it finally drags her away from the bench in order to seek out its source.

She peers through the hatch in the door, slightly blinded by the bright fluorescent lights that keep the corridor illuminated. The corridor is empty, save for a small man with a mop and bucket, dutifully cleaning the floor. In the reflection of the thin layer of soapy water spread around the area, she can just about catch a glimpse of the thick beard that obscures his face, as he backs into the door and begins to tap it with the handle of his mop as he cleans. 

Wren can’t quite think of what to say, but the man suddenly looks up at her. There’s not much to see through the thick tufts of hair, and the brim of a cap pulled down far over his eyes, but something sparks a familiarity in Wren’s brain. She squints at him for a moment.

“...Tony? Is that you?”

The small man quickly puts a finger to his lips to silence her, proving her guess correct. He sidles up closer to the door and continues to mop, but as he does so, he begins to hiss back at Wren.

“Don’t act suspicious, okay? I’m here to get you out!”

It’s as if her exhaustion has melted away in a single second. She quickly backs away from the door, heeding Tony’s advice, but the excitement is already brimming. She knew her friends would have a plan for her escape. Now it’s just a matter of making sure that plan goes off without a hitch.

“How didja get in here? Did anyone spot you?”

The soothing sounds of mop-cleaning doesn’t cease for a single second, “Of course. That’s the point. Crow said my disguise would be perfect for this! I just started cleaning the reception and then worked my way out here! Nobody’s noticed a thing.”

Wren’s eyes light up, but there’s nobody around to see it. “Crow set this up? Is he here?” She clasps her hands together tightly, listening carefully for the unexpected appearance of anyone who could jeopardise their plan. 

“He’s at the front desk distracting some of the officers.”

“But how are you gonna get me out of this cell?”

“Easy. Like this.”

Without a second of hesitation, Tony pushes something into the door that makes it clink, and with a mighty turn, the lock of the door slides open. As the door swings open, Wren can spy Tony twirling a key around his finger, which he promptly puts back into his pocket. Without another word, he’s already rooting around for something in his coat, which he then pulls out and offers to Wren.

“Here, put this on. It’s not much, but it should be enough to get us outside!”

Wren finds a thin coat with a hood, and yet another fake beard thrust into her hands. She quickly slips on the coat, silently wondering just how many fake beards Tony has in his possession and why. In the end, it doesn’t matter so long as it succeeds in getting her out of jail, and once she’s able to cover her face to the best of her ability, Tony flicks his head in the direction of the bucket sitting on the floor.

“You take that, and we’ll start heading back. Just don’t look suspicious, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it!” Wren insists, wrapping her hands around the bucket handle and managing to heave it off the ground. Full of dirty water, it’s going to be a challenge to carry it all that way without making a mess. Hopefully this act will look convincing enough that the officers won’t look twice at them. 

Tony shuts the cell door, locking it back up, and quietly urges Wren to head towards the door at the end of the corridor. With much shuffling, and Tony lazily mopping as he goes, if only to maintain his illusion of a tired old janitor, they exit the small corridor of cells and creep past the row of offices, making sure to avoid being seen as much as possible. Wren cringes when an officer marches past them, but he doesn’t even spare a single glance much to her delight. Maybe this disguise is better than she thought. 

Luckily, it’s only a short jaunt to the exit, and they’re almost out into the reception area until Wren stumbles slightly. The bucket sloshes against her legs, and she winces, hoping it won’t draw any unnecessary attention. Taking a risk, she peeks out from under the cover of her hood to check, and who else is standing at the end of the corridor but Hans.

Wren freezes up. Why was he still here? He’d come to taunt her hours ago and he still hadn’t left? Without thinking, her feet begin to slowly move, but her breath is gone and her gaze is firmly fixated on the large boy. It’s unlucky enough that she’d caught sight of him whilst he was turned towards her, but the fact he’s now squinting at her intently is making her knees tremble. 

Once she spies the dawning realisation on his face, she hurries away, lugging the bucket with her. All she can do is grit her teeth, follow Tony, and painfully anticipate a horrid, nasally accusation from across the corridor.

Somehow, it never comes. They escape out into the reception area keeping their heads down, and all the while Wren is white-knuckle gripping the bucket handle with a faint, threatening whisper playing at her ears that she could swear is coming from somewhere behind her. Nobody else seems to hear it though, and she finds it hard to believe she’s making it up in her head. Had he really noticed her…?

“Ah, Crow’s already gone.” Tony mumbles quietly. “Let’s hurry.”

Wren sticks as close to Tony’s side as she can, hoping that they’d simply blend into the shape of one person in passing glances, and the two quicken their pace and exit the building. Wren is careful to maintain her act, but quickly empties the bucket of water once they’re outside, bothered by the strain in the crook of her elbows. Her hands are so clammy that the cold, night air only serves to make her body temperature skew. She’s hot in the face, cold in the chest, and nauseatingly warm in the stomach, feeling her jumper stick to her sweat-dampened skin. 

The further they get from the police station, the quicker their pace becomes until they’re jogging beneath the dim streetlights. Once they escape the plaza, on the path up to Barde Manor, Tony begins to strip his disguise away, and Wren swiftly follows. 

“He said he’d be at the boathouse! Your brother is up at the manor.”

“Thanks Tony!” Wren puffs, stumbling behind him, “We really owe you one!” She balls her disguise up and stuff it into the empty bucket. Tony doesn’t turn around, but there’s a big smile plastered on his face.

“Don’t worry about it. Here we are.”

Keeping close to the trees, they approach the empty boathouse, and under the cover of night, the paint-chipped boats and misted water sends a horrid chill down Wren’s spine. This pathway could be so creepy- how could Tony walk it by himself? He doesn’t seem phased in the slightest as he hauls the mop over his shoulder and reaches out to take the bucket from Wren.

Whatever fears the twisted trees and rustling bushes leave in their wake immediately vanish once Wren grinds to a halt in front of the boathouse, and a small face soon peers out from behind a boat propped up against the shack. Even in the dark, the delight that passes Crow’s features is unmistakable, and Wren can’t stop herself from bounding over to him.

“Wren! You made it! Thanks a lot, Tony.” Crow steps out from his little hiding spot, offering Tony a smile bigger than Wren has seen in a while. Tony’s responding bow is theatrical, and he grins. “I’ll go up to the manor and tell the others that everything is okay! I’ll see you up there.” With that, he dashes off in the direction of home, soon fading away into the darkness.

For the first time in what feels like an extraordinary amount of time, though it really couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, Wren is able to relax. Her chest trembles with every breath she takes, and her voice cracks along with it as her shoulders begin to slump. She lets out an enormous sigh.

“We were all really worried about you…” Crow says in a small voice, his earlier elation now fading into something more sombre. “I’m… I’m really sorry it came to this. I didn’t think it would--”

He’s suddenly cut off by Wren lurching forward and wrapping her arms tightly around him. He wheezes slightly under the pressure, but smiles nonetheless, soon reciprocating her hug and allowing her to press her head into his scarf. She stays there for a moment, recovering her breath, but when she pulls back, her eyes are glimmering.

“D’you know how bad that was! That cell was freezin’! Don’t let me get into that kind of trouble again, y’hear?” She pouts, but even when she’s frowning, her eyes are so wide. Crow can’t help but emit a peal of laughter, though it’s a little lacklustre. He doesn’t like seeing her get so teary, but there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips that tells him she’s okay.

“I won’t. I promise. We told your mum you were stayin’ up at the manor with us for the night- they won’t look for you there.” He assures her, but how they’re going to keep her hidden from sight is a problem he has yet to solve. For now, he can only bathe in the relief that follows Wren’s safe escape. 

“Did you plan all of this? How did you know I was-- What happened to Socket? Is he okay?!”

He raises a hand to shush her, and Wren knows from the placid expression on his face that she has nothing to worry about. “He came to us after you got arrested sayin’ he couldn’t find you. Luckily, turns out Marilyn and Louis saw you gettin’ hauled away. Socket… didn’t take that news well.”

“Cor, I bet he didn’t.” Wren sighs. “What did he do?”

“Took a swing at Louis and called Nabby a twat.”

Wren squints at him. “Ugh. Sorry about that. I’ll make sure he apologises.”

“It’s fine. We kinda saw it comin’, truth be told. He was just worried about you… though I ain’t seen him like that before.” Crow remarks, glancing off to the side as he remembers Socket’s uncharacteristic harshness. If someone so laid back as him had the capacity to be so abrasive, he can only imagine how Wren would fare in his shoes.

Wren purses her lips, a forlorn crease in her brow as she begins to pull away from Crow. “Yeah, it’s… well… um. It doesn’t happen often.” She’s not all too sure how to explain it, having only seen a small sliver of such a hidden facet of her brother long ago when their father was still around. Instead of divulging the details, she opts to slowly tread towards the path leading up to Barde Manor, and Crow quickly takes the hint, beginning to follow. The gravelled path crunches beneath the soles of their shoes as the boathouse is left behind.

“So what about the escape? I was startin’ to think you weren’t comin’ at all. I had my whole defence made up an’ ready too!” 

Crow chuckles, finding Wren’s fortitude both admirable and endearing. “Sorry it took so long. When I ‘eard you got nicked, I sent Gus and Scraps up to Barde Manor. I figured we could use stayin’ there as an excuse for why you weren’t around, but then I remembered Tony had a decent disguise on him. Reckoned he’d make a good janitor. Not bad, eh?”

“He said you were there distractin’ the coppers, too.”

“I just told a few tall tales so the blokes at reception wouldn’t notice Tony goin’ past, that’s all. They got sick of me pretty quickly though. Told me to clear off.”

Wren emits a giggle, knowing full well the unpleasant relationship Crow seems to have forged with the local authorities. It’s not like he goes out of his way to get in their bad books. They just seem to have it out for kids like him, and the fact he’s able to outwit them every time naturally leaves a bad taste in their mouths. Wren can’t help but wonder how many of them have made the connection between him and the black market and how many of them truly believe he’s involved. Without Chief Jakes’ influence at the forefront of their investigations, Crow has been lucky enough to evade their suspicions for now.

“So… what do we do now? What if they come lookin’ for me?”

Wren’s fear is evident in the barely perceptible trembling in her voice, heavily masked by the thick consonants she wraps her lips around in order to keep her jaw steady, but before she’s even finished her query, Crow cuts in with a firm but reassuring tone.

“Don’t worry. I’m gonna sort that out. Just stay at the manor for now and I’ll take care of it.”

Wren’s not sure what to say. For a moment, they continue walking in silence, disappearing further into the shroud of trees that line the Barde estate. Whatever phobia Wren may have of the paranormal is massively overshadowed by the very real threat of being caught once again and thrown in even deeper trouble than before. She doesn’t want to doubt Crow-- and she doesn’t! However, she can’t help but feel… uneasy. Back then, it was so easy for concerns to be alleviated by a confident and charismatic speech that let her know Crow had everything under control, but now that control has been snatched from his hands, it’s a little harder to be calmed. 

It’s only when they reach the dilapidated gate leading to Barde Manor does Wren speak again. She takes a tentative step over a thick chunk of stone, watching the way the slimy moss glistens in what moonlight is seen from the obscured path. Any excuse to not have to look up at him.

“I… I know you say you’re gonna take care of it-- a-and I believe that! Really. I just… I don’t… what are you gonna do? How are you gonna fix all this yourself? It doesn’t seem, um…” She doesn’t want to use the word ‘possible’ but she can’t think of anything else. After all, it does seem impossible. No matter how many incredible feats he’s been able to pull off, it’s because they’ve all been working together as one team. Sure, he takes the helm and does his own thing on many occasions, but how far is he going to be able to go on his own? 

Crow stops in the gateway, turning back around to face Wren. His expression is too neutral for Wren’s liking, and though she’s had to battle that time and time again, this time she wants nothing more than to see just a sliver of something genuine. 

“I… I know. Look, it sounds rubbish but I know what to do. Just… just trust me, alright? I know I let you down, but I won’t let anythin’ bad ‘appen to you again. Just lemme do what I gotta do.”

In some kind of retaliation to his hollow tone, Wren can only smile sadly. “That ain’t like you, is it? Mopin’ about yer mistakes. You know I don’t hold it against you.” 

Crow tilts his head to the side, staring off in the direction of the path they’d come down. From this angle, the light of the moon hits his cheek, sending a cold gleam across the one eye that Wren can see. She takes a single step towards him as he emits a short mumble.

“ You don’t hold it against me…”

Wren’s eyes flit over the newly illuminated purple bruise that has blossomed from his cheek to his jaw, having been previously hidden by the low lighting. It’s not a surprising sight. He turns up with all manner of bumps and bruises, most of which are hidden away beneath thin layers of clothing and strategically brushed locks of hair. Most of these are laughed off when addressed in public, followed by a humorous quip on his lack of depth perception, and even when he does end up walking headlong into door frames and table corners, it’s easy to seperate what’s accidental and what’s on purpose. Wren wouldn’t go so far as to call herself an expert, but when she glances at the mark on his cheek, it tells her everything she needs to know. 

“You know I trust you. Just… promise me I ain’t makin’ a mistake in doin’ that, alright?”

There’s a slight crease to his bottom lip where his teeth are nibbling at the chapped skin there, postponing the answer he’ll inevitably have to give. To anybody else, the lack of answer might seem suspicious or untrustworthy, but to Wren, the silence is more of a genuine answer than anything he could say out loud. 

Between the sorry bruise on his cheek, the withered look in his eye and the voice that lies dead in his throat, Wren takes one step closer to a hidden vulnerability that she’s wanted to see for so long. In doing so, she unlocks a weakness of her own in fiercely seeking solace for her companions. It’s not something she keeps closely guarded, but it trips her over from time to time, which is almost exactly what she does when she leans forward, a single foot planted unsteadily upon a mossy slab of stone, and gently kisses his cheek.

Usually it’s the recipient of the kiss who is supposed to wear the expression of dawning horror, not the other way around. Despite that, it’s Wren’s eyes that grow wide and her mouth that falls open as she almost trips and falls right onto Crow, who is standing there wordlessly. She manages to catch herself at the last second, hoping a sloppily plastered smile on her face won’t look too idiotic as she makes a wobbly sidestep around him.

“Well-- I… I… um. Hm. I’m gonna just-- yeah, okay, bye!”

There’s no logic in it, considering their shared destination, but that doesn’t stop Wren from bolting up the path and out of sight the moment her feet reach steady terrain, leaving Crow behind to register the odd tingle on his cheek, where the bruise is growing darker as the rush of blood begins to colour his face a light pink.

Chapter Text

Wren’s arrival at Barde Manor is met with possibly the best reception she could’ve imagined. Having explained her successful escape, Tony had undoubtedly excited the others, and every minute had been spent anticipating her appearance at the front door. She’d hoped her flushed face wouldn’t be too obvious, nor would it tell too many tales about what she’d just been up to, but it’s not something that crosses anyone’s mind- not when her first three seconds inside Barde Manor is spent bracing herself against a flying leap of a hug from her brother. The others do their best to let Socket have his moment, but it’s not very long until they’re all piling in on top in one big messy embrace.

Crow shows up a few moments later, quietly shutting the front door behind him. His features soften upon seeing his friends all huddled together, swarming Wren like a school of fish, but he doesn’t join them. He watches from a short distance away.

“I’m okay, I’m okay!” Wren reassures, “It wasn’t that bad! An’ I didn’t say a word.”

“We were so worried about you!” Marilyn manages to wedge herself in front of Wren beside Socket, and she plants her hands on Wren’s cheeks, “Was it scary? Did they call your mum?”

“We told mum that we were gonna stay here the night!” Socket pipes up, now in a considerably better mood than earlier, “She ain’t said anythin’ about the police, but… then again, she don’t really answer the phone much, so I reckon we’ll be okay!”

“That’s… that’s good!” Wren replies, a little dazed from the barrage of questions and attention coming from all sides. She has Socket hanging off one arm and Marilyn hanging off the other, with Gus behind giving a hug so tight he’s practically lifting all three of them off the ground. 

“Let’s make sure that never happens again.”

“I’ll say. It’s best we keep our heads down for a while and stay here. You… you don’t mind us stayin’, do you?” The appearance of Scraps is yet another welcome sight for Wren, but his plan is punctuated with a glance in the other direction, where Wren spies Tony once again, though this time he’s accompanied by his sister.

Arianna once looked so gloomy and sickly, having been seriously ill and terminally lonely, but in the months of her recovery and her reintroduction into Misthallery’s society, she’d brightened up immensely. The change is stark, and Wren is delighted to see Arianna’s beaming face at the bottom of the staircase. Though she’s started spending a little more time on the streets, her demeanour is as prim as ever.

“Of course! There’s more than enough room. I’m glad you managed to get out safely, Wren.”

“Your brother did all the hard work for me! Them disguises are decent!” Wren manages to pull herself out of the grasp of her friends, feeling the affection becoming a little claustrophobic, but Socket still remains glued to her side. Tony becomes bashful at the praise, the tips of his ears growing red as he shuffles his feet. 

“Nah, it was nothing, really.”

“Well, you’re out of it now,” Arianna smiles, “I was really surprised when I heard what happened. You’d think the police are making a habit of arresting young girls.” The dry remark is in reference to her own detention during the period of the spectre, though she’s grateful enough that it hadn’t lasted very long. Still, it makes for a ridiculous running joke at the expense of the police. What in the world would they do to punish girls of their age anyway?

This sets off a round of giggles that soon dissolves into chatter as the group moves to a more comfortable spot in the manor, as Arianna urges the others to make themselves at home. This is her first time having company of this magnitude, and she’s proving herself to be a very adept little hostess. With no complaints from the others, they all split off into smaller groups around the house, taking some time to relax and enjoy a moment where everything is right again.

Even if it’s only temporary.

“Socket, you can-- you can get off now, y’know…”

“Hm? Oh… sorry.”

Socket carefully unlatches from the vice-like grip he’d been holding Wren’s arm with, and Wren gently stretches the tensed muscle with a small sigh. She’s relieved nonetheless to see her brother safe and sound. He hasn’t said very much, but his newfound clingy nature speaks volumes to her.

They’ve currently found a cosy spot to nestle in nearby a fireplace on one of the upper floors. The floor is littered with all kinds of toys, from little painted cars to neatly carved wooden animals, which Tony is currently fiddling with. Scraps is hunched over beneath the mantelpiece, flicking thin splints of wood atop the glowing embers in the fireplace in the hopes of creating a steady flame. Despite the earlier hubbub, this little area they’ve found is peaceful and quiet.

“Oi, Scraps. How’s the fire comin’?”

“Slowly, but it’s gettin’ there.” Scraps tilts his head to get a glimpse of Socket, “Don’t have any lighter fluid, do you?”

“Mm. Nah. Must’ve left it in my other jacket.” 

Scraps snorts. “Shame.”

With a neat flick of the fingers, Tony sends a small toy car hurtling across the floor and under the sofa that Wren and Socket are sitting on. Socket makes no move to prevent the car from its dark and lint-covered demise, instead opting to watch it roll past him. 

“You got a load of toys, Tony. Ain’t this a lot for just two kids? Me and Wren ain’t never had this many toys in our house.” 

“Socket!” Wren roughly elbows her brother in the side, which elicits a low groan. “Don’t be so rude!”

“I ain’t bein’ rude! I ain’t sayin’ it’s a bad thing. I’m just statin’ a fact here.” Socket protests with a hefty shrug, mirroring Wren’s frown with blank, innocent eyes. Wren sighs and shakes her head with exasperation.

“Most of these were gifts.” Tony doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest by Socket’s blunt words. “Dad had a load of friends who would come over when he had a party or something. They’d always end up bringing me and my sister a little gift, too.” He quietly rolls another car back and forth across the darkened wooden floorboards, silently relishing in the gravelly sound it creates.

“Friends in high places, eh?” Scraps murmurs, now nursing a small but strong flame that’s beginning to emit a thin stream of smoke. 

“Maybe.”

“S’good though! I mean, you didn’t really have anyone to play with for a while, didja…?”

“Socket!”

“What?! I’m just sayin’!”

“Well stop sayin’! Say summat else!”

Socket folds his arms with a heavy roll of the eyes, whilst Wren shoots Tony the most apologetic look that she can muster. Yet again, Tony doesn’t seem even remotely offended, and he smiles back with much sincerity.

“It’s okay. It’s not like that anymore, is it? You lot have been really good to my sister since all the spectre stuff happened. Thanks for all of that.” Tony’s words begin to trail off quietly as a bashful expression begins to bloom on his face. Wren’s eyes can only sparkle in delight.

“Oh, well that’s no problem! I mean, it’s sort of the least we could do. To think we actually really believed she was a witch.” She begins to laugh sheepishly. “But it all worked out for us in the end-- and she even got better!”

“Yeah, that Golden Garden is no joke. S’like a whole ‘nother world down there!” Socket grins, having remembered the first time he was allowed to set foot into the cavern. After Arianna had recovered from her illness, just before the Golden Garden was set to be revealed to the rest of the world, Arianna had permitted the Black Ravens to come and see the wonders that lay hidden just beneath the surface of their little town. Needless to say, they’d been shocked at first, but carefree days spent lazing about in the vibrant surroundings had soon followed. Nowadays, it’s hard to get down there with all the archaeologists at work, but it had been nice for Arianna to have invited them there whilst it was still mostly untouched.

“Y’know, Crow had always said he believed the Golden Garden was in Misthallery. That’s where he got the idea for the Black Raven from! He was always really into the local legends an’ stuff.” Wren beams, tapping a finger to her chin. “Guess he was right all along ‘bout that.”

“Did he really say that?” Tony’s eyes grow wide.

“Yup. I’ll be honest, I never really believed him. It always seemed a little too… I dunno. It seems like fantasy, right?”

“Yeah, I guess… but then Loosha was pretty unbelievable, right? But you all saw her!” Tony’s adoration for Loosha is still so evident in the crackle of his voice, and even though it might hurt him to talk about her from time to time, it’s clear he tries hard to keep a smile plastered on his face.

“Yeah, I’ll be honest… wasn’t expectin’ the sea monster. That was a proper surprise.” Socket mumbles, scratching his cheek. “She really saved the day, huh? Even if she did flood the whole town.”

“She wasn’t a monster! She was… she was… um…” Tony begins to stammer, his own brows quirking in perplexion. Wren watches him with a placid but bemused smile. “Did they ever figure out what Loosha was?”

“We never told them about Loosha-- the professor said we should keep it to ourselves for now. He reckons that Loosha was a type of dinosaur or something, though.” Tony picks up a car and begins to spin its wheels with his thumb. “He said he’d send us some stuff about it when he had a chance. It’s cool, right?”

“You managed to keep a whole dinosaur hidden from the entire town for like a year.” Scraps snickers to himself, “That’s seriously impressive.” The fire is now burning brightly, and he holds his hands out against the emanating warmth, feeling the harsh heat against the nerves in his palms.

“Okay, but grown-up’s don’t notice nuttin’ though. I mean, look at us!”

“That’s a fair point.”

Tony suddenly perks up, soon discarding the toy car in his hand in favour of leaning over to look up at Wren and Socket with large eyes. “Arianna told me that the flute we used to play for Loosha was bought from you lot. Is that true?”

“Eh?” Wren tilts her head, “Oh, it mighta been. Hmm. Yeah, come to think of it, that professor was askin’ about the black market ‘cuz he wanted to know more about a flute. Crow’s the one who does all that paperwork, though.” 

“A lot of the junk in this town has passed through our hands one way or another.” Scraps shuffles away from the fire a few inches, now feeling comfortably warm. “I guess it don’t matter if it’s really junk or not to the buyers. Eye of the beholder and all that lot.”

Tony purses his lips in thought, tapping a chubby finger to his chin. “Y’know, I never really knew much about our dad going off to the market, but Arianna did tell me that a few things around the house were probably bought off you lot. They’re proper pretty things, too!”

“Trust me, there’s a lot you can find amongst piles of rubbish. People throw away all sortsa things.” A mischievous glint of light flashes across the lenses of Scraps’ glasses as he smirks. “Chances are, those things he bought we prob’ly just fished out a bin.”

“S’awful sparkly stuff for rubbish.” Tony murmurs, pushing himself up to his feet. “Come take a look- it’s on the mantelpiece over here.”

Tony plods off towards the longer stretch of corridor connected to their little alcove, allowing the others to follow him at their own pace. There’s a curious amount of small spaces and seating areas tucked away around the house that Wren finds to be both quaint and slightly unsettling. Big houses are impressive, sure, but the overwhelming amount of empty space just makes the place feel far too desolate. It’s made even emptier by the fact there’s only two people living in such a large manor. It’s nothing like their crummy little flat, where their shared bedroom can barely fit two beds.

“See, see-- over here.” Tony breaks out into a short sprint, skidding on the ripples in the rug as he waves a finger at a heavily decorated mantelpiece. “This is the kind of stuff our dad used to bring home.” 

It’s not exactly tacky, but it’s not much of a reflection of refined taste either. The mantel seems like it’s been repurposed as a trinket shelf, housing a multitude of little objects from antique snuff boxes, porcelain miniatures and even a bejewelled frame that holds a photo of Arianna and Tony as young children. Tony reaches up to adjust the frame so it overlooks the wider portion of the corridor.

“Some of these things were for Arianna, but I think she likes the flute the most.”

“Hey, this little box looks familiar. Did we sell this?”

“Aww, look at the little ceramic cat!”

“Wow, this photo looks really old. How long ago was this taken?”

Whilst Tony and Socket begin to chatter to one another, Wren’s eyes follow the neatly aligned array of trinkets, silently revelling in the sheen of porcelain and the sparkle of neatly cut glass as she goes. It’s not like she has the money for these kinds of things herself, but she’d often thought she’d like a few decorations like this here and there. That would be a distant dream for now, as anything remotely delicate wouldn’t last more than a day in their room as it is now.

For a moment, Wren blinks. A gleam of something shiny crosses her eye, and she’s left staring for a while whilst her brain struggles to process just what feels so familiar all of a sudden. She blindly waves a hand out to her side, reaching for any part of her brother whilst her gaze is transfixed. She manages to latch onto the hem of his shirt and she tugs at it.

“Socket. Oi, Socket.”

“Yeah, and I-- Wren, stop pullin’ at my shirt! It’s stretched enough as it is.”

“Naw, Socket, really, look.”

“What?”

Wren manages to pull her brother to her side, and whilst he peers inquisitively at her blank face, she manages to point a finger in the direction of whatever has caught her eye. It takes him a moment to get a grasp on what she’s referring to, as she mutters, “Look at that. Ain’t that… familiar?”

It’s partially hidden away behind what looks like some kind of ornate vase covered in painted flowers, but the small shimmers of glittering glass, cut and polished into an intriguing shape is soon the subject of Socket’s attention. He squints at it, realisation dawning across his features.

“Hey… hey-- hey, yeah! Yeah, hold on, that’s the-- oi, Scraps, c’mere!”

“What?”

Now it’s Socket’s turn to forcibly drag Scraps over by whatever fistful of his garment he can grab onto, outstretching a finger to show him. Scraps slips a finger under his glasses to rub at his eyes before he can get a good look at it. He manages to come to the same conclusion as the other two, as he realises what’s sitting on the mantelpiece is a very pretty and very expensive-looking crystal handbell.

“Huh…?”

“Ain’t that the same thing we sold the other day? I ‘member Marilyn was all over it!” Socket makes an enormous gesture with his arms, and Wren clasps her hands with an excited albeit concerned nod. “Yeah, it was one of the big pieces for the night!”

Scraps pushes his glasses further up his nose, turning to a now very perplexed Tony who is lingering nearby. “When didja get this? Where didja get it from? Ain’t your dad’s, is it?”

Tony nods eagerly, “Yeah, that’s been there for ages. Dad didn’t buy it from the black market, though. It was way before that.” As he speaks, he can’t help but keep his eye on Socket, who gingerly takes it from the mantelpiece to inspect it further. Despite his lazy demeanour, he’s remarkably deft and careful with things. He’ll always claim that Wren is the clumsy one out of the two of them.

“Really? Huh. That’s… weird, I guess. Where did he get it from?”

“It was a gift.” Tony clears his throat into his hand, “See, we had this lady, right? She used to come visit the house a lot back then. You know that big painting of me and my sister by the stairs?” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate its rough whereabouts, and Wren’s eyes light up in surprise.

“Oh! The one of you two sitting together? That’s a very cute picture.” She beams, though it’s followed by an odd mutter somewhere along the lines of, “Can’t imagine havin’ a picture like that taken with this one.” 

“Yeah, well, the lady who used to come over was the one who painted that picture. Dad would pay her to come over and paint stuff. I think a few paintings around the house might be hers, but I remember her painting us ‘cuz I had to sit still for, like, hours.” He gives a meagre shrug. “It was really boring. She did a good job, though.”

“Alright,” Scraps expression twists slightly, “So what does that have to do with the handbell?”

“Oh!” Tony jumps slightly, “That’s right! So her and my dad got on really well, and when she ended up having to quit painting, she gave us that as a gift! It’s been sitting there ever since. We were never allowed to touch it.” 

Wren’s eyes widen fractionally. “Did… did you say a painter? A painter gave you that?”

“Yeah. What’s so weird about it, anyway? We’re not selling it, if that’s what you’re after.” Tony tells them very matter-of-factly, folding his arms with all the grace of a stubborn child. Socket, very carefree in holding the handbell in one hand, gives Tony a dismissive wave.

“Nah, it ain’t like that! We actually got one of these the other day and sold it. For a moment, I thought you mighta bought it.” He puts a finger to his chin, peering at the handbell with suspicion.

“Yeah!” Wren pipes up, “We got it from the house of a woman who collected paintin’s and allsorts. You… you don’t think that’s the same woman, do you? I mean, it looks really similar, don’t it?”

Tony now seems incredibly intrigued by this turn of events, made evident by the sparkling curiosity budding in his round eyes. “Huh…? It-- it might be! It could’ve come as a set or something, right? Like a matching pair!”

“That’s possible. Shame we can’t go ask her ‘bout it.”

“Why not?”

“She died the other day. That’s how we got it in the first place.” Scraps takes the handbell from Socket in order to give it the once over for himself, “Y’don’t think somethin’ like this would just get handed to us, do you?”

“Died…? Oh. Well now I really hope it ain’t the same person. That lady was really nice, too. She used to buy me sweeties.”

“Was she old? When you met her, I mean.”

Tony’s eyes flicker to the side as he recalls his memories. “Hmm. I guess she kind of was! I don’t remember it that well, but I’m pretty sure she had white hair like old people do.” It’s a childish approximation of old age, but it’s good enough for them. Inevitably, Scraps sighs and sets the handbell back on the mantelpiece with great care.

“What’s worse is that we already sold the bloody thing. If we still had it, we could at least compare it! But for what it’s worth, it don’t look a single bit different from the one we had. As far as my memory goes, anyway.”

Wren’s clear, rosy skin is disturbed by the thin creases that indicate concern. “So then that lady in the house must’ve been a painter herself, right? So… then… all those paintin’s we got…”

“...oh.”

Chapter Text

Aside from the number of cosy seating areas littered around Barde Manor, there’s also a few small balconies to be found on the upper floors. Even though the wind grows colder as the night goes on, it’s a choice resting spot for those who favour the shocking fresh air over a warm and comfortable front room. On a worn-out wooden bench, freezing to the touch, Crow sits and looks out over the balcony at the dark expanse of land below. Between the mist and the low lighting, there’s nothing to be seen any further than a few metres from where he’s sitting. 

He can hear the muffled chatter of various members of their group dotted around the house as they settle down into the manor. It’s mostly comprised of discussions of their situation, figuring out who’s sleeping where and what tomorrow will hold for them. He’d snuck off on his own the first chance he got, taking refuge in the smallest balcony he could find, and though he’d been sure that nobody would appear to pester him, he’s fairly unsurprised to see a bright flash of ginger hair creeping into his peripheral vision.

Arianna offers a small smile, taking tentative steps towards him as a silent appeal to sit down. Crow gives her an affirmatory flick of the head, and she politely takes a place on the other side of the bench. There’s a sizable pause before anyone says anything, but Crow knows Arianna wouldn’t have come out here without anything to say.

“Aren’t you cold out here? Your clothes don’t seem very thick.”

“Is that what you came out ‘ere to ask?”

Arianna bristles, “I didn’t come out here to ask anything. I just thought it was strange to see you sitting out here by yourself.”

Crow can’t profess to have anything in common with those of wealthier backgrounds, nor is there much to be found that appeals to him personally, but in the first days of Arianna’s reintroduction back into town, he’d found himself quickly growing fond of the way she addresses people. Sure, she slips and stumbles when it comes to understanding kids like them, and she isn’t so proud as to die on a hill that’s not even worth the grass that grows there, but she holds herself to the same standard she’d been raised with. 

There’s a striking difference between a spoilt rich kid and a spoilt rich kid with manners. Between Marilyn’s easygoing but shrewd nature, and Wren’s tactical dopey smile, Arianna has a real bitter streak hidden beneath the layers of her prim demeanour that Crow considers to be a delightful breath of fresh air. Even between people that are worlds apart, Crow can at least have respect for someone who knows how to conduct themself. They sit on equal ground in that regard, and after a blunt but sincere apology from him to her over the supposed rumours of her status as a witch, a mutual respect had blossomed very quickly.

That’s why he appreciates how Arianna will say exactly what’s on her mind. Unlike Marilyn, she won’t necessarily say it as a friend, but she will say it as a person who will tell the truth no matter how ugly it is.

“I was just havin’ a think is all.” Crow tells her, flashing a smile to show he’s not in too bad of a mood to talk. Arianna quietly clasps her hands together, allowing her gaze to veer off to the pitch-black horizon. 

“You haven’t had a very good day today, have you? Wren being arrested was an awful shock.” Arianna says, and as much as Crow would like to make a jab at her phenomenal skills in small talk, he holds his tongue on that one for now. 

“Yeah, you’re tellin’ me. You shoulda seen how Socket reacted. We ain’t had a fight like that before.” He can only hope that it’ll be their last, but something is telling him that it’s nothing but wishful thinking. Arianna glances over at him, soon emitting a ghost of a laugh.

“Well that’s unsurprising. After all, you spoke to Tony after I got arrested, didn’t you? He said the professor sent him to the market.”

“Oh yeah, he did an’ all. Never seen a kid so out of breath before. I mean, he kept it together way better than Socket did, but…” He trails off, wondering if he’s going to have to finish that thought, but Arianna’s curious tilt of the head tells him everything. He tries to keep a smile on his face, but it’s a little difficult. “...sometimes that’s the only thing you can do down ‘ere.”

“I see.” Arianna replies plainly, “I… I haven’t been in a position where my brother is in so much trouble that I might lose him, but… I imagine it’d be just as hard for me to stay calm.”

“That’s a nice way of puttin’ it.”

“You don’t have any siblings, do you?”

“Mmm. I dunno.”

Arianna shifts to face Crow properly. Her wide eyes make the blue of her irises even more striking. “That’s… a really odd answer. How is that possible?”

Crow sits back a little further, resting an arm up on the back of the bench. “Means that my mum, wherever she might be now, might have other kids of her own.” He tries to ignore the way Arianna’s stare is boring into his soul, but he’s got no chance against her. He’s never met anyone with such a piercing gaze. Her eyes could probably put a hole through a wall.

“You don’t see your mother anymore?”

“Nope.” He scratches absentmindedly at his cheek, and Arianna locks onto the way his fingertips gently brush beneath the thick fringe that, in her eyes, is probably doing a very good job of keeping his face warm. “And don’t bother askin’ why or how ‘cuz I really don’t know. All I know is that she lives somewhere else.”

He can tell Arianna has all sorts of questions on her mind, but he appreciates that she’s not so conversationally deaf that she’ll just blurt them all out at once. He doesn’t know what gave it away, but Arianna gets the hint that asking any more won’t do a lot of good.

“That’s just how life is sometimes, I guess.” Crow finishes, making a meagre attempt to end that line on a good note. Arianna’s smile is nervous, used to bide time whilst she thinks of what to say.

“You’re very interesting.”

Crow has to laugh. He could sense she was struggling to think of something that wasn’t so insincere that it would be awkward, but her blunt delivery cracks him up sometimes. To Arianna, he’s sure there’s a lot of novel things to find in their part of town, including the people who live there. He wonders if her interest is just a byproduct of that, or if she really means what she says.

“I get that a lot.” It’s true, but for many different reasons. Arianna emits a giggle.

“I’m sure you do. You know, I’d only ever hear rumours about the black market from the parties my father used to hold. I would’ve never imagined that it was run by other children. Quite a few things in this house would’ve been bought from you.”

“Well, when you put it like that… bit weird to think about, innit? It’s been a long time since your dad was around.” It’s an odd wave of nostalgia that he hadn’t expected to find in Barde Manor of all places. He’d sort of forgotten about his deals to Evan Barde when Arianna had become a more present face in their little group. He reckons he’ll have to take a closer look at the trinkets lying about the place and see what’s familiar.

“My flute as well. It’s one of my most prized possessions. I suppose I should thank you for selling it to my father.” Arianna beams. “And without it, who knows what could’ve happened when the spectre was attacking. I wouldn’t have had anything to calm Loosha down with.”

That’s right, Arianna had been friends with that creature, hadn’t she? To think it had existed in their sleepy little town for all these years without anyone being any the wiser. It’s also equally hard for him to believe that those nights he’d spent during the spectre attacks listening to the faint, ghost melody whistling from right outside his bedroom window had been played on an instrument he’d sold a year ago. It probably could’ve put him straight to sleep if it hadn’t been foretelling danger.

“You don’t gotta thank me for that. Nice to know it was a good sell. Better in your hands than sittin’ in our storage room.” He could say that for a lot of the things they sell, but he really hadn’t thought much of a tiny little thing he’d rescued from a pile of junk (nor had he thought very much of a forged painting left behind in an empty house, but these things seemed to be causing all kinds of ripples).

Arianna’s lips twist into a catlike smile as she stifles a laugh. “It’s certainly a shame your identity has to stay a secret. Think of how surprised everyone would be.” He has to admit, it’s a thought he entertains from time to time. It’s a nice little boost to his ego to imagine such a huge reveal that would no doubt leave all the adults who look down their noses at him stunned. Of course, logic dictates that this is a horrible idea. Sure, he might fall for the reverse psychology trick every now and then (it’s a weakness of his) but he’s not so proud that he’d actually revel in that kind of attention. Plus he’s got his companions to think about, as well as his own situation. He much prefers things how they are. To have everything change would be… unpleasant to say the least.

“Well, you’re no stranger to keepin’ secrets either.” He replies, “I’d wager this town has more than its fair share of surprises without us.” He punctuates that thought with a smile, tilting his head just a little further so he can look Arianna in the eye. He’s used to it, but it dawns on him that conversations with people sitting to his left might feel a bit one-sided when his features are obscured by his hair. Arianna leans forward a little more, wearing a teasing grin on her face.

“For such a confident boy, you seem to hide your face a lot.”

There’s a great deal he could say about that.

The noise he ends up emitting is something halfway between a laugh and a hiss as his fingers begin to busy the fraying hem of his thick scarf. “Yeah. I… I guess.”

“I noticed you have a bruise on your cheek.” Arianna says bluntly, leaving Crow to wonder what the point of bringing that up is. That is, until she says, “I think I have some ointment somewhere for bruises. Would you like me to get you some?”

Crow’s gaze is, in his defence, unintentionally suspicious. The way he squints at her isn’t doing much to conceal his thoughts, but he shrugs off the offer. “There’s no need. It’s only a bruise. It’ll go away on its own.” As true as that is, the unfortunate reality is that it’ll stick around far longer than he’d like it to. Only when every soul in town has seen the state of his face will the bruise finally decide to heal- or at least that’s how it seems sometimes. He really doesn’t have enough hair for this.

“I… I don’t mind.” Arianna says quietly, though it seems she’s only pretending as if that was the problem. “Tony gets himself into all sorts of scrapes so I’m used to it. Half of that bottle has been used up on him alone. We’ve almost run out of plasters, too.” She laughs. 

“Y’don’t need that much for a coupla scrapes. Just spit on it, he’ll be fine.”

Arianna sours, much to Crow’s amusement. “That’s gross!”

“It’s never failed us in the past.”

“Well…what if you get a cut on your cheek or something? You can’t spit on your own face.”

“Socket would have to disagree with that one.”

“Urgh!”

Crow laughs, and not just a half-assed laugh to keep the conversation flowing. He laughs properly for what he realises has been the first time all day, and it’s almost midnight. As much as he appreciates being given a moment to feel like nothing’s wrong, the reality creeps back up on him fairly quickly, and he gently runs a hand over the bruise on his face. His fingers press tentatively against the purple spot, testing the pain. 

“You know… it’ll help take the swelling down.” Arianna says softly but hesitantly. Once again, Crow shakes his head, pulling the brim of his hat a little further down.

“Honestly, it’s fine. I’ve had worse. This is nothin’.”

Arianna says nothing for some time, and Crow keeps his gaze directed elsewhere so he won’t be convinced to be treated. He can sense very easily that she’s full of questions and things to say. What surprises him is that she’s exercising a remarkable amount of restraint about it. Of course, with such a refined background, it’s obvious that Arianna knows when and when not to say certain things. That’s why he finds himself silently delighted by her inevitable attempt to further the conversation.

“Do all the Black Ravens know why you keep your face hidden?”

He has to admit it. She’s good. He wasn’t expecting the long winded approach, but he appreciates her courtesy all the same. Despite knowing what she wants to hear, he’s happy enough to answer her more innocuous questions. It doesn’t hurt to sate a little bit of curiosity.

“Yeah, they do. At least… they get the gist. That’s mostly ‘cuz we’ve been joined at the hip for quite a while. You don’t get as close as we do without learnin’ a few secrets--” he pauses to gesture to whatever is hidden beneath his fringe, “-- and this ain’t exactly inconspicuous. Don’t get me wrong, we all got somethin’ to hide. Some of it just ain’t as obvious as the rest.”

Arianna pulls her gaze away to stare at the darkened overcast sky. “I suppose I understand that, too. Having something physical to hide is one thing. I suppose not many people would’ve known I was sick from just looking at me.” Her voice drips with a familiar melancholy reminiscent of her days of solitude. She can be pushed into optimism as far as she likes, but he thinks these moments are good for her too.

“The people who care about you will always notice.” 

Her smile would be imperceptible if Crow hadn’t been looking for it. “I… I suppose so. That must be why your friends notice these things about you.” 

Crow shrugs. “Yeah. It’s… hard to hide anythin’ with this lot. They’re bloody persistent an’ all. Give ‘em an inch and they won’t let it go ‘til you tell ‘em what’s wrong.” He has to laugh- it’s endearing after all. Even when he finds himself evading concerns and helping hands at every turn, he thinks his life would be a lot more miserable without anyone to even bother asking. “But that’s different. You, on the other hand… I mean, a fatal illness is no joke. That’s a hard thing to keep to yerself.”

“Mm. It’s… I’m lucky to be where I am now. Loosha showing us the way to the Golden Garden-- without her, I would be dying. I… I was dying. Father really tried, but…”

“Dyin’ is one thing, but dyin’ on your own with nobody to give a toss about you is even harder-- and you don’t wanna put Tony through that.”

Despite the sombre mood, Arianna can still muster a sweet smile. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was spoken like somebody who’s used to hiding things that hurt.”

“I guess that’s somethin’ we have in common.”

“So why do you hide your face?”

“Botched eye.”

“I see…”

Even though the air is still, the acre of trees around the manor still bristle softly, yet for such a natural area, there’s no sounds of wildlife. 

“Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes.”

The cacophony of voices coming from within the manor begin to warp every now and then as people continue to move within the building. For a moment, Crow worries he’ll be spotted by one of the others. 

“Were you born with it?”

“No.”

A pair of light but speedy footsteps echo through the hall, passing them by. Just as they begin to ebb away, they stop sharply with a squeak and a loud thud. Tony emits a faint whine.

“Do you want to go back inside?”

“Yeah.”

Chapter Text

Despite having an entire manor to themselves and the free rein to do whatever they liked within it, the time for bedtime preparations came swiftly. It might’ve dawned on them that staying up as late as they’d like was definitely possible, and something they rarely get the chance to do, but the exhaustion of the day’s events had been weighing on them for hours already. By the time midnight had approached, eyes were beginning to flicker shut and yawns could no longer be stifled. Even with the number of bedrooms to be found in the manor, the group had adamantly settled on sleeping in a comfy, carpeted sitting room on the ground floor, where a fire is still gently flickering, keeping the surroundings warm. 

As most take this as an opportunity to get some much-needed sleep, Crow takes this as an opportunity to slip out of the manor whilst the others are occupied. He can only feign getting ready for bed for so long (nobody brushes their teeth for ten minutes, especially not this lot), but by the time he pokes his head into the room to check on them, they’re all tucked into bed to various degrees. Gus is already flat-out asleep, which is baffling to him, being the kind of person who has to toss and turn for hours before he finally falls unconscious. Scraps is still poking at the fire from where he’s lying, periodically throwing small splinters over the thick metal barrier that separates the fire from a disaster. Even though he too has a tendency to remain awake until the small hours, Crow will be imperceptible to him when his glasses are off. 

With everybody else too busy huddled under their blankets or staring at the ceiling, no doubt all preoccupied by their thoughts on the events of earlier today, Crow takes this as his moment to disappear. 

Or, at least he thought this was his moment. As he creeps back from the door and heads down the corridor towards the front of the manor, making good use of his 10-year apprenticeship in erasing his entire presence whilst in his own home, he ends up jumping out of his skin when he turns the corner. It’s like a ghost running into another ghost. Arianna’s pale face, lit only by the dim light of the wall sconce further down the corridor, suddenly invades his vision, and he feels as if he’s been caught red-handed, despite not having done anything explicitly wrong. Arianna doesn’t seem much surprised, but the persistent appearance of his cap and scarf suggests to her that he’s not quite ready to settle into bed yet.

Speaking of bed, only after the initial shock does Crow realise that she’s probably heading off to bed herself. Her hair is missing its usual pristine white ribbon, and in lieu of her day clothes, usually all in varying shades of blue, she’s wearing a simple white nightgown with a little bow on the front. It’s admittedly cute, but it doesn’t do her many favours in the department of not looking like a haunting apparition stalking the corridors. He thinks this kind of thing must just come naturally to her. In a moment of whimsy, he’s half tempted to ask her to go and scare the others just for the fun of it.

“You’re still up? I thought you’d all gone to bed.” At this moment, she makes a pointed gesture of squinting at his hat and scarf, as well as the rest of his attire. “You know, I can probably find you something to wear to bed. I suppose you didn’t really have time to bring pyjamas, did you?” Her smile is teasing, but fond. 

“Uh, no thanks. I don’t really wear pyjamas anyway, it’s fine.” He waves off her concern with a waft of his hand, but that only serves to perplex her further. 

“You don’t just wear your day clothes to bed, do you?”

As much as he’d love to cut her off with a witty remark on the distance between their lives, he finds the conversation deftly sliced through by the voice of Wren coming from just over his shoulder. 

“Don’t even bother.” Wren snarks, “That’s just how boys are. D’you know how much fightin’ it takes for me to get Socket to wear pants to bed? Like I wanna see that when I wake up in the mornin’. S’vile.” She pouts, folding her arms. Crow takes a step back to allow Wren into the conversation, noting that she’d already taken a favour from Arianna in the form of borrowing some nightwear. However, evident by the grin he’s barely able to bite back, Arianna’s style of dress isn’t really much of a fit for Wren- or at least that’s just his honest opinion when seeing her clad in a lilac nightdress with white lace sewn into the hems. Wren clocks his expression almost immediately and her face is beginning to brew a thunderstorm.

“Hey, don’t gimme that look,” Crow says defensively, but he can’t contain the laughter that bubbles in his throat, escaping between every word. “I ain’t seen you wear nothin’ like that since we were-- what, five or six? Suits you though.”

“Zip it. I need to talk to you.”

“You already are.”

Arianna takes this moment to politely dip out of the conversation as she swans past them, “I’ll leave you both to it. Crow, if you change your mind on pyjamas, I have a nice nightie that’s very much your colour.” She giggles, her graceful glide past soon turning into an impish jog down the corridor. “Just let me know if you want it.”

“I hope you won’t think of me as impolite if I were to say not even for all the money in the world. But thank you anyway.” He calls after her, his glare offset by a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“So where are you off to?”

“Eh?”

Before he can assess the situation, Wren practically has him pinned against the wall, and he thinks this is a far cry from the red-faced mess that had pecked him on the cheek earlier today. That little lapse in judgement hadn’t crossed his mind all night until now, when he finds himself nose-to-nose with her once again, albeit this time she doesn’t look quite as happy.

“Weren’t you just brushin’ yer teeth? I watched you take your scarf off. Why’d you put it back on? Where are you off to?”

“I ain’t off to anywhere.” He replies thickly, doing his best not to come off as outright obstructive. It doesn’t seem to be working out when Wren is peering at him suspiciously, but after a moment she shakes her head with resignation.

“Alright, well I’ve gotta talk to you anyway. See, y’know that handbell we sold? The one we got--”

“--from the dead lady, yeah, I know. What about it?”

At this, Wren begins to tug at the bands that keep her hair in two neat bunches. She nibbles at the inside of her cheek as she says in a hushed whisper, “Didja see that Arianna and Tony have one just like it upstairs?” With the snapping of elastic, one side of her hair begins to fall to her shoulders. “Even Scraps reckons it’s exactly the same.”

“Y’wot? Upstairs? Why…? I’m pretty sure I would know if I sold it to ‘em.”

“That’s the thing, innit? You didn’t. There’s two of ‘em!” She manages to tug the other elastic free and she wraps it neatly around her wrist. “So, Tony was tellin’ me that ages ago, their dad had a mate who was a painter! She’d come out here to paint Mr Barde pictures, includin’ that picture upstairs of Arianna and Tony! Then, apparently, she had to go off and leave, and she gave him that handbell as a present! Tony says they were good friends. What d’ya reckon?”

“I reckon that’s a lot of information you’ve just dumped at my feet, Wren.”

“Heheh… sorry. I was gonna tell you earlier, but you disappeared. Where’d you get to, anyway?”

“Not important. So… this lady was at least a bit of a professional, eh? Interestin’.” He taps a finger to his chin. It somewhat corroborates what Taffy had told him the day before, but she’d been quite insistent that this lady had been more of a hobbyist collector than anything else. It’s not exactly out of character for Taffy to lie to him if she considers it none of his concern, but it does throw a bit of a wrench into his plans. 

“If they really are the same then these handbells gotta belong together! It’s too much of a coincidence! If only Mr Barde were alive, we might be able to get some answers outta him…” Wren’s expression wilts as she begins to habitually snap at the elastics around her wrist. It leaves pale red marks over the sensitive skin there. “So what now?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan-- and yeah, before you say anythin’, I know. I know you don’t like it, but I’ve got things to clear up first.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it…” Wren mumbles. “I just wish I knew what you were up to.”

Crow emits a sigh, taking a short moment to mull over his options. Eventually, his expression softens, and now it’s Wren’s turn to feel overwhelmed. “Alright. I’m off to see the bloke who wound up with our painting.”

“What?! But you--”

Before her needlessly loud tone alerts the others, Crow clamps a hand over her mouth and hisses at her. “Shut up! Look, just listen. I’m goin’ over in the costume to sort things out. We’re not the ones who messed up here. I managed to look over the details and track the client who registered that proxy. He may ‘ave bought that thing, but if his mate don’t relay the proper details of the purchase, that ain’t our fault! I’ll go over, explain it, maybe strike up a deal for compensation and we’ll be fine. See? You got nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”

He waits until Wren’s tense expression subsides, replaced only with a frown of disapproval. Only then does he move his hand from her lips, but her cheeks are suspiciously rosy in colour. Thankfully, she keeps her response quiet.

“Well… alright, that’s not the worst plan we’ve come up with, but it’s the middle of the night!”

“This guy cocked up my entire day by gettin’ the police involved, so he’s gonna have to deal with me ruinin’ his night. Tough for him.” He shrugs with a face like stone, which isn’t much of a reassurance for Wren. She sighs.

“And the costume too…?”

“Can’t let ‘im see my face. It’ll just be an in-and-out job, alright? Don’t worry so much.” He moves to put a hand on her shoulder, but some mysterious force of crippling teenage anxiety rips it right back again. He opts to awkwardly wave his hand dismissively. “I’ll be back in, what, an hour? Hour an’ a half? It’ll be fine.”

“I’ll stay up and wait for you then.”

“Just go to bed, Wren. You’ve had the worst day of us all, and we still ain’t figured out what to do about you. I’m gonna go and see if he’ll try and help get the coppers off our backs. That might take the pressure off a bit.” He still can’t quite bring himself to put a hand on her shoulder, but he wants to show her some amount of affection, but he just ends up patting Wren’s head and trying not to seem condescending about it all. Wren stares up at him with her enormous eyes, but her brows are still furrowed.

“I still ain’t happy about this.”

“Neither am I, but it’ll be fine.”

“Stop sayin’ that.”

“Stop givin’ me a reason to say it, then.”

A heavy sigh racks her entire body, and she begins to deftly curl a lock of hair around her finger, something she doesn’t get to do often. “I’m still gonna stay up and wait for you. You ain’t changin’ my mind on that.” Her features are soft, almost angelic looking, but he knows the kind of cogs that are spinning at full speed within her head. Her cheeks bulge around a barely perceptible pout, and when the light from the sconce hits the cherry pink colour of her protruding bottom lip, he can just about make out the lines carved into the flesh where her teeth had been nervously nipping at the skin there. 

His smile is fond. “I told you already, I’m not gonna let you get into trouble again. If worst comes to worst… I’ll take the fall. I ain’t afraid.”

“It’s not about bein’ afraid and you know it.” Wren mutters, finding something despicable about the words he’d just said. “Just… go get it over with and come back quickly. Then we can all figure out what to do.”

“I will, I promise.” He begins to shuffle away in the direction of the front door, but Wren’s eyes don’t stray from him. She still doesn’t look satisfied, but after a moment, she hangs her head, obscuring her tomato coloured cheeks from full view. Her eyes bore into a small smudge of dirt on the rug beneath her feet, no doubt tracked in by one of her lot. 

“Um.”

She wants to say something about earlier, but there’s not much she can do but apologise. That would be all well and good, but she doesn’t particularly want to apologise. He hasn’t made any indication that he wants to talk about it either, but he also doesn’t seem… bothered. The moment a noise escapes her throat, begging for his attention, she finds herself with less than nothing to say. A wish for the ground to swallow her whole simply wouldn’t be enough. She’d much rather the entire earth cave in on itself instead.

“Thanks. For gettin’ me out of jail, I mean… and, uh… for everythin’ else, too.”

“Everythin’ else?” Crow quirks a brow, but the amusement is still evident on his face. “Give over, you don’t hafta thank me for a thing. Half the reason I can do what I do is ‘cuz of you, y’know.”

With that, and a charming smile, he disappears around the corner, and thus his own self-appointed mission begins. He leaves Wren behind, both delighted and mortified in equal measure, still reeling from words that she thinks she’ll never forget for a long time, and words that she thinks she’d be better off forgetting.

Chapter Text

Night is when the mist is at its thickest, shrouding the entire town and seemingly disconnecting it from the greater expanse of greenery that keep the stacks of buildings all in one place. Surreal during the day, but borderline ethereal during the night- Crow begins to regret donning the Black Raven costume so soon when he ends stumbling over a protrusion in the cobblestones for the third time. It’s hard enough to remain as vigilant as he needs to be with the one eye alone without the layers of inconvenience obstructing him at every turn. The shadowed figure lumbering past the hazy canals emits an uncharacteristically petulant grumble, lurching as he shakes off the stinging sensation running through his toes. The irritation of poorly-sized shoes that exacerbates every trip and stumble proves to be exasperating enough to occupy his thoughts even when he’s creeping through a vast driveway and towards his destination. 

He’s lucky enough that this place is relatively close to Barde Manor. Trekking all the way across town through the mist wearing a costume meant for someone double his size isn’t exactly the best use of his time. Not when he finds himself a little more disoriented than he’d like when he crosses the driveway and approaches a large three-storey building clad in thick slabs of grey stone. It’s a nice house, even in the dark, and one he’d scoped out earlier before their plan to rescue Wren was enacted. Trimmed hedgerows, windowsill flowerboxes all in bloom, neatly polished windows with prim white net curtains- it’s a noticeable step up from the old lady’s house. Though there’s still room for doubt in his mind, he’s certain he has the right place. 

It’s not like he makes a big habit of breaking and entering. Not really. He wouldn’t call himself much of a criminal- after all, he’s not here to steal. He’s just… visiting. Admittedly, it’s an unannounced visitation, and he’d use the door if he could, but if he’s going to make a suspicious appearance, he might as well use the window since it’s there- and a well-placed drainpipe offers him such easy access to the first floor, where a single window flickers with a dim light.

It’s not hard to open the window from the outside. It’s surprising how many places a piece of card and a paperclip can grant him access to. The windowbox supporting his weight, a good fifteen feet off the ground, begins to creak in alarm mere moments before he’s able to sling his legs through the window and into the house. He thinks it might be a bit rude to just start cutting around in someone’s home, so he takes a moment to perch on the sill and observe the room. The lit fireplace on the far wall tells him he’s picked the right one.

Despite the late hour, the one occupied room in the house isn’t a bedroom. Instead, it’s something of a parlour, full of enough upholstered chairs and sofas to seat half of Misthallery. It’s a nice enough house and a nice enough room- he’s seeing a lot of furniture that would sell at a decent price in the black market, but he’s not much of an expert on the decorating tastes of rich folk. 

Over on the far side of the room, an intricately chiselled fireplace is set into the wall, and its flames send a wiry shadow sprawling across the plush carpet. Only a faint profile can be made out of the person sitting in a leather chair made from vibrant maroon material, but Crow is certain this is the right house. It had taken some desperately hurried cross-referencing, sifting through what little paperwork he had left, but he can’t imagine he’d be all too competent if he didn’t have decent knowledge of the patrons of his business. Even hiding behind a proxy, he’s aware of the people who rarely, if ever, show their faces to his auctions themselves. Those were often the people with the grandest fortunes, able to pay their way through every step in life. Though he detests those types, he wouldn’t be making very much money if there weren’t people around with money to burn, so he can’t find a great deal to complain about.

With his arm draped in billowing grey fabric, he raises a hand to the ivory-painted wood of the window frame and gently raps his knuckles upon it. He knocks out a little tune, as if playfully knocking upon a friend's door in search of companionship. The reality is delightfully bleak. The figure in the chair shifts for just a moment, seemingly unalarmed by the strange presence in their home. 

“I apologise for… visiting at such a late hour.” There’s a dull humour wrapped thickly around every word that comes out of his mouth, but the forbidding twitch at the corner of his lips doesn’t match the dead sincerity hiding in his obscured eyes. “I have a few things that need to be discussed with you. I hope you don’t mind.” 

The man sitting in the chair by the fire visibly deflates, but there is no sigh to be heard. Instead, the cracking of a lit matchstick is the only thing to be heard over the whispering of the flames in the fireplace. The man lights the cigarette, or possibly cigar, held between his lips. Crow takes this moment, now knowing he is in no imminent danger, to hop down from the window ledge and move to the centre of the room. However, he leaves the window wide open and keeps it in the corner of his eye at all times.

After a while, and a satisfyingly heavy puff of smoke, the man finally speaks. His voice is like the warm crackling of radio static, interspersed by wheezes of breath indicative of his older age and developing lung disease. Though he has yet to look at Crow directly, their proximity now offers the boy a glance at the sharp lines of age cut into the sides of his face, illuminated by glowing light.

“I must admit…” he says through a breath of smoke, “I wasn’t expecting you to come here yourself. I suppose this means you’ve evaded the authorities for now. So who was it that they arrested in the end…?”

“If you don’t mind,” Crow’s tone is terse, “I have far more pressing matters to address than that. Namely, your… purchase.”

The man’s head shifts ever so slightly, and for a second, Crow can make out a shocking glimmer of the whites of his eyes. “Even sending someone else in my stead isn’t enough to trip you, eh? Not that I had any intention of deceiving you to begin with.”

“Nor did I.” Crow replies bluntly. “I might as well make it perfectly clear- that painting you bought wasn’t labelled as a genuine article. Granted, I’ll admit to you now, I didn’t explicitly state it was a replica, but I didn’t say it was real either. That fault lies with the person you sent in your place. That’s all.” He’s not in the mood to be pushed around with on this one- he knows what he said, and he understands that the lack of clarity might lead false assumptions, but this doesn’t fall upon him anymore. “Besides which, anyone who makes such grand purchases should know to check the quality and legitimacy of the item. Lapses of judgement like that have nothing to do with me.”

The man laughs, and it’s reminiscent of a needle skipping over a frayed record. “I see. A very competent argument, for sure. I was unaware that you’d neglected to claim the article’s legitimacy… but I’d need some proof of that to believe it for certain.”

“Much like I’d need evidence that your proxy didn’t know what they were buying. I’m sure you’ve got concrete proof of that, too?” Crow replies with the kind of speed that only a terribly backbiting child could muster, and with a twang of petulance to top it all off. For a moment, he worries that he’s revealed far too much of himself. Nonetheless, the man laughs again, but doesn’t appear to make any dire connections.

“I’d be surprised if you came all the way just to absolve yourself of blame. Surely, you came here for another reason?” He taps his cigarette out into an ashtray sitting on the armrest beside him. Crow takes a few steps closer to him until he’s looming just a few feet away from the chair.

“Aside from the fact that you’ve managed to sabotage my entire business, which is unappreciated by the way. Getting the police involved isn’t quite the checkmate you think it is.”

“Clearly not.”

“No, I came here for the arrest that was made earlier today.”

“I see.” The man puts the cigarette to his lips, and whilst it hangs there, he gestures for Crow to come and stand by the fireplace in order to speak face-to-face, or in Crow’s case, face-to-mask. He mulls it over, but obliges in the end. 

There’s a lot to be said about both of their appearances. Crow curiously has not seen this man around Misthallery before, which leads him to assume he’s more on the reclusive side, much like their deceased lady friend who seems to still be making ripples in the mortal realm. His only access to the black market had been through his proxy who had come searching for the market on his behalf from the very beginning. He’d done a bit of digging here and there and had assessed that it wasn’t a poor opportunity, which is a decision he’s beginning to regret now. The man is really quite old, with impressive lines of age cut into his gaunt face. His eyes are deeply sunk into his eye sockets, with a thick line of barely visible white eyebrow hair across the top. Even despite the pallid complexion and glassy eyes, the expression on his face becomes creased with delight, exacerbating the wrinkles around his mouth. 

“Well, aren’t you a character? You must be the infamous Black Raven. I can only apologise that it’s taken so long for us both to meet in person. I’m… not as mobile as I once was, you understand.”

“It’s just a shame we have to meet under these circumstances.” Crow replies flatly. “I’ll be frank with you about what I want, but I’m more than happy to offer compensation for our mishap, providing you do the same for me. Does that seem fair?”

“You’re very forward.”

“I have to be.”

The man laughs. “Of course. I suppose there will be time for idle chit-chat after business. Now, I have plenty to say on the matter, but let us return to this arrest. I was made aware that the police apprehended a young lady earlier this morning in the marketplace, is that correct?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I take it, being the one making these charges, that the police keeps you up to date on the case?”

“Indeed, which is why I’m also aware that this young lady has disappeared from police custody. I’d say… no more than a few hours ago, is that right?” He stubs out the cigarette butt in the ashtray, and slowly clasps his spindly, white fingers together.

“I couldn’t say.”

He smiles. “Of course not. What matters is the arrest, yes? Well, I’m afraid I have little control over how the authorities conduct their investigations. Especially considering that the lady was found at your establishment, and wearing one of those costumes no less. I assume she’s something of a decoy, then.”

He’d never really considered Wren a decoy, or any of the others for that matter. The Black Raven wasn’t a singular person, it was all of them together. However, hearing it from him, he supposes that he really is the true Black Raven, being the glue that holds the other pieces together. Still, this provides him with a good place to start negotiations.

“Yes. She’s simply involved on a surface level. It helps to have… distractions.” He lies, hoping to shift as much blame away from Wren as possible. 

“I’m sure it does. However, if you’re looking to have her pardoned for this indiscretion, then I’m unable to help you.”

“What?” Crow suddenly snaps, failing to bite back a sudden surge of anger.

“Whether she is the real deal or not, she is still involved. That’s more than enough reason to keep her detained for information. The police have no reason to let her go at this moment, and depending on their investigation, they may charge her with whatever they find appropriate for her actions and age. That is, if they’re able to apprehend her again.” He seems very nonchalant about the entire situation, and though his indifference isn’t surprising, it’s still remarkably infuriating.

“But since you were the one who sparked this investigation, you should be able to get the police to drop the charges, right?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Alright,” Crow huffs, “Let me rephrase that. Since you were the one who sparked this investigation, you should be able to pay off the police to drop the charges, right?”

At this, the man bursts into peals of raspy, hiccuped laughter. He claps his hands together, but being as frail as he is, the sound is meagre and underwhelming. Crow is beginning to silently seethe beneath his mask, only visible by the twitching of his shoulders.

“You know, I’ve become quite fond of you. You’re very… what’s the word? Aware.”

“Look, there must be something you want out of this. You wouldn’t have tipped off the police if you didn’t. If I can give you what you want--”

“This is all very presumptuous.”

“Well, I don’t exactly have time to drag this out. If you want your money back, then…” For a moment, he can feel his chest squeezing, and he grimaces. “...then give me a little bit of time and I’ll get it all back to you.” It had been a substantial amount of money. An amount that had done well to clear away the gas bills and keep the cupboards stocked. He’d have to work some serious magic to get that money back in a short amount of time, especially with the market currently dissolved.

“Money is hardly the problem here. I’m not pressed for cash, and in my age, it’ll outlive me at this rate.” He says this quite plainly, his fingers toying at the packet of cigarettes that sit comfortably on his lap, oblivious to the boy standing next to him who is silently wondering how much time he’ll do for assaulting an elderly man.

“So, it wouldn’t be incorrect to say you wish to free the young lady from her charges, would it?”

“No.” Crow replies through gritted teeth. “That’s… all I wish for. She truly has nothing to do with any of this. It’s unfair to punish her for it.”

The man’s eyes glint against the firelight, and as he looks up at Crow, he gets his horrible feeling that the man is able to see right through his mask. “I see.” He looks down at the packet of cigarettes, slowly pulling one from its foil wrapping, creating a horrible suspension in the conversation. Crow can’t stand how hard this man is to read. Just what did he get from all of this?

There’s an enormously long pause, and the man neglects to light his cigarette during this time. Instead, he looks back at Crow with the deepest sincerity.

“If you truly believe that, and you wish for her freedom, then what stops you from taking her place? If you think it’s unfair for her to be punished in your place, should you not step up to take the blame? I think that’s the fairest decision.”

Crow swallows, and realises how much he despises the fact that he’d never seriously considered this option. Sure, he’d said previously that he’d take the fall for his friends should the worst come to worst, but making the decision to go out and shoulder the burden before the situation could grow any more dire did not cross his mind. He can’t decide if that lapse had been a result of selfishness or a natural desire to fight for as long as he could for his freedom. Whatever it is, it makes his stomach churn with an icy feeling that can’t be shaken. The warmth of the fire does nothing to relieve his shivers. 

Processing this, Crow realises he’d forgotten to reply entirely, but is now aware that his silence speaks incredible volumes. So much so that the man has begun to occupy himself with his next cigarette. It’s hard to really see what he’s doing- the mask itself is stuffy, and it’s beginning to merge with the mental clutter that’s piling up and inflicting its weight upon him. If he doesn’t get some fresh air soon, he thinks he might black out. 

As if dragging his wound through a salt mine, the man smiles up at him, holding out his cigarette packet with a lively shake. “I don’t mean to be impolite. Would you care for one?”

Crow tries to swallow down the backlog of phlegm in his throat, but it just won’t go down. Instead, he shakes his head and manages to murmur, “No thanks.”

“Hm, hm. Too young, are you?”

In any other case, Crow might be alarmed by how on the nose that statement may be, and what concerns that might raise for him if the old man is beginning to get glimpses of his true identity. However, with his senses currently numbed by grim reality, his thoughts are too. As if being young had anything to do with it. He wonders how young you’d have to be for your walls to bleed yellow with smoke residue, and your clothes to stink of ash. He wouldn’t consider himself impressionable, even in those moments where his hand had lingered over the ashtray. Even though it hadn’t been that long ago, those days were now nothing but the small holes burnt into his clothes, and the lingering strain on his vocal chords.

The lives of children, indeed. 

“I’ll do it.”

“Hm?”

“I’ll… give up. If she goes free. If that’s what it takes.” 

He senses a gnawing irony in the fact that, for a boy who puts plenty of thought into every crucial step, he thinks of absolutely nothing when he puts a hand on the edge of his mask. He holds it there, merely tempting the reveal of his identity, and even though the man smiles, his expression is eerily unreadable. He bides his time lighting his cigarette, savouring the harsh heat that has long since worn away the feeling within his throat. 

“Your outcome is solely dependent on your actions. Empty threats mean nothing, I hope you know.”

It’s hard to distinguish his deepest desires from the natural instinct that surpasses rationality that complements his age, but if he’s going into this without any thought, then he thinks there’s not much of a point in prolonging the inevitable. Maybe his pride had gotten the better of him this time, but there’s nothing he can say to dispute what the old man had said. If it was really just a matter of fairness, then this was the only logical solution. Even if there could’ve been a different outcome. Even if he could’ve made a different decision. Even if he’d stopped to actually think about what he was doing. 

Even if his actions are nothing but the mistakes of a child. 

Even if the loss of sensibility is all that can be seen in eyes that have never looked so eager, despite having died time and time again. 

The glow of the fireplace hits the curve of his face from the wrong side, casting the awkward shadow of his nose over his eye, obscuring the light that should gleam there. Under such a grand mask, shrouded in a looming presence that demands the attention and respect he deserves, is someone who, for the first time in a while, looks nothing like himself. 

He’s never felt so small under the gaze of someone else. Not when he’s spent so much time trying to meet everybody else at eye level. Only under the mask of the Black Raven is he able to properly level the playing field, but now that it’s been removed, he’s back to where he started. It’s in his nature to remain strong regardless, which is why he steels his jaw and holds his expression, daring to look the man dead in the eyes with as much sincerity as he can muster. 

What he doesn’t understand is why he buckles when the face staring back at him is brimming with melancholy. He’d been expecting crude cynicism and condescension, and he’d prepared himself for that, so sure of the fact that he wouldn’t be swayed by being beaten down upon. Even one of those horrid, creaky laughs would be enough to let him know exactly where he stood, but there’s something so unsettling about the lack of pushback. The man’s expression is… soft. Nobody looks at him that way. Perhaps he’d prepared for the wrong thing. He’d been so sure of ridicule that it hadn’t occurred to him to shield himself from pity.

“...I see.” Is all the man can say. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette, pulling his eyes away from Crow to watch the delicate flickering of flames that illuminates the sobriety on his face. Crow can’t bring himself to say anything, which is pertinent considering he can’t think of a single thing to say. In a rare moment of true weakness, he holds his tongue and tries not to meditate on the gravity of the choice he’s made. Forcing every intruding thought out of his mind, he only thinks of his friends who sleep soundly up at Barde Manor, and Wren, who is no doubt wide awake and waiting for him.

After a long lull in the conversation, when the nerves have had time to subside, the man speaks once more. His voice lacks the humour it once possessed.

“How old are you?”

“Nearly thirteen.”

“And how long have you been doing… this?”

“A few years.”

“By yourself?”

“...yes.”

There’s an impressive chunk of ash threatening to fall from the tip of the man’s cigarette that Crow can’t quite take his eyes off. He neglects to ash it, even when he pushes the cigarette packet further across the arm of his chair. He doesn’t even spare a glance to Crow when he says, “I wouldn’t judge you if you took one. A nasty habit it may be, but… it has its moments.” He cracks a small, humourless smile. “Consider it a poor influence if you like but I’m not so cruel as to deny a little solace to those in need.”

“I’ll… I’ll believe that when you clear my friend’s name.” He won’t be pulled away from the conditions he’d set. This would be a complete waste if he couldn’t achieve what he’d set out to do, but a frown captures his face when the man waves a dismissive hand. 

“You can already consider that done. So long as the authorities are to understand that she and I came to a suitable agreement, they shouldn’t bother her very much.”

Though he doesn’t want to say it, feeling uncertain about the procession of the conversation, he holds the mask of the Black Raven tightly and murmurs, “Thank you.” He feels as if he’s betraying some part of himself, but now that Wren’s safety is at least guaranteed to some degree, he feels a little more at ease. He feels a little more satisfied with the choice he’s made. So long as his actions aren’t in vain, he can rest easy knowing his pride hasn’t won this battle. That’s about as much as he can get out of this right now.

“I don’t mean to keep you, it’s getting quite late I know…” the man unloads a hoarse cough into his frail, balled fist, “... but I wonder if you would chat with me a while longer.” At long last, he drops the now entirely burnt out cigarette into the ashtray beside him, now opting to clasp his hands comfortably together. “There’s a stool over there. Pull that up, if you please.”

He’s not exactly got much else to lose at the moment, and he turns to spy a small, leather stool tucked away beside the fireplace. However, before he goes to retrieve it, he shoots the man a firm but pleading look. “I will, if you let me go back home just once more to see my friends before I…”

“We’ll get to that later. Please, come and sit by the fire.”

“...alright.”

The fire had been unbearably hot when he’d been wearing the Black Raven costume, but now that he’s sitting here wearing nothing but his own thin layers, silently racked by the looming, cold dread of the severity of his situation, the fire is beginning to feel comfortably warm. The leather of the stool squeaks harshly beneath his weight as he shuffles back and forth. The fabric of the costume sits by his feet in a neat little pool. The mask rests on his knees, staring up at him with foreboding. He’d apologise to it if he could.

“That’s quite the costume you’ve got there. Did you make that yourself?”

Crow nods, not tearing his eyes away from the haunting visage of the Black Raven. “I did. It’s based on the old--”

“--the old folktale, yes, I’m aware. Rather unusual for a boy of your age to be so keen on local legends. Enjoy that sort of thing, do you?”

“Mhm.”

“I can see the appeal. Not much of that gets shared around nowadays, but it was quite a thrill to hear the stories when I was a child. Of course, I always doubted its plausibility, so you can imagine my surprise when I hear that the infamous black market is being run by such a character. A very good stage you’ve set up for yourself there.”

There’s not much he can say to any of this, and he’s unsure what constitutes sincerity or derision. In these moments, he simply nods his head silently in acknowledgement. Despite agreeing to the man’s request for a chat, he’s far too busy thinking about what measures to take to keep his friends afloat for the time his own future is undetermined.

“I suppose it begs the biggest question of them all. What spurred you to create such a thing?”

There’s so much he could say in this moment. After all, it questions the very foundation that his current life is built on. He doesn’t know if the old man is looking for a particular answer, or if he really, earnestly seeks the truth. It takes him a while to find the words to express something he’s never actually had to explain to anyone before.

“It’s… it’s so we can live. I split the money we made between me and my friends. That money is what we use to pay for food and bills.” He mutters, before frowning, “We’re tired of relying on grown-ups. I’m the only person in my house who’s sober enough to even know we have to pay for electricity. That girl you arrested- her mum works three jobs and can barely afford a roof over her family’s heads. She doesn’t deserve to get arrested for that. We’re just… tryin’ to survive. That’s all.”

There’s no noticeable reaction from the old man, other than a sombre nod of the head. “Mmm. So nothing’s really ever changed over time. Children making a living for themselves is nothing new. It’s just a shame things end up that way sometimes.”

“Don’t pity me.”

“Oh, I assure you, this isn’t pity. Not in the slightest.” He cracks a smile. “Consider it… understanding.”

Crow doesn’t quite know what to say, and he watches the old man’s unreadable expression for some time, but before he can respond, he’s cut off by a low sigh.

“I can tell you’re a reasonable boy. You offered me compensation of some kind, despite claiming no fault in this mishap, so I’ll offer you something in return.” He props an elbow on the armrest, leaning in to peer at Crow with a shiny gleam in his dull eyes. “As it stands, I have no intention of sharing the secret of your identity to the relevant authorities, nor do I have any intention of pursuing your little friend any further. However, for this decision to remain… concrete, I’m going to ask you to do something for me. That sounds fair, doesn’t it?”

He can’t believe it. He really wasn’t expecting any kind of leeway to wriggle out of this, but being presented with such a golden opportunity on a shining silver platter is too good to resist. It’s almost a little suspicious, and he’s still wary of the true nature of his identity now resting in the hands of someone currently untrustworthy, but it wouldn’t hurt to listen to his conditions. He leans forward with the kind of eager eyes attributed only to his young age. 

“Now we both know the painting I purchased was a forgery. Whether or not you claimed its status as a replica is irrelevant for now. I could even be so kind as to consider the idea that this was simply an amateur mistake on your part, but what I want you to find out is who was responsible for creating this forgery-- and I want proof of this. Do you understand?”

“You… you wanna know who painted it?”

“It’s not enough to make a claim. If you’re as competent as you’ve proved yourself to be, you should know that concrete evidence is crucial. If you can deliver this to me, then you can consider yourself and your friends out of danger.”

Crow blinks, audibly swallowing. Maybe it’s down to the years of second-guessing the people around him, but this feels like a trap somehow. He wants nothing more than to doubt this man, but it’s all laid out so perfectly, and discovering the original forger truly does not put him in any more trouble than he’s already in. He can’t say for sure if it’s a win for him, but it’s certainly not a loss. His eyes don’t stray for the man for even a second.

“Even if I fail, my friends will still be safe, won’t they?”

The man simply smiles, which tells him all he needs to know. Thinking on it further will only be prolonging the inevitable, and with little other choice, he decides to go into it with the same energy and determination he had when throwing away the Black Raven for the sake of his friends. He gives a firm nod.

“I’ll do it… but why? Why do you wanna know who the painter is? And wouldn’t it be easier for you to go out and find them? You’re the one with all the money and connections…”

“Well, I’m not too pressed to divulge my reasoning. As for you, yes, I may have advantages, but I believe I can entrust you with this particular task, seeing as you’re evidently the resourceful type. Besides which, you’ll need me to sit back here and control what I can of the investigation to ensure your safety.”

Crow sighs. “Alright, you make a good point. I’ll… see what I can do.”

“You’d better start looking quickly if I were you. You have… around a week to gather the relevant evidence.”

“A week?!”

“I can’t hold the investigation back for very long without providing adequate results. You’re free to take that painting you sold me with you, too. I’m sure it’ll provide you with a solid lead.”

“So I have one painting? That’s all I have to help collect a whole case in a week on someone I don’t even know?” He jumps in his seat so violently, trying to hold back the urge to bolt up onto his feet, but he knows he’s just complaining for the sake of complaining. This is simply the opportunity he’s been provided with. The risk only reflects the dire consequences he’ll face if he fails, and his pride must be shot if he faces this with anything but a guarantee of good results.

The worst part about it is that it’s all coming together in his head, but of course it would be just too easy to take his word for it. No, he has to prove that what he says is the truth. He can’t be too surprised, but it’s inconvenience feels too blatant to be a coincidence.

Once again, it’s all coming back to that old lady.

Chapter Text

The icy cold bench on the furthest balcony of Barde Manor is occupied once again for the second time in a single night. It threatens to stick shiny flakes of paint upon the backsides of whoever happens to sit there, but the state of her clothes is the furthest thing from Wren’s mind. It’s far too cold for her to be out here, but the shivers elicited by the bitter winds helps burn off some of the anxious energy that’s been building up since Crow left. She’s still clad in the nightdress loaned to her by Arianna, but with her thick, green coat and yellow boots pulled on over the top. 

The tips of her toes barely scrape the uneven slabs of stone that pave the balcony. She keeps her eyes trained downwards, watching the way the shivers rack her exposed knees, blemished with shades of white and pink from the cold. It’s hard not to count the seconds that go by as she patiently waits, and sure, she’d think that the time would pass much quicker if she had someone to talk to, but she truly wouldn’t be expecting anyone to come and find her at this late hour. 

That’s why it’s such a surprise to her when, after about half an hour of waiting, the door behind her that separates the misty cold air from the warmth of the house emits a grating shriek. It clearly doesn’t fit the frame it’s hinged to, with the wood having warped and expanded over the years, so it takes some serious shoving to push it open. For a moment, Wren thinks the force behind it might take out a window pane. Such heavy-handedness can only really foretell the appearance of one person in particular, but she still finds herself distinctly surprised when the round, rosy-cheeked face of Gus appears in the doorway.

“Oh.” Wren blinks. “Hiya, Gus. Weren’t… weren’t you asleep?”

Gus creeps out from behind the door, but is hit with the cold that sends a visible shiver right up his spine. He folds his arms tightly, plodding over and taking a hefty seat on the bench next to Wren, who is momentarily lifted several centimetres. This bench probably isn’t even safe for her to sit on, let alone seat two people.

“I was but I noticed you disappeared. Ain’t it too cold out here?” He emphasises this point by fiercely rubbing at his arms in an attempt to generate even a miniscule amount of warmth. Wren’s responding smile is gentle but halfhearted. 

“I’m alright. I just… can’t sleep is all.”

“Y’know, I thought Crow might be out here with you too, since he ain’t here either.” He says plainly, and there’s a dim smile on his face when he says, “I was bein’ careful checkin’ on you ‘cos I thought the two of you might be out here havin’ a snog or somethin’. I was a bit surprised to see you by yourself.”

Wren’s face immediately flushes a hot red, and her hands ball into tight fists as she hisses, “Oi! Don’t go sayin’ stupid stuff like that! We’re not… I’m not-- he’s gone off somewhere to do summat! That’s all.” She doesn’t like how much she’s betraying herself with that blustering mess of a response, knowing full well of her actions from earlier. That’s a whole other hurdle she’ll have to jump when she can get around to it.

Ever the calm and contented soul, Gus’ face remains cool and placid even in the face of Wren’s heated outburst. “Oh, alright then. Why’s he done that?”

Wren sighs. “It’s… a bit hard to explain. He’ll be back in a bit though… I hope.” She awkwardly scratches her cheek, unsure of whether or not to reveal to him the finer points of what’s going on. He’s a lovely kid, but sometimes the little things tend to sail straight over his head, and sometimes for the better. For a moment, Wren thinks that’s all that will be said on the matter, but she’s swiftly proven wrong.

“He kinda, erm… he kinda tends to do that, don’t he? Crow, I mean.” Gus begins to murmur, “He’s the one with all the plans and strategies and stuff, an’ that’s fine. It’s just… it makes you wonder how much he does without us, don’t it?” He meets Wren’s blank gaze with a smile that seems to hint at a hidden kind of awareness that lurks deeper within. Gus is pretty much an open and shut kind of person- what you see is what you get, and that’s something she’s come to appreciate in a world of people who will stagger and stumble before they can even begin to imply what they’re trying to explain. Everything he says is flat out and without hesitation (that is until he’s forced to talk to prying adults), so it’s unusual for him to approach something so gingerly.

“I s’pose so, yeah. He’s… he’s good at keepin’ us all together, though.” Wren doesn’t want to be responsible for sowing any seeds of doubt against their ringleader, especially now having a better glimpse of the situation from Crow’s side, but she knows what he means. There’s not much else she can say about it, and as if sensing her hesitation, Gus remains quiet for quite some time.

About a minute passes before he finally says, “I was really worried ‘bout you. I’m glad you made it back safe.”

Wren beams. “I’m glad I made it back, too. Wouldn’ta done it without you lot, though!”

He doesn’t quite meet her smile when he continues to say, “It was a bit scary seeing everyone fall apart like that. We ain’t ever fought like that before.”

“So I heard. Sorry ‘bout Socket, by the way…”

“Don’t be- really, we don’t blame him. He was just proper freaked out that you got arrested. Didn’t think he’d throw a punch at Louis, though. I wonder if he’s still mad. They ain’t talked at all since earlier.”

“I’ll make him apologise tomorrow.” Wren huffs. “I’m sure when they wake up they’ll both feel a lot better about it. At least, that’s what happens when me and Socket get into fights!” Wren then flashes a bright little grin, hoping to show that there’s no serious harm done. Gus still doesn’t look entirely convinced, but the bland smile on his face doesn’t falter.

“Even Marilyn was in a bad mood. She only yells like that when I get in her way at the stall.” Admittedly for him, it had taken a little too long for him to realise that a lot of Marilyn’s irritated outbursts were a result of him getting under her feet with the odd puzzle he’d found whilst she was trying to work. Still, he’d much rather face Marilyn’s anger as a consequence of the little frustrations rather than a greater problem that could impact them all. Wren can’t say very much on the topic, having been incarcerated during that period of time, but with his hands clasped tightly together, Gus risks flashing a moment of vulnerability.

“What if we all stop bein’ friends… y’know? Not that I think we will! It’s just… I don’t like us all bein’ tense and rowin’. Kinda worried that maybe Louis won’t wanna stick around with us anymore.”

Wren looks down at the cracks in the paving slabs beneath her feet. As much as she’d like to say that they’ll all stay friends forever, reality informs her that there will always be a chance that their group will split apart, no matter how tight-knit they may be. After all, what are the chances that nine people can remain joined at the hip for so long? They have so much in common, but they’re still all vastly different people. The more she thinks about it, the more her concerns begin to match those of the boy sitting next to her, magnified by the lingering disappearance of a friend she’s come to adore very much.

There’s not much she can do about it now. At least not in the grand scheme of things, but what little she can do in the moment, she’ll always take the chance to try. She tilts her head and gives Gus the warmest smile she can muster.

“Well… for what it’s worth, I’ll always be your friend. Even if the other’s end up goin’ their separate ways…”

That seems to be enough to put a nice grin on his face, and though he hesitates for just a moment, he nods his head with satisfaction.

“Y’know… that does make me feel a lot better. Thanks, Wren.”

“It’s okay.” Wren replies, wearing the kind of smile that rarely strays from her face even when the chill of the night air begins to nip painfully at her cheeks, staining them red. Now starting to feel the cold seeping through the thick fibres of her jacket, Wren balls her fists together, her body tensed in an effort to hold back the shivers that are beginning to work their way up and down her spine. As nice as this chat was, maybe it was time to head back inside. She’s beginning to feel the exhaustion of the early morning hours, which is an oddly bitter thought for her considering she spent most of the day doing nothing in an empty cell. 

Hard to believe that whilst she was doing nothing, their whole group had been inches away from falling apart. From Gus, who’s infectious carefree nature has helped keep the group relaxed in times of stress, it’s concerning to hear such doubt for their future. That’s not to say it never occurred to her before that their paths may split and their relationships may strain, but it’s jarring when the concept suddenly turns up right on her doorstep with no warning.

Whether it’s from the freezing cold, the realisation that things may be changing, or the sudden shriek of the balcony door being forced out of its frame, a new and bizarre sensation hits her, rising up from her stomach to her heart like a bitter nausea. Already feeling on edge, the noise of the door opening causes Wren’s head to whip around hard enough to inflict the stinging of hair whiplash on her cheeks.

From over Gus’ shoulder, Wren is delighted to see Crow’s face appear in the gap in the doorway. He quirks a brow, spying the two of them sitting there alone on the balcony, but it lasts only a second when Wren jumps to her feet to welcome him back. Finally, she’s able to breathe a sigh of relief. 

“You’re back! You were gone for a while… I was gettin’ worried ‘bout you, y’know.”

Crow has to fight with the door to get it to open more than a few inches, soon allowing Wren and Gus to bustle inside out of the cold. “I toldja I’d be fine,” he says, wondering whether or not it would be a prudent move to lie to her. Well, it’s not much of a lie if he tells her he’s fine. Of course he’s fine. The situation, however, is most certainly not fine.

And as much as he’d like to lie to her, the situation admittedly calls for a proper group meeting. That can wait until tomorrow morning. For now, he’s going to have to find some way to relieve her concerns. Wren is still visibly on tenterhooks, but Gus emits a low mumble as he begins to stretch like a lazy cat. For a boy who possess such a shining incompetence when it comes to reading the room, he seems to have clocked onto the idea that now isn’t the time for big questions, and that all will be revealed in due time. 

“I guess I’ll head back to bed then,” Gus says with a contented smile as he begins to drag his feet down the corridor back to the room, “G’night, you two.”

“Oh. G’night.” Wren murmurs, taking some surprise in Gus’ lack of curiosity about Crow’s little excursion out into the night, especially considering what they’d just talked about. Well, whatever, that wasn’t exactly much of a problem for her. In fact, being able to talk alone with him is what she’d been after, as is generally the case even outside their dire circumstances. She turns to him with the kind of immense speed reminiscent of a mother about to bollock a reckless child. Crow has only ever met Wren’s mum once or twice, but the resemblance is unbelievably uncanny. It’s no wonder Socket knows when to behave.

“What happened?”

As if to complement the stance of a ball-busting mother, Crow can only sigh like a kind but exasperated father. “Everything is… alright. I’m gonna talk to everyone ‘bout it tomorrow, ‘cuz it’s a bit much to get into right now. What I do know is that you’ll be gettin’ out of it with no worries.” 

He’d been hoping that hearing that would’ve been enough to abate Wren’s concerns. In fact, that’s kind of what he’d been expecting, but somehow it’s managed to have the exact opposite effect. That dawning realisation and the way Wren’s eyebrows slowly rise higher and higher up her forehead both occur in perfect synchronicity until they’re both standing there wearing equally incredulous expressions.

“What?” Crow doesn’t think it’s stupid of him to have no idea why Wren isn’t anything but relieved about this, but stating his confusion outright appears to be introducing Wren to a new lack of belief she never knew she had.

“What d’ya mean ‘what’?!”

“I mean ‘what’ as in ‘why are you starin’ at me like I’m an idiot’!”

“Uh-- ‘cuz you’ve gotten really good at actin’ like one! What did you do?!”

“I didn’t do anythin’!”

“Then what d’ya mean that I’m gettin’ away with it? You musta done summat !”

It’s hard to keep the little spat to a whisper, and Crow can only hope the walls of Barde Manor do not have ears. He puts about as much energy into the violent shrug he gives her as he would into a punch, and it’s not nearly enough to convey his exasperation. 

“I had a chat with him! That’s all!”

“And he was willin’ to just let us off, was he? I find that hard to believe.” Wren punctuates her accusation with a petulant crossing of the arms, but the whitening of her tensing knuckles does nothing to turn the pout on her face into anything less than adorable. In a weird way, Crow sort of enjoys their little arguments.

“Look, I’ll explain everythin’ tomorrow-- and I mean everythin’ . I promise. But for now, you’re fine. We’re… fine. You should really be goin’ to bed.”

“I did nothin’ but sleep all day and talk to whatshisface, I’m not really the one who needs to go to bed here. I think you’re the one who needs sleep the most.” Wren replies flatly. Crow shrugs, but a sharp and suspicious eye is soon trained upon her soft features.

“Hold on. Talked to who?” 

“Oh. Y’know. Hans.”

“ Hans ?! What were you talkin’ to ‘im for?!”

Wren sighs. Just as the harsh waves of their argument had begun to subside, she’d unwittingly released a tsunami. Crow can’t imagine why he’d be skulking around the jail cells-- actually, scratch that, it’s definitely in character for Hans, but what’s out of character is why Wren would even bother to talk to him. Especially when he’d no doubt gone to jeer at her for being arrested.

“I dunno. There was no one else there to talk to. It… wasn’t as bad as you’d think, either.”

Crow’s expression is laughably deadpan, and whilst he can’t fathom a single reason anyone, especially anyone in their group, would stoop as low as to chat to what he could only describe as the slimy, globulous offspring of police corruption incarnate, he can relent that sometimes bad conversation is better than no conversation.

“.... what didja talk about?”

Wren eyes Crow with suspicion, which is a look that’s redirected right back at her. After an uncomfortable pause, she finally says, “Nuttin’ interestin’.”

With that, she turns away to head back to the room, her loaned nightie billowing out around her legs as she breaks into a steady stride down the hall. “C’mon,” she chides, “I thought we decided that you needed sleep. Let’s go to bed already.”

Crow emits a quiet huff, but follows her nonetheless. “ You decided that.”

Chapter Text

The following morning is dull and misty, with thick clouds above that threaten a torrential downpour. Sunny days don’t last too long in Misthallery, and any amount of clear skies are few and far between. The air outside is still, with not a hint of a breeze to be seen weaving through the trees. Tony, staring lazily out of the window whilst his sister bustles around behind him, keeps his eyes trained on what little he can make out of the tips of the treetops obscured by layers of mist. Although it’s just started becoming bright outside, there’s no way to see where the sun could be.

The Barde Manor dining room sits at the very back of the house with an enormous window that overlooks the garden. Despite it being the one room in the manor made for dining, Arianna and Tony rarely come here. They’d tried to maintain the good manners taught to them by their father after he’d died, but it had become too sad and eerie to continue eating here. Not when the table is so huge and they’re still so small. 

With the Black Ravens, however, the room had started to come to life. Neither Arianna nor Tony can remember the last time they had any sort of gathering at the manor, let alone a nice group meal. The countless chairs sitting around the table that had gone untouched for so long were now having the dust swept from their upholstery and finally being used. In exchange for being allowed to stay, Marilyn had been terrifyingly insistent that they should be the ones to provide breakfast. 

As shameful as it is for Arianna to admit, when she’d heard this, she hadn’t expected very much. After all, breakfasts for her and Tony for the past year had been fruit and bread, eaten and enjoyed sitting by the lakeside and shared with their beloved Loosha. It’s still painful for Tony to think he could never share another basket of pears with her again, but sharing them with their newfound friends in the Black Ravens was shaping up to be a more than acceptable alternative, especially now that Arianna is seeing for herself that she’d vastly misjudged them. Not that it’s an uncommon happening for her, but there’s some distinct surprise to be found when she’d come to learn that there are some very adept little chefs lurking in their group. 

Marilyn is the obvious choice first of all. Her entire life revolves around produce in some way or another, whether it’s selling it, preparing it, growing it or eating it. With such a fruitful and verdant lifestyle, it’s no wonder she eats well, and is as determined to make the people around her eat well too. Sorting out fruits and vegetables in order of freshness comes about as naturally to her as blinking, and even faced with the bleak state of the Barde Manor pantry, she’d still been able to flaunt her expertise. What she can do with a handful of good vegetables is another miracle entirely.

Wren might be a bit of a blatant assumption at first; who wants to admit they think the only two girls of the group are the best in the kitchen? But as Arianna watches her work at the creaky old hob, she begins to understand why that is. Where Marilyn has been raised with an extensive knowledge of produce and business, Wren’s raised herself on a domestic mission to keep herself and her brother fed when there’s nobody at home. There’s no real consideration taken into the ingredients she uses because her admittedly few recipes are the kinds of homely family secrets that keep each generation thriving, passed down from mother to eager children. Things like eggy bread with a smile crudely drawn over it in ketchup isn’t the grandest of meals, but Arianna feels a special kind of kinship with Wren when the impatient sparkle in Socket’s eyes as he watches her cook his favourite breakfast is the same one she sees in Tony too. 

The last one is a bit of a mindbender for Arianna. Then again, for a boy who adopts the same gruff attitude found only in grizzled old men, perhaps it’s possible that Nabby adopts the same skills and practices too. He spies Arianna’s curious gaze almost immediately, and Arianna can only flush red knowing her thoughts had been evident on her face. He scoffs quietly to himself and turns back to the pan. 

“Dunno why you’re lookin’ at me so surprised like,” he mutters. “This ain’t exactly hard work, y’know. Easy stuff.”

Arianna takes that as a polite cue to join him at the stove, where two pans are slowly simmering away. “I know that,” she replies. “I was just… impressed! You don’t really seem like the cooking type.”

“Oh, right? And what gave you that idea.”

“Well… you don’t really seem like the type to like doing anything, actually.”

“... yeah, alright, I’ll give you that one,” he admits with a wheezy chuckle. “I actually don’t mind cookin’, though. I mean, I mind the fact that I ain’t got a choice from time to time, but… whatever, I guess.”

Arianna takes a moment to glance around the room at everybody else. Marilyn’s busy at the table peeling vegetables with Louis, occasionally stopping to expertly flick a piece of peel into the boy’s face. She emits a hearty cheer when she’s able to get one stuck right beneath his glasses. Wren’s still busy making piles of bread, but Socket seems to be circling her like some kind of hungry shark. Gus and Scraps ended up putting themselves in charge of locating and cleaning enough dishware for everyone, but their endeavour seems to have devolved into a tiny butter-knife swordfight. 

“Marilyn is making her vegetable dish, Wren’s making her toast… what are you making, then?”

“I’m not really makin’ anythin’ so much as usin’ all the ingredients you got here that are about to go off. That and, uh… somethin’ like scrambled eggs, I guess. You have a lot of eggs for just two people livin’ in one house though. Wren found like three boxes. What’s with that?”

“Tony really likes eggs and soldiers. It’s all he ever wants for lunch,” Arianna sighs with exasperated amusement. “I suppose you could say that’s my cooking specialty now. I expect my boiled eggs are perfect every time.”

“Bold claim,” he grins. “Hope you got the skills to back that up, or I ain’t buyin’ it.” He cracks open an egg on the surface of the hob with great expertise, flicking the insides into the sizzling pan, and one-handed no less. Arianna can’t help but feel brimming delight. It was rather cool to watch, in her eyes. Still, met with a gaze that appears condescending, Arianna can make out glimpses of true encouragement behind it, and she gives him a firm nod.

“Alright then. We do have more than enough eggs… but I hope everyone will be able to eat everything. It seems like we’re making quite a lot now,” she murmurs with concern, continuing to eye the other children bustling around the room. Nabby emits a harsh cackle.

“Well, you’ve clearly never seen this lot eat before. We’ll be fine. Make as many as you like. Marilyn said she’d throw some things from her stall your way tomorrow to make up for this.” As he speaks, Arianna is already rolling up her sleeves, and whilst he’s never had much of an affinity for her in the past, it seems like that might be set to change. A lazy and placid smile stretches across his face as he watches her attempt to unhook a large pot from the overhead rack with fierce determination in her eyes.

She fills the pot with water from the sink, gingerly carries it back to the stove and sets it down next to other pans. The heat is turned up, and whilst it begins to boil, Arianna begins to gather a handful of eggs. The conversation lulls for a while, but Arianna is eager to pry a little more into the life of the one boy in the group who speaks to her the least. 

“So… did anyone teach you how to cook?”

“Nah. Taught myself, didn’t I?”

“Oh, is that right? Do… you cook just for yourself?”

Nabby knows what she’s up to, and in any other case he might’ve gotten a bit snippy and defensive, but there’s something about the airy innocence in her voice that speaks to him. She’s not asking for the sake of asking, and if she’s becoming a regular face in their group, maybe it’s good for her to know more about the lives of the kind of people they are.

“Yeah. It’s not all the time, mind you. Only when nobody’s home.”

“Do your parents work a lot then?”

“Mum does. Dad left us a while back, so… the house is a bit more empty now,” he says this with a dismissive shrug, perhaps trying to offset how awkward that admittance felt. Arianna blinks.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“No reason to be sorry. He chose to leave. If you stick around waitin’ for someone like that to be sorry, you’ll be waitin’ forever. It’s better to just… get over it,” he speaks so plainly, but that last part had been noticeably terse even to Arianna. She thinks he’s said all he needs to say on the matter.

“Do you cook a lot with eggs then?”

“What a weird question,” he mutters, before clicking his tongue. “Y’know what, I actually do. Prob’ly ‘cuz a lot of the time it’s the only food we got left in the house. Eh. At least it’s good for you.” He’s been gripping onto a short, wooden spatula for some time, but it’s only now that he starts putting it to use, flicking the partially cooked bits of egg around the pan. 

“I know what you mean. Sometimes we only have eggs or potatoes left in the house, so… boiled eggs and mash it is.” It does occur to Nabby that there’s a lingering sense of irony in Arianna’s situation. Having once had a prim and proper upbringing, living in the biggest house in all of Misthallery and most certainly very well off, Arianna and Tony have spent the past year or so fending for themselves. It’s easy to imagine that living alone as a child is fun when you can do, say and eat what you like, but when the only consistent meals you can eat are mashed potato, boiled eggs and fruit, it starts to feel a lot less fun. In a weird way, they share some experience in having to teach themselves life skills their parents did not. 

He can see it a bit clearer when Arianna’s pale face grows sombre as she stares down hard at the water. As the pot soon begins to bubble, she realises that in recent months she probably sees more of her own face in the reflection of boiling water than she might do in a mirror.

“Go on then,” Nabby gives her a nudge in the ribs, jolting her from her daydream. “Show us how good you are. I’m suddenly in the mood for boiled eggs.” 

It’s not really like him to make much of an effort to cheer someone up past sharing a bag of sweets, but for one reason or another, he feels oddly compelled to keep her in good spirits. He can say what he likes about her as a person, but he’d be lying through his teeth if he said she hadn’t had a rough time of it. 

Now with renewed energy, Arianna beams and picks up the eggs, carefully dropping them into the pot one by one. They slowly sink to the bottom, disturbed by the bubbles of boiling water that begins to cook them. For a moment, she’s about to excuse herself to prepare the toast, but when she spies Badger cramming as much bread as is feasibly possible into their decrepit old toaster, she thinks they’ll have more than enough.

Wren has now accumulated a good pile of food for herself, but her attention is stretched between finding a good place to keep it warm and swatting Socket away like some kind of persistent mosquito. He’s brandishing a glass bottle of ketchup like some kind of weapon, which is more of a threat for Wren than the toast. 

“Wren, there’s a trolley out in the dining room for keeping food hot- if you find somewhere to plug it in, you can use that.” Arianna calls out to her from across the room, neglecting to mention that it’ll also do a fantastic job of keeping Socket’s grubby mitts off the food before they sit down to eat. Wren, with beading sweat on her forehead, can only offer a breathless thanks as she takes the plates and trots off towards the dining room with Socket still on her heels.

The eggs continue to boil. Arianna eyes the state of the two pans cooking scrambled eggs, which are now beginning to look more like edible food than pale yellow mush. While she’d been looking away, Nabby seems to have ducked off to grab a few bits and pieces from the cupboards. 

“Sorry. Need to use some of your stuff,” he says without a hint of apology in his tone as he begins to toss sprinkles of salt into the pan. Arianna doesn’t mind in the slightest, but watches with curiosity as he begins to decorate the eggs with a variety of seasonings- some of which she didn’t even know they had. She hasn’t quite gotten around to learning to season her food with anything more than salt or butter, which isn’t an enormous crime for a kid, but it’s a bit strange for her to see someone her own age so familiar with these things. 

Wary of Arianna’s intensely attentive expression, Nabby shrugs. “Hey, these things can be expensive. Not like I get to use them everyday, eh?” It might be considered poor taste to admit to taking advantage of somebody else’s home, but the way he says it so bluntly is almost charming. Crow may exhibit the kind of cool confidence attributed to a true leader, but Nabby’s unyielding and unequivocal nature makes him a solid and reliable second-in-command, even if he does have the tendency to complain about it the entire time. 

“Your eggs are still boilin’, by the way.”

Arianna snaps to attention, much to Nabby’s amusement, and he watches her begin to carefully fish the eggs out of the water with a large dessert spoon. They’re carefully laid upon the closest plate she could get her hands on. Nabby begins to do the same, shovelling the food from the pan into an old casserole dish. He gives a small grunt of satisfaction, before snatching up the dirty pans and heading towards the sink. He drops them in, filling them with warm water and promptly leaving them.

“Easier to let ‘em soak and clean ‘em after eatin’. You done with that?”

Arianna nods, carefully arranging the eggs on the plate to prevent them from rolling all over the place. “I think everyone’s finishing up. Let’s see… the table’s been set, there’s food in the trolley-- oh, Marilyn’s still cooking. Huh… what’s that she’s making?” Arianna tilts her head to try and get a glimpse of whatever’s bubbling in Marilyn’s pot, now having taken Wren’s place at the stove. Whatever it is, it almost smells like… curry?

“Hell if I know, she’s got all sorts of recipes up her sleeve. Her mum’s a foreigner, y’see. Cultural difference an’ all that lark.” Nabby takes Arianna’s still simmering pot, empties the water into the sink and leaves it alongside the pans. “I wanna say… Monaco? No, maybe it was Morocco. I dunno. It begins with an ‘M’ or somethin’. I’m pretty sure that’s what she said, anyway…”

“Huh-- actually, where’s Crow? I haven’t seen him all morning.”

“Actually, it might’ve been Malta…”

“Have you seen him?”

“Huh? Seen who?”

Arianna gives him a neat roll of the eyes. “Crow. I haven’t seen him this morning. Isn’t he going to come and help?” 

Nabby seems wordless for a moment, mulling it over, but he eventually shrugs. “Guess that is weird. When we stayed in the hideout from time to time, he was always the first one to get up. Maybe he’s still asleep…?”

“Should we go wake him up? Breakfast is just about ready.” Arianna claps her hands together with a bright smile on her face, though what she could possibly be excited about is beyond Nabby. He can only give her a noncommittal purse of the lips in response.

“Can do.”

He says that as if he doesn’t care, but he ends up being the one to lead them both out of the kitchen, down the hall and into the spacious front room on the other side of the house. Nabby isn’t one to feel daunted by large houses- if anything, he makes a firm point in not being intimidated by the nauseating wealth of others, but actually spending the night here is a different story. So used to a tiny, cosy little bedroom is he that even with all nine of them squished into one room, the night had felt long and agoraphobic. That’s why he’d ended up being the first one out of all of them to rise, spurred by the discomfort of lazing around in such an open space. 

As he’d pointed out previously, Crow is normally the earliest riser out of all of them, so he’d initially felt a little bad for not noticing his absence quicker. Nonetheless, once they reach the front room, he finds his guess had been right on the money. Through the heaps of blankets strewn across the room, Nabby spies a curled-up lump wrapped in a thin bedsheet, snoozing peacefully on the far side of the room against the wall.

Arianna takes no hesitation in walking right in, sidestepping the crumpled sheets with the agility of a cat. Nabby, on the other hand, walks through the sheets with the agility of a brick, but he’s tentative about getting too invasive. He shoves his hands in his pockets and watches Arianna crouch down and gently nudge the sleeping boy.

“Hey, wake up! Breakfast is almost ready.”

Her prodding elicits no response, not even a stir, so she jostles him with a rougher shake and continues to do so until the lump begins to move by itself. There’s a low groan, and Crow begins to uncurl and stretch his limbs out, swatting away the restrictive sheets. His head momentarily pokes out of the sea of blankets, where he sports an impressive bedhead and cranes his neck to get a groggy look at Arianna. For a moment, with his hair so askew, Arianna thinks she’s going to get a glimpse of his whole face, but no more than a second after that thought occurs does Nabby step in to give Crow a light kick on the forehead with the bottom of his foot. Arianna jumps slightly, and Crow emits a meagre whine.

“Whuh…? The hell was that for…?” 

“Breakfast is ready. You slept late,” Nabby tells him coolly. 

It takes a few moments for that thought to register, and Crow soon hauls himself upright, harshly rubbing at his face. “Already…? Are we--? Oh… that’s right, we slept here the night, didn’t we? Okay.” He curls his legs into a crossed position and takes a short moment to sit and wake up, stifling a hefty yawn. “Thanks for kickin’ me in the face, by the way.” 

“Welcome. Might wanna hurry up, they’re settin’ the plates down already.”

Slowly getting to his feet, Crow begins to lazily dust away the crumbs of sleep in his eye with his sleeve. Arianna snatches his hat left discarded on the floor and patiently holds it out for him to take. She emits a small giggle.

“I’ve never seen you look so dishevelled. Even my hair doesn’t look that bad when I wake up.” She titters as Crow takes the hat from her. With one expert manoeuvre of the hand, he rakes his hair back into its usual place, flattening out all the loose strands that stick out, before jamming the hat back onto his head. In the span of two seconds he’s gone from looking like he just rolled out of bed to his usual smart self. Arianna can’t help but feel a little pang of jealousy for the boys who take no time at all to get ready. 

“Huh…?” Crow’s nose scrunches slightly, “Did you let Marilyn loose in the kitchen? It smells like food.”

“Marilyn was kind enough to help organise breakfast for us all! Though the others helped out too. We may want to head back now before they all start without us.” Arianna takes the lead and heads towards the door, allowing the two boys to trail at her heels. Nabby scratches his chin, his eyes lidded in uncertainty.

“Yeah, last I saw, Wren was beating Socket away from the eggy bread with a spoon. Might wanna get on that.”

Chapter Text

Breakfast is, for lack of a politer term… lively.

Arianna had hoped it wouldn’t be too much of an awkward affair, especially considering she hasn’t shared a meal with anyone other than Tony for nigh on a year now. Thankfully, there’s no shortage of conversation, and seeing the Black Ravens so comfortable in her home in turn makes her feel much more at ease. Her plate has been piled with toast, fruit, eggs, and some strange rice dish Marilyn appears to have made. The dish doesn’t appear to be optional either, as Marilyn is making rounds around the table and putting a hearty spoonful on every plate regardless of whether it’s wanted or not. This seems like something the other Black Ravens are more used to than her. 

From across the table, Nabby gives her a wicked smile as he plucks a boiled egg from the plate she’d set down. She stifles a giggle, hoping for a positive verdict. Everybody else seems to be chowing down already, so she takes up her fork and makes a start on the scrambled egg. 

“Socket, stop kickin’ yer legs, you’re at a table!”

Socket grins, balancing an impressive amount of eggy bread onto the end of his fork, “I know, right? It’s so fancy! We only ever eat at a table when we’re at Paddy’s.” He shoves the food into his mouth, his cheeks bulging and barely able to contain both the food and the smile on his face at the same time. Wren rolls her eyes in a way only an older sister can, and Arianna can feel her pain. On the other side of the table, Arianna catches a glimpse of Tony attempting to stuff an entire boiled egg into his mouth. The yolk spurts out of the corner of his mouth and drips down his shirt, but it’s far too late to do anything about it now. Arianna would chide him on table manners, but it doesn’t seem like anyone else in the group cares. Not when they’re shovelling heaps of food into their mouths with vigour. It’s a far cry from the way she was raised, but if anything, it’s actually a little… relaxing. 

The breakfast table clamour is soon pierced by a shrill ringing as Crow flicks his knife against his glass in order to get their attention. The noise stops, but the eating doesn’t.

“Alright, you lot. I figured I’d get this out of the way whilst everyone’s eatin’, so you just need to listen to me for a bit, yeah?” He rests his elbows on the table, and Arianna can’t help but notice that his plate is already clean. There’s no way he could’ve eaten so quickly, could he? So taken aback by that is she, that the egg she’d just been about to put into her mouth soon slips back onto the plate with an audible splat. Nobody else objects to Crow’s request, so the table remains quiet, save for the sounds of chomping and clinking cutlery.

Crow silently chews the inside of his lip for a moment, appearing absentminded when he begins to trace the rim of his glass with the tip of his finger. In reality, he couldn’t be more focused. 

“So… I went out last night after you all went to bed,” he begins. From the raised eyebrows around the table at this admission, it seems his course of action was unexpected but unsurprising. “Whilst we were gettin’ ready to get Wren out of jail, I managed to track down the buyer of that paintin’. The forgery.”

“He bought that through a proxy, didn’t you say?” Marilyn manages to garble through a mouthful of fruit. 

“Yeah. I’m… sort of familiar with her. Young lady who hangs around the art society. Kinda short, dark hair. Dunno if she works there. Turns out she’s sent in the stead of this old guy who lives right on the edge of Highyard Hill. Proper big house an’ all.” He gives a dismissive flick of his hand. “Anyway, I went there last night in costume. Had a chat with ‘im.”

“Hmph?! Wh--” Socket suddenly erupts into a coughing fit, wheezing around the food lodged in his throat. Wren gives him a harsh thump on the back to get him going again. “Kgh. Okay-- alright, you met with this fella? The one who grassed us up to the police?”

“Yeah. It was… interestin’.”

“What happened?”

Crow pauses, but can only sigh in defeat. There’s no good way to break the news. 

“We talked…we talked ‘bout the situation, and… I said I’d turn myself in if he let Wren go. I even took the costume off, so… he knows my face now. He knows everythin’.”

The silence rings like a handful of pennies being thrown onto the floor. It’s so loud it’s enough to make Crow’s stomach sink with anxiety, and the only thing to break such an intense stretch of quietude is the clattering of cutlery being dropped. The same response is clearly dancing on the tips of everybody’s tongues, but nobody knows who will be the first to say it aloud. 

Being the topic of conversation, it’s only fair that Wren gets to respond first, and with her eyes like pinpricks, she shrieks, “You what?! ”

“Look, I know it sounds bad, but--”

Planting her hands on the table, Wren rockets upwards with such force that her chair falls backwards with a loud thud. “You showed him your face?! Are you mad?! ”

“No, I--”

“What were you thinkin’?!” Marilyn cries, slamming her knife and fork down with a bang. “What’re we gonna do if you get nicked?! You could be in jail forever!” 

“Listen to me! At the time, it was the only thing I could do,” It’s a lame excuse to throw out into the faces of two very angry young girls, and a table full of shocked and confused boys. Wren’s face is slowly turning a pulsing shade of red as her fingers white-knuckle grip the table. 

“I was already free! You didn’t have to go and throw yourself back in danger like that! Are you stupid?!”

“You weren’t free! You won’t be free until your warrant for arrest is dropped! You can’t live on the run forever, Wren. I had to do somethin’,” Crow argues, now bolting to his feet to match Wren’s eyeline.

“You coulda done summat else!”

“Yeah, you think my sister wants that over ‘er head forever?!” Socket butts in. “Wren don’t wanna be the reason you get put away! Think about how she feels!” Ever eager to come to his sister’s aid, but this just irks Crow even further. He turns to Socket with venom bubbling on his lips.

“Shut up, Socket, you went swingin’ at us just yesterday ‘cuz of this! You ain’t exactly a poster child for sensibility neither!” 

“Oi, I apologised for that!”

“No, you didn’t !”

“Well, I’m sorry now, alright?! But that don’t mean you can put Wren in the shit like this!”

“I’m not! Look-- okay, I didn’t finish explainin’ the--”

“Socket, shush--” Wren barks, before turning back to Crow, “Why didn’t you talk this over with us first?! Don’t you think I’d wanna know before you go turnin’ yerself in?!”

“I wasn’t plannin’ on doin’ that!! He was the one who said that if I really cared about you, I’d--!!”

He stops suddenly, realising the words that were pouring from his mouth. Even in the heat of the argument, perhaps it’s still a little embarrassing to admit out loud how much he cares about her. He cares for every member of their group, but something about saying that to her face makes the nerves pool in his stomach. He promptly attempts to rub the redness from his cheeks, and quickly spits, “If I cared about you, I’d take the responsibility and turn myself in. That was his demand.”

Wren bites her lip. She wants to retort, but she can’t find the words, and hearing such a sweet sentiment from a boy she absolutely under no circumstances has any affection for whatsoever makes her heart feel all… fizzy. Lucky for Crow, that gives him a second to get his other point in before another argument erupts. 

“It don’t have to be that way, though,” Crow tells her firmly. “He’s given me a chance to get off scot-free if we just do somethin’ for him.” 

That’s enough to pique everyone’s interest, and now that there’s a lull in the conversation, he’s able to pay attention to the other members of his group. Wren takes a silent seat back next to Socket, who begins to stab angrily at his food with no intention of eating it. Crow knows he’s not angry at him any more, but angry for having been scolded. Neither of them seem poised to ignite another argument.

Marilyn’s also cooled down for now, but there are harsh lines still etched into her face. The dynamic at the table is much like the one from the day before. The group is split into those who go quiet, those who grow angry, and poor Arianna who’s recoiled into her chair with a face far paler than normal. 

Finally, Crow sits back down. 

“Alright, listen. The conditions we’ve been given is this; we have to find the original forger who painted that picture. Not only that, but we gotta get proof. If we can collect the right evidence and track this person down, we all get left alone.” 

Louis clears his throat awkwardly. “Um. That’s all well and good an’ all, but… what makes you think we can trust him?”

“I know it sounds suspicious, trust me, I know that better than any of you, but,” Crow trails for a moment, unable to explain just how the conversation had gone down. “I know… I know he means it. The worst outcome to come from this is that I get jailed. I’m… fine with that. He don’t know ‘bout the rest of you. If he really wanted to nick me, he would’ve called the coppers right then and there.”

“What if he’s just usin’ you to get to the forger? Then he’ll do you over when he’s done and jail the both of you!” Marilyn retorts, and the deep concern she’s holding is beginning to bleed through her anger. 

“It don’t matter,” Crow shrugs. “If that does turn out to be the case, then I’ll get nicked either way. Ruse or not, this is the only option we have to try and squirm our way outta this. We might as well go for it.”

Wren, sadly looking down at the cold remains of her breakfast, emits a tiny sigh. “I guess. Besides which, we already have an idea of who it is, so…”

Marilyn blinks. “We do?”

“That’s right, I was thinkin’ the same thing,” Crow nods with a hopeful glint in his eye. “If what Wren told me last night is true, then there’s a very good chance that the old lady we bagged that paintin’ off of was the one who painted it to begin with.”

Nabby’s eyes bulge, “Are you serious? You reckon it’s her?”

“That’s true,” Scraps pipes up. “After all there’s that other handbell that’s upstairs.”

“What other handbell?” Marilyn’s eyes dart from person to person, overloaded with all of the new information. She holds out her hands to shush everyone, cutting through the bubbling clamour. “Hold on just a second, I am very lost here.”

“Yes, me too.” Arianna agrees, albeit shyly, still unsure of her place in the group as of yet. “Are you talking about the handbell we have on the mantelpiece upstairs?” This is the first she’s heard it crop up as a topic of interest, but Tony taps on the table for her attention, leaning over to hiss, “I showed them last night. They had one just like it!”

“Alright, alright-- I’ll explain from the top.” Crow frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose in the hopes of dispelling the building headache that’s beginning to throb. “So, we sold a forged painting we retrieved from the house of a woman who died last week. We’re all clear on that, right?”

“Right…”

“I found out the other day that she was a member of the art society up in town. I went to talk to Aunt Taffy about it, ‘cuz she said she knew her. Taffy said that this woman-- whose name is Effie, I found out by the way, was a hobbyist and an art collector, and very talented at painting too. But she did also try to tack on the idea that she never did this for a living.”

“That’s… weird. That ain’t just me, right? That is weird.”

“I mean, to save the trouble of speculation, Taffy was definitely not tellin’ me somethin’ so we’ll jump that when we get to it.” Crow waves a dismissive hand and moves on. “Alongside them paintings, we also got a crystal handbell that she kept in her house. One that, according to Scraps, matches one that’s being kept upstairs here in Barde Manor.”

“Y-yes, that’s right!” Arianna confirms. “It was a gift.”

“Then in that case, I’ll let you explain where it came from. Saves me the trouble.”

Arianna blinks. “Oh. Well… yes, you see, our father was friends with a woman who painted. She painted lots of pictures here-- that picture you see of Tony and I on the stairs was by her.”

Socket begins to scratch his chin with the tip of his fork, much to Wren’s immense displeasure. “So… do they share the same name? Is it the same woman?”

“I couldn’t tell you. Actually… for the time she was here, we called her Auntie. She was very close to my father. She spent a lot of time here when we were very little. After a while, though… she stopped coming back.”

“But before she left,” Tony takes this as his moment to jump into the spotlight, “she gave our dad this handbell as a gift! It’s been sitting on the mantelpiece upstairs ever since. We’ve never been allowed to touch it.”

Socket quirks a brow, turning to Scraps. “It did look a lot like the one we sold. You got a better memory than me, though.”

“I’m about… 90% sure they’re the same. Honestly, if anyone could tell the difference, it would be Marilyn. She spent long enough fawnin’ over the bloody thing.” 

Marilyn quietly flushes red. “I was not fawnin’...”

“Point is.” Crow interjects, “There’s a very good chance that she was a professional painter with clients, if only outside of public knowledge, which means there’s at least a possibility she had footin’ in the forgin’ business. There’s no real guarantee the old bird is behind it all, but if she ain’t, then we at least have somewhere to start. If I were to hedge my bets, though… I reckon we’ve already got it sussed. It’s just a matter of diggin’ up the evidence.”

“That’s easier said than done, though,” Louis murmurs. “Her house is cleared, we only know a first name, she’s an old gal so most of her mates have prob’ly dropped off… bar Aunt Taffy.”

“Which is exactly where we’ll start,” Crow replies with a sparkle in his eye. “I know she ain’t tellin’ me somethin’, so we’ll start by seein’ what she has to say… unless Arianna has anythin’ else we can use.”

Arianna, despite having nothing to feel guilty about, looks alarmed at being pushed back into the centre of the conversation. She’s still feeling lost about the whole situation, and her feelings of accusing an old but dear friend of the family of forgery are… conflicting. She hunches in on herself a little, pursing her lips in thought. 

“I’m not sure. I think we still have some of her old paintings up in the attic. You can look at those if you like, but you can’t touch the one on the wall upstairs. Just don’t break anything.” 

Nabby slouches back into his seat and folds his arms, “Don’t you have anythin’ else we can use? Photos? Letters? We could Scotland Yard this crap if we had those kindsa leads.”

After a long, ringing pause, Arianna breaks out into quiet, apologetic laughter. “You know… it’s a little convenient. She hated cameras. Despised the things-- do you remember, Tony?”

Tony nods eagerly, “I do. She totally refused to ever have her picture taken. Dad even offered to take a photo of her with us, but she wouldn’t do it. We thought she was one of those oldies who just hates technology, but… well, when you think about it like that…”

“Seems like the old gal didn’t want any record of her face. That is convenient.”

“Not for us, though. Means we can’t get a look at her now that she’s gone,” Nabby scoffs, quietly flicking the remains of his food across his plate with his fork. There’s already too many dead ends cropping up for his liking, but it’s not like he can tap out now.

“Maybe not,” Crow admits, “but we can still squeeze some information out of what we have. After all, we have the original painting we sold at our disposal too.”

“We do…? Didn’t we… y’know, sell that?”

“The old bloke I chatted to said I could have it back to use for our… investigation.” Crow would’ve liked that to sound cooler, but when it’s said aloud, it just sounds embarrassing. Investigation, indeed. This was a total joke.

“God, it really is like Scotland Yard. Speakin’ of, why don’t we just pop down there and get them to look at it for us?” Socket suggests with a placid shrug. “I mean, it is their job.” 

“What, just pop down to London? All nine of us with no car and no bus fare? Yeah, let’s do that.”

“I’m sure Scotland Yard would love to know where we got a forged paintin’ from an’ all-- and why we’re nosin’ around about it.”

“And also I’m pretty sure their detectives are a bit naff. Don’t you remember that one that was up here when the spectre was attackin’? Proper loud, runs like hell… disturbin’ amount of chest hair.” 

“Yeah, yeah, alright!” Socket snaps. “I get it! Rubbish idea. No need to hammer it home.”

“...he did have a lot of chest hair, didn’t he?”

“What a weirdo…”

Crow clears his throat so harshly that it comes out as more of a growl, impatiently tapping his fingers against the polished wood of the dining room table. “Glad you’ve all gotten over the idea of me bein’ arrested so quickly, but we’ve got more important things to discuss than…” he trails off, his features crumpling into a wince as he remembers that, actually, yeah, that guy was a bit disturbing, and was twice as incompetent. Running into someone like him would only drive their investigation into a dead end. He couldn’t have that.

“So what’s the plan then, boss?” Nabby sits up in his chair, a bit more alert now that the time for action was drawing near. For a boy who always seems to see the worst in everything, Nabby appears remarkably calm for the situation, but that’s exactly what Crow needs from him in this dire time. 

“We’re splittin’ into groups to get as much information as we can-- and I have jobs for all of you.”

Chapter Text

It’s not often Gus is tasked with something so important. 

That’s not to say his role overall is unimportant- the work they do is evenly distributed amongst the group, so every member is equally important in their own right. It’s just that Gus can’t help but notice he’s one of the only members without a solid role of his own other than playing the reliable part of innocent civilian #3, which gets boring quite quickly. 

Marilyn is the first response and gatherer of intel, Wren is the strategic genius, Socket is the handy mechanic whilst Scraps fixes up their smaller items. Gus could consider himself the heavyweight if Badger wasn’t athletic enough to fill those roles himself. He could even be the responsible brawn of the group, but getting into fights and conflict was never his strong suit. 

Today, however, is different. Today he has a pretty big opportunity, even for him. His job is collecting the forged painting from the house of the man Crow had spoken to last night. Still unnamed, which makes his task a little trickier, but Crow had given him specific and direct instructions on how to find the house. That had been an enormous help, but judging by how slow and loud his explanation had been, he’d gotten the feeling that there hadn’t been much faith put in him. 

He can’t be mad, really. He’s just happy to be involved. He knows he messes up from time to time, but there’s never any lingering threat of being ousted from the group because of it. With that in mind, he feels he can do better. Taking initiative is what people like Crow do, and he can do that too! He just has to find a way to do that today. 

Heading down to Highyard Hill, Gus pushes away the creeping, invasive musings on the state of their group, wondering why it chooses to occupy his mind when considering his own role within it.

For now, he has the job to think about. 

Three-story building. Grey stone. Windowsill flowerboxes in green. Big driveway, round the corner from the art society and then a little further on down. Crow had gesticulated wildly during this explanation, but to no real effect. 

Either way, finding it in twenty minutes was a new record for him. Familiar as he may be with this town, the wide roads of Highyard Hill are daunting enough to make him lose his nerve and trigger lapses in memory. After having glass chucked at him last time he’d been around, he’s a little bit tentative about setting foot on rich kid territory. Luckily, it seems as if the streets are empty.

Gus shoves his hands in his pockets as he grinds to a halt, feeling the sad emptiness of pockets that hold no sweeties. Crow had been right, this driveway is enormous, and with the kind of fancy cars in magazines that Socket would forcibly shove in his face. His own father had once worked at the old automobile factory further down the road before he was laid off, but there’s no way they made cars this fancy at that old scrapheap. 

He slowly passes it by, silently relishing in the way the polished headlights reflect his large, red face. Not really any need for cars in a place like Misthallery. Good for bragging rights though. It isn’t like his family can afford a car. People in Highyard Hill were like a different breed altogether. 

Sweeping past the car, he walks up to the front door with his strongest stride, displaying what he considers to be total stone-faced confidence in the eyes of anyone who could be peering out of a nearby window. He tries not to falter when rapping on the door, but there’s a stunning variety of choice between a doorbell, an incredibly detailed knocker about the size of his head, or flipping the intricately gilded mail slot. He’s honestly spoiled for choice here. 

He can’t help it. He baulks and simply knocks on the wood of the door. He’s surprised that his puny knuckles can even make a noise on such a large, thick piece of wood, but to his relief, the door quickly opens to reveal the fresh features of a young woman dressed in black.

She looks down at the large child gracing the doorstep, and Gus can tell exactly what’s going through her mind. He knows he’s not really meant to be here, but he’ll push through that part.

“Hiya. Erm. I’m here to see the, uh… the man of the house.”

It’s probably not the most eloquent term, judging by the way the woman’s nose scrunches slightly in suspicion. He tries to plaster on his most endearing smile, and truthfully, it’s one that could rival Wren’s. Where Wren has mastered the adorable innocent, Gus has perfected the easygoing expression of someone who never knows what’s going on. Granted, that does seem to be the case for a lot more than he’d like, but he’s not one to turn down a win. 

“I’ll go and inform him of your arrival. Please wait right here.”

Neglecting to let him any further in without proof that he’s meant to be here, Gus is left to stand on the porch like a lemon. It’s a good thing he’s mastered that too.

It takes about two minutes for her to return, now swinging the door wide open with little hesitation and allowing the boy to walk through freely. Gus instinctively goes to shove his hands back in his pockets, but jerks them back out quickly. No telling what kind of manners are expected in such a big house. It might even pay to be on his best behaviour.

The interior of the house is similar to that of Barde Manor. Polished wooden staircase, paintings on every wall, detailed rugs laced and embroidered with gold stretched over large lengths of corridor. The floorboards don’t even creak beneath his heavy footsteps. They’d tried to make the auction house resemble this kind of elegance, and even if they’d thought they’d done a good job, seeing the real thing in such proximity is blowing that out of the water.

The young maid, presumably, sweeps past him with the kind of grace befitting of such a lovely house and tells him, “He’s waiting in the upstairs parlour. Come with me.”

She leads him up a carpeted flight of stairs onto a landing that overlooks the lower portion of the house, passing two doors and rapping attentively on the third. Waiting just a moment, she then pushes the handle and opens the door just enough for Gus to squeeze his way into the room. He turns to thank her, but she closes the door too quickly for him to do so.

It’s a bit awkward to just walk out into the middle of a room in a stranger’s house, but the gently crackling fire gives him at least some point of destination. Careful not to drag his feet, he takes a few leisurely steps, gawking at the room around him to get some bearings.

It’s so daunting. Strange to think Crow had been here only last night, no doubt making a case for the lot of them. How he knows the right things to say at all the right times is beyond him. Yet even with the dim, cloudy light of day seeping in through the windows, banishing the fiercest shadows from the room, it still feels a little scary in here to him. 

The wretched painting from which their current misery stems is sitting innocuously on the floor a few feet away, propped up against a polished wooden table. It’s still as striking as he remembers, but he’s certainly not too thrilled to see it again. It’s preemptive for now, but he wonders just what details had been caught out. How long had it taken to realise it was fake? Had the location of the original piece given it away? Was there some vital mistake none of them had been able to clock? He’s never had much of an image of their buyer in his mind up until now, when he spies a spindly, old man hunched over in a chair by the fire. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel too up to asking such suspicious questions.

“Erm. Hello.” 

The man stirs, coughing gently into his hand, and sets something down upon the armrest of his chair. He doesn’t gesture to it, but with the empty stool sitting out by the fire, Gus decides that it's probably meant to be his place in the room.

“Oh. You must be an accomplice of that young boy, eh? What was his name…?” The old man taps a needle-like finger to his chin in contemplation as Gus awkwardly shuffles forward towards the fire.

“Crow,” he reminds, before following up with a slightly strained comment of, “He’s just my friend.”

“Of course, of course. Please, sit yourself down.”

Gus does so. The leather squeaks beneath the seat of his shorts, and he shimmies from side to side to get comfortable. Even from this distance, the fire is already becoming unbearably warm. He has no idea how long he’s supposed to sit here for. 

“My, you’re a large lad, aren’t you?” The old man chuckles raspily, “Strong too, I bet?”

The last thing Gus had expected was any amount of praise, and he flushes slightly, an awkward smile tugging on his lips as he fusses the hem of his collar. “Oh. A little bit, I think.”

“So you are…?”

“Gus.”

“And how long have you and Crow been friends for?”

At this, Gus bristles in a way that seems uncharacteristic for him, even from the eyes of someone who he’d only just met. “Erm. I’m… not sure I should go sayin’ that stuff.”

The old man’s eyes flash with intrigue, but also humour. “I see. So Crow has taught you well not to go revealing any old tidbits to people, eh? Very clever of him, and of you I might add.”

Gus is… massively perturbed. He still doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but he’s very sure this is not it. Crow hadn’t revealed much in the way of details about their buyer, other than that he was some old, rich bloke, but suddenly being thrown such casual pleasantries, and potentially suspicious ones at that, is leaving Gus with no way of approach. What’s he supposed to say to any of this? 

Whether the conversation was naturally flowing this way, or whether the old man could simply see straight through Gus’ eyes and into his head, the room is filled with the sound of wheezy laughter.

“I promise you, there’s no need to be so defensive now. You friend and I have already reached a suitable agreement- nothing you say now will change the outcome. I plan to uphold my side of the bargain, and no doubt he will uphold his.”

Gus still can’t help but eye him with badly concealed scepticism. “So… why do you want to know then?”

“Idle curiosity. You can take the painting any time you like, but I hope you wouldn’t be too troubled to stay for a little chat.”

Gus supposes not. He’d already been invited into his home. Picking up the painting and leaving without a word would be pretty rude, and he knows how unfamiliar he is with the habits and manners of the upper class. Better yet, if he does stay for a chat, there’s a chance he could glean a bit more information from the old man for Crow’s benefit. That could do them both the world of good. 

“Well, alright. I’ll tell you a little bit, but… what was your name again?”

The old man blinks, before the lower of his face cracks into an awkward, gap-toothed smile. “Ah, I suppose young lads today aren’t so knowledgeable about the older generations of the town. I can’t say it won’t do you well to brush up on a bit of that. For some I have quite the title, but for you, my name is simply Edgar.”

“Edgar. Okay. Well… erm, I’m Gus.”

He chuckles softly, having already been told.

“As for me an’ Crow, uh… I suppose it has been a while now. Maybe three or four years. I’ve lived here ages, but never really talked to him ‘til then. He’s older than I am.”

Edgar seems to approach these bits and pieces with serious interest, though slightly hammed up for juvenile conversation. “Is that right? Too shy to play with the older boys, were you? And how old are you?”

“I’m eleven. I’ll be twelve in a few months, though!”

There’s a ghost of a laugh stifled behind a thin-lipped smile. “Ah, to be eleven. Still. To have a hand in such an ambitious business at your age. How competent.”

“Well, that’s mostly just Crow. And Wren. He does all the business bits with papers and money and stuff, and she does all our plans and, uh… schedules. That kinda thing. They’re both really clever.”

At this, Edgar emits a low hum. His hand hovers over the ashtray, but his eyes remain fixated at the space over Gus’ left shoulder. “Hmm. Might Wren be the young lady that was apprehended yesterday?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s her. Erm. Don’t ask me where she is, ‘cos I won’t tell you.”

“There’s no need to worry, I won’t pry so far. Still, there seems to be quite a few of you taking part in this little venture. You seem incredibly organised for a group of children.”

Gus begins to gently kick his legs back and forth, now visibly more comfortable with the situation. “Yeah, that’ll be Crow again. He’s good at wranglin’ us all together. Even though we all work at it, he’s still kind of our boss.”

“He does give the impression, yes. Now, if it isn’t too demanding of a request,” at this, Edgar leans slightly over the armrest of his chair, closer to Gus. “May I ask you a question?”

Gus’ instinct is to say yes, and then consider his own answer wisely, but in a sober moment, watching the way the shadow of the flames barely flicker against Edgar’s face, he pauses. 

“Y’can, if you let me ask you one too.”

Edgar’s sunken, grey eyes flash with something akin to delight, though only briefly. Brief enough for Gus to miss it.

“I would consider that fair. In which case, let me ask you- just how did you end up joining the black market? And why?”

For a moment, Gus is almost relieved. He’d been expecting a far more damning question to be thrown his way, but this feels… innocuous. Too innocuous, if he were a suspicious boy. Still, this kind of curiosity is something he should expect. It’s not everyday you meet a kid doing the kinds of things he does everyday. He gives himself a silent moment of recognition for his ability to stop and reflect on the matter before deciding to indulge the man. 

And in the meantime, he’ll be concocting the best question he can.

“Um. Let’s see. He’d started doin’ this kinda stuff before I joined, with Louis, Nabby and Marilyn. I don’t really know what they were doin’ before they made up the Black Raven. Marilyn has her own stall, but I think I remember the others sellin’ bits like old jewellery and watches in the market.”

Edgar listens silently, but every now and then, his smile fluctuates between fondness and melancholy. Gus, staring into middle space, is too busy trying to recollect his memories to notice.

“So then instead of playin’ with some of us, Crow and that lot started groupin’ together and goin’ off to do other stuff instead. We just thought they were doin’ lots of other scams, but then one day, when we were like-- now proper, proper friends, he said that he had this great idea! He said it was a big secret, but it would be fun if I came along too. Thinkin’ on it now, I think he just wanted me to lift some of the heavy stuff, but he never made me leave afterwards.”

“We’d all played together a lot before this happened so none of us were strangers, and it wasn’t nearly as big as it is now when we started. A lot of it was just cheap junk painted to look nice, but then we kept findin’ bigger and cooler stuff to sell! So then we had the market, and then we also started doin’ the auctions. To be honest, I wasn’t sure ‘bout all the auction stuff at first. Just havin’ the stalls is alright, but at an auction, you gotta be on stage, you gotta talk, you gotta do allsorts! But Crow-- he’s really good at it. He read up on it an’ everythin’! And he’s always so cool on stage, it’s like nobody suspects a thing.”

“Hmm. So how did you find that underground space you currently use?”

“Oh, that? I dunno, actually. Maybe Crow found it. When I turned up, he already had a few stalls goin’ down there. No idea what it was originally, but those back rooms are so fancy, it must’ve been somethin’. We could never figure that out, though. Crow didn’t want us diggin’ too deep in case we weren’t able to use it anymore.”

“A wise decision. It sounds like you’ve all been able to collectively build this little venture from the ground up. What humble beginnings.”

“Yeah. A lot of what we do wouldn’t happen if any one of us weren’t here. Crow came up with the idea, but if we didn’t have Scraps, we wouldn’t have half of the expensive stuff we sell now. Without Badger, most of our tricks wouldn’t work as well. Crow really knows how to choose people wisely. He did that for us, and he does it for the customers too. It’s neat.”

“How thoroughly intriguing. But I still ask, why? What compels you to put in so much effort?”

Gus pauses, chewing his lip for a moment, before resting his weight on one hand behind him. “I s’pose it’s a lot of fun for us sometimes. Bein’ able to trick grown-ups and make a bit of pocket money, but my family ain’t that bad. We sure ain’t rich, and we can’t buy very much, but it ain’t as bad as Crow or Badger’s. Like, I got both my parents and we got an alright place to live. Same for Marilyn too, but even she’s got stuff to worry about, so… I guess… I s’pose we do it for them lot. It’s nice to make money for sweets an’ books, but we keep doin’ it so they can afford important things.”

“So your friends don’t have it quite so good, do they?”

“Naw. Crow’s dad I think is ‘orrible, and he ain’t got a mum. Nabby don’t got a dad neither. Badger’s got both, but he’s got a rubbish flat and so many sisters that it’s hard to take care of ‘em all. We all get a cut at the end, but I don’t mind more bein’ dished out to them for all of that. I think.. I think that’s why we do it now. I mean, it’s… still sort of fun, innit? It was always for fun, but… I think it’s more serious than it was.”

“An insightful answer. Thank you for indulging me, but I must say… it sounds like things haven’t been going quite so well.”

Gus winces. “Erm. Maybe not. I dunno. Kind of feels like things are changin’ now.”

Edgar relaxes back into his chair. “That’s always been the way of the world. Children can be so lucky, able to live for some time without a care in the world, though I assume that’s quite different in your circumstances. Tell me, spending a bit of your pocket money on sweets aside, what else do you do with your share?”

“Oh. Well. Like I said, some of the others have to pay bills and stuff. I don’t really do that… but I have a little sister, so I spend it on her.”

“Ah, you’re a big brother then? Yes, I remember that experience quite well. Ever in the nature of the big brother to dote on his younger sister.” Edgar rests his chin on the palm of his hand, staring up at the space above the fireplace in reminiscence. 

“You’ve got one too?”

“Once, I had one, yes. Even if you don’t use your money for such urgent matters as your friends, caring for your family is an equally generous endeavour.”

Gus nods fervently. “I mean, I kind of got the idea from Badger. I’ve seen him use his money to buy clothes for his little sisters, so I thought I could do the same thing. I try not to spoil her, though. She gets enough sweets as it is, so I buy her books an’ stuff for when she gets a bit older. I’m lucky my parents never notice where it comes from.”

The room then delves into quiet comfort, as they both appreciate their mutual experiences, and look upon them fondly. Despite the conversation ending on such a heartfelt note, Gus’ face still falls into a glum frown. Something that is rarely, if ever, seen upon his rosy features.

“You seem troubled.”

“I… guess I am.”

“What bothers you?”

“Well… I mean. Everyone else has to really work hard to pay their bills, buy food, keep their families together. I get it. I think, knowing Crow, this is why all of this started to begin with. It just makes me wonder why he ever bothered inviting me to join to begin with.”

“You doubt his motives?”

“I dunno. It’s just… it feels like he invited all of us in for a chance to make enough money so our lives aren’t so hard, but there’s nothing for me to make mine better. It’s not that bad at all. Why bother inviting someone who don’t need it like they do? Why not choose someone else? It’s not like I mind if I’m kept around ‘cuz I’m big and can lift heavy stuff, but…”

“...you feel as if you’re very replaceable. Regardless, it’s as you said. He’s never felt compelled to oust you from the group. In fact, from what little I’ve seen of him, he seems really quite protective of you all. Surely there must be something in that.”

“I know. He’s not the kind of person who would just… have someone around if he didn’t like ‘em. And he’s gotta trust me a lot to let me be a Black Raven! Of course I’d never spill to anyone about what we do. It’s just that it feels like they’re miles away from me. And it don’t help that I’m the youngest neither.”

“I understand. You’re simply concerned about the distance between you and your friends. It sounds like there might be more divides between you and everyone else than between other people in your group.”

“Yeah! That’s exactly what it feels like. It’s not like they don’t treat me like a friend, I know we’ll… we’ll always be friends! I just wish I wasn’t just… workin’ for a bit of extra money in my own pocket. It feels cheap.”

“But you don’t just work for that, do you? After all, you, yourself, said that you work for the good of everybody else. You help work to put money in their pockets too. I’m sure they value that immensely.”

Gus looks down at his feet with a forlorn expression. “Huh. Maybe. I do mess up from time to time, though. Like I drop some some real clangers.”

“Well, that’s to be expected of children. Doing what you do at your age is hard enough. I’m sure they don’t hold it against you. You think too much of your differences. Think more of what brings you together. You’ll be far happier for it, I assure you.”

“Do… do you still have friends to talk to?”

Their conversation had been trundling along at a steady pace, even with all the lulls and pauses in between, but this is the first time since they began speaking that the conversation has halted to a dead stop. The stony silence rings loudly, even over the whispering of the fire, and even then, Edgar’s response feels as sharp and instant as the crack of a whip.

“No. Even if my longest friends were still alive, we no longer speak. Rarely do I find myself mobile enough to leave this house.”

“Oh… sorry.”

“There’s no need. I assure you, at my age and experience, I am content with this outcome. I’ve lived a life full of many people. Now is simply my time to spend alone.”

“I see,” Gus mumbles. “I s’pose it’s a lot different bein’ old. It seems kinda scary, y’know.”

“Not everyone spends their elderly years like I do. My circumstances are… specific. I’m sure you will never grow to be lonely, with as many friends as you have- or if you have purpose, you might even find your final years to be rather busy.”

“I get it. Kind of like Aunt Taffy and her sweets! She’s old, and we always ask her when she’ll retire, but she says she never will. She always says she’ll be sellin’ sweets by the market ‘til she drops dead! But… I really hope that don’t happen anytime soon.”

At this, Edgar blinks. “Taffy? Not that batty old girl with the glasses. Is she still selling those sweets?”

The surprise becomes mutual, evident by the way Gus leans back sharply. “You… you know her?”

“‘Short in height and in sight’ is what I always said about her- and mostly definitely short in temper. Never have I seen a woman so fiery since… since… well, it doesn’t matter. I should’ve known that awful stubborn streak of hers would’ve carried her right through her old age. Hard to believe she’s still alive standing out on that path every day.”

Being such a reliable supplier of sweets, and a friendly face too, Gus perks up a lot quicker at the mention of Aunt Taffy. “Yeah, she still does! I get all my sweets from her, and so do the others too.”

“Does she still have that ridiculous cart as well?”

“Yeah. It… well… it is a little bit ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“I remember when she first got it. Painted it all up in those daft colours- it was an eyesore! Still, it was a very big achievement for the time, especially for her. Blasted thing must be fifty years old by now, though. Shocked it hasn’t fallen apart.”

“She don’t really move it about much, it just sort of stays in front of the market. So… are you two friends?”

Edgar sighs, clutching a packet of cigarettes in one hand, and teasing one of the filters with the other. “That… that may be a long story for another time. For now, what I will say is that we know each other quite well. I assure you, this isn’t something you’d want to waste your valuable question on. Speaking of… I believe it falls to you now?”

That’s right, he had managed to wangle a free question out of him earlier. It feels like quite a while since then, and Gus had gotten so swept up in the conversation that he’d forgotten all about it. Deep down, he really would like to know just what his history was with Aunt Taffy, but with the rest of the group in mind, he wisely decides against it.

“Oh, yeah. Right. Well… um. How did you figure out that the painting was a forgery so quickly…?”

“That’s easy,” Edgar says, with an unusual sharpness to his gaze. “It used the wrong kind of paint.”

Gus blinks. “The… the paint? You could tell just by looking?” He’s not sure if it’s impressive or not, but to him, the quality of paint hadn’t even occurred to him as a damning factor. 

“It’s more than that. I happen to know very well that the original painting used a specific type of white paint. A type that was much thicker and more textured than what that painting over there has used. It’s a small mistake, but very noticeable to me.”

“That’s kind of amazing.” Gus stares at the older man in awe, but now that the painting was being brought back into the conversation, he realises he’s probably been here longer than expected. His legs begin to fidget, evidencing his desire to get up and go in the next few minutes, but he still finds himself posing another question.

“Actually… there’s been somethin’ on my mind for a while now.”

“Yes?”

“Erm. Do you… know where the other painting is?”

“The other painting…? You mean the real one?”

Gus nods, now standing up from what was becoming a rather sweaty stool. “I saw in the paper that it was famous-- or kind of famous anyway. I woulda thought that people would know it was fake if the real one was up in a gallery or something.”

Strangely, Edgar looks distinctly confused by this suggestion, even quirking his thin eyebrows in utter derision. “No-- no, no. It’s in no place like that. No, this painting is… well, it has some history to it. I’ll admit, it made our regional paper through the police investigation, and through some effort of my own, but it’s not at all the kind of fame you’re imagining. It’s doubtlessly a masterpiece, a piece of importance to a few select experts who would know its worth, but nothing so glamorous. As for where it is, well… I don’t know.”

Gus habitually clutches his hands behind his back, slowly rolling on the balls of his feet. “Oh, I get it. That’s why you bought it from us, right?”

Edgar clears his throat awkwardly. “Well… the circumstances of my purchase are a little more complicated than that, but fine. Either way, you’ve had your questions, and I’ve had mine. You’re free to take the painting at your leisure.”

Gus nods silently, lumbering over to collect the painting. As he does so, he mumbles a very quiet, “Thank you.”

“I must thank you too. It’s not often I partake in such… compelling conversation.”

The painting is surprisingly light, even with such an ornate frame, and when Gus manages to get a good hold on it, he turns to Edgar. There’s a pause before he speaks, but it’s so evident that a question is on his mind, that it would probably be weird if he didn’t just come out and ask it.

“Are… are you sure it doesn’t get lonely not talkin’ to anyone?”

The fire may paint warmth over his face, and the shadows may apply depth to his features, but with eyes so blank, Edgar’s face looks truly dead. It’s as if he didn’t have anything there at all. The only life to be ascertained in his body is the crackling of his brittle vocal chords, humming lowly like dull machinery as he speaks.

“Truly, it does not matter anymore.”

With that, he smiles a very, very small smile.

Chapter Text

Needless to say, bearing the current situation in mind, Wren really should not be outside right now.

In fact, she should be up at Barde Manor with several of the others, rooting around for clues and leads to help them further their investigation. Crow had given her a vague order, but there had been no stern reminder to reinforce a plan that was supposed to keep Wren safe and away from the clutches of the police, who by now must’ve noticed her absence. It makes sense. She of all people should understand her predicament, and leaving the manor so carelessly shouldn’t even bother to cross her mind. Not when all outside matters can be taken care of by the others. 

Despite that, she defies just about every thread of logic that can be garnered from the situation, and has snuck out on her own little mission.

She hadn’t really been given any particular orders, other than to accompany other people and stay within the confines of the manor. She can understand why, she really can, but it doesn’t stop her from feeling any less useless- especially since she was the one to cause them so much trouble to begin with.

At first, she’d pondered what else she could do to make use of her time, taking the kind of initiative that Crow could be proud of, but it ended up being negated by a choice he’d probably scold her for. It isn’t her fault that there’s nothing in the manor for her to do, nor is it her fault that she’d made a quiet connection that Crow hadn’t, which had sparked her own curious investigation.

Days ago, when she had visited the house of the departed woman alongside Socket, Gus and Scraps, Hans had alluded to something to be found there. He’d scoffed, proclaiming that it had been empty after he himself had checked, but Wren can’t help but get a funny feeling about it. There would be no real harm in checking it again, taking advantage of the fact it still remains empty for the time being. So long as she keeps her head down and away from suspicious eyes, she’ll get away with it just fine.

That’s why she’s ditched her usual clothes. She may be older than Arianna by about a year or two, but they’re still roughly the same size, so Wren had taken the liberty of pinching a couple of items of clothing from Arianna’s wardrobe. She would apologise to Arianna later, but now that she’s actually walking around, she thinks Arianna should be the one to apologise to her. Wren has never gotten used to wearing such formal dresses. The only dresses she owns are billowing summer dresses that help stave off the hot weather, crudely stained with various dyes that look less like floral arrangements and more like rainbow vomit. The kinds of posh and properly tailored dresses that Arianna wears are far more restrictive, chafing the sensitive skin around her underarms. They’re pretty (or at least most of them are), but they’re so hard to move around in, and that’s neglecting to take into account the pair of woollen tights that are making her thighs itch. She doesn’t know how Arianna can do it.

But, with clothes much fancier than her own and a far less distinctive hairstyle, Wren is able to bypass people quickly without arousing a hint of recognition. If she had something like a parasol, concealing her face would be much easier, but she can only settle for covering as much of her features with the loose locks of her hair as possible.

The walk back to Highyard Hill is much more of a struggle when she’s in a hurry. She’d love nothing more than to call for Bucky’s help, but that idea is out of the question. She shoots wistful glances over at the canals as every misstep over cobbled paving sends aches and pains through her ankles.

It could be worse, though. She could be having to trek all the way back home on the other side of town, and it’s not long until she finally reaches a quiet little road where the old house sits. Despite its size, it blends so seamlessly with the peaceful nature of the area that it’s easy to miss. However, when Wren finds herself approaching the garden path, the empty, hollow dread that the building exudes begins to worm its way into her head. As if purposely taunting her, every memory of Socket calling this building haunted starts to surface, raising the tension before she’s even made it to the front door.

She swallows thickly, bunching up the hem of Arianna’s dress in her balled fists, and begins to plod up the path. There’s no reason for the door to be locked, seeing as there’s supposedly nothing or nobody in the house, but even if it is, she’s perfectly handy with a couple of paperclips. It’s just a matter of actually working up the courage to get to the door.

With gritted teeth, she grinds to a halt upon a worn-out doormat, feeling the harsh bristles through the soles of a pair of shoes she’d also pilfered from Arianna’s room. Even for such a nice house, the bottle-green paint on the door is beginning to flake away in large patches, and the gilded letterbox has noticeably rusted shut. Wren reaches out to take a firm grasp on the door handle, feeling the creaking friction tingle across the tips of her fingers as she twists it.

It opens. The door is a bit stiff, it takes a little shove to get it to move, but the handle turns with no restriction, allowing Wren full access to the empty abode.

If Wren thought the outside looked creepy, the inside is positively dire. The lights are all off, and with the drab and dreary weather outside, there’s not much illumination. It’s nothing but worn, dusty floorboards and peeling wallpaper for as far as the eye can see. It’s enough to elicit a visible shiver from Wren, who is trying her best not to imagine what kinds of ghouls and ghosts that could be lurking around every corner.

Every step she takes is one she wishes she was taking in the direction of the exit, but she steels herself and carries on. There’s a short hallway that connects the front door and the main front room, which overlooks the enormous garden with the large window that almost covers the entire far wall. A set of carpeted stairs leads on from that hallway up onto the second floor, which Wren really doesn’t fancy investigating further, but if the ground floor yields no results, she’ll have no choice.

The only thing that catches her eye is the grand fireplace, chiselled out of stone, that sits with great presence on the wall beside the window. This room must’ve looked incredible when it was properly furnished. In fact, there are still faint stains and markings of dust around the room that shows where furniture had been. Bright squares of white are plastered across the walls, highlighting the ageing of the wallpaper even further around the spaces that had been occupied by paintings. Some of this stuff must’ve been sitting here for decades without being touched.

Observing the room with keen eyes, Wren backs closer to the fireplace, leaning over to peer into the darkened alcove. Things hidden in fireplaces seem like something out of a storybook, but how incredible it would be if she discovered such a secret. She leans further into the little space, almost stumbling over the small, metal fencing that surrounds an area now devoid of ash and charcoal. Just as she thinks she might have something--

“What are you doing?”

Bolting upright proves to be a bad choice, but Wren can’t stop her body from reacting so quickly, and she suddenly smacks her head against the stone mantelpiece above with a nasty thud. It’s so unexpected that the pain takes an extra second to process, and she slowly crumples to the ground clutching her head in her hands.

“Wh-- hey, be careful, you moron! Are you alright?”

Wren swears she’s heard that voice before, but she’s a little preoccupied with nursing what could possibly be the worst hit to the head she’s ever received in her life. All she can manage is a weak whine, hoping that the aching pressure subsides quickly so she can get back to work, and perhaps deal with this unexpected hiccup in her plan.

Speaking of, whoever’s followed her in here is still lurking behind her. She keeps her hands firmly planted on her head, craning her head to the side just to get the teensiest glance of who it might be.

She didn’t think the situation could get worse, now being faced with an even bigger headache in the form of literally the last person in the world she’d ever wanted to see here.

Hans.

He’s sharper than she’s given him credit for, because he clocks her immediately, even with the quickest glimpse of the profile of her face, and he begins to reel back in shock. With a short gasp, his wad of bubblegum lodges itself in his throat, which he hacks back up in a sickeningly suspenseful moment. Wren would much rather die than see this be drawn out any further than it has to.

“So it is you! You really did escape that cell!”

Wren bolts upright, stumbling on her feet as she puts on the nastiest scowl she can muster. “What are you doin’ in here!? Did you follow me?” Her hands still remain glued to her head, as it’s the only thing providing her any kind of pain relief. Needless to say, it negates any kind of intimidation she’s trying to lay onto him.

“No!! Well-- um. Yeah, sort of-- but that’s way besides the point! You should be in jail right now! Coming back here was a stupid move,” he gruffly folds his flabby arms, but the expression on his face isn’t as smug or victorious as Wren would’ve normally suspected. 

“Maybe it was, but it’s important! I ain’t gonna sit around like a lemon whilst everyone else is lookin’ for the real culprit! And I prob’ly woulda gotten away with it if you hadn’t shown up… nobody else has recognised me yet,” she mutters that last part with some amount of indignant pride, but it’s inconsequential at this point.

“Fallen into Arianna’s wardrobe, I see,” he clicks his tongue. “So you and your little mates must be hiding up at the manor, eh? No wonder.”

Wren isn’t quick enough to rebuke his claim, leaving her looking very guilty indeed. She hadn’t expected him to make such a quick connection, but she supposes that being children of the upper echelons of Misthallery’s society would provide them with a sense of familiarity with one another. Right now, though, that doesn’t matter so much. She can’t allow herself to be cornered here, and she needs to warn the others too. Maybe this really was a stupid idea…

“What are you even looking for, anyway? Didn’t I tell you that there’s nothing else left here? Or are you desperately looking for a shred of evidence to prove your innocence.” The smug smirk has returned in full force, but curiously, it disappears just as quickly as it came. Before Wren can question it, Hans cuts through her queries.

“Ah, don’t bother. I know the investigation’s been halted. What strings you managed to pull, I’ll never know. Even if I did tell ‘em where you are, all they can charge you with right now is escaping jail.”

Wren can’t let him know where her blind spots are, especially regarding the investigation, so she keeps her face as neutral as possible. This must’ve been Crow’s doing. He must’ve gotten someone to temporarily suspend the investigation so they can work on their own. She’s not sure whether to feel relieved or not. Guess she didn’t have to wear this uncomfortable get-up after all.

“It still don’t tell us why you decided to follow me in here! That’s seriously creepy, y’know!” Hans is probably the last person she’d like to be cornered by, and yet he keeps rearing his ugly head at every chance he gets. How unpleasant.

“Entering a house that isn’t yours is still suspicious, even if the house doesn’t belong to anyone else! Not to mention you left the door open, dinlo.” 

Oh, right. She’d forgotten about that. Wren will have to admit that that’s a cock-up on her part entirely, but she thinks her point still stands. With the ache on her head now subsiding, she folds her arms and mirrors Hans' bold stance with a firm frown on her face.

“Well, you found me. Good job. Now can you go away? I got things to do that don’t involve you!” 

“Like sticking your head in fireplaces? Yeah, I’ll leave that to you. That bang on the head looked nasty, mind.”

“Which was your fault, by the way.”

“My fault?! What kind of weirdo goes stickin’ her head in fireplaces?”

“A weirdo who’s lookin’ for clues to prove her innocence! That’s who!”

Hans shakes his head with resignation. “They literally found you at the crime scene. You could not be more guilty if you tried. Fine if you wanna struggle, but it’s pretty futile at this point.”

“It ain’t futile. We came to agreements with the person charging us,” Wren tells him matter-of-factly. “If we find the real culprit, the charges are dropped. And… even if we don’t succeed… I still won’t be the one goin’ to jail.” It’s spoken with more melancholy than Hans can understand, but there’s a decisive look in Wren’s eyes that tells him she might have wrangled a better grasp on her circumstances than he’d anticipated. 

“So you really are looking for the culprit, huh? Good luck with that, I guess. I don’t reckon you’ll get far. The police are still trying to whip up a charge for your little underground business. It’ll only be a matter of time.” He’s still lacking his usual pomposity, which is very curious to Wren. If anything, it sounds like he’s trying to challenge her.

“Well, that shouldn’t matter. There wasn’t any evidence left behind of any such business,” she says with a haughty sneer.

“Except that painting you sold is all the evidence we need.”

“Only if the person who pressed them charges still claims he bought it from us. There was some murkiness ‘bout that whole exchange anyway, so who knows what really happened?” She says this with a nauseating sweetness comparable to vomiting pure honey. There’s no real guarantee that this could happen, but considering the way the situation has gone so far, it’s definitely not out of the realms of possibility. It’s enough of a chance to give her a little boost of genuine confidence.

Hans glowers at her, folding his arms so tightly that the fat around his elbows threatens to burst the seams of his jumper. “Well, don’t you have it all sussed out then? Bet you think you could get away with murder.”

“Maybe if you were my victim,” Wren snaps back at him. “Now bugger off! I’ve got some clues to find.”

Hans throws his arms down in exasperation, “I already told you! There’s nothing left here to find! Trust me, I had a right old rummage around.”

For a moment, Wren squints at him. There’s a long pause in which Hans gets a funny feeling that he’s somehow said too much. 

Finally, Wren says, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why were you rummagin’ around here? I remember a few days ago you said there was summat ‘bout that old lady? Dint’cha?”

“Oh. That . To be honest, I kind of thought you’d know all about that already.”

Wren pouts. “That ain’t to say I don’t know! I just wanna know what you think you know. Just… to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“Yeah, like I’m falling for that.”

Hans seems to take great enjoyment in withholding anything that Wren looks to get her hands on, so Wren knows there’s no point trying to press him for answers. He’ll only grow more insufferable. Balling her fists, she flounces off to resume her investigation of the fireplace.

She desperately wishes she could just stumble across a vital clue, if only to have something to rub in Hans’ jeering face. With the backlog of good karma she’s owed, there must be some kind of satisfying comeuppance for him heading her way. For now, though, it’s just soot for as far as the eye can see. 

“There’s gotta be summat here…”

“I’m telling you,” Hans sighs, accompanied by the bored snapping of bubblegum. “There’s nothing left in the house. I shouldn’t imagine there is after whatsherface was ‘round here.”

Wren pauses, but doesn’t move. If immediate past conflicts have taught her anything, acting surprised would be a surefire way to get absolutely nothing. Instead, she shrugs passively and murmurs, “Oh, her daughter, right? Must’ve been around to clear out the house.”

To her surprise, Hans emits a noise of bemusement. “Eh? Uh. I wouldn’t think so. She was a bit too young.” He begins to scratch his chin in thought. “Granddaughter perhaps. She turned up whilst they were clearing out the house and was chatting to the movers. I think she had some of the stuff moved to her, and left them there with whatever she didn’t want.”

At this, Wren glances over her shoulder at him. “Dark hair?”

“Yeah.”

“Long?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Glasses?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Huh.”

She turns back. Hans watches her until she decides she’s finished, and she stands back up to her full height, which isn’t very impressive next to his enormous frame. Nonetheless, she flashes him a sweet smile.

“Thanks very much.”

Hans blinks, unable to find words to respond as she deftly sidesteps him in order to reach the door. He can’t put his finger on it, but somehow he feels as if he’s slipped up. Despite that, he makes absolutely no move to prevent her from leaving. Even on the walk back, Wren can’t figure that part out.

Chapter Text

“Jeez, and I thought the rest of your house was dusty.”

Nabby waves a hand lazily in front of his face in an effort to clear away the thick clouds of dust that billow from the untouched attic. Arianna’s head whips around, rather indignant. 

“Well, excuse me, but I haven’t been in much of a state to clean in recent years!” 

Arianna’s biting response is met with a sly grin as she pushes the bulky door forward with all of her might, revealing a large, dark space that stretches out across the top of the house. The flat wooden beams that support small areas of panel flooring seem precarious at best and an invite for a concussion-inducing plunge right through the middle of the house at worst. With the state of things now, both options seem pretty entertaining.

“So I see…” Nabby replies flatly, as Arianna tries not to recoil too hard at the ghastly state of the attic. She shakes off the feeling of dust and phantom cobwebs before saying, “Come on already, the paintings must be in here somewhere. I doubt father would’ve ever thrown them out.”

Nabby squints. The only light source in the entire room is a small window on the far wall that overlooks the misty lake below. Every now and then he catches a glimpse of the rolling clouds of tiny dust particles that glimmer in the chink of dim daylight. Surrounding it, the room is lined wall-to-wall with a variety of odd belongings. 

It’s actually starting to look a little bit like the storeroom in their hideout. There’s stacks upon stacks of paintings leant up heavily against the bricks, some having fallen through the canvases of others. Old tables and chairs, mirrors and lamps, all gilded and ornate but clearly from a bygone era. Hard to believe such expensive, attractive looking items are just sitting up here collecting dust. 

“You’ve got a lot of stuff up here.”

Arianna is shrouded by darkness, but he suspects she’s lurking somewhere in the furthest corner as her voice calls out, “Well, it’s an old house, isn’t it? A lot of these things were before my time, though. Perhaps they’re my grandparents.”

“We can have a look, if you’d like.” Nabby grunts as he gets to his knees, giving more of an impression of an old man than a boy. “Though my appraisal skills aren’t as good as Crow’s, they’re still alright. Let’s see…”

This piques Arianna’s curiosity, and she suddenly glides out of the shadows and into the stream of light coming from the window. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“Mm? Oh, well… it’s like antiques, innit? When you got somethin’ old, maybe a bit on the historical side, you wanna know where and when it’s from, right? That’s… kind of what we do. I mean, we sell a lot of junk-- and I mean a lot , but there’s a lot of old bits and pieces to find if you look hard enough.”

At this, he pops his head up out from between the two tables he’d ducked behind. “So we got proper used to figurin’ out what’s from where and when. Stuff like clocks, jewellery and snuff boxes, ashtrays, maybe a few of them fancy decanters-- all of that stuff has a date on it, and that date will give us our price. Gives us more room to slap a sparkling description on it, makes us look right professional- and we know Crow is all about that- and helps us reel in real collectors.” 

He suddenly flashes her a smile that she’s never seen before. “I mean, you get used to it once you start seein’ all the details, but… it’s a useful skill, I’ll tell you. 

It’s hard to gauge Arianna’s reaction from where he’s sitting, but her response is positively brimming with excitement.

“I had no idea you knew so much about these things! I mean, I suppose it makes sense when you explain it, but I didn’t think you put so much work into it. I would’ve thought collecting all these bits and making them look flash was work enough.”

He’ll never admit it, but he secretly loves this kind of reception to the things they do, especially from kids like Arianna. It’s normal everyday life to him, maybe a bit on the boring side, but seeing the shimmer in Arianna’s eyes is oddly rewarding, and perhaps a little flattering too.

“Trust me, it is. I can’t say too much on that, ‘cos my main job is really only as a lookout, but… this is just how Crow is, innit?”

Arianna tilts her head. “Is it?”

He emits a small sigh. “Yeah. Back when we started, it was a pretty naff setup. We all did what we could, but then when we got Scraps involved, good god, we were on a roll. He knew exactly what to pick up, exactly what to fix up and exactly where to find these things. Y’know, it was a major improvement- and that’s exactly what Crow likes.

Arianna crouches down to meet his eye level, and to take an absentminded gander at the underside of this really quite impressive table. “He does seem… he does seem like he does things properly. Like, really properly.”

“That boy wouldn’t half-arse an arse-wipin’.”

“Ew.”

“I’m serious. He’s a proper hard worker. He set up havin’ all the records of all the sales; when they were bought, who they were bought by, how much for-- all of that gets written down by him. He counts the money, he organises the auctions, and we all help with whatever needs doin’, but he goes the real extra mile. It’s insane. I’ve seen him stay up ‘til two in the mornin’. He might actually be a lunatic.”

“That’s… intense. I mean, it’s good for you lot though, right?”

“Well, yeah, I s’pose it is. Still. I’m not cut out for that much work. I’m happy standin’ guard in the market all day. Guess there’s a job out there for all of us somewhere.”

Arianna slips back to rest on her heels, and their little conversation beneath the table feels like the kind of childish conspiracies that Arianna never really got to partake in before. All the juvenile rumours and gossiping- you’d think she’d had enough of it, being on the receiving end, but it really makes her feel a part of everything.

“I was going to say, aren’t you meant to be the second-in-command? You’re awfully lax for someone in that position.”

He pulls a lazy grin. “Huh. I s’pose I am, aren’t I? Yeah… Seems ironic, don’t it?”

“Why did he choose you then? Crow, I mean. He did choose you, didn’t he?”

Nabby rests his chin on his hand, eyes flittering out towards the darkness as he recollects his memory of it. “Yeah, sort of. Every time he left for whatever, whether he got sick or couldn’t come out, he’d put me in charge. Makes sense, though. We’ve been friends for ages an’ ages. I know what he wants out of this. I know how important it is to him, and bossin’ the others around ain’t like doin’ real work so it’s whatever, I guess. Works for me.”

“So he trusts you a lot. That makes sense. I suppose it isn’t like you’d go making any rash decisions or anything,” she says, with a hint of a giggle.

“Huh. I never thought about it like that,” he replies lowly, perhaps a little embarrassed by it. It’s not like he’s spent ages talking to Arianna, and yet she keeps coming dangerously close to hitting the nail on the head every time she makes any kind of deduction about him. Talk about unnerving. 

“So what about this table then? Do you know when it’s from?”

Nabby strikes a pose of contemplation for a moment, tilting his head to inspect the table from a few different angles before shrugging noncommittally. “I mean, in this light especially, it’s all rough speculation, but the carving of the wood and this kind of upholstery reeks of art nouveau. Very popular pre-first world war. Couldn’t be any older than 1914 or 1915. You were right, it probably was your grandparents.”

Arianna is thoroughly amazed by this process of deduction. “You could tell all of that just from looking at it?”

“It… it’s not that impressive,” Nabby responds, recoiling slightly. “I mean, when you’re looking at furniture like this, a lot of it is just identifying all the prominent, uh… aesthetics? I mean, every decade has a style, right? Even you could probably tell apart a fridge made in the fifties from a fridge made today. Once you know all the major art movements and stuff, it’s easy to tell what’s from what. The only thing is that I couldn’t really narrow down a year for you. Or a place. You’d need better light and probably Crow and Scraps on this one.”

“Still! That’s still very impressive! I’d love to be able to be good at things like this. I mean, it’d probably help me sort out all the things in the house. There’s so much…” She finishes this thought with a meek whine, and Nabby can’t blame her. There is an astounding amount of stuff just sitting around this enormous manor.

Nevertheless, he shoots her a cheeky grin. “Well, I’m sure your wish will come true. Hang around us long enough for Crow to realise he can put you to work, and you’ll be on our level in no time.”

She emits an awkward titter. “That’s probably true. Tony has been having a lot of fun working with you all recently. He’s really enjoying it.”

“Oh, don’t, he’s exactly the kind of kid that Crow likes to boss around. Bright-eyed and eager, but mind you, he’s actually pretty capable. Crow was right impressed when he found out Tony was behind all that witch mark stuff. Even though back then he was sort of just an honorary member, I had a feelin’ he’d end up joinin’ our ranks for real. He’s too good a kid to pass up.”

Although for just a moment Arianna had felt a sudden pang of jealousy in her chest- one that had told her that Tony had a more respected presence in this group- she can’t help but feel silently overjoyed. Whilst she’d been ill, he’d gone out to play less and less ‘til he wouldn’t go out at all. It had worried her to no end that he might not have friends, or that his relation to her would somehow sabotage his social life for the rest of his days, but seeing him thriving in amongst a group of children who she could genuinely admit were talented, resourceful and intelligent individuals makes her heart swell. He was playing, he was learning-- and sure, he might be learning from people like Crow and Nabby (which makes them suspect for a lot of things) but he was doing well. Days were bright. They were entertained. Life was moving on.

The room becomes quiet. Biding his time waiting for Arianna to respond, Nabby is eyeing up a nicely upholstered chair in the corner, but when the silence rings for far too long, he cautiously looks back at her.

She doesn’t know why there are tears prickling in her eyes. It’s not something to cry over, really. In her lifetime, she’d faced unimaginable loss and even found herself shackled to death’s front door, from which she thought she’d never escape, but what’s making her cry now? Being happy. She can’t believe it. How silly.

Nabby is so unbelievably unequipped to deal with the tears of a sweet young girl like Arianna that the moment he clocks her sobs, his brain just crashes. Did he make her cry? Was it something he said? Something he did? Was it even him at all? What does he do? Pat her head? Give her a hug? Talk to her? Marilyn and Wren aren’t really one for tears, and the very few times he’d ever seen any of the other boys shed a tear, the most he could muster was the classic ‘what’s wrong with you now, you silly bastard?’. 

Somehow, he doesn’t think that’ll work with Arianna. 

“Erm…”

Luckily, before he can make a meagre attempt to talk, Arianna begins roughly wiping at her face with her sleeve. She gives a weak sniffle.

“I’m-- I’m sorry. It’s not that… I don’t-- erm. Well. I’m just happy, okay? I’m happy you let Tony join the group. I’m happy you let me join the group. I’m happy you’ve made us feel really welcome, and that he’s been having so much fun, and, and, and--” 

She stops to cough slightly, trying to sniff back all the oncoming tears and the unsightly trail of snot from her nose. “I suppose I’m just thankful is all. I thought my brother might never be happy, but… he’s having such a good time. I’m happy he’s found people he can go to without me around. I didn’t mean to cry like this, I think I just… never thought about it before is all.”

She finishes her heartfelt sentiment with a sweet but slightly snotty smile, but is unsure what to make of the way Nabby’s cheeks bulge. He holds a hand to his mouth, his face growing red, but when she stops speaking, he spits out a harsh laugh.

She’s not… mad. Really. But she’s not quite sure what to make of this. Was this just how things were done in the Black Ravens? Their differences have been made stark in many situations down the line, but this is new. However, before she can question his shaking laughter, he raises a finger to point right in her face.

“Y-You… ahaha, you got dust on your sleeve or somethin’? Ya wiped it all over your face! You’re all grey now!”

With a blank face, Arianna tentatively reaches up to touch her face, soon feeling the odd little tufts and bumps of patches of dust and assorted fluff. Looking down, her once dark blue sleeves are now considerably lighter and covered in smudges. Nabby continues to laugh.

“Hahaha-- I’m-- I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I really am, I know you were sayin’ all this heartfelt stuff, it was really sweet, but the whole time you had this face on you, like…” He tries to stifle his laughter in his own sleeve, failing quite miserably. 

With a loud sniff, Arianna soon begins to chuckle too. This was all so silly, but in a way, she’s grateful for it. Long gone are the days where her tragic stories and fragile emotions are met with pity and isolating formalities. Being put upon a pedestal of sorrow for the entire town to see. For a long time, she’d been nothing but a sad story for people to tell, so that they might feel some grief in their lives without ever having to risk their own safety and happiness. A symbol of calamity.

Now is the time where she no longer has to be the centre of attention. Where tears are shed quickly, carried away by the river, so that more time can be spent laughing and enjoying newfound company. Her burdens have been dropped, and her role in this town is now no more than just another kid on the street.

…

“Crap, we got distracted! Where are those paintings?”

“Whoops! They’re over here!”

Chapter Text

Come rain, shine or heavy mist, Aunt Taffy has always done her best to open up shop for the kids looking to buy their sweets. Not once in her 50 years of making sweets has she ever considered it a worthless endeavour- not even when her only customer for the day is Gus, who will come wading through puddles in his raincoat to buy a lollipop or two. Admittedly, it’s been getting harder over the years to keep that up. She’s not as young as she used to be, and though her mind is as sharp as ever, the aching of her knees forces her to reduce her business hours during the day. 

Still, despite the glum weather that threatens light rain, she’s not miserable. Her baskets are loaded with fresh batches of fudge and lemon drops, waiting patiently for a nice child to come along and buy them. It’s starting to seem like one of those days where her only business is Gus, but she finds herself pleasantly surprised when Crow comes striding down the path.

Pleasant surprise is swiftly replaced by tension when she’s able to identify that purposeful look in his eye. He hasn’t even stopped at the stall before she’s emitting a weary sigh. Suppose she won’t be making much of a sale today, then. Not unless he’s willing to purchase his questions with a side of sherbet lemons.

“I know that look,” she murmurs. “What can I do for you, son?”

Even though he’s been rehearsing it in his head during his walk from Barde Manor, he still falters for a moment when he has to say it out loud. Uncertainty is beginning to bleed through the confidence on his face, but he powers through it anyway.

“I knew you were hidin’ stuff from me,” he says flatly. “And I get that you don’t wanna tell me, but… I need you to tell me everythin’ you know about Effie. Especially her paintings.”

Taffy doesn’t say anything for quite a while. Her gaze shifts between him, the ground and the basket tucked in the crook of her elbow. It’s hard to look him so dead in the eye, especially when he’s purposely searching for eye contact. In her experience, people who do that are generally wanting something out of it. Finally, when it looks like she might say something, she only sighs.

“I… I can’t .”

“Why not? She’s… dead. You’re not exactly gonna be causin’ her any trouble.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, son. There’s just too much. It’s complicated.”

Crow rolls his eyes, and although she doesn’t say it aloud, Taffy is distinctly offended. No child has ever rolled their eyes at her before. Kids generally don’t get bratty to the woman who sells them sweets, but Crow evidently has bigger things to worry about. In turn, that worries her too. For a boy like him, his only concern should be what to spend his pocket money on, not the complicated tangles of another person’s life.

“I gathered that,” he folds his arms with a small frown. “I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t really important.” The frown holds, but his eyes suddenly soften as he then pleads, “ Please , Aunt Taffy. You have no idea how important this is. I don’t beg for anythin’, you know that, but--”

“Oh, hush up. I know,” she says sharply. “Don’t you go begging for anything, now. You know better than that.” She pushes her glasses further up her nose, having come to a decision. “What is it you need to know?”

“Everythin’. As much as you can tell me. Where she’s been, what she did, all of it.”

“I’ll tell you on one condition.”

“What?”

“You tell me why you need to know so badly. Deal?”

Crow winces. It’s not an unexpected reaction, and neither is the way he begins to fumble over his words before managing to say, “I… I can try. I can’t tell you everythin’, though. Not yet, anyway.”

She’d expected nothing less from him. “Alright, good enough. Now, let me have a think…”

Even though the clouds above them are thick and grey, the light spotting of rain has yet to descend upon them. Crow would feel tempted to take a seat on the ground if this turned out to be a long story, but he decides against it. Not when the grass is so matted with dry mud.

“Effie was… a girl who came from a very unfortunate background. I had never met a poorer family in Misthallery in all my life.” She taps her chin with a finger as she begins to recall these memories one by one. “We were very good friends, her and I. At one point, anyway-- and obviously, I told you my brother was rather smitten with her. Nothing came of that, though.”

“So the two of you were close, then?”

“Once upon a time, we were, yes. Much like you lot, we spent our days in the marketplace too. She made a bit of a living for herself painting and drawing and whatnot. Stunningly talented, she was. Always had been, even from a young age.”

“So she sold her paintings in the marketplace then?”

Taffy pauses. “She sold her paintings. Those street artist types weren’t as popular back then as they seem to be now, but she had a… reliable way of selling her works.”

Crow quirks a brow, “So you lied to me when you said she didn’t sell her paintings, then.”

“I would consider it… more of an attempt to push you away from the truth than an outright lie,” she flashes a mere hint of a smile. “Nonetheless… yes, she did sell. That was her main source of income for her family. However, she ended up moving out to London later on.”

“She moved to London? What brought her back here? Did she come here to retire or what?”

Taffy sighs. “It’s… it’s hard to say. This was the point in time where we sort of fell out of contact. I can’t say I know many details about her life after that point-- other than the fact she had a daughter.”

Crow blinks. “A daughter? I thought she didn’t have any family left. S’why her house got cleared out the way it did.” If things hadn’t turned out that way, he probably wouldn’t be in this mess right now. He doesn’t like how things work out the way they do sometimes.

Taffy eyes him for a moment before murmuring, “Son, I think you of all people should know that families don’t always stay together. I can’t say if her daughter is even still alive right now, but… I know for a fact that Effie’s death would be no reason for her to come all the way out here.”

Sometimes Crow forgets how much Taffy actually knows about not just Misthallery, but him as well. He’s always been somewhat aware that she keeps a sharp eye on them all, but he’s not sure how he feels about the fact the woman who has been cheerfully selling him sweets his entire life is privy to the much darker facets of it. It’s a miracle she’s never figured out their black market scheme. She never goes out of her way to mention personal details, but he understands what she’s trying to tell him. 

“Alright. So… I have a question.”

“Go on.”

“Do you know if she sold forgeries?”

Taffy may be sharp, but she’s so taken aback by his question that her glasses suddenly slip down her nose. With a squeak, she hurries to adjust them, but it’s not easy to wave off such an obvious reaction. Not when Crow has a very intense eye trained on her. Some children could be far too vigilant sometimes.

“How in the world did you know about that?”

“I… have my sources,” he says quietly. “I can’t tell you how I know, but… it’s true, ain’t it? She was a forger.”

Taffy wilts slightly. “I have absolutely no idea why you would ever need to know this, Crow. As you say, she’s gone now. What she did in her life isn’t going to do much for you now.”

“There’s just one thing I need. Is there anywhere I can find records of her paintings? If she sold her paintings, she must have some record somewhere, right? I mean… illegal or not, pretty crap business model to not have it down somewhere.” He’s aware of the irony of his words, and the greater irony of his situation, but he won’t relent. It’s a valid point. Even if it was illegal, there must be some shred of evidence he can use.

“Why?”

“I… I need to prove someone's innocence.”

Taffy blinks. “Innocence? Son, you--”

“ Please . It’s just this one thing. I won’t ask you for anythin’ else ever again. Just help me out this once.” It’s so hard to refuse such an eager child, and desperation in Crow’s eyes is a very rare thing to come across. Somehow, it just tugs at her heartstrings even further, despite the pang of anxiety that’s beginning to brew in her chest. She knows something isn’t right here, but what can she do?

She swallows, muttering, “There are no records of her sales. However… if you’re very lucky, you might find proof of sales through her criminal record at Scotland Yard.”

“Wh--! She got caught ?!”

“I’m telling you nothing more on this, son. There’s no way you’d ever find such a record anyway. It was such a long, long time ago, and… well, as much as I don’t want to admit this to you, the circumstances surrounding it were unusual and complicated.”

Despite Taffy’s sudden refusal to divulge any further information, Crow feels like he’s hit a jackpot. A criminal record is a perfect piece of evidence to prove his case. Sure, the hard part would be getting his hands on it, but it’s such an incredible opportunity to just turn up like that. If there’s anything he’s adept at in life, it’s gaining something from absolutely nothing.

Feeling so overwashed with excitement, Crow grins, “Thanks a bunch, Aunt Taffy! That’s just what I needed.”

Unfortunately, Taffy isn’t feeling even remotely as cheerful as he is. The sombre gaze cannot be shaken from her tired eyes, and though she would hate to cut through a child’s excitement, she has no other choice. If she can’t stop him by force, she can at least talk to him.

“Listen to me, Crow. I don’t know what kind of trouble you’ve found yourself in, but this is not something you want to fall into. I promise. You’re a good boy, I know you are. It would be such a shame to see you get caught up in old mistakes.”

Though it would be truthful to say Crow and Taffy’s relationship is purely one of business, there’s always been an underlying fondness Taffy holds for all of her young customers. You could say that the business of selling sweets is a front for her. Sure, it’s legitimate self-employment and it rakes in an alright living, but it was never about the money. It was always about the children.

In any town up and down the stretch of the country, no matter how nice and idyllic it may seem, there will always be cracks that seem so imperceptible to the average person, but are truly cavernous to those who fall within them. Through no fault of the children who are stuck at the very bottom, the world will always be an unfortunate place, and it will always be even more so to those who never had a chance from the start.

To say she’s seen everything is an enormous understatement. Her own experiences aren’t quite so dire. She’s slipped, she’s stumbled, but always managed to cling on somehow. Some of her older friends were not so lucky, and even at a tender age she’d had to watch them plummet to unfathomable depths, wishing her own young hands could reach out far enough to grab them. In 60 years, not a single thing has changed. Technology can improve, society can debatably grow, but barely concealed bruises and handfuls of pennies picked out of the drains do not disappear with the modern age.

It would be more accurate to describe her real calling in life as a figure of trust. Sweets are the perfect front for it. All kids like sweets, whether they come with their parents or sneak out on their own, and regardless of their background, they congregate in the one spot that will never fail to bring them joy. Feeling responsible for bringing children happiness has provided her with limitless energy through the years, and her sweets are for them and them alone. Sure, she might seem stingy to adults who come looking for a treat, but it’s always them who don’t understand just what she’s here for. Giving away a pack to a person who can pay for other pleasures may just deprive a child looking for what could very well be the only spark of joy they get that day. 

And kids who can’t pay for simple pleasures will find them in other ways. She’s seen far too many children take her bags of sweets with ash-stained fingertips or a sharp scent lingering under their breaths to ever think about wasting a single lollipop on anyone else. It’s been a long while since Crow ever turned up to her stall with a hacking cough smothered beneath his scarf, and she can only be thankful for that, but it never fails to keep her on her toes. The children might never be aware of this, but her eyes follow the same routine with every customer she has. First the eyes to gauge the attitude, then the legs to check for limps and other issues. When they reach out to give her change, she always notes the state of their hands. Kids always get themselves covered in dirt and scrapes, but she’s developed a keen eye that can detect what occurs naturally and what doesn’t. 

She could use the current generation of Misthallery kids as a fine example. Louis gets impatient and shuffles his feet when he’s got something more pressing on his mind- and that’s been a far more common occurrence as of late. Badger walks closer to the tips of his toes due to a recurring dodgy knee. Marilyn has begun adopting a more rigid posture every now and then, an easy identifier of a girl learning to deal with the new hurdles puberty has to offer. Even Hans, who Taffy will insist on selling to despite what the others may say, will still glaze over when being talked to from time to time, furiously chewing on bubblegum in an attempt to conceal chattering teeth.

She’s seen it all in wide, varying spectrums, and though she never goes out of her way to say anything, she keeps these things in mind. It might seem too passive, but it’s a method that pays off when the children who need something more than just sweets will make a nervous appearance at the very crack of dawn. She remembers the first time Wren had turned up at the stall without Socket, with the telltale bags of sleeplessness hanging heavily beneath her large eyes and a household left with an absent father. 

Maybe it isn’t always enough, but if she can be reliable, even in her old age, then it’s something. That’s why, even though she knows there’s something serious about Crow’s situation, she couldn’t possibly turn him away without a second thought. She of all people would know that children can be strikingly intelligent.

And being strikingly intelligent as he is, Crow knows where she’s coming from. He’s not hiding things from her because he wants to, and he knows she’s placing an inordinate amount of trust in him by telling him these things. He cares little for the stale words of adults, but for her, he’ll always listen. 

In a moment of vulnerability perceptible only to Taffy, Crow begins to fidget with the hem of his scarf as he searches for the right words. There’s a melancholic smile on his lips that has far too much depth for such a fresh face.

“I know. I think… I think I made that mistake already. It’s alright, though. I’ll be okay. I know what I have to do to make it right… even if people don’t like the way I go about it.”

“Just promise me you’ll think carefully about what you’re doing, alright? It’s always been a pleasure for me to see you and your friends' faces every day, and you still have so much time left. I’d like for that to continue for as long as it can.”

Although Crow’s face remains still, his eyes tell her he’s taken aback by those words, and perhaps a little bashful too. It’s swiftly replaced with soft melancholy, as he says, “I guess soon we won’t be able to buy sweets from you anymore, huh? Wonder what we’ll do then…?”

This only elicits one of Taffy’s stunningly sweet smiles.

“My dear, by that point in time, you won’t need me anymore.”

He swallows thickly, tugging at the pool of fabric around his neck in order to conceal the lower half of his face as he stares down hard at the ground. He doesn’t emit any kind of acknowledgement, other than a flick of the head that could be construed as a nod. 

He then begins to edge away from her slowly, showing his departure from the conversation, as he murmurs, “Thanks for your help. I… I’ll be back to buy some sweets soon, alright?”

As she watches him wander back up the path, she can only admit the truth. She can't always stop kids from doing what they do, but when they find themselves at that precipice with a serious decision to be made, her work pays off and she becomes what she truly ever wanted to be to them. 

A reason for them to do right.

Chapter Text

The group all reconvene up at Barde Manor once more, now armed with more intel and leads than what they’d started with, or at least that’s what Crow hopes. The drizzly weather does little to inspire confidence, though. The gentle buzz of rain buffeting the rooftop vibrates through the entire house, helping ease the tension.

He’d hoped to start a meeting the moment everyone got back, but just as he’d been sifting through the few things he’d had time to jot down, his comrades had decided to scatter themselves across the house with other things on their mind. Wrangling them is a tough job as it is, but seeing how the girls have made the executive decision that now is lunchtime, the crashing and banging coming from the kitchen tells him he won’t have a proper hold on their attention until they’re done. Figures. 

He grunts to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tries to piece together his immediate plan of action. It’s proving to be difficult with all the racket going on (it sounds less like cooking and more like Marilyn pulling a door off its hinges) and the fact that Nabby is just lurking behind him with that silly little smirk he has a horrible penchant for pulling. It’s unfortunate that it’s plastered on such a punchable-looking face.

Crow eyes him for a moment. “Fancy startin’ my afternoon off with some good news?”

Nabby shrugs. “Sure. We found some paintings in the attic.”

“Are they hers?”

“You mean the painter? Or Arianna?”

“ Obviously the painter.”

“I dunno. Seems that way. No signatures, though.”

Nabby is greeted by the visceral, uncharacteristic reaction of Crow visibly gritting his teeth and flexing his fingers as if he’s threatening to strangle him. Knowing him for as long as he has, Nabby just laughs in his face.

“Not seen you this angry in a while. Summat got you down?”

Now that it’s being said aloud, he realises he’s not really had a good, allotted period of time to just be cross for a while. It might be nice to sit down and dedicate himself to being frustrated, perhaps even allow himself a cheeky but well deserved tantrum. He might be a teenager now, but the idea of rolling around on the carpet and yelling really does speak to him. After all, he’s only one kid. He’s already been all over the place, dealing with a lot of different things in a lot of different capacities, and somehow, despite everything, there hasn't been much time for anger. Nothing has been acutely frustrating, just exhausting. At least not until now. The continued clattering, the lack of reliable presence of anyone in their group, bar the one kid that never bloody moves ‘til he has to, and the struggle to create a solid plan are beginning to weigh on him. 

He emits a noise that sounds like something caught between a growl and whine, before throwing his hands up, “It’s like herding cats on caffeine! You’d think they’d remember the gravity of the situation!”

“ Your situation. But y’know what… not a bad idea. Maybe energy is what we need. Get a stock up on sweets. Motivation, ain’t it?”

Crow gives him a firm look. “You know I’m the last person on earth who would ever say this, but that really isn’t what we need right now. Not with some of this lot.”

“C’mon, don’t you think a little more is exactly what we could do with? I mean, circumstances are pretty dire. Give ‘em a bit of extra sugar, I’m sure we’ll get it all done.”

“Nabby, if Socket eats any more than a bag of sherbet lemons, we’d lose him in a forest. We can fill up on sweets when I’m not about to go to jail.”

“Okay, but who’s fault is that, really?”

“Is now really the time for this?”

“I’ve been in an attic all day. You tell me. Especially since you’re the one who sent me up there.”

“You should be thankin’ me, I gave you the job that don’t even require you to leave the bloody house.”

“And this is my way of sayin’ thanks. Now the circle of friendship is complete. Come give me a hug.”

“I actually despise you right now.”

Nabby shuffles over to join Crow at the table he’s lingering by and he leans over to rest his full weight on it, shooting a catlike grin up at his friend. “But think about how we’ll all look back on this moment and laugh when it’s all over.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll cheer me up whilst I’m in the nick. You’re so considerate,” Crow replies snarkily, his lips twisting into a harsh grimace. He folds his arms with as much petulance as he can muster, staring pointedly in the opposite direction. Nabby can’t judge him too harshly, though. He reckons he’s earnt this. 

“Alright, alright, if it pleases our thoughtful and considerate employer, then I bring news from the staff. Gus turned up with the painting.”

“Good start.”

“It’s in the big front room along with all the others me and Arianna dragged down earlier. By the way, I liked not leavin’ the house, but I didn’t like havin’ the job that required the most manual labour, so thank you for that .”

“You’re welcome. Next?”

“Erm. Wren said she had somethin’ to talk to you about. Dunno what, though. In fact, I ain’t seen her all day, not even in the manor.” He scratches his chin, having suddenly realised the curiousness of Wren’s absence, but he’s not given much time to ponder it. Crow just sighs.

“I imagine she does. What else?”

“Got some bus times jotted down for a trip. Fares too.”

“What about the handbell?” He’d put Scraps and Tony on that one, hoping to learn that it did indeed match the one they’d sold about a week ago.

“Seems like the real thing as well, but I don’t think we’ll get many leads off it.”

Crow plants a hand on the table, quietly processing the new information. It’s actually pretty good news all in all, but the slight twinge in his knee decides to remind him that he didn’t really sleep all that well last night. He didn’t wake up well either, now that he thinks about that kick to the face he got. 

Nabby quietly pokes his shoulder, but he doesn’t stir. “You know, I think we’ve got a good start. I reckon you can rattle out a plan for us with all this and we’ll get it done. Not that I’m tryin’ to delegate all that toss to you, but… well… I reckon you know what’s best, right?”

Crow sighs. “If past experience dictates…”

“Which it regularly does, so, with that… I’m gonna go and help out in the kitchen.” He jerks a thumb over to where the door to the kitchen is. It’s currently closed, but doing nothing in muffling the sounds of wreckage in the next room over.

“You go do that. Thanks for all of this, by the way.”

“Aw, what are best mates for, eh?”

“With you, sometimes I really, really don’t know.”

“Hey, that’s my charm.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“What I call it,” Nabby snickers as he backs off towards the kitchen, “is good and much-needed banter in a very trying time. You’ll thank me for it later. You always do.”

Crow squints at him with a frown, palming together all the papers on the table as he mutters, “I’m gonna punch you in the back of the head while you’re sleepin’.”

From the doorway, now out of sight, Nabby calls back, “ I don’t think you will, you never come to bed! ”

“Then I’ll kick you in the face in the mornin’ like you did to me! That hurt by the way!”

“ Good. ”

“Who’s kickin’ what now?”

With a noise perhaps a little higher in pitch than he would’ve liked, Crow almost jumps a straight foot in the air when an airy, female voice whispers to him from just over his shoulder. He spins on his heel, backing awkwardly into the table as he’s met with the sight of a slightly dishevelled Wren wearing a dress he’s never seen before. Actually, come to think of it, he has seen that dress before. As a matter of fact…

“Is… that Arianna’s?”

“Shush a sec!” Wren puts a finger up to quieten him. “I have stuff to tell you!”

“Why are you even wearin’ that…?”

“It’s important to the case! I think I managed to find us a good lead--”

“Wait-- did you go outside?!”

“Would you shut up ! I’m tryin’ to tell you summat here! And you boys say us girls talk too much! Psh. C’mere.” 

With bulging red cheeks, Wren forcefully grabs Crow by the wrist and drags him out to a quieter room out beside the main parlour area. His feet scrape uselessly against the thin carpet, and he remains silent until they stop. She pushes the door behind them so it sits barely ajar, and takes three long strides out into the middle of the room.

Exhaustion draws a sigh from her. The dress is so tight, and her feet are starting to kill after being crammed into such small flats. The journey back had been utterly painful, but she’s not about to explain all of that now. Much to Crow’s bemusement, she shoehorns her feet out with the backs of her heels and kicks the shoes off across the room with little care for the house before turning to him. (Obviously, she would apologise to Arianna later, but right now, she has more pressing issues.)

“Alright. So. Y’know what I found out? I found out that our lady friend does have relatives! Or at least someone close enough to her to come and help clear her house out when she died.”

Crow’s expression is oddly bewildered as he tries to mumble a response.

“I know, I know-- you’re gonna be a bit mad, but just deal with it. Apparently this lady came ‘round when the movers were workin’ and took some stuff off their hands! Supposedly everythin’ else was jus’ left behind, and that’s what we got our hands on!”

“Wren…?”

“Which actually seems a bit weird, right? I mean, she didn’t even take the handbell with her or anythin’, and that was s’posed to be the most precious thing there! Maybe she didn’t even take all that much…”

“Wren…”

“All I know is that she was there- and I even got a description! If you let that idiot Hans run his mouth for long enough, he starts spoutin’ all kinds of information. Maybe we should remember that for the future, right?”

“Wren.”

“What?”

Quietly, Crow makes a circular motion with his finger, before saying, “Turn around.”

Wren swallows. Breathing in deeply, she can’t tell if it’s her chest that feels tight or the dress that’s restrictively hugging her torso. She doesn’t like the plain look in his eye, but she can’t imagine what he could be planning that could ever be all that bad. She gingerly begins to turn around until she’s back in the position she’d started in. Her wobbly visage is barely reflected in the polished mantelpiece on the other side of the room. 

Her hands begin to feel clammy, and her mouth too, as the only sounds in the room are the muffled plodding of Crow approaching her from behind. All of a sudden, an influx of ideas begin to crop up in her mind. Some of them rational, some of them irrational, some of them stupidly hormone driven and absolutely impossible. Was he mad at her? It’s not like he would hurt her in any way. Was… this about that awkward, horribly mistimed and poorly misjudged kiss she’d smacked on his cheek with all the force of a teenage bulldozer? Maybe? Was this about the dress? Probably not! Did she want it to be? Absolutely! Is she ever going to admit that? Never in a million years. 

None of it seems likely. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to expect as he comes to a slow halt about two inches from her back. This kind of proximity is… unnerving. It’s expected to be unnerving for girls her age, but the excitement that it mingles with makes it even worse. After all, he’s a boy. God forbid what Socket may do if he were to walk in right now with no context. Hell, Wren’s a part of this, and she doesn’t have any context either. Every conceivable idea seems to be snowballing into something much more embarrassing, and it’s hard to hide her quaking knees from the boy standing behind her. She waits with bated breath until he finally speaks.

Except it’s not as gentle as she would like. In fact, it’s painfully loud.

“Wren. What the hell did you do to your head?”

Ah. The worst option, yet somehow, it had never occurred to her. Perhaps it should’ve, what with the splitting headache that’s been bothering her since the morning, but she’d somehow forgone the obvious choice in the hopes it might be something more self indulgent. Figures it wouldn’t work out for her. It never does. 

With an alarming amount of coolness to her voice, Wren cautiously reaches up to the back of her head, but doesn’t touch it. “Is it bad?”

“Wren, it looks like a fucking golf ball - what did you do ?!”

She begins to feel around for any signs of a bump and-- wow, it’s astoundingly bad. It hurts the moment the very tips of her fingers graze it, and it’s far further out from her head than she’d suspected. Isn’t a hit to the head like this supposed to knock someone out? She doesn’t feel all that horrible, other than the headache. Maybe this kind of lenient approach to a potentially traumatic head injury is a symptom of concussion. Regardless, she’s remarkably unbothered.

“I hit my head earlier. I didn’t think it would be that bad, but… huh, it’s really big, ain’t it?”

She tilts her head ever so slightly to offer an awkward, ah-well-what-can-you-do-about-it chuckle to her friend, but his open mouth and wide eyes would suggest that was possibly the wrong answer. 

“Hahah… whoopsie.”

Apparently now isn’t the time to downplay her injury, because in a situation of tables turned, she finds her wrist is the one being grabbed as Crow drags her across the carpet to sit on one of the sofas against the wall. Despite having no real medical training other than knowing how to apply a plaster, he starts inspecting her from every angle with an increasing look of concern on her face.

“Does it hurt? How did you even manage that? Is it bleedin’? We gotta take you to the doctor-- where’s Socket?”

“Would you calm down? Honestly, you can be so dramatic sometimes.” She shoots him a firm pout, but frowning sends a painful throb through her head. Crow’s expression is laughably aghast. Well, it’s not often she gets to tease him with such satisfying results. She hopes increased whimsy isn’t also a symptom of concussion.

“ I’m dramatic?! Wren, you’ve cracked your bloody skull open!”

“No I haven’t! It’s just a little bump is all.”

“ Little?! I could bowl someone out with that thing!”

“Look, we’ve dealt with things like this before, ain’t we? Like when Badger broke his leg.”

Crow raises his hands in exasperation, as if unable to convey to this young girl just why he’s so unhappy about all this. “Yeah! We ‘ad to drag him home and explain to his mum why he fell off a roof! She tried to ground us! We made his sisters cry!”

“He survived, though, didn’t he?”

“With a dodgy knee, yeah, but that ain’t the point! His leg ain’t your head! How long have you been walkin’ around like that?”

Wren purses her lips in thought. The fact she can still clearly recall is a very good sign. “About half an hour now. I… I hit it on a fireplace, okay? It hurt, but it’s not like it knocked me out or anythin’.”

“A fireplace? Where were you…? And you’ve still not told me what you’re doin’ in Arianna’s clothes.”

Wren squints at him, now finding his barrage of questions to be a little too demanding. “I was vogueing the Paris Collection, whaddya think?” She rolls her eyes, then murmuring, “No, I was… I was in town. I went back to the house. Her house. I used this as a disguise.”

Crow pauses for a moment. “But you still talked to Hans.”

“He saw me go in, so he followed me.”

“ Huh?! What a creep! Alright, we’re tellin’ Socket about this--”

Wren shoots up to her feet, though suddenly stumbles backwards, and is barely caught by Crow, who takes a firm grip on her hands. Not letting that little display deter her, she glares at Crow as hard as she can without making her head hurt.

“Don’t be an idiot! You know exactly what will happen if we tell Socket, and that’s the opposite of what we need right now! You’re not telling Socket, you’re not going to cause a big panic--” she has to smother his face with her hand the mere moment he starts attempting to rebut, “--you’re absolutely not going to go and beat up Hans because I know that’s exactly what’s on your stupid little boy brain right now. What you’re goin’ to do is let me handle this, alright?”

“Wren, you’re likely three times concussed, and knowin’ that cretin, it’s prob’ly his fault an’ all! At the very least, let me take you to a doctor or somethin’.” It’s odd to hear him plead like this, even if the circumstances aren’t really all that desirable. Still, in a secretly wicked way, it’s nice to know he cares so much about her. Even if his decisions are appearing to be emotionally charged and unhinged. 

Though with that being said, he takes a moment to glare at her right back, but it comes off as more of a petulant pout, especially when he says, “And whaddya mean by ‘stupid boy brain’? You’re really gonna boil me down to that level? At least I’m makin’ competent decisions here.”

“Beatin’ up Hans isn’t a competent decision, Tarzan. You’re doin’ what my brother does, and that is brain turns off, stupid boy mode activates. Why is it the moment somethin’ bad happens to me, you all have to go crazy? As if I can’t handle myself! Competence my foot.” Wren’s fists begin to ball up, and her eyes are brewing a thunderstorm, but Crow’s frown shows he has no intention of backing down. Instead, he scoffs.

“Oh, yeah, that comin’ from the girl who panicked and thought we should just burn the whole hideout down. Talk about rationality.”

“Okay, hero complex. Get back to me when you’re not throwing yourself off into jail for no good reason. Which, by the way, you’re very lucky worked out for us!”

Though stormy, the argument seems more juvenile than anything else.

“I did that for you!”

“I didn’t ask you to! 

A frown falters. “You didn’t have to! Just as I don’t have to decide that you should go see a doctor, but I’m thinkin’ it’s a pretty good decision anyway!”

With reddened cheeks, “I can decide what I want for myself!”

Petulant, “Your decisions are crap!”

Equally petulant, “ Your decisions are crap!”

“You can’t even kiss right!”

A reeling gasp is followed by a harsh, wagging finger which falters alongside words that struggle to be found. Stupid boy brain clashes with stupid girl brain.

“Youuuuu are a bad, bad boy for bringin’ that up! And I am! Leaving! This conversation! Goodbye!”

Wren turns, takes three large strides across the room and promptly trips on the carpet. It’s followed by an embarrassed scramble to her knees, followed by a firm, angry pout, accompanied by suspiciously rosy cheeks, with which she maintains full eye contact right up to the door. She gives him a parting look that could honestly mean anything.

“I’ll go. To the doctors, I mean. But not ‘cos you told me to!”

She pauses for a moment, shaking slightly under the pressure of wanting to end the argument on a game-winning note, but she has nothing. Instead she firmly nods her head for no particular reason and slams the door rather loudly.

Crow stares at the door. His face is red. His mouth is itching to retract the words that actually felt very good to say. Embarrassing, and probably not the best way to go about getting another kiss anytime in the near future, should he somehow, possibly, maybe, perhaps ever want one ever again. (Not that he would, obviously. He can’t stress this point enough). This was most definitely not his finest moment, but on the bright side, it was hardly Wren’s finest moment either. What was a juvenile lapse in his brain was an equally juvenile and mildly concussed at best lapse in Wren’s too. 

He’s not mad.

He doesn’t think she’s really all that mad either.

In some way… it was fun. 

It was no tantrum, nor was it a self indulgent dedicated moment to being grouchy and grumpy, but somehow, the argument has provided him with a much needed opportunity to act his age, and with oddly emotionally fulfilling consequences. There was no talk of money or crimes. It really was just a moment of free space to let his stupid boy brain (Wren’s polite term) run about for a bit.

It’s new. It’s taxing. It’s fulfilling. It’s sorely needed but not the greatest time for it. It’s enrichment of life and growing just a little bit bigger, yet somehow it’s utterly terrifying. It’s hard to cope with. It feels like taking just one step down a street with no return. Permanence. The feeling of change. 

It’s… conflicting.

He flexes his fingers slightly, feeling the pressure from where Wren had been gripping them. Even with the feeling of excited anticipation for who knows what, there’s still an underlying sense of dread that keeps him rooted where he stands, begging him to stay where he is.

Maybe this is what Marilyn had been feeling back then.

Chapter Text

Lunch had been a trying endeavour with a simple, delicious outcome. Sliced pears, egg sandwiches and marmalade on bread, thoroughly enjoyed sitting out on the front porch. The light drizzle has yet to cease, but living in such a damp and misty town, the kids are used to it and would never let it stop the joy of a little picnic. 

Wren’s head injury was inevitably yelled out for everyone to hear, reminding her that, actually, telling anyone in viable proximity to Socket was a bad idea and often did not provide suitable help. That being said, with a frozen bag of three year old peas held to the smarting bump, she has to admit that she appreciates his wild concern and his inability to unlatch from her arm for about two to three hours after an incident occurs. Socket can act as tough as he likes, but he’ll inevitably melt when misfortune befalls her. He doesn’t care to hide this side of him very well, and she thinks it’s why they’re so close, unlike other boys she could mention.

She’s made a point of not looking at Crow since lunch began, but when he looks away, she likes to risk small glances, detecting what little guilt that can be discerned from his flushed face. However, being one of the more responsible members of their group, she feels the need to silently remind herself that now is not the time. Only when they’re all out of danger and the case is resolved can she go back to poking and prodding him, teasing him and nagging him in the hopes that he might uncharacteristically break and beg her for a make-up kiss. Ah, if only.

“Sis, why are you smilin’ like that? S’weird…”

Bad Wren, she thinks. Bad, bad, bad. No time for that now. There’s food to be eaten and a plan to be concocted, though the excuse of a concussion could carry her a long way…

As she reaches for a sandwich, Crow awkwardly clears his throat. He’s speaking to the entire group, all huddled up together like jigsaw pieces on the porch, but she looks away anyway.

“So… I have a plan, right?”

Badger blinks, or at least Wren thinks he does. “A plan? Already? We only just got back.”

“Yeah, well I ain’t exactly got time to muck about with lunch,” Crow chides him, despite following it up by cramming an entire slice of pear into his mouth. He chews it down quickly. “Thanks for all your work today though, you did me a massive favour.”

“So what’re we doin’ then?” Nabby leans forward, unusually eager to hear it. “We must have some good leads, right?”

“Course we do. S’why we’re goin’ to London.”

Surprised, and spoken with perfect sync and harmony, a few people reply, “London?”

Crow nods so casually, it’s as if he’s talking about a trip down to the shops and not the heaving capital city of their country. “London. Not all of us, mind you. Not sure we have the funds to scrape together a fare for all of us, but while a bunch of us are out there, the rest of you can keep diggin’ around for whatever you can find.”

“Alright, but what’re we doin’ in London though?”

“Gonna go pay a visit to Scotland Yard, aren’t we?” Crow punctuates this idea with a soft but excited smile, as if he’s really quite excited by the prospect of taking a little day trip. This might make more sense if he hadn’t just been grumping and grouching around the manor with the threat of real jail time looming over his head, and if he hadn’t just spurred Socket to bolt upright with a fierce little frown on his round face.

“The idea I had? That you all shot down and told me was stupid? That idea? Great. Yeah, okay, fine. But I’m the idiot.” He plonks himself back down and folds his arms tightly. Ever exasperated, Wren gently pats the spiky tufts of red hair that pokes out from over his goggles. His pout is monstrous, but he doesn’t stop her.

“You often are the idiot, Socket,” Nabby sighs, “and as much as we love you for that, your title for the group’s court jester is gonna have to go to Crow on this one. Wanna tell us what the hell you think you’re playin’ at?”

Crow still sports a small smile, which turns to a slightly larger grin as he says, “Just trust me, I’ve got a very good idea, and I know just where to go.”

“Oh, come on !”

Though Marilyn is the loudest, this is actually said aloud by multiple people, who all throw their hands up in exasperation. Crow recoils slightly, looking distinctly offended. Marilyn glares at him.

“You’re havin’ a laugh, aren’tcha? After all of this hassle and all your secret little plans--”

“--the last of which was just plain bad!” Wren interjects suddenly.

“--and now you’re doin’ it again and expectin’ us all to follow! I know you like to be mysterious and cool, but would you just tell us what it is?!” Louis gives her a slight nudge to stop her from ranting and raving, but she finishes her spiel with an impatient click of the tongue. “I’m just sayin’! I don’t think now is the time.”

Crow glowers at her, but he looks more hurt than anything else. He finally mumbles, “I don’t do it to look cool.”

“You absolutely do it to look cool, we all know you do.” Nabby says plainly. “So can you tell us your amazing plan, or do we actually have to wait for the big reveal?”

Feeling both undermined and thoroughly emasculated, Crow folds his arms, lips quirked as he contemplates his choices. “Fine. I don’t know why you’re all so caught up with the decisions I’ve made. It’s not like they put you guys in jail. I know what I’m doin’.”

“Sorry we care about you.”

“You should be! Now can you just let me have this? The plan doesn’t involve any of us going to jail, any of us taking unnecessary risk, and y’know what? The plan doesn’t even involve us talkin’ to the police. How’s that for trustworthy?”

Nabby throws up an eyebrow. “What, are we goin’ to Scotland Yard to talk to the janitor? Alright.”

“Nope. We’re doin’ one better than that. Far more distinguished.” He sits back, relishing a much needed expression of haughtiness on his face. “And it’ll work, too.”

“I haaaate that you do this.” Marilyn frowns, to which Crow placidly shrugs. Feeling the frustration, her cheeks begin to turn a familiar shade of pre-rage red. However, before she can voice her usual disagreements, Wren emits a thoughtful chirp. A smile soon spreads across her face, having clocked exactly what he’d been thinking.

“Oh, I seeee. I get it now. I think we’ll be fine.”

Crow quirks an eyebrow. “I thought you were meant to be concussed.”

“I thought you were meant to be in jail.”

“I thought you were meant to be in jail!”

“I know you guys like bickerin’, but if I wanted to watch all this mingin’ romantic tension, I’d stick on the soaps like everybody else,” Scraps sighs (with what Crow bitterly considers to be an enormous amount of confidence for a boy with no current romantic prospects). He could be rolling his eyes behind those bottle-lens glasses, but there’s no way of telling. “Can we get on with the plan? It’s embarrassin’ watchin’ this.”

Wren looks away with indignance. Crow is a little too flustered to save his dignity, so he settles for shutting his trap and hoping people really believe that he’s not enjoying this. Tony quietly leans over to Scraps to ask him the details about this supposed romantic tension, which is a conversation that goes unheard.

“So… trusting in this idea we know nothing about, what is the actual plan?”

“Oh, right. Well, my plan was to go and dig up a few records of our painter friend.”

“At Scotland Yard?”

With an interesting glimmer in his eyes, Crow replies, “She had a criminal record. Normally that wouldn’t warrant a trip to London, but I’ve been pushed in the direction of Scotland Yard by a most reliable source.” Following that dramatic reveal, he then promptly explains, “It’s Aunt Taffy.”

“Figures. So… then what? You think that’ll be enough evidence?”

Before Crow can speak, Gus suddenly flies into the conversation with more energy than he’s ever had. “Oh! Me, me, me, this is where I come in!” He hops around in his seat, waving his hand in the air with a very promising look on his face. Bewildered, Crow gives him a silent urge to explain.

“I know exactly what we’re gonna do. If we can find her criminal record, then they must have records of the evidence, right? So if she got arrested for forgery, maybe they’ll still have her paintings somewhere in an evidence locker! And then we can compare ‘em all to both the forgery we have, and the paintings Arianna has! Aaaaand that will give me a good sample size to work from.”

He settles back down, proud in being able to bogart Crow’s explanation and insert himself as a valuable skill to the group. He’s allowed a complimentary few seconds of silent bragging time, where the rest of the group can gaze in awe upon him. The light in Crow’s eyes fills him with immeasurable confidence.

“W-Well, I was gonna see if we could get someone to appraise it properly for us, but… do you know how to do it? Could you do it for us?”

“Course I can! I have a special trick up my sleeve too… and because I would also like a chance to be cool and mysterious for once in order to save the day, I’m not gonna tell you what it is.”

The surrounding groan could be a confidence knocker if he didn’t find it so funny. He waves a dismissive hand and then says, “Alright, alright, I won’t explain it all now, but I wanna stay here whilst you guys go to London. Then I can teach the rest of us about this trick I learnt! I can train you and make you my prodigies!”

“Protegé.”

“That too.”

Crow simply shrugs, unable to really convey how surprised he is by such an unstoppable force of initiative on Gus’ part, but his face is considerably brighter. “Sure. Makes things a lot easier for us! Thanks a lot, Gus.”

Gus beams. “Aw, it’s nothin’, really. I’ll start makin’ notes tonight.”

“Well, in that case. I guess we could really knock this out in the next few days if we don’t come across any trouble. I must admit, I was feelin’ pretty hopeless when he said we only had a week, but we’ve dug up a lot more than I thought we would.” Crow celebrates this small victory for him by partaking in another slice of pear.

“Here’s hopin’ our luck holds out… but I wouldn’t count on it.” Nabby grunts. Crow shoots him a firm glance and he snickers. The mood was getting far too light around here, and if nobody else was going to ruin it, he might as well do it himself. “I’m just sayin’. Pays to be cautious. You know that.”

“I do, which is why only some of us are gonna come on the trip. I’ll decide who.”

This is met with varied protests. Some rational, some not so much.

“Oh, c’mon, can’t we draw straws or summat?”

“You’re just sayin’ that ‘cos you know he won’t pick you.”

“Obviously!”

“Would you shut up a sec?” Crow snaps, habitually wrapping the fabric of his scarf around his fingers as he rests a chin upon his hand. “I know I try to keep things as democratic as possible, but did I just stop bein’ in charge or somethin’? Now listen, I know who I’m takin’ with me.”

He outstretches a finger to gesture to people.

“Badger, Louis, Marilyn, Socket aaaand…. Arianna.”

Wren spits. Arianna does too. 

“You’re taking me ?”

“Wait, you’re not taking me?!”

For a moment, Crow uselessly looks between the pair of them, and decides to convey his inability to deal with them both simultaneously with a weak throw of the hands. “Look, I said names, and if you decide somehow that you really, really don’t wanna come help, then okay, fine. I’m just sayin’, this is the best team I think I can throw together considerin’ the circumstances.”

“The circumstances bein’...?” Wren glares at him expectantly, and he glares right back, though this time, it’s not for fun.

“The circumstances bein’ that you’re both injured and half on the lam! And don’t fight me on this one, okay, I’m tired. Just… stay home for a bit. Don’t do anythin’. Rest up, alright?” He ends his demand with a much gentle note, and though his eyes are much more stern than Wren would ever like to see, she can’t fight him when it’s clear he’s doing this for her sake. Regardless, it makes her feel no better. She’ll just have to seethe quietly to herself in the meantime. How embarrassing this was for her.

Arianna, on the other hand, doesn’t quite look as unhappy, but she certainly does look unnerved. “You… you really want to take me, though. Are you sure?”

Crow’s reply is now much softer. “Arianna, you really don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you’re still a part of our team now. You’re smart. Really smart. I think you’d be a huge help for us, and if you’re not helpful bein’ smart, then you’re helpful bein’ sensible. Which… is also why I wanted Marilyn to come along too. If… if she, uh…so desires to.”

Marilyn is beginning to develop a trademarked unimpressed pout, but at the very least, Crow can see she’s mocking him with the way her lips curl upwards ever so slightly. Inevitably, she sighs.

“Typical for us girls to be on the team for damage control. Can’t you boys at least try to approach this sensibly? It’s not like you to be so…” She can only really describe this feeling with a frenzied shake of the arms and an oddly pitched groan, but Crow gets where she’s coming from. It really isn’t like him to go into a plan without having every base covered and every exit open, but in a new situation where he has little to no control, he’s managing the best he can. It doesn’t feel very good for him, either.

“I know, but hey. Coppers tend to believe cute, innocent lookin’ little girls over scruffy little ratbags like us any day of the week, so the more of you there are, the better.”

Socket, though excited to finally get to come on a big adventure rather than acting as the stay-at-home mechanic and lookout, looks between Crow and his sister, who is sitting there in deadly silence. 

“But… isn’t Wren the best at that gaff?”

“Socket?”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

With Marilyn seemingly in agreement, Crow’s eyes now fall to Arianna, who is neatly perched on the porch guard rail. He’d initially expected a lot of anxiety from her, but what he hadn’t expected was the sparkling light shining in her eyes as she musters a big smile. 

“If everyone else can look after Tony when I’m gone, I’ll come! This actually might be very exciting!”

Needless to say, Crow is delighted, and secretly, Nabby is very happy as well. Arianna’s eagerness puts a bright new spin on their excursion, now rejuvenating their withered hope with newfound confidence and motivation. Crow only hopes it can hold out, but with their antics still being a novelty for Arianna, he’s sure they’ll all be feeling a bit brighter about it.

“The rest of you just keep diggin’. If we can whip up a stunnin’ case usin’ these paintings as proof,” he stops to mutter lowly, “Gus, I’m countin’ on you for this one, don’t muck it up.” 

Gus nods eagerly. 

“Then we should have our evidence in no time. We present this to whatshisname down there--”

“His name is Edgar.”

“That. If we do that, we’re sorted. I go free, we’re all out of trouble and we all go back to how we were before. Done and done. Sound alright?”

The group collectively murmurs in agreement, and though Crow doesn’t clock it, the reactions are slightly mixed. From Gus, who is still beaming at the thought of doing his friends proud, Wren, who is still brimming with barely concealed rage, and Marilyn, who can’t quite shake the despondent look from her eyes, their agreements are sating the conversation, but most likely covering up their truly desired outcomes.

Crow nods firmly. “Good. Let’s get started.”

Chapter Text

The day of the trip is a rainy one. 

Funds for the bus fare had been scraped from all four corners of the group, from whatever Crow had leftover from the water bill, a few coins found down the back of Badger’s couch, and a generous donation of Arianna’s from what little of her own fortune she could access. With their money safely tucked in Arianna’s purse (now the designated group treasurer), they all stand in a row beneath the dingy, leaking bus stop, awaiting their ride.

The downpour hadn’t stopped since the night before. Crow had hoped the weather would clear up just in the nick of time, especially considering his lack of any kind of waterproof clothing. Misfortune had smiled on him again, and he’d simply resigned himself to going through the rest of the day with wet shoes and a damp blouson three sizes too big.

Shortly after arriving, Arianna, clad in her little yellow rain boots and blue coat, had thrust an umbrella upon him, somehow knowing that bringing two of them would be the beneficial choice. Inviting her on this little excursion was already proving to be the best idea.

The rest had all turned up one-by-one a little while after, and after a bit of squeezing, it was possible to fit them all under the tiny roof. The bench is split down the middle, the timetable is smudged, and every now and then, a fat droplet of water will leak from overhead and land on Socket’s nose, but it’s a damn sight better than standing around in the open.

They wait in silence for quite a while. They’re not strapped for noise when the sound of torrential rain hitting concrete is enough to deafen any attempt at a conversation, but after a few minutes, Socket leans over to nudge Marilyn. A harsh gust of wind reroutes the rainfall and creates a lull in the turbulent downpour.

“Hey, have you ever been to London before?”

“Hm?” Marilyn, dressed in a fat, puffy coat several sizes too big for her, has to pull her rain hood down to hear him better. “London? No, I’ve never been. My mum used to work at the Camden Market, though! Louis? What about you?”

Louis manages to tear his eyes away from the signpost he’d been staring at for nigh on ten minutes now. “Eh? Oh. I went once or twice when I was younger. I think we went to a theatre or somethin’. I don’t remember much of it, though. I couldn’t tell you much.” He looks away, scratching the back of his head, and for a moment, Socket swallows and wonders if he’s still angry with him. Now doesn’t seem like the right time to sort that out, though.

“I’ve been before,” Arianna begins, her voice soft and weary, “but mostly to go to hospitals there. I did get to see how busy it was, though. From the windows, especially up high, you could see right across the city and over the bridges. I always wanted to go on one of the big double-decker buses!” It’s incredibly endearing how the looming threat of her illness has lost its hold on her, and every sorrowful memory she has is gradually overshadowed by the excitement of renewed time to try all of these new things. Even for such dire circumstances, it’s actually helping Crow feel a lot better about it all.

After a moment of silence, he finally pitches in his answer and says, “I’ve never been either.”

Socket nods. He nods and then, for a moment, he frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, with an odd realisation striking him, but wonders if maybe he’s just being an idiot. However, when his eyes flick side-to-side to gauge the reaction of his friends, he’s pleasantly surprised to see Arianna looking equally perplexed. Their eyes meet for a moment for a silent conference, after which Arianna turns to Crow.

“Erm. Crow…?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve… never been to London? At all?”

“No. Never had the money to.”

“So… your parents are from London?”

“Huh? No…”

“Alright, but… if you’ve never been to London, and your parents aren’t from London, then what’s with the cockney accent?”

For a moment, he looks bewildered. “Y’what?”

“I was wonderin’ that same thing!” Socket announces with a little too much energy. “Actually, sayin’ that, I always thought you moved here from London. You’ve got this kind of spiv thing goin’ on.”

“I never told you that! And don’t call me a spiv! I’ve got more class than that…”

“Naw, you told me you moved when you were young, but like, you’d assume, right? You have a proper thick accent an’ all! Your dad don’t talk like that, does he?”

“No, he’s from up north.”

At this, Louis turns around to join the conversation too. Marilyn watches quietly from the side as he says, “Your dad is from up north but you talk like that? How’d you manage that? I always knew you moved but, like-- yeah, Socket’s right, I thought you were a Londoner.” He pushes his glasses further up his nose with his knuckle, a small smile on his face. Crow frowns, eyes flitting over the wet portion of Louis’ shoulder where the rain has been hitting him from an angle.

“Yeah, yeah, alright! Like you can talk about weird accents, you sound like the Welsh Brigade got lost in Birmingham.”

“Half-Welsh as you know, and I’ll also have you know my accent is considered very attractive,” he says, exercising some pride in his stance, before coughing, “Maybe not the brummie part, but whatever. Call it… multicultural.”

“Your dad’s not done you many favours, has he?”

At this, Socket grins, “Aw, but I do find it pretty…”

“And what about you? You said you never been to London, but you don’t sound too far off it neither!” Crow prods Socket’s shoulder with some force, to which Socket beams.

“Aw, yeah, that’s ‘cos I kinda am. Not me, like, personally-” (at this point, Crow’s confusion just turns to a vacant stare) “but Wren was born in London! And then I was born, but not there, I was born in, uh… I dunno. Leicester?”

“How do you not know where you’re born…?”

“Herefordshire?”

“That is. Not Leicester.”

“Oh, bugger it. Middle England.”

“All of Middle England.”

“And some of the south. The bits with Bristol.”

Marilyn tilts her head, seemingly having tuned out of conversation for a minute. “What are you lot sayin’?”

“Socket’s from all of the midlands and also Bristol.”

She looks at him for a moment. She shrugs. “He looks like he’s built for it.”

“I stopped through Bristol on a trip once, but not for very long. I saw someone get hit by a car.”

“Bloody Christ , Arianna, why are all of your stories so bleak?”

“It’s part of the reason we didn’t stay very long.”

“Oh, with any of her luck, maybe we’ll see somethin’ ‘orrible on our fun little trip to London.”

“I already saw your face today.”

“Say that again and I’ll leather you.”

“Okay, okay.”

The moment the conversation stops, the wind rolls in with force, bringing an enormous cloud of rain with it, and through the thick blankets of mist, Crow can just about make out two dim headlights approaching them from down the road. 

After a long pause, he finally says with a subdued tone, “I learnt to talk by listening to the television…”

“Oh, now that makes sense!”

“Can it. Arianna, have you got the money?”

Arianna pulls at the small satchel hanging neatly over her shoulder, “I have it right here.”

As the bus approaches, the sounds of its engine almost muffled by the dense fog, Crow makes a small effort to wave his hand out to grab its attention, knowing that it’s probably futile. Nonetheless, the bus begins to grind to a screeching halt, its doors opening before it even fully stops. One by one, the kids dash out into the rain and funnel into the vehicle. 

To nobody in particular, Arianna mumbles quietly, “I’ve… never been on a bus before,” as Crow holds an expectant hand out for her to put the change into. 

Looking up, the driver appears to him as a long, lanky man with thin, greying hair and a perpetual expression of a person who despises his own existence. The driver looks over at Crow over the rim of his thin, foggy glasses, silently requesting his destination and passenger count. For a moment, Crow falters, suddenly realising that this kind of travel is a scarce occurrence for him. It’s somehow a lot more intimidating than taking a boat with Bucky, who seems to always know where his passengers need to go. 

“Uh. Can I get six tickets to London, please?”

The driver blinks. “Victoria Station or Stratford?”

Crow blanks for a few moments, before mumbling, “Which is closer to the university?”

“Which one?”

“Erm. Gressenheller… I think.”

“Victoria, but it’ll be a walk. Return?”

“What?”

“Do you want a return ticket?”

“Oh. Yes, please.”

“No adults?”

“No…”

The driver pauses for a moment, before shrugging after reaching the inevitable realisation that these kids are not his problem, and will be even less his problem once they’re off his bus. The ticket machine purrs as it ejects a clean row of five tickets, which he rips away and hands out to Crow. The tickets are then handed to Arianna like a perfect routine, whereby she has now become not only the treasurer, but the keeper of all things important. The tickets are neatly tucked away in her satchel.

Taking that as a good sign, Crow begins to edge his way down the thin path between the seats, dragging his line of friends along behind him. With what can only be presumed as a generous stamp on the acceleration, the bus suddenly jolts forward into movement with enough force to send the kids all toppling forward. Crow is barely able to catch himself on the railings before Arianna collapses with full force on top of him. He grunts out something impolite about the driver before getting back to his feet again.

Luckily, the back row of seats are empty. Sidling in and sitting down, Socket hisses at Crow, “What was the driver playin’ at? You’d think he’d let us sit down first.”

Settling in the seat closest to the window, Crow lets out a deflating sigh, now painfully aware of the amount of water flooding his shoes. “Yeah, you would, wouldn’t you? At least we’re on the damn thing now. All that’s left is to wait.”

Marilyn begins to kick her legs back and forth, already staring wide-eyed at what little of the passing scenery that can be seen through the dull weather. “Speakin’ of, how long is the journey?”

“Might be like an hour or so. Maybe more. It’s a bit of a way away.”

Arianna looks distinctly surprised. “There are really buses that go all that way? I thought their routes were really short.”

“Well, it’s not like the train is an option. Gotta have some way for the plebs to get around,” Socket says with a shrug, and though he’d spoken with some mocking, he winces upon seeing the way Arianna’s face morphs into a pout. Waving a hasty hand, he amends it and says, “Hey, you’re one of us now though!”

“Oh. Joy.”

The rain seems to get heavier the further down the road they travel, trees lining up to block out the hazy view of Misthallery from over the hills. The bus trembles beneath their seats, emitting a screech of machinery with every slight turn it makes, and there’s nothing to see through the windows that have turned into a mosaic of raindrops. Crow stares at what little shadow he can see of the surroundings that pass by, quietly listening to Socket’s declaration of a race to see which raindrop makes it down the window pane the quickest. He doesn’t join in, instead choosing to occupy the other window, and though he doesn’t fall asleep, the warm, whirring of the bus and the pattering of rain makes his heavy eyelids close.

The weather is still dire, even when the bus finally pulls up to a creaky stop in a dingy little London bus terminal. It’s hard to see where anything is through the misted glass, but when the engine soon falls to a hush, and the driver begins to loudly rummage through his belongings, nudges are sent down the line of children all sat on the back row.

“Are we here?” Socket leans over Louis to press his hands against the glass, hoping to make out the tiniest speck of something that looked like a city, but he only succeeds in fogging up the glass with his breath even further. 

Pulling all of their things together, Arianna begins to flick through the contents of her bag, just to make sure she hadn’t misplaced any money or tickets during their trip, as the rest begin to fall out of their seats and into the narrow aisle. The door is pulled open before they reach it, but the bus driver spares them no further glances as they disembark. Despite that, they leave him with a few quiet words of thanks.

London is… cramped. 

It’s a big city alright, and though he’s sure they aren’t seeing the very height of what London has to offer, the way the buildings all pile upon themselves in narrow rows and alleys reminds him of Misthallery. It’s not as misty, but twice as dull. It’s not like he’d been expecting much of a star-studded city (the reality is always more grim than expected), but he thought there would be a little more life to the place. Through the throngs of people out on the streets, what he’s seeing isn’t exactly life but… busyness. 

“Wow. There sure are a lot of people. Cor, imagine ownin’ a market stall out here! Must get tons’a customers.” Socket beams, striding out onto the pavement first and letting his head fall back to get full view of the tallest buildings. “You’d make a right killin’ out here, Marilyn.”

Marilyn says nothing.

Shyly tugging on his sleeve, Arianna murmurs, “Crow, where do we go now? Did you bring a map?”

Crow, edging around the other members of his group to get a better look at the place, shakes his head. “Nope. I don’t think we’ll need one, though. He only said it was a walk from here…” His sentence trails off as he squints at a cluster of signposts, hoping to glean some relevant information from them. 

“I bet livin’ here must be a nightmare.” Louis mumbles, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets with a look of what Marilyn would suspect to be anxiety. “Look at the traffic. Never seen so many cars before.”

“I know, it’s cool, right?”

“Kind of makes you appreciate livin’ in a place with no cars, though, don’t it? The air feels so heavy here.”

“Ironic that for a place that once made cars, we ain’t really got the right roads to drive ‘em on,” Socket laughs. “All them nice houses up in Highyard Hill all got driveways, but do you see ‘em drivin’?”

“You lot! It’s this way!”

They all perk up, watching as Crow begins to set off at a brisk pace down the road, limping slightly around his wet and squelchy shoes. The layer of water settling upon the pavement reflects their footsteps as they dash after him, careful to weave in and around the clusters of people surrounding them. 

“Y’know, he still never actually told us where we’re goin’, that crafty bugger.”

Almost slipping over in her rain boots, Arianna huffs, “Did you hear what he said to the driver? Because I didn’t!”

“Sorry, I was a bit too busy bein’ rained on!”

Badger looks over his shoulder, pulling his hood so far down his head it’s a miracle he can see anything at all, as he urges Marilyn to hurry up. For whatever reason, Marilyn looks uncharacteristically brisk. Her pace increases, but by a very small amount. As the pavement soon turns to one giant puddle, they splash their way down the street with Crow in the lead, watching the reflection of the skyline change the further they move through the city.

Chapter Text

By the time they’re allowed to grind to a halt, the rain is torrential, their clothes and shoes are soaked through, their feet hurt and they’re miserable as sin, but they’re finally here. Crow’s unyielding pace had kept them at a half-jog for about a mile, and he’d only offered a few glances over his shoulder to make sure everybody was still there. Having trusted that he knew where he was going, even if they’d begun to have their doubts over the course of the journey, they’re surprised to find themselves stopped outside of an incredibly large building that stretches further down to the very end of the street. 

“Is this it? We’ve been walkin’ for ages! Don’t tell us we’re lost.”

Arianna, keeping a tight hold on her satchel to prevent it from getting any wetter than it already is, uncomfortably dances from one foot to the other, murmuring, “I think I need to pour the water out of my boots. They’re starting to fill up, it’s awful.”

“This is it… I think. C’mon.”

Crow tries not to falter, hoping this is indeed the right place, but all signs so far suggested it would be. The others pause for a moment, unsure of whether a group of soaked-through kids would be a welcome sight at this establishment, but in this weather, a little bit of pity and a dry porch wouldn’t go amiss. They follow after him without a word.

The building foyer is met with a chorus of relieved sighs. Just as she said, Arianna takes a moment to dislodge her wet feet from her even wetter boots, turning to empty them outside the door. Without a hood to keep the elements off his face, Crow has to wring the water out of his hair in order to keep himself looking recognisable. Every move from Marilyn is like a damp dog shaking itself dry, and Louis is so drenched he’s just resigned himself to standing as still as possible to feel any kind of comfort.

“Are you sure we’re allowed in here? There’s an awful lot of grown-ups…” Arianna notes, peering through the set of glass doors that separates the porch from the main building. Being the only kids in the area that she can see is making her feel distinctly nervous.

Crow shrugs, “We’ll be alright. If they tell us to clear off, then we will. Just… try not to track water in with you, alright?”

This is met by some disgruntled looks, followed by silence when the reality hits that although Crow dragged them out here today, he isn’t capable of controlling the weather, especially when he has it the worst out of them all. He pulls open one of the glass doors, holding it out for Arianna behind him, and quietly trudges in.

There’s people here, but it’s not incredibly busy. Between this floor and the balcony floor he spies above them, there’s a handful of people milling about minding their own business, but a few pairs of eyes stop to stare when the oddly colourful and damp cluster of movement hits their periphery. He makes a beeline for whoever looks like the oldest person in the smartest suit. Such an honour goes to a rather stout man in a horrid orange suit and a suspicious-looking hairpiece. He doesn’t do it intentionally, but the ragged, pitiful orphan look begins to shine when he quietly tugs on the back of his blazer.

Needless to say, Dean Delmona is incredibly surprised by the presence of some undeniably drenched children in his university. A plan on what to do doesn’t hit him immediately, so he’s left adjusting his glasses with some bemusement.

“I say, is it raining out there?”

Crow feels it too rude to frown, but he definitely looks unimpressed. Delmona peers over at the fresh faces of the other children.

“You’re all a bit young to be here just yet. Can I help you at all?”

Crow gives a small nod, unable to tear his eyes away from the firm stares they’re amassing from students across the hallway. “We’re… we’re looking for Professor Layton. He does work here, doesn’t he?”

Arianna blinks. “Prof…Professor Layton? You mean he’s the one we came here to see?”

“I get it now…” Louis sighs, “Makes sense, I suppose. Well, I’ve got a bit more faith in the idea now that I’ve heard it.” He shoves his hands further into his squelchy pockets and winces at the sensation, as Crow eyes him and whispers, “Sorry, I forgot I didn’t tell you.”

“Sure you are.”

Delmona coughs weakly into his hand, clearing his throat. “Well, yes, he does. I’m not sure if he takes visitors on such short notice, but… are you acquainted with the professor at all?” 

After all, the professor is a man known throughout London and the rest of the country too. Crow can’t imagine the amount of people lining up to get his help on this, that and the other. However, faced with this question, he flashes a confident smile. One of his best.

“Of course we are. We’re good friends with Luke! The professor helped save our town a while ago.”

Like a flash of a lightbulb, Delmona perks up instantly, “Ah, little Luke! Of course, of course. Yes, well, I wouldn’t like to send children like you back out into that downpour, so come along with me. I’ll take you to his office.”

“Thanks very kindly, sir,” Crow replies politely, allowing himself a moment to shoot a haughty look at his friends, who roll their eyes, but are thankful that they’re making good headway. What’s more irritating than not knowing the plan is Crow being right about the plan, or that’s at least what Marilyn finds, but so long as it works out in their favour, she’s happy.

They’re led a short way through the esteemed corridors of the university, leaving an unsightly trail of water behind them, not dissimilar to the kind of grimy tracks a slug might leave. As they walk, Louis subtly attempts to rub away as much of the water on the floor as he can with his foot. Dean Delmona takes them further down a smaller corridor, grinding to a halt in front of a door that really could only belong to one person. Crow isn’t sure if the hat emblem stained into the glass is an impressive show of consistency or just a little too eccentric. Either way, he’s glad to be in the right place.

Dean Delmona clears his throat a bit too wetly for Crow’s liking, and gestures to the door. “This is Professor Layton’s office. I can’t imagine he should be too busy at the moment…” He gives the door a short rap, grabbing for the handle before anyone can permit him entry. Opening the door just a crack, he pokes his nose in and says, “Ah, Professor! You have an unusual bunch of visitors here to see you. Is it alright if they come in?”

Professor Layton’s reply, whatever it may be, is inaudible from inside the room, but assumed to be positive as Delmona reels back to open the door with an encouraging flourish. “There you go, my lad. Mind how you all go, now.”

Crow takes a few tentative steps into the cosy room, already feeling the water from his shoes oozing out onto the floor. He’d rather not make such a wet first impression in Layton’s office. He can feel the others crowding behind him like a little huddle of ducklings, and truth be told, he can’t help but feel like one when he watches Layton rocket out of his chair with dawning concern.

“My, is that… Crow? And Arianna!” 

Whatever papers he’d been reviewing are now on the floor, and he hurries to the door to greet his unexpected greets. He herds them all into the warmth of the room, where Socket poorly attempts to flick his hair free of water without getting it on everything and everyone. Despite their reluctance to sit down and saturate his sofa, he kindly urges them to, before muttering, “Hm? I see not all of you are here, those from your little group…”

“We, uh… didn’t have the bus fare,” Crow mumbles, more to himself than anyone else.

“I must say, this is quite the surprise.” 

Professor Layton, much to their curiosity, doesn’t seem to have changed a single bit since his visit to Misthallery. Sadly enough, he hadn’t had much time to visit again in recent times, being preoccupied with whatever it is a man like him does on a regular basis. Still wearing the tophat, and still with that keen look in his eye, Crow feels real comfort and confidence in his idea to come here.

“I’ll bet. It’s been a while, Professor.”

The professor pulls up a chair to sit down with them, “That it has, my boy. And what brings you to my office? The journey is quite a trek. Do your families know you’re here?”

Crow winces, and so do the others, save for Arianna, who pointedly looks in the other direction. “Erm. Sort of. The truth is, we really need your help.” It’s unlike him to show any kind of nerves in the faces of adults, but the wringing of his hands is unmistakable. He can’t afford to mess this up. Not when his backup plans are… well, nonexistent. 

“My help?” The professor’s eyes flash with distinct surprise. “Well, you have my attention. What can I help you with?” 

Crow glances at the others, and whilst they look like they’d rather be somewhere else, they all offer their own silent encouragement to explain. Supposing that this is all his mess to begin with, Crow decides it’s only fair he takes the lead on this.

“We… I … made a bit of a mistake. Erm. Concernin’ an item I sold at one of our auctions.”

He doesn’t need to explain the several thousand ways in which this could be a problem, especially when Layton’s expression is one of concern, but not surprise. He’s lucky that the professor is compassionate to the unusual, because he can’t imagine many people would bother to help with such a ridiculously convoluted predicament. 

“It’s a really long story, so the short version is… I need to find a criminal record for an art forger or… I go to jail.”

Crow makes sure to look over towards the window when he admits that last part, but his imagination is more than enough to fill in the blanks. He’s imagining a comical bulging of the eyes on the professor’s part, and the reality is pretty much that. The short period of silence that follows is one he doesn’t much care for.

“I… I beg your pardon? Jail? Are you quite sure?!”

He offers a solemn nod. “The, uh… the charges have changed slightly, but because of an agreement we have with a, erm… a third party, I have to dig up some evidence to prove my innocence. The only problem is that… well, I’ve been pointed in the direction of Scotland Yard for a damning criminal record.”

The professor sits back in his chair and folds his arms, thinking on it for a moment. Resting his chin on his hand, he gives Crow a careful look.

“So, if I may make an assumption, you, knowing that I have ties with Scotland Yard, decided that I would be the most suitable route into their records in order to access… what I assume to be documents that you have no business being in possession of.”

The way he says it feels like an accusation, and truth be told, it kind of is. Crow knows this is an incredibly cheeky move to pull, having only worked with the professor for a brief amount of time, and now to turn up on his door and demand he stick his neck out and break the law for him? It doesn’t inspire hope. He thinks his self-respect has fallen a long way.

“That’s… yeah. That’s about it.”

The professor sighs. “That’s… difficult. I trust you’re attempting to prove your innocence because you are innocent?”

Crow nods fervently. “I am. Well. For sellin’ a supposed forgery? Yes. For runnin’ an illegal business…? Not so much… but that’s hardly much of a crime for us, is it?”

“Whilst I don’t see much problem in what you do, I can’t say the authorities will say the same. What I am curious about is how this evidence stops you from being arrested. You said something about a forgery…?”

He can feel the moisture from his clothes creating a very wet, Crow-shaped spot in the sofa, and no doubt his friends are making their own marks too. Despite how cold he should feel soaked this badly to the bone, he’s uncomfortably warm. 

“My fate ‘appens to be decided by a rich, old man who is happy to pay off the police however he sees fit. That’s all.”

“Providing you find the evidence he’s after?”

“Exactly.”

He’s met with a wordless stare from the professor, and from a man like him, that could be indicative of just about anything. He’s not sure if he’s being judged or considered, but after a tense moment, the professor relaxes back into his chair with a weary sigh.

“That is indeed a predicament. I see no problem in aiding you providing you’re as innocent as you claim, but getting your hands on such files isn’t going to be an easy task. I suppose you’re looking for my advice on that too, aren’t you?”

The professor has a wonderful way of being incredibly firm whilst letting an appropriate amount of compassion seep into his words. He won’t be messed around with by any means, but providing Crow is respectful enough to tell him the truth, he will help however he can. It’s only when Crow feels himself sinking back into the couch, his shoulders finally relaxing for the first time all day, does he feel like he’s got a genuine chance of getting out of this. He’ll be paying out favours for years in order for this to go right, but it’s far better than jail.

“Sorry to disturb you like this. There’s, uh… actually a bit of digging I wanted to do as well.” He tucks a wet lock of hair behind his ear, giving his cohorts a polite glance as he says, “That’s why I wanted you lot to come along, too.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Arianna replies, brightly.

Somehow, this doesn’t instil Crow with much faith, though he wonders if that’s really anything to do with them.

The professor emits a thoughtful hum, as he says, “These are definitely unusual circumstances. I’m not particularly inclined to lie outright to Scotland Yard, but I tell you what may work.”

“What?”

“Do you remember the detective that was helping us investigate during the incident of the spectre?”

Crow flinches. He wishes he could say he didn’t.

“He’s rather a bold character, but he follows rather… unorthodox methods in the pursuit of justice. I think Inspector Grosky may be able to help us here.”

It’s not quite the response he’s anticipating, but the professor’s office is quickly filled with a variety of groaning and grumbling from his unexpected guests. It isn’t as if he’s new to this particular reaction, but it’s perhaps a little unusual to hear it from children who are supposed to be able to match Grosky’s incredible energy. 

“Not him… The weirdo with the chest hair?”

“Why did I think it would come back to this?”

The professor emits a low laugh. “Not much of a fan? I know he can be rather… intense.”

“Intense?” Socket’s expression is incredulous, and a thick raindrop drips from the rim of his goggles and onto his face. “He was questionin’ me an’ my sister for, like, an hour! He wouldn’t let us go ‘til we answered every little thing he was askin’!”

“He knocked over a box of oranges at my stall,” is Marilyn’s damning accusation.

“Yeah, he kept sniffin’ around the market, doin’ all our heads in. Crow even had to come out and throw him off the scent to get him to clear off!”  Louis, now resigned to ruining the professor’s sofa, wriggles comfortably into the soft cushion, though he might look more so if the vivid memory of Grosky kicking up dust running around the place wasn’t bringing an ugly grimace to his face.

“Utterly annoying,” Crow finishes. “I don’t doubt he’s good at what he does, whatever that might happen to be, but… Surely you can’t think of someone more… competent?”

Layton laughs softly. “I’m aware he had a few crossed wires during that incident, and… perhaps a couple of other incidents, but I believe he’ll hear our case and help us. Grosky will leap to aid no matter how small the problem. I can’t imagine many detectives at Scotland Yard will feel all too inclined to provide help to a rather small case in which you are the suspect.”

“Yeah,” Crow replies, glumly. “I was hopin’ you’d help me out a little on that…”

“I will do what I can. Let’s explain what we know to Inspector Grosky-- perhaps… omit a few damning details, but if the authorities in Misthallery are willing to accept evidence to clear your name, then that’s a good place to start.”

“They already want to re-arrest Wren for being found at the Black Market. At this rate, I reckon they want to send us down for the unlicensed business rather than the forgery, but since the forgery is what led them to us, that’s their main charge. Course, this all goes away once we provide this evidence to the man who’ll pay my way out of the nick.”

At this, Layton blinks. “Wren? Did you say re-arrest?”

“Ah… right.”

Socket looks away uncomfortably. As nice as it is to have his sister back, truthfully, there’s no telling how long that may last. 

“The coppers sprung an ambush on us the other day. We managed to shake ‘em all off, but whilst we were still clearin’ out our hideout, Wren got cornered down there and arrested. We, uh… mighta broke her out of jail, an’ stuff.” The last part is spoken a tad shyly, and Crow flashes the professor a sheepish half-smile, perhaps in the hopes that he may be forgiven for what is most definitely a crime, in amongst all of his other crimes.

“I see, that is unfortunate.” Layton isn’t one to cast stones, having broken free from custody from the exact same police station during the spectre incident, so he merely says, “I do hope the young lady is alright, now.”

“Not much,” Socket clicks his tongue. “She got concussed or summat, so she’s at home prob’ly eatin’ too much cereal and bein’ annoyed at us.”

“Oh dear… That is unpleasant,” is all the professor can muster.

With every new piece of information, Layton realises there’s a lot more depth to this case than he’d initially suspected, and his initial understanding had already been rather complicated. How Crow has managed to land himself in such a tight spot, and under such specific conditions, is thoroughly beyond him, but even having met for a short time, Layton knows that Crow isn’t a bad boy. None of these children are troublemakers, just incredibly intelligent and independent. It would be nothing but a shame to see somebody like him face legal repercussions for running a rather crafty business with the kind of organisational skills and knowledge that would put any other shop out of business.

After all, it’s not like what they do truly hurts anybody, does it? Either way, he has a feeling that there’s a lot for him to catch up on on the way to Scotland Yard, but first, there's a more important matter he has to attend to.

Chapter Text

“A-Are… are you sure about this? Professor?”

The professor, standing idly by the window, looks up with a gentle smile, a stark contrast to Crow’s own harrowed expression. “Why, yes, of course,” he replies. His smile then drops. “There’s hardly any way you’ll make it back to Misthallery by tonight, and I couldn’t just leave you to have to sort out a place to stay.”

Crow, unable to move from the doorway, suspects that hotel rooms take a high place on a list of the professor’s overall expenses, but this place looks so unbelievably lavish that he’s afraid to even touch anything. The entire room seems to shimmer a light gold haze, sparkling under the glow of a fancy frosted-glass lamp. Every now and then, he’ll look down at his own feet to make sure he’s not leaving stains all over the place just by standing there. His companions on the other hand don’t seem too daunted to make themselves at home.

The room is one with three large, plush beds with crisp, white bedsheets, one of which Socket has made a comfortable perch on. For six children, two to a bed is not a bad scenario at all, but the argument of who sleeps with who may very well become a problem later in the evening. 

On the other side of the room, Marilyn is happily mucking around with the dials on the telephone, paying no mind to the others. Arianna sits nearby at the small tea-table in the corner of the room opposite Louis, who is staring hard out of the window at the grey, rainy shroud beyond the glass.

It’s not that Crow respects lavishness in a great amount, especially when representing a needless flaunting of wealth, but this is still a business, and one in which Layton is the paying customer here, not him. It might not be on the posher scale of things, but it’s still far more than he could ever grow used to. He’s still lurking in the doorway, unable to take a tentative step into the room, even when nudged by Badger.

“You just gonna stand there all day? Socket already put his feet on the bed, so you might as well come in…” 

Badger offers Crow a kind smile, understanding the other boy’s issue, but Crow can only sigh. Such an observation only serves to make him feel worse. Could Socket not even pretend to have manners for just a night?

“I…I will. I’m just… ugh, this is gonna be so much to have to pay back.”

“Now you can stop with all of that,” the professor cuts through, having overheard the two boys that jump at the sound of his voice. “Whilst I appreciate the thought, there’s no need for you to even think of paying me back. I’ll just be happy that you all have a bed to sleep in tonight.”

At this, Crow looks incredibly downcast, more so than he had before. The professor sighs.

“Look here, my salary isn’t so poor that I can’t afford a room for a night, and it’s not as if Luke has to pay me back every time I pay for him.”

“I know that…” Crow whines, but it’s really not helping him feel better. This doesn’t go unnoticed by the professor, who kindly decides to shift the topic of conversation to something easier to control.

“Regardless, once we’ve taken a moment to collect ourselves, we should get moving. This seems like a very time-sensitive issue,” he says, pausing to glance at the other children. “Though I don’t think it’ll be very beneficial for us all to go to Scotland Yard.”

Snapping him out of his worries almost instantly, poking the role of leader within him, Crow perks up and nods, “You’re right. The fewer of us the better, and to be perfectly honest… I don’t want to get them more wrapped up in this than they need to be.”

Layton has great admiration for Crow’s ability to take responsibility, especially for his own actions, but there’s an equal amount of concern that comes with it. After all, he’s only a boy. Perhaps more of a teenager now, but still young regardless. To carry the bulk of this burden on his own shoulders is perhaps a little more than Layton can stand to watch. He puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, feeling the plush but damp texture of his scarf.

“There’s no need to worry. We’ll get this sorted out. The two of us will go to Scotland Yard and seek out Inspector Grosky, and perhaps the rest can delve into a bit of investigating with Luke.”

The mere mention of Luke’s name could probably attract Arianna from a mile away, but in this case it’s only a few metres. Her perfectly cut hair jumps around her face as she looks up with neck-breaking speed. They’ve all forgotten how long it’s been since they’ve seen Luke, let alone the professor. Though it’s not said aloud, Crow is curious to see how the other boy is faring.

“Is Luke going to help us?” Arianna asks hopefully, habitually stretching the fabric of her dress over her knees.

“I daresay he will,” Layton replies with a tilt of his hat. “I can’t imagine him refusing the opportunity to do a bit of work on his own. We’ll meet up with him and you can sort out where to go next whilst Crow and I visit the station.”

“So we’re not going with you?” Marilyn asks, perhaps a little sadly. 

“It’s best if the inspector doesn’t perceive you as an accompaniment to the issue. It’ll only put the rest of you in further danger,” Layton warns, which is met with a solemn nod of understanding from the others.

Surprisingly, Arianna is the one to step up and grab the situation by the horns as she jumps out of her chair and pats down her dress, still a little soggy. “Well then,” she beams. “We should get moving! We can figure out where to investigate next while Crow and the professor are gone! I’m sure Luke will know where to go.”

“That’s the spirit,” Layton chuckles. “You’ll be just fine. Well then, if we’re feeling refreshed, shall we head off?”

Scotland Yard is overwhelmingly drab, and not just because of the gloomy weather. 

Having such an influential shield as Layton does make boldly walking into the police station (something Crow very rarely does) a lot less nerve-wracking, and he does try to put a confident face on, but he still finds himself anxiously creeping in his companions shadow. It also doesn’t help that he’s still soaked through and without much in the way of fine garments, so it looks less like the two of them have arrived together, and more like the professor has apprehended a small criminal, which… isn’t entirely false either.

It’s even worse when they stop by the front desk, where the officer at the counter peers over the piles of papers stacked around them at the dishevelled, guilty-looking child. His eyes flit up to meet the professor’s, and he mutters, “Not like you to bring the cons in yourself, professor.”

Crow’s glare is practically audible, and Layton clears his throat awkwardly, as if trying to drown out the officer’s accusation. “Ahem, I believe you’re mistaken. This boy is with me, assisting me on an investigation.”

The officer throws up an eyebrow, but not in suspicion. “That so? Luke not around today?”

“No, he’s busy with some visitors from another town. Is Inspector Grosky around anywhere? I need to have a bit of a word with him.”

“He’s just gotten back, maybe ‘bout an hour ago. You can catch him upstairs, but he might not have the time for you,” the officer warns. Layton politely tilts his hat with a pleasant smile.

“That’s no problem, it’ll only be a short conversation. Thank you very much, officer.”

Crow will behave when following the professor around, so he makes sure not to let his brazen attitude slip through when the officer’s steely gaze follows him right up to the bottom of the staircase. It’s only when they’re out of earshot does Layton emit a sigh, and he whispers to Crow as they climb to the floor above.

“I do apologise for what he said. Very rarely do I ever come here with anyone but Luke.”

Crow’s smile isn’t exactly joyful, but it’s got his signature flicker of humour hidden within it. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Trust me, this is far from the first time I’ve been mistaken for a common criminal.”

Without seeing his face, Crow can hear the smile in Layton’s voice as he replies, “Of course, not a common criminal. Perhaps an exceptional criminal…”

The boy snickers, stifling a laugh into his hand as they ascend to the first floor, full of desks yet again. Another officer posted behind an even larger stack of papers seems to melt into a long sigh, sprawling themselves over the desk. It’s eerily quiet here, and Layton gestures for Crow to follow him across to an office on the other side of the room. Whatever odd creaking noises coming from within don’t inspire the boy with much confidence, not that he was feeling particularly so from the beginning.

The professor gives the door a light knock, and tests the handle, pushing it open such a fraction and poking his head in. A mumble is exchanged, and the door is then swung open for them both to enter.

“Layton!” Grosky greets, though it sounds more like an accusation. “Can’t stop for too long, I’ve got some work to do out by Westminster!”

For someone who often tangles with the law, Crow has never actually seen the inside of an inspector’s office, but this isn’t what he’d been expecting. Grosky might be the only person he’s ever met to use dumbbells as paperweights, all balanced precariously atop mountains of important paperwork. The one he’s holding aloft in his hand, an expert display of strength, does not falter even when Layton and Crow enter the room, and his posture is magnificent. It’s almost like he’s posing for a statue or a painting. Crow winces, visibly disturbed. 

“That’s not a problem,” Layton smiles. “I’m in the middle of an investigation at the moment and was hoping for a bit of assistance.” At this, he turns to glance down at Crow. “My young friend here will be able to fill you in.”

“What?” Grosky drops the weight onto the floor with an enormous thud. “Where’s your usual youngster with the blue hat?”

“He’s visiting some friends. This young man here is… you could say a colleague of mine. This will prove to be some excellent work experience for him.”

Crow is impressed. For someone who prides himself on uncovering the truth, no matter how strange, Layton is a remarkably smooth liar. He can only imagine what kind of places the professor has managed to worm his way into just with a few quick fibs. It’s almost a little exciting. If his head wasn’t on the block right now, he thinks he could be begging the professor for a job as a secondary apprentice.

“A colleague?” Grosky exclaims with incredulity. However, he doesn’t question the nature of it, and simply shrugs. “Well then, you’d best start explaining.”

Crow recognises that Layton is placing a monumental amount of trust in him to not muck this one up, and to keep his requests reasonable and free of suspicion. For whatever reason, Crow feels compelled to outmatch Layton’s lying with his own skill, and he decides to ditch the pitiful ragamuffin look in favour of the precocious child look instead.

“Of course, sir,” he begins sweetly. “I’m helpin’ to investigate a case of art forgery. It seems like the woman we’re suspectin’ was previously arrested for that very crime, possibly even by Scotland Yard. We were hopin’ we’d be able to sift through any evidence you might have.”

Grosky pauses, seeming unconvinced. “An art forger, you say? Well, I’m not sure about letting you get your hands on any old evidence. Not without the proper conduct.”

“Sir, if it helps, the suspect has actually already passed away,” he replies solemnly. “You could say this investigation is to help an old friend tie up some loose ends.”

Crow realises he might not have mentioned this, as both Grosky and Layton look distinctly surprised, and Grosky folds his arms gruffly. “Passed away, you say? Well… I can’t see the point in investigating something already dead, it’s not like we could arrest the suspect, but…”

For a moment, he pauses, gently combing his fingers over his moustache as he ponders the predicament. “We’ve overlooked Layton’s meddling before and, well, it’s never gotten us into any real trouble.”

Layton tries not to look too offended by this approximation of his investigations, but remains quiet. It’s at this point that Crow begins to reel into some of the sad orphan shtick, looking up at the hulking inspector with large, shiny eyes.

“Sir, the case is also a very old one, too.”

Eventually, Grosky sighs, and says, “Providing we can find a proof of death that matches the suspect, it may very well be redundant evidence. We’ve given Layton access to worse, so, at my discretion, I suppose I can allow you to have a rummage ‘round to find what you need.”

It’s a very good start, Crow can’t help but smile, but he’s not satisfied yet. He could secure just a little more of an advantage, and he shyly tugs at his scarf, watching the way Grosky’s beady eyes bear down upon him.

“One more thing, sir. For our, uh… client, if we were to find evidence that had been his property, would we be permitted to return it to him? With your permission, of course…” He bows his head, but keeps his eye trained on what is a very vital reaction from Grosky. Grosky squints at him, and there’s no telling what he may be suspecting of them both right now, but it’s not a question that proves guilt of anything. Eventually, Grosky sighs, using his fingers to straighten out his pompadour.

“Oh, alright, we’ll see. Run it by me if you find anything, but I make no promises! Now, I really must be off! Westminster awaits! For the yard!”

Crow could estimate it had been about four seconds between finishing his question and Grosky tearing past him and out the door with such force that one of the hinges buckles, and the door now hangs limply at an angle. These enormous bursts of energy are incredibly hard to predict, and it had been the same when he’d been running all over the market searching for clues. Even just being around the man elevates his heart rate uncomfortably purely from the excess zeal lingering in the air. When the inspector is most definitely out of earshot, Crow visibly deflates, allowing a relieved sigh to escape him. 

Layton offers him a sympathetic smile. “He is rather… enthusiastic, isn’t he?”

“Is that what you call all that?” Crow throws up a thin brow, “I’d call that lunacy.”

They shuffle out of Grosky’s empty office, deciding to leave the state of the door in the capable hands of other officers. “Well, call it what you may,” Layton replies evenly, “but the man takes his job seriously and works very hard.”

“Like you’ve got a shortage of people like that around here?”

“You might be surprised…”

“Um…”

Arianna’s smile is very bright compared to the drizzly weather and equally drizzly situation they’d all relayed to Luke, who is standing in the doorway of the hotel room with a blank face.

He’s thinned out a bit since they’d seen him last. He’s not quite tall yet, but the chub of his cheeks have rounded out to other parts of his face, and his eyes strike Arianna as now a little more discerning. His fingers fuss the leather satchel strap that hangs loosely over his shoulder, dampened by the rain. He then wordlessly closes the door behind him.

“You… hold on just a moment, is that all true? Everything you just said?”

It’s quite a barrage of information to receive before you’ve even set foot through the doorway, but Luke prides himself on being easily adaptable. Arianna takes a moment to sit back down, having sprung out of her chair like a rocket at Luke’s arrival.

“It is! Crow and the professor should be at Scotland Yard now, so whilst they’re investigating, we can start searching for leads ourselves. You… you will help us, won’t you?”

Luke swallows, unable to nod his head fast enough. “Of course! Of course I’ll help, but I didn’t think you’d come out with all of this. I even heard about this case through a paper I read at the train station! That was all you?”

Socket, still lying on the bed, now even comfier than before, emits a low groan. “Yeah. It’s not great that this is startin’ to reach London folk. If only we could contain it better…”

“We’re lucky we have the handle on this situation that we do, this could be a lot worse,” Louis murmurs. “Besides, the professor has the biggest bulk of the case goin’ on down his end now. I’m not sure what we can do.”

Before he’s even finished speaking, Luke is diligently taking notes in his journal, a focused frown etched into his forehead. “An art forger… There’s not a huge amount of information to go on, but I’m certain we can find some people to talk to. There’s a museum not too far from here with a huge art gallery, they might know something.”

“It’s a start,” Marilyn replies, glumly.

“What about your university?” Badger suggests. “You’ve got professors there that teach this sort of stuff, right? If they’re anythin’ like the professor, we might find someone who knows about that kind of business.”

“Another good idea!” Luke grins, though it seems a little mischievous. 

“We don’t need to gather a huge amount right now,” Arianna reminds them. “After all, Crow and the professor will be coming back with more clues to go on.”

“Yeah, but we’ve gotta go back home tomorrow! How much time are we gonna ‘ave for all of this?”

“Why don’t we just do what we can, it’s better than sitting around whilst Crow does all the work.”

As the room draws quiet, they all nod in agreement, now looking to Luke as a source of wisdom. After all, he knows London far better than the rest of them. For a moment, Luke seems to ponder the notes in his journal, before snapping the book shut and shoving it back in his bag.

“Well then, let’s do our best! We can head to the museum from here and then see where we end up afterwards; that’s enough for us to work with for now.”

It seems a little lacking for the Ravens’ taste; after all, they’re used to pooling their resources to create an abundance of opportunity. Perhaps they’ve been in too restrictive a situation for too long. Luke notices they all appear more run-down and miserable than the last time he’d seen them. It’s disheartening but motivating. At the very least, now he’s been presented with a chance to lend them his investigative skills, which he’s been diligently honing since leaving Misthallery for his apprenticeship.

Chapter Text

Wren stares miserably out of the window, covered in spatters of raindrops that race down the pane and pool on the windowsill below. Her reflection in the glass is as grey as the weather outside, and she wonders how Socket is faring in London with all this downpour.

She can pretend all she likes that her exclusion from the trip doesn’t bother her, but even she knows deep down that it’s far too obvious to hide. It’s not even that she’s desperate to go, but with the other girls selected for their little mission, well, how’s she supposed to feel about that? 

She feels unwell. 

The possible concussion from yesterday isn’t so much a problem anymore, though she does feel her head begin to spin from time to time, but with such bad weather, the change in the usual pressure puts an awful ache on her bones. Her low mood doesn’t help either. For what ails the melancholy teenage girl, truly the only remedy is to spend the day staring dramatically out of the window, and to sigh softly whenever she feels particularly harrowed.

She pays little mind to the shuffling on the other side of the room, where the remaining boys are sorting out the task for today. Gus has stepped out for a moment, and as they set up a large table in the open space of the downstairs parlour, Nabby murmurs something about popping up to the attic. 

The windowsill is too low for Wren to rest her elbow on, which is cause for another indulgent sigh. The rain continues, picked up by a gust of wind. What catches the corner of her vision is a flash of orange reflected in the window, which leans over her shoulder slightly.

A small, fond smile crosses Scraps’ face. He shoves his hands into his pockets and lingers for a moment, though not awkwardly. The plight of girls is a fairly new concept to him, being an only son, but like the other boys in their group, they’ve got enough of a grasp on it to be at least sympathetic, and perhaps lovingly exasperated too.

“That bump on yer head is goin’ down some.”

Wren cranes her neck a little, having been motionless for a little too long. Her pout doesn’t fade, maybe purposefully so, but she makes an effort to reply, “It does feel a little better.”

“Is starin’ out the window helping?”

Wren’s bottom lip wibbles. “Yes,” she says defiantly. All she can hear in response is a whisper of a stifled chuckle. Eventually, when the pause becomes too much, Scraps emits a grunt and props himself up against the wall beside her.

“What, is there summat in the water right now? First Marilyn’s all mardy, an’ now you’ve got the face on. I can’t work like this, y’know.”

Wren’s chin juts out in the way she bites back a smile, her eyes lidded with knowing, but she has to admit, she hadn’t though much about Marilyn in recent days. Of course, it’s less of a damning accusation on her contribution to their friendship and more the fact she’d been in jail, but now that it’s cropping up in conversation, Scraps has a point. For a while, she’s not been herself, and even shortly before this entire incident began. 

It’s enough to draw another sigh from Wren, and her eyes are finally pulled away from the window and to the plush, velvety carpet beneath her feet.

"It’s hard to explain. An’ it’s not as if we’ve been havin’ much in the way of good luck recently, neither.”

Scraps tilts his head, as if mulling over her answer, but his conclusion seems noncommittal. “I guess you could say that, yeah. An’ on top of that, whatever’s goin’ on with you and Crow--”

With more energy than she’d been seen with all day, Wren’s head whips around with an incredible force, which implies a little bit of intrigue, Scraps’ mockingly thinks to himself.

“Why?” Wren questions quickly, “What d’ya thinks goin’ on between me and Crow?”

Scraps allows himself a moment to appear slyly taken aback, his eyes flitting between Wren and the window. His lip curls in amusement.

“I mean-- I’m not gonna say it’s obvious,” he says with a hushed tone. “I got no clue what’s goin’ on, but, erm… a coupla things do suggest themselves.”

Wren scoffs, indignant and definitely not lying. “As if!”

“You’re such a crappy liar, Wren,” Scraps laughs, tearing down whatever soft approach he’d been trying to take with this line of conversation. “But y’know, it’s one thing havin’ some trouble with him, but then to not be included on the trip? And when Socket’s goin’ along? Yeowch.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. No need to hammer it home,” Wren spits, a little more vulgar than her usual character. She swivels to join Scraps in a good old-fashioned conversational wall lean. 

“He’s been a right pain in the neck all week! Gettin’ me out of jail and then tellin’ me where to go and what to do-- and god forbid I run into Hans! Like I can’t handle that idiot myself, but noooo , suddenly he has to be the big man. He’s gotta get all macho and defend my honour, but then he’s got the stones to tell me that I can’t kiss right! God, it’s like he’s tryna compete with Socket for who can cling to me the hardest. Not every girl is a damsel in distress, y’know!”

“Ooh,” Scraps neatly interjects towards the end of her tirade, “That-- that, erm, sounded a bit like somethin’ you weren’t s’posed to tell me, Wren.” He can say that all he likes, but he could never deny that he’s interested. 

Her head already melting into her hands, Wren emits a meagre whine. “Ugh. Look, don’t tell him I told you that bit about the kiss--” and suddenly her head snaps upright with a mean glare, “and definitely don’t tell Socket, either! It was on the cheek so it doesn’t count!”

“As if you need to tell me that,” Scraps replies coolly. “When have I ever grassed anyone up?”

Wren has to admit this is true, and possibly one of Scraps’ greatest qualities. The only person to rival his secret-keeping loyalty would be Nabby, but half the time that’s only because he’s not even listening to what’s being said to begin with. Nabby’s a bit like a brick wall, and in more ways than one. Scraps, on the other hand, is more than trustworthy, but something of an information collector. It’s unnerving to know that this is how he cuts about his business, but Wren doesn’t doubt him for a second.

Slowly, Wren sinks, her limbs folding in on themselves until she’s just a huddled up ball on the floor. The polished skirting board juts uncomfortably into her back, but she’s got no mind to move.

“I don’t even know why I did that. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t want to! But… oh, I dunno! It’s too hard to explain…”

“I was gonna say, I mean… not that it’s common knowledge or anythin’ but it always seemed like you had a soft spot for ‘im.”

Wren flushes, pushing her face into her knees til her cheeks are squished. The noise that escapes her lips is something between a whimper and a low grumble. “Urgh. Why is everythin’ so hard right now? Everyone seems so moody, nobody can figure out what to do. We don’t normally fight like this… What a time to start havin’ love issues. As if I don’t already have enough on my plate. I almost forgot I’m s’posed to be in jail right now.”

“Hahah, oh yeah…” Scraps folds his arms, resting a hand under his chin with an oddly delighted grin. “Seems like a lot has happened the past week, it’s a bit hard to keep up. Of course, you choose now to start makin’ the moves on Crow.”

“It wasn’t on purpose! I blame bein’ in jail. It does things to ya.”

“Well, it looks like we don’t hafta worry ‘bout you bein’ in jail right now, anyway. Crow seems to have that sorted. With any luck, they’ll all come back with the evidence we need and we can go back to normal.”

At this, Wren glances at him with eyes like slits. It’s not in her nature to be so cynical, but something really seems to have clicked inside her recently, and she mutters, “You think things will go back to normal?”

As if reading both her mind and feelings, without a hint of a beat, Scraps curtly replies, “You’ve changed a lot, Wren.”

Wren blinks, eyes wide. She sits up to her full height, and her lips stretch into an uncomfortable grimace. His tone isn’t as accusatory as his words are, leaving them to hang somberly in the air like a longing for something out of reach. It’s one thing to recognise her own growth, but having it slapped on the table by someone else makes it feel more real than she’d like it to be. 

Eventually, she looks down with nothing to say. Somehow, she feels pitiful. As if she’s regressed somehow to a lesser form of herself. As if she’s become the kind of person she’d see in the mirror and claim to do better. Somehow, somewhere along the spectrum of her character, she’s moved, but in which direction, she can’t decide.

“Is… is it bad?”

The twitch of his cheeks suggest that Scraps’ eyes had bulged momentarily upon hearing her tiny query, to which he quickly mumbles, “No. It’s not bad.”

He doesn’t say anything more on it, but it’s become obvious now. Wren’s role as the adorable, innocent girl full of giggles has been shifted aside a little to make way for something else. What she won’t admit out loud is really, as much as it’s always been in her nature, it had acted as a front for her thoughtful side for as long as she’d been able to figure out how people work. Now it just seems like that front doesn’t work anymore, and all that hidden obstinance is bleeding out for everyone to see. 

It’s not like she’s worried her friends won’t like her for it, but it’s not as if she could act like a little girl forever. Still, the further it drifts from her reach, the more she feels that things will never go back to how they were before.

“Alright! I got ‘em all.”

Gus picks up the last of the paintings, shifting its weight around like a bag of feathers, and plonks it down onto the table. The entire surface, which is really just two long tables pushed together, is now covered end-to-end in artwork. He takes a step back to assess his work with pride, but this is only step one.

“Oh boy,” Nabby mutters. “This is really gonna take some work, ain’t it?” He leans in to peer at a smaller painting of a dog, joyfully playing with a half-chewed apple. It’s bright and vibrant, but what does he know about art? Not much that would help anyone, he suspects. All he can gauge with his limited knowledge is that each painting features the same bright, thickly applied and sprawling brushwork, creating abstract renditions of life. 

“And this is the forgery, is it? No consistent signature on it, just like the other ones. That’s promising. She sure doesn’t want to make it easy for us.” Scraps pushes his glasses further over his nose with the heel of his hand. The forged painting sits perfectly in the middle and it doesn’t look a single bit out of place amongst the rest of the artwork. A slight grimace pulls itself around his chubby cheeks. “But Nabby’s right, this is gonna take some time. I mean, I can do my best, but…”

“So what did the old man say, then? You said you were gonna teach us summat, Gus.” Wren’s tone is a little accusatory, likely due to her weary and impatient mood, but Gus doesn’t take it personally. Instead, the rosy smile he’s so well known for returns to his face.

“Sure! Y’see, he said that it’s a minor detail, but somethin’ that’s really obvious to him. It’s about the paint.”

“The paint?”

“The white paint. Apparently it’s wrong.” At this point, though, Gus pauses, looking remarkably downcast. “The only problem is I haven’t been able to talk to him since I found that out. Nobody will answer the door. I wonder if he’s away…”

Nabby puts a finger to his chin in thought. “But it’s somethin’ that he can notice just by lookin’ at it, I’d assume. We’re not gonna have to use some special technology for this, right?”

“I dunno,” Gus shrugs. “I don’t think so.”

Scraps begins to fuss with his pockets, pulling out handfuls of bent paperclips and folded bits of paper, still damp from the rain. “I see. So your plan was to compare this painting with the other paintings she’d done here at Arianna’s to prove they’re all the same. Clever, Gus. Nicely done. At least you got the biggest bit of info we’d need for this.”

Gus grins, his cheeks shining like sunbeams. “Aw, thanks. I did my best! And when Crow comes back, we’ll be able to know for sure!” After all, using these paintings as evidence is still built on the shaky idea that the mystery painter of Barde Manor is still the same woman. However, Gus feels distinctly hopeful in a way he doesn’t normally experience.

Finally, the bespectacled boy finds what he’d been looking for, and plonks a handful of items down onto the table. How he’s able to fit so much junk into his pockets alone is a mystery, but they all know well enough that Scraps would never leave home without his own little toolkit. Said toolkit consists of a flat-head screwdriver, an old utensil used for picking the meat out of crabs, a small but incredibly bright torch, a large magnifying glass and a small magnifying lens attached to a crocodile clip.

He affixes the smaller lens onto his glasses, flipping it over to further magnify his vision. The torch is switched on, momentarily blinding Wren who had been looking in the wrong direction. It’s a little ghoulish looking, but this is exactly how Scraps likes to prepare when fixing clocks and other delicate wares.

“It’s as Nabby says,” he replies, coolly. “If it’s somethin’ this guy can see with the naked eye, I’ll find it no problem.” 

With that, he plants himself in front of the forged painting, leant close enough that his nose is barely grazing the canvas. The other three watch him silently, marvelling at his masterful technique. Scraps always has a good eye for value, but despite his poor sight, he also has an excellent eye for detail. Replicating such detail is more in Wren’s realm of ability, which often means the two collaborate from time to time. Wren takes a bit of pride in being able to know this side of him quite intimately, right down to knowing that when he begins to hold his raspy breath, then something has caught his interest.

“What’re you seein’, Scraps?”

His slight lisp catches his tongue awkwardly as he fumbles for words. “It’s not like I know a great deal about paint, but we’ve got time to do research. As it stands, though… hm. It seems gritty. There are a few bubbles here and there, nothing you’d notice from a distance, but…”

Wren is already jotting this down, “Slightly bubbly consistency…”

“It’s kinda thick in places, but I can’t tell if that’s just how it's applied. Hm.” He suddenly steps back. “It’s a start. I might have to go back and forth for a while before I find anything, but… well, let’s just see.”

He shuffles over to another painting and zooms himself in, drawing the torch back and forth so as to observe the painting in different lighting. 

“Paint isn’t really s’posed to have bubbles in it, is it?” Gus wonders aloud, to no real assistance.

“Not on walls it's not. I dunno about paintings, though,” Nabby clicks his tongue, leaning his weight on the tables, sending the paintings jostling for a cautious moment. 

Wren keeps her gaze firmly on Scraps, hoping to gauge the slightest trace of thought behind his firmly-focused features. However, after a similar period of time had elapsed, Scraps stands up again, this time looking a little more bemused.

“Well? Is it the same?” After all, if this proved to be true, they’d be one step closer to Crow’s freedom…

“It’s really hard to say,” Scraps sighs. “If I had the original painting right here, I could compare that and see just what made the paint so different, but… well, it’s not different, but I couldn’t say for sure if it’s exactly the same. It feels like there’s something odd about it, but I don’t know what.”

“Great,” Nabby sighs, thickly in sarcasm. “Good start. Well, we’ve got all night… and a lot of paintings to compare from.”

“We’ll help you, Scraps,” Wren replies earnestly, as if her horrid mood from earlier has completely disappeared. “You’ve always got a good gut for these things. I’m sure we’ll figure out what it is if we put more work into it.”

“That’s good,” Scraps’ tone is light but sinister, as if having laid a trap. A trap they’d just unwittingly sprung. “Because I’ve got a whole bunch of tests we can do to help, and it starts with first finding some--”

“Oh, christ…”

Chapter Text

The basement-level evidence locker used for storing evidence from cases long past is dark, dingy and overwhelmingly dusty. Every movement made seems to kick up a cloud of muck from who knows where, and Crow has taken to covering his mouth with his scarf to prevent inhaling anything. Such aversion to stagnation might seem unusual for someone so used to lurking in subterranean caverns, but he’ll have anyone know that the auction house and storage room are kept impeccably clean for both customer satisfaction and employee health. He’s always been a kid of fresh air and open spaces. Dust just doesn’t do it for him. 

Layton, on the other hand, seems perfectly adapted to the must, which comes as less of a surprise now that Crow’s seen the state of his office for himself. It’s admittedly a little disillusioning.

The boy squints through the dim lighting at where the professor is lingering on the far side of the room towards piles of papers. Crow, upon entry, had immediately veered off to where stacks of physical evidence were crammed into various lockers and cabinets, but he’s seeing no sign of any paintings. He isn’t one to be easily distracted, but there’s something incredibly dazzling about being able to investigate such suspicious and dangerous items up close, and it begins to pull his mind away from the matter at hand. He eyes a rack of guns pushed to the very back of a cabinet, and though he knows he’d never fancy picking one up himself, even just seeing one up close is new and exciting. Who knows what kind of crime this had once been evidence of. A robbery? Or perhaps even a murder.

Somehow, the last thought makes him feel a little queasy when he spies another smaller pistol pointedly wrapped in a translucent plastic bag. A nasty sheen crosses it in the pale light, and he closes the cabinet door. 

“Found anythin’ yet, Professor?”

Layton has picked up a book of sorts, stuffed full of scraps of paper in different colours. “I’m afraid not, but I’m making headway.”

Crow saunters over with all the bolshy confidence of a small-town kid in a big city. “What’s the book for?”

“It’s a record book. It keeps all the information on the evidence kept in this room; where it’s come from, what it is, that sort of thing.”

The boy grins from behind his makeshift mask. “I guess even Scotland Yard has to be competent from time to time.”

“Well, quite.”

If Layton’s taken up this portion of the investigation, there’s not much else he can do. He leaves the professor to it, and drifts with aimless intention between the towering shelves of books. Were these all evidence records too? It’s an awful lot of information to get through, especially between two people. He reckons he’ll stick to looking for wherever they keep the artwork, though a stray thought admits some facetiousness as he wonders how many of these books are evidence themselves. What kind of crimes could you get up to with a book?

His search takes him away from where they keep the firearms, past a sickening collection of knives (and he has to wonder just why Grosky gave the OK to let a kid down here in the first place), and through a collection of particularly strange objects. Things he’d never suspect to become evidence, but things he could certainly concoct a grisly idea of a story about. Just what had been done with that clothes iron, exactly?

He’s peering so closely between the racks of items, straining his eyes to be able to see whatever’s hiding at the very back, that he neglects to notice the rather intimidating cobweb draped on the shelf above him. It means he also neglects to spot the equally intimidating spider, to whom this shelf belongs, slowly descending on a razor thin stretch of glittering web, coming to a gentle halt right above his nose. His eyes cross in awkward focus, his breath held for all of about three seconds, before it erupts in a startlingly loud and incredibly high-pitched shriek. 

For what noise follows that, it’s a miracle that the officers upstairs hadn’t come hurtling down the steps to investigate, which speaks a little poorly on their behalf than they might like. After the shout, the stumble, the knocking of books and the hiss of worn soles scarpering across stone flooring, the room is suddenly bathed in tense silence.

Layton, wary, peers around the corner where he’d seen Crow disappear not twenty minutes ago. There’s nothing but dimly lit shelves and dark corners. It’s only when he paces back does the flash of red and yellow clothing catch the corner of his eye, trembling slightly in the stairwell.

“I say, my boy, are you quite alright? Are you hurt?”

The scarf has fallen from his face, now instead being held very tightly in his hands, where he seems to be stretching the fabric out. There’s something about his pale, plain expression that’s rather concerning, but he insistently shakes his head, remaining silent.

“That was quite an outburst. Are you sure you didn’t injure yourself?”

The boy shakes his head once more. Whatever confident lean to his posture he’d had earlier has been replaced with an awkward hunch, and he fusses the fabric of his scarf so rigorously that it seems like it might tear.

“Is… something the matter?”

Crow swallows, and the pause between that and him speaking is worryingly long.

“It’s-- It’s nothin’. Just, erm. N-no, nothin’.”

Layton quirks a brow, barely seen in the low light. “My, I hope you didn’t come across anything upsetting, my boy.” His genuine concern is very good at masking the fact he knows Crow is lying through his teeth. In response, Crow can only shrug.

“I, uh… mmm. I think. I think it was just… maybe my eyes playin’ tricks on me.”

There’s no point pressing it further, and there’s no real harm to be found down here anyway unless the boy decides to go around touching the weaponry, so Layton isn’t terribly concerned. To brighten the mood, he raises his book aloft with a soft smile.

“I think I’ve found where our evidence is kept. It seems she’s recorded under the surname ‘Clark’, but I don’t know if that could be a false name or not, especially considering the criminal activity. If it’s locker 33, then… well, then I believe it should be further down that row.” He punctuates this fact with a tilt of his hat in the direction of where Crow had just been standing. The man shimmies past a table full of papers and begins to mosey on over to have a look for himself, but he can’t help shooting an odd look in Crow’s direction, who isn’t bothering to move an inch.

The professor’s iconic top hat soon disappears into the shroud of darkness, and all that can evidence his existence down here is the muffled noises of shifting things around. Preferring to be a help over a hindrance, Crow begins a slow creep towards the end of that row, and even from there he still can’t see the professor, but the noise would suggest he’s closer than he can perceive. He swallows thickly. 

When it becomes clear that moving further just isn’t going to happen, Crow bides his time keeping an incredibly keen eye on his immediate surroundings. It’s after a quiet moment does he finally, in a very small voice, say, “There was a spider…”

He hopes the stifled snort that follows isn’t one of amusement.

“Huh. So how many were there in the end?”

In the safety and light of the ground floor of Scotland Yard, far away from cobwebs, Crow peers over the three paintings hand-selected by the professor out of the portion provided by the evidence locker. It seems his book had led him to the right path.

“About five or six. I don’t see why we need to take them all, I think this will suffice.”

“Was there any other evidence there?”

“Nothing substantial. Just the paintings, plus a few notes here and there. I’ve written them down for you, we can look over them when we return to the hotel.”

Crow picks up a painting. It’s surprisingly light in his hands for its size, and shows a vibrant image of a young lady on a swing. The brushstrokes etched into the thick paint are becoming very familiar to his eyes. For as beautiful as it is, something about it turns his stomach.

Layton picks up the other two paintings, hoisting them comfortably under his arms. “Well then, let’s take these back to the hotel. I’ll sort out the paperwork with Grosky when he returns later. Best to get these back before it starts raining again.”

Crow hadn’t noticed it, being in a room with no windows, but the downpour ruining their trip has let up, if only for a short while. The clouds cast over the sky are still threateningly grey. The day feels late, but there’s no telling what time it could be. 

“Alright,” Crow replies quietly. “Thanks a lot for all the help, professor. Sorry for… turning up so unexpectedly. S’pose I didn’t give you much of a choice, did I?” His tone is light, almost joking, but too subdued to be funny. Perhaps it’s just the effect of the poor weather, but for as dedicated as his efforts have been, and Layton suspects this is a constant for the young man, he can’t help but notice a lack of drive. A feeling of giving up. He’s purposeful for sure, but with no spark. 

They step out into the cold street, far colder than it had been before, and the dampness of Crow’s jacket is beginning to take a toll on him, turning his skin icy. The thin layer of water stretching across the pavement, reflecting the crowded landscape around them for as far as the eye can see, is seeping back into his shoes again. He could go barefoot, but those aren’t the days he particularly wants to return to.

It’s after a long pause does the professor finally reply, having mulled over his answer on the short walk down the street. 

“When I arrived in Misthallery for the first time, back when the spectre was still at large, it was through a call for help from an old friend of mine.”

Crow blinks, realising he’s a little more unaware of the situation back then than he’d realised. He silently urges him to continue, shuffling his grip around the painting, holding it close to himself to prevent stray droplets of rain from landing on the canvas.

“I’m certain you know him. It was your mayor at the time, Clark Triton.”

“Luke’s dad, y’mean?” He’d been familiar before that point that the mayoral household housed a boy close to his age, but they’d never passed each other by. Not in any way that would’ve mattered, at least.

“Yes. He and I were students together long before Luke was born. I must’ve seen Luke maybe once or twice as a baby before seeing him again in Misthallery.”

Crow keeps his eyes fixed on the point of the street where the mist and the beginnings of rain take its visage. “So Mr Triton called for your help about the spectre, and you came to sort it out. Is that it?”

“Actually, not quite,” Layton replies with a hint of a smile. “You see, there was something unusual about the letter I received from Clark. Well, it turned out the letter wasn’t from Clark at all. It was actually written by Luke.”

At this, Crow looks up. “Luke? He sent you the letter?”

“Indeed. I was rather surprised, seeing as Luke wouldn’t have had any reasonable memory of me, but I imagine he’d heard of me through his father. It was his decision that I would be the one able to help in your time of need, thus he sent me the letter.”

For a brief moment, Crow looks distinctly confused. “So what was so unusual about the letter, then? I mean, I s’pose Mr Triton would’ve wondered why you would turn up all of a sudden.”

“Well, I know for a fact Clark prefers written correspondence over typed, so that gave it away before I’d even set foot in town.”

Hearing this, Crow finds himself even more bewildered, evident by the scrunching of his nose. “So… then you knew the letter wasn’t from Mr Triton, but you still turned up anyway? What if it was dangerous? It could’ve been a trap!”

Layton emits a small chuckle. “Well, in a sense, it was. In the end, I was roped into helping just as Luke had planned, but… Hm, how to put it? I don’t particularly enjoy ignoring cries for help, even if they do turn out to be fake.”

“That doesn’t sound very clever.”

“Perhaps not, but even fake cries for help have some meaning to them- a meaning that might require attention, and a solution too. I could follow a letter and walk into a trap, but then there’s the matter of the trap itself, and the perpetrator behind it. All of it must have some reasoning, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hmm. Alright, it does sound a bit clever when you put it that way.”

Layton clears his throat, peering up at the sky from under the brim of his top hat, which is becoming darker by the minute. “I suppose what I meant to say is that even a letter from Clark, who I had not seen in many years, is grounds enough for me to lend a helping hand. We may not have worked together for very long, but I still consider you something of a friend. If you came to me in need of aid, well, I wouldn’t refuse if I could help it.”

There’s something about that sentiment which sparks all the wrong, unfamiliar things inside Crow. After all, the closest thing to a trusted adult in his life is Aunt Taffy, and even their relationship is incredibly specific and based on business. To hear himself considered a friend, even a distant one, to a respectable and trustworthy man such as the professor? Well… it’s enough to make a teenage boy look pointedly in the other direction, so as to hide whatever his expression might admit.

“Not only that,” Layton continues, albeit quietly. “As much as I receive the odd call to action here and there, well… I could say I’m rather exalted to be your first choice for help, knowing the kind of boy you are.” At this point he laughs, and with more humour than Crow has ever heard before. “To be called upon by the great Black Raven- well, it’s a formidable organisation. Perhaps one of Misthallery’s greatest secrets. I consider myself honoured.”

It’s light, and though he says it with a great smile, it’s not a joke. He’s really quite serious, and that needles Crow's emotions all the more. It’s one thing to take pride in your own accomplishment, reflecting on a personal belief of achievement, but to have that validated, and with such respect and admiration. 

It’s enough to make him feel incredibly sick. 

His eyes train themselves on wet concrete for the rest of the walk back, bathed in silence disturbed by increasing rainfall. It’s when they turn the corner on the road to the hotel does the conversation pick back up again. Crow can only assume Layton’s expression is one of concern. 

“I do hope I didn’t upset you, my boy.”

Crow swallows thickly, and for the professor, he’s got nothing but the raw, honest truth to give, even if he doesn’t understand it himself.

“You… what you said was nice. Really nice. It’s… it’s a good thing. I just don’t know why it makes me feel so… bad.”

He says it so earnestly and with such force that it’s a startling change of pace from the boy who’d become quieter and quieter over the course of the day. They approach the hotel with speed as the rain picks up and the streetlights around them begin to turn on. 

“I suspect there’s a lot to you that I’m greatly unaware of. I do wish I could help you more, Crow.”

Crow balks, but tries not to show it as they shuffle into the hotel foyer. The warmth of the room is almost nauseating after he’d become so acclimated to the frosty temperatures outside.

“There’s not a lot that’s really worth knowin’, professor, but… I appreciate it. A lot. Probably… probably a lot more than you know. Probably more than I know…”

He stops in the doorway to let his clothes drip onto the welcome mat, watching the way the water leaks rhythmically from the end of his jacket’s zipper. The professor paces a few steps and pauses, looking back at him. He daren’t look up, though. He’s not sure he wants to see the professor’s face any more than he wants to show his own.

Eventually, the professor speaks, somehow softer, as if reflected by the warmth of the building, and the pale yellow light of the overhead sconce.

“I think you may be right.”

Chapter Text

“Alright, well, thank you very much for your time.”

Luke Triton stands a lot taller than the other children remember. During the events of the spectre he’d been so tiny, especially for his age, but now, with his bag slung coolly over his shoulder and a pen and paper in hand, the change in his juvenile temperament is stark. He looks so grown up now. More so than Arianna had been expecting. She silently feels his change is far greater than her own, and hopes it doesn’t become too obvious…

Luke steps away from the man he’d been talking to, asking him a few questions pertinent to their investigations, but seemingly with not much luck. However, as he returns to the group, he doesn’t look downcast. On the contrary, it seems their investigation is bearing some good results. 

They’re all huddled together under the jutting roof of the museum, which provides enough shelter for them to congregate outside and discuss things. Luke is scribbling something down in his notebook, and Arianna politely waits for him to finish before speaking.

“So what do we have so far?”

Luke brightens at this, clearly enjoying this experience of exerting his journalistic freedom without the professor’s help. He flips through some of the thin pages, a little damp and tattered from the rain, but legible nonetheless. A smile begins to grow on his face.

“Well, after we scoured the museum, we didn’t find any exhibits that helped us, but we spoke to some people who did. One of the curators of the art gallery told us about a ring of artists working in this area a few decades ago. At the very least, it means we’re in the right place.”

Louis nudges his glasses further up his nose with his knuckle, but a flash of contentment shimmers over the lenses. “Which corresponds well enough with the period of time she would’ve lived in London, according to Aunt Taffy. What did they say?”

Luke taps the pen against his bottom lip, eyes scanning the scrawly words. “They said that it was only a loose organisation, people from all over the place, but well known enough in the world of art to be noticeable.”

“Sounds like some kind of fancy art club, like the one we have back home.”

“It would seem that way,” Luke murmurs, “but apparently failing artists were a pretty big thing here around then. Not many of them did well. It looks like that’s why they turned to forgeries the way they did.”

“It makes sense,” Marilyn shrugs. “Artist’s all movin’ out to the big city to try and make a bit of money. I’m surprised they couldn’t make much though. Aren’t places like this s’posed to be good for art?”

“Well, there’s a lot of factors in that. After all, this was pre-war. Right around the turn of the century! I suppose female artists weren’t considered as highly as they are now…”

“Yeesh,” is Marilyn’s only reply.

“For an unmarried, struggling female artist, I bet it’s hard to make a good living to keep yourself afloat. Either way, there was at least a presence of an organisation of art forgers in London during this time. That’s something.”

“Is there any way we can track this down, or…?” 

Luke can’t help but glance sadly at Socket, because if it were that simple, they’d all be jumping for joy. “I don’t think so. It seems this organisation doesn’t exist anymore, according to-- erm…” He pauses to flick through the notes to find where he’d gotten that information from.

“So, are there any records of this group?”

“I think it’s mostly rumour now,” Luke shrugs. “Finding specific information will be hard, even for us. It requires more ties than we have, but it’s not hopeless. After all, the professor and Crow may well find something about this in Scotland Yard! You did say she was caught by the police, didn’t you?”

Badger shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets, trying to contain himself as cosily within his jacket as possible, but the rain is too invasive. “That’s what Crow said. To be honest with you, most of the important work is being done with them paintings back home.”

“That is true, but it helps to get as much information as we can,” Luke reminds him.

“So where to now? It doesn’t seem like we have a huge amount to go on…” Arianna looks distinctly worried by this, but her confidence in their abilities is unshakeable. Surely, if they were to find an in somewhere, they would be able to work some magic.

“Well,” Luke ponders this question for a moment. “Where would we go to buy a forged painting? If we can go somewhere like that, maybe we’ll get some more answers.”

There’s a pause that does not do their intelligence justice, and finally Marilyn quietly answers.

“A black market…”

Looks of uncertainty are shared around the group. Their own black market is one thing, but out in such a big city? This would be the real deal, run by people who wouldn’t view it as a game. A place they could get seriously hurt, but a place with answers . 

The only problem is, there’s no telling where to find it, if it exists around here, and it’s not something they can just go asking for. Not if they want to catch the attention of the wrong people, or worse; the police.

Marilyn hums airily, then suggesting, “To find our black market, you jus’ have to go to the real market, right? Don’t you think the same thing applies here?”

This elicits a long hum of thought, but the boys all look remarkably pleased, glancing around the group before settling their gazes on Marilyn. Marilyn, on the other hand, wears a dry expression, as if frustrated by having to do the legwork here. Even so, fondness bleeds from her tired eyes, and her lips smack into a small smile.

“Okay then, Luke, you’ve lived here a good ol’ while. Where do we go?”

Luke tilts his hat, confidence flashing briefly in his eyes, as he says, “There’s a few around the place, but I suggest we start with Borough Market. It’s the oldest in London, and it’s really close by!”

“Borough Market it is, then,” murmurs Louis, already trudging down the steps, his feet disturbing the thin puddles settling there. 

The rain doesn’t look like it’s going to let up soon, but even through the slate grey sky, the downpour is becoming thinner. The bleak horizon is reflected on the layer of water stretched far across the city, and it soon paints the moving images of a cluster of children wading past, eager to find the clues that will pave their way to victory.

Borough Market is fantastic, and a breathtakingly enormous sight compared to their own little hometown market. There’s something particularly unnerving about stepping foot here, almost like walking on somebody else’s turf. There’s stalls as far as the eye can see, full of fruits, vegetables, fish and meat of all sizes, colours and varieties. A rainbow of produce, and a stunning array of clothing and supplies. The amount of people passing through is suffocatingly large, and the group try to keep their toes from being trodden on as they sidle their way through.

“This is so many people,” Marilyn gapes, unable to find a place to stop and look. “I knew the big city markets would be big , but this is unlike anythin’ I imagined!”

Luke, leading the group at the front, calls back, “I never actually come here very often, but I’ve passed through once with my mum. It always seems to be heaving every time.”

“Not hard to believe,” Louis replies, being just tall enough to get a little glimpse over a few shoulders, peering out into the distance. However, there’s not much that grasps his attention. It’s a lot more ground to cover than their market, and there’s a lot fewer places to hide too, by the looks of it.

“Asides from all this,” Socket runs a hand through his dripping wet hair, now falling around his face. “How are we gonna go about findin’ a black market in here? I mean, in Misthallery, you just gotta ask, but here? What’s people gonna say if we just start askin’ questions?”

“It’s all we can do,” Arianna reminds him stiffly. “We haven’t got much time or much to go on. The most we can do is just look around the best we can. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“It’s a lot to ask for.”

“It is, but… well, don’t you think you’d be able to recognise if someone is hiding it? You are more used to this kind of thing, aren’t you?”

They plough steadily through the crowd, slowing down every time a stall they pass by shows a little bit of artistic interest. So far, it’s only been pottery and clothing, which isn’t much help. With their hands linked together, they’re dragged across the lines of stalls, zigzagging between what could look useful, and keeping an eye out for any familiar paintings. Though that thought does ignite something in Badger’s head.

“D’ya think there could be some of her old paintings just… floatin’ about the place, like?”

Socket, ahead of him, grips his hand with clammy fingers, but spares a look over his shoulder at a moment where the crowd wanes. “You mean, like… out on the market?”

“I mean, Taffy did say she moved out here to London, and if she were sellin’ all these paintings- forgeries an’ stuff-  then… don’t you think there could still be some paintings in circulation? Gettin’ sold from one place to another?”

Socket’s cheeks flush red with a smile that suggests he’s pleased with the idea. “I mean, if any market out here’s got half the organisation that we do, there’s gotta be some kind of trail we can follow if we track one down!”

“True,” Louis interjects, one step ahead of them both. “But assessin’ a painting ain’t somethin’ we can do on our own like this. Not unless Marilyn remembers all them tiny details from the one back in Misthallery.”

“Yeah, but Crow said he was gonna pick some up from Scotland Yard, right?”

“It’s a lot to hinge this investigation off… but it’s not a bad idea, neither.”

In the end, they know it’s purely down to what they’ll be able to find here. As they pass through, a few stalls nearby start to look a little more like what they’re searching for. Luke’s already got his pen and paper at the ready as they approach a stall boasting seaside illustrations. It’s not entirely on the right track, but it’s getting closer.

All that’s gained from a short natter with the owner is where the other art stalls are, and other various places to purchase paintings in the area. The crowd carries them further through, dropping them off by another place selling oil paintings albeit very small, pocket-sized ones. There’s another stall right next to it too, selling watercolour paintings and various art supplies. Both owners are chatting to each other until Luke politely interferes. However, it doesn’t yield the results they’d like, but the investigation is becoming less cloudy.

Luke still doesn’t look pleased however, frowning at his notes. “We have a few more addresses to check out, but no sign of a black market. It’s still not enough. I know I brought us here, but there really might not even be one…”

“It was just an idea,” Marilyn’s tone is glum and apologetic, but Luke can only smile in response.

“It’s alright. After all, one of these addresses is for an antique shop right down the other end of this bit of road! For old paintings, I suppose places like that are where they’ll end up. Let’s head there.”

Arianna still can’t shake the crease in her brow, clasping her hands anxiously and saying, “I do hope Crow won’t be too unhappy if we don’t uncover anything…”

“It’s alright,” Socket replies smartly, though with a lilt of amusement to his voice. “He’ll only be goin’ to jail if we muck up.”

Arianna glowers at him.

The antique shop on the other end of Borough Market, suggested to Luke now by multiple people, is small. It’s small and it’s dingy, but the cobwebs that cluster in the corners of the porch are somehow cosy and loving. Despite being everything a functional shop shouldn’t be, it’s charming, a bit like an old, grotty teddy bear. 

The sign that swings overhead is faded to the point of illegibility. Luke squints, but yields no information, and cautiously looks over his shoulder at the huddle of children behind him. They’re in low spirits, miserable in their wet, squelching shoes, but with persistence in their eyes. They’ve come this far so there’s no point backing out now.

It’s dark inside, but when Luke testily pushes the door, it opens with no hesitation. A bell rings overhead to herald their arrival to a shop that looks devoid of life but full of treasure. He calls out a timid greeting to whoever might be around to hear whilst the other children begin to scatter to all four corners of the room.

It’s a marvellous shop, and for them, a taste of home in a foreign city. The brittle, half-polished furniture, the stacks and stacks of paintings, the gaudy little trinkets and the smell of must in the air- it’s all so familiar. Marilyn swears if she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, it’s like being back in the old hideout.

Though… suddenly, a drop in mood washes over her. She’d forgotten about the hideout, now an empty cavern underground. Are the police still conducting investigations down there? Whatever they’re up to, she has a sinking feeling they won’t be able to return for some time, if ever.

She shakes her head gently, the damp curls of her hair painting small strokes of rainwater across her flushed cheeks. There’s no point worrying about that now, there are bigger things to attend to. So many bigger things. So much to do. So much to think about every single day, and she can’t help but curse the tense sensation of dread that’s set up camp in her chest, growing by the hour. Why is it that everyone else seems to be faring alright? They’re a bit wet and miserable, sure, but… is it just her? Is it just her that feels fit to burst?

When she opens her eyes, she’s momentarily startled by a flash of red standing very close to her side. She reels back an inch, searching Socket’s plain face with as much incredulity as she can muster. She’s about to open her mouth and eject some bitter sarcasm his way, but he beats her to the punch.

“You look poorly. D’ya wanna go outside for a bit?”

Her face feels like it’s getting greyer by the second, and she silently shakes her head. What a horrible choice to make. She already feels disturbed by her struggle to keep up with the group, but to leave? She can’t stand the idea of making such little contributions, even after her idea dragged them out all this way. 

Socket doesn’t seem convinced, and it strikes Marilyn in the moment that for what jokes they make at his expense, Socket is intelligent in ways that often go undetected. Regardless of what his expression suggests, he recedes.

“Alright, if you’re sure. It’s bloody warm in here after bein’ out in that cold for so long,” he murmurs, tugging at the neck of his thoroughly-soaked shirt. 

At the very least, for trying, Marilyn flashes him the best smile she can as she drifts past him to where the other children have begun to congregate. In the middle of said group is a woman she’s not seen before, standing a good head taller than everyone else. Luke perks up upon Marilyn and Socket’s tardy arrival.

“This is the owner,” he gestures sweepingly to the young lady, who offers a polite nod of the head. She’s on the thin side, with straight, dark hair, sitting very neatly in curtains around her face. “Nora here has been running this shop for a while now. Maybe we’ll find some answers.”

Marilyn stares rather blankly, and Nora replies, “I’ll help you as best I can, though I can’t promise anything. You said you were looking for an-- an artist, was it?”

“An art forger,” Louis coughs into his hand. “It’s… a bit of a dated case, though.”

Nora thinks on that for a moment, leaning her weight against the counter that spans the far side of the shop. “Art forgers, eh? I mean… you’ve come to the right area. This place was big for them back in the day. You might not think so, but it had a lot of good business. Not just paintings, mind you, the lot. Sculptures, documents, everything.”

The Black Ravens remain in curt silence, guilty in their awareness of the kind of business forgery entails.

“I can’t just rattle off names or places for you, but if you’ve got an idea of the kind of style you’re looking for, I can see what I know. I mean, I don’t really know how much any of this would help. What are you looking for forgers for anyway? You kids are a bit young to be dabbling in this sort of thing.”

She finishes the point with a light but gloomy laugh, and the room grows darker as the clouds of rain begin to move overhead.

Luke begins to sift through his notebook, mumbling, “We’ve got a name written down here, hold on…” as Arianna puts a finger to her lips in thought.

“Well, it was all… it was all very colourful! Big, sort of sweeping--” she pauses to sweep her arms for dramatic emphasis, and Socket and Badger nod enthusiastically.

“Yeah, yeah, big kinda brushstrokes, lots and lots of colour. Looked a bit, erm… well, it wasn’t very realistic, but it was nice.”

“Abstract, like.”

Nora appears intrigued, and she begins to sift through her mental catalogue of art knowledge, but it’s cut short when Marilyn’s stare bores right through her, with her big, dark eyes.

“Are you an artist too?”

“Me?” Nora blinks. “Well, a little. I paint a bit here and there. I think it’s a good hobby! Being surrounded by so much art in this place, well, it sort of makes you a bit inspired, doesn’t it?” As she says this, she gestures to the great number of paintings lining the walls, stacked in piles from the floor, and taking up a vast amount of table space.

The children begin to drift around the shop, looking at each painting up close as Nora explains, “This is a good area for this kind of business. I mean, being so close to a market, you get a bit more foot-traffic, but people bring in all sorts of things. It’s incredible how old some of them are. Especially the paintings. Why, some of them would date to more than a hundred years ago, now. Can you believe that?”

Louis nods with zero enthusiasm, squinting at a very neoclassicist-looking painting depicting some old toffs riding horses across a grey meadow. It’s impressive alright, but he just doesn’t quite see the appeal. 

Arianna, on the other hand, has stumbled across a rather thrilling art nouveau piece that draws her eye into every corner of the canvas. Sure, they’re meant to be investigating right now, but that shouldn’t stop her from looking at a few pretty things along the way. If only her fortune wasn’t sealed off from her; she thinks the painting would look nice in the dining room.

Badger ends up having the most luck. He spends a moment sifting through the paintings on the floor whilst Nora relays as much information to Luke as she can, the younger boy speedily jotting his notes in his book. It’s all a bit too similar for him to make any distinctions. He doesn’t know the first thing about art, and as he starts to wonder if perhaps they should’ve brought Scraps with them, he stumbles across something interesting.

“Woah.”

Socket perks up, a few feet away, and creeps over to see what Badger’s holding aloft in the hopes of getting enough light to spy the details. His face falls in surprise.

“Hey, that--”

“It looks just like it, right?”

The painting is a bit smaller than the ones they’ve seen so far, but its resemblance is undeniable. The thick brushstrokes, the application of colour that clearly lacks hesitance, it’s all reading very much like the paintings they’d tied to the old forger they’ve been looking for. The topic of the painting itself is simply the human form, a female figure viewed from the back, but with much detail applied to rendering the muscles and bones. 

“Huh…” Socket begins to habitually pick at his lips as he inspects it. “It’s… it’s really close. I mean, I dunno if it’s exactly the same, but…”

Badger flips it over, and though there’s no discernable signature to be found, a price is scrawled messily in charcoal that reads ‘ 15/2’