Chapter 1: Aoife (part 1 of 3)

  As Aoife Griffin strolled on the side of the busiest street in Enfield, throngs of pedestrians parted for her, risking brushes with speeding carriages to give her a wide berth. She couldn't blame them. Marching obediently by her side, a basket filled with dye bottles strapped to his furry back, was the largest dog she or likely anyone in the city had ever seen. Samson belonged to her aunt—to whose shop they were headed back now—and he was purportedly a bobtailed sheepdog. But she was convinced that he was somehow part Malady.

  For one thing, he came up nearly to her shoulders, with the added height of the basket clearing her head. She herself was of rather average height for a girl of seventeen, but still, she was sure dogs weren't supposed to be this tall. For another, he was exceedingly smart, almost human in his knack for distinguishing his behaviour with family and strangers. As playful with and protective of especially her younger siblings as he was, he could be just as aloof if not downright intimidating with anyone he didn't register as part of his pack. He was also older than a dog had any right to be, though his exact age was unknown, even to Aunt Cara. She had him since her early days in Thameside, back when she had been freshly widowed and years before Ma brought Aoife and her siblings across to join her. Aunt Cara had always been uncharacteristically muted about the details of how Samson had come into her life, as she was about most things from that period of her life; she volunteered only that he was wanted by no one else, so she decided to take him in.

  But the most damning evidence in Aoife's mind—though it was possible she was only imagining it—were the two symmetrical bumps in between his ears, usually well-hidden by his bushy fur but distinctly palpable when petting his head. She could have sworn they were the beginnings of horns, and she was also sure dogs weren't supposed to have those.

  Still, whatever Samson's true nature might be, she knew that he was harmless around his family, and besides, his peculiarities made him gainfully suited to helping her on supply runs. Aunt Cara owned and ran a sewing business on her own and had hired Aoife as a part-time assistant, a position previously held by Ma before she fell ill. On some days, she would man the counter while Aunt Cara worked in the back, and on others—such as today—she would make the rounds on Market Street, Samson in tow. This was an innovation Aoife herself introduced to the job. She had long discovered that he wasn't just a reliable conveyor of heavy loads; just having him by her side during transactional interactions also seemed to discourage the other party from attempting shenanigans.

  And even now, she was reminded of the added benefits of Samson's imposing frame as he helped them clear a path through the traffic. Market Street did tend to draw crowds around this time in the afternoon, but it felt to Aoife that there was a buzz to the place that was unusual for a cloudy Thursday afternoon. She saw the usual workers and schoolchildren fresh off their day's duties but there were also groups of families dressed in their Sunday best and chatting excitedly among themselves. This was rather odd. These groups appeared to invariably be travelling in the opposite direction to her, toward the southern end of Enfield, toward the River Thames. If there were some big attraction in the city centre this afternoon, she hadn't heard about it. For now, she was more concerned with her own task at hand.

  Aunt Cara was in the back of the shop, sat over her sewing table. She looked up as Samson tramped into the room, dye bottles clinking on his back. Aoife followed him in. Without having to be told, the sheepdog sidled up to the table and lowered himself onto the floor, allowing his owner to look into the basket and pick out the bottles she needed for her current project.

  "Thanks, love," she said to Aoife when she was done. Though her red hair was now streaked with grey, there was enough of Da in Aunt Cara's green eyes and freckled cheeks that Aoife couldn't help but think of him often in her aunt's presence. She still hadn't decided whether or not this was a perk of the job. "You can put the rest in the corner for now. I might need it again soon."

  Aoife did as she was bidden, though it was becoming an increasingly tall order to find space in 'the corner'. Clusters of half-used or unopened bottles, as well as piles of yarn and fabric with no discernible organization to them cluttered the space. She had offered to move everything to the shed but her aunt insisted she might need them soon for an order or two she was expecting. As far as Aoife could tell, some of these orders hadn't been forthcoming for weeks. As she busied herself unloading the basket that was still strapped to Samson, Aunt Cara struck up a conversation without looking up from her table.

  "So what was the damage this time?"

  "Managed to get the cardinal red for sixteen shillings each. But old Leonard wanted a whole sterling for the royal blue."

  Aunt Cara did look up when she heard this, her face darkening. Aoife knew the anger wasn't directed at her, but she felt compelled to defend herself all the same.

  "I did try to haggle. He says the prices for the raw materials are going up. Nothing he can do about it."

  "It's the damn EIC, I tell you," her aunt remarked in disgust. "Just because no other company worth a damn can keep up with them, they lord it over us simple folk who can't go out and harvest our own Elder-oak bark. You don't know because you haven't been in this city as long as I have, but it wasn't always like this. I remember a time when adventurers were honourable and actually cared about serving the people. And don't get me started on the hospitals! I mean, the whole reason your mother—"

  "Where's Clodagh?" Aoife cut her off, taking her at her word that she didn't want to start. Aunt Cara could get rather passionate when it came to listing the many vices brought down on Thameside by the East India Company and their cornering of the adventuring market. According to her, the EIC could be blamed for all the woes of the common man, from failed businesses to bad harvests to broken marriages. It wasn't that she didn't believe her, but more that she'd heard the same rant far too many times—especially the part about why Ma couldn't get the medical care she needed. "I thought she was meant to come here straight after school. Isn't she helping with the deliveries today?"

  "I haven't seen her yet," Aunt Cara reported, and put her head down as she cranked the sewing machine back up again. "Knowing her, she's likely to be hanging around that poor blacksmith again, isn't she? What was his name again? John Rockliffe, was it?"

  "John Rockford," Aoife nodded, concurring that the reason for her sister's lateness would be something along those lines. Mr Rockford operated a smithy and storefront on Main Street but Clodagh had somehow sniffed out that he was a retired adventurer. Since then, she started regularly going out of her way to visit his shop, watching him work and pestering him with questions. Aoife had been dragged to a few of these visits herself and also fostered a fondness for the ageing blacksmith, mainly in appreciation for his boundless patience with her sister. "Could be. That or she's running around the neighbourhood with a rucksack stuffed with rocks. Says it's meant to build endurance."

  "She's still on about that, is she?" Aunt Cara tutted absent-mindedly. "Far be it for me to denounce my niece's ambitions but I really reckon she's barking up the wrong tree. Hell would freeze over before the EIC starts recruiting from our lot again."

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  By which she meant the common Enfielders—the lay labourers, the humble shopkeepers, occasionally the petty criminals. With few exceptions, north of the River Thames was mostly home to the unassuming or the desperate, and the Griffins fit somewhere in between. Aoife had heard this sentiment here and there, that the EIC no longer accepted applicants from poor families. Personally, she couldn't understand it. Wouldn't it make more sense to select adventurers based on magical prowess than financial standing? But there were many oddities and injustices in the world that she simply couldn't afford to concern herself with.

  "Oh, that reminds me, Aunt Cara. I'm not coming in tomorrow. I have the... thing."

  Her aunt paused her hands and eyed Aoife momentarily before resuming her work.

  "Is this that mysterious second job of yours? When are you going to come clean about what you've been up to?"

  "I told you already. Mr Carmichael hosts dinner parties and I help out in the back. Sometimes these things need preparing in advance, that's all."

  Her aunt snorted, making it clear what she thought of the veracity of Aoife's story. She didn't press further, however. Aunt Cara was good like that, content to let Aoife and Clodagh have their secrets—God knew she probably had many of her own.

  "That's alright, love," she said, then let out a heavy-hearted sigh. "Just as well, if I'm being honest. I might have to delay your payment again, what with the royal blue costing a fortune now. I'm so sorry, love. Let me just get through this patch and I'll make it up to you, I promise."

  Aoife understood, perhaps more than she would have liked to, and enough to anticipate that 'this patch' was likely of a more permanent nature than Aunt Cara would want to consider. A kind of oppressive gloom permeated this city and it required constant vigilance to keep oneself from drowning in it. She had felt something similar even when the family used to live in Dubhlind, though back then, they still had Da to shield the children. For all she knew, all the cities in the world were now submerged in this nameless angst. But here in Thameside, the jewel of Brittania and reputedly a cornerstone of civilization, there seemed to be a singular callousness to its unseen forces, a dark edge to its maze-like streets. Aunt Cara was just one of countless thousands trying to stay afloat. But for now, that was alright by Aoife because—

  "Well, that's what the second job is for," she said aloud, and upon immediately realizing how that might have come across, she hastened to add, "so it's alright, Aunt Cara. Really, don't worry about me."

  An uneasy silence fell between them, and only the churn of the sewing machine and Samson's untroubled snores filled the room. With at least half of the basket still left to unload, Aoife wished more than ever for Clodagh to show up, or for any distraction to loosen the mood.

  Her wish was answered soon enough as a bell chimed from the front of the shop, indicating someone had just walked in. Aoife couldn't get up quickly enough as she raced to check on the arrival. It was a middle-aged man she hadn't seen before, smartly dressed in a suit and coat like the men she'd seen earlier walking toward Main Street. He doffed his hat and looked around uncertainly as Aoife approached the counter. Eventually, he said in a rather impatient tone, "Well? Is your mistress here? Do you speak Anglish?"

  Aoife realized with a start that, in her hurry to leave the uncomfortable silence of the back room, she had neglected to greet the customer.

  "I... well," she stammered even though there really was no cause to. It was an irritating habit of hers to freeze up whenever she was caught off guard by something a stranger had said.

  "She's my niece, good sir. And of course she can speak Anglish," Aunt Cara's voice that rang out from the back was cheery but contained a hint of reproof. The man had the grace to look away, embarrassed. Aunt Cara stayed at her table and yelled out instructions. "He'll be here for his trousers, Aoife. They should already be the first thing on the rack."

  Aoife promptly retrieved the item and handed it to the man, who coughed and murmured barely audible thanks. He still looked ill at ease about the earlier exchange, and though it hadn't been a pleasant one for her either, she could understand why the comment was made. Most people in Thameside—or Dubhlind or Galway for that matter—would never have guessed she and her siblings were somehow related to Cara Griffin—she of the red hair on pale skin typical of Eire, the Griffins' ancestral home, and they of the copper complexion and dark auburn hair that called to mind somewhere farther away. It hadn't caused too much in the way of trouble for Aoife, though she'd heard her share of pointed remarks in a schoolyard fight or two. Mostly, she felt mildly embarrassed both for the customer and for herself. But for his part, he seemed reluctant to leave, determined to put things right and show that he was above petty prejudices.

  "Say, are you two going to the Testimony as well?" he proffered while gesturing vaguely toward the door he'd come in from. "That's where I'm headed after this. Exciting, isn't it? Shame we didn't get the sun for it but I suppose that's nothing new."

  "The Testimony?" Aoife frowned at him. Behind them, the sound of the sewing machine stopped as Aunt Cara listened in. "We have a Testimony today?"

  "Haven't you heard?" the man exclaimed, looking relieved that his mention had generated some interest. "Crowds are already gathering around Trafalgar Square. You'd best hurry if you want to see it. I heard they're bringing in a Wyvern!"

  "Who is it?" Aunt Cara's voice rang out again. "If it's the EIC, we're not interested."

  "Valor Company," the man raised his voice for the seamstress's benefit. He was looking positively pleased with himself now. "Enfield's own. That's what's got everyone all up and about, you see."

  Aoife had a vague recollection of the only other Testimony she'd been to. She had been ten, on the first year of her family's move to Thameside. Unfortunately, she couldn't remember the Malady on display on that occasion. For one thing, she hadn't seen it; the family had made the mistake of trying to crowd into Trafalgar Square, and with no strapping fellow's shoulders for the children to be hoisted onto, all she saw was the biggest collection of backs and arms in living memory. She did recall the enticing smell of fried fish wafting from vendors, though if memory served, she didn't get to taste them either.

  It was often said that Testimonies were a dying tradition. In the old days, they came about at least once or twice a month, sometimes even twice in a week during a particularly busy season, an opportunity for competing adventurer companies to advertise their worth and an excuse for the rest of the city to gather and make merry. But there hadn't been one for years, a marker—Aunt Cara would no doubt have said—of the widely acknowledged futility of competing with the East India Company.

  Aoife knew that a Wyvern was rare and impressive loot, and legitimate cause for celebration. The fact that one of the dying Enfielder companies managed the feat made it doubly intriguing. It also provided the most credible explanation for Clodagh's absence. Her sister would never miss a Testimony once she caught wind of it, not for the world and not in a million years. Even Aoife was curious to learn more about the victorious party that had taken down the Wyvern. Bigger the job, bigger the tools had been one of Da's inane sayings back in the day, and she wondered if Valor Company had recently come into some substantial tools in their bid to reclaim old glories.

  Long after the chatty customer had left, and even as she tried to busy herself around the shop, her mind kept wandering back to the Testimony, and to her sister who would surely have been there already. Eventually, Aunt Cara came over and tapped her lightly on the forehead.

  "Just go," she said in mock anger. "I'll make the deliveries myself. Be off with you."

  Aoife beamed, gave her aunt a hasty hug, then gathered her things to go. As she stepped to the front door, Samson lumbered over in a huff and presented himself for a parting pet. As she rubbed the woolly fur on his crown, she couldn't help but notice again the two bumps between his ears.