Flights on the bike, with the wind whipping at her ears. Several neat and slightly admonishing messages from Em that Orfeus largely ignored, as well as a parcel she removed from its packaging immediately to admire. The tall black baton was a little larger than the ones she trained with, with a sparkling taser-end that could be flipped out into a small, sharp, deadly little hook. She didn’t know what exactly Em expected her to do, but it felt sometimes, when her Blood sparked out just right or she hit the mannequins hard enough to rattle them, that she could do anything.

She brewed and drank her teas, offered them to those in the Wild she was on friendly terms with, offered them out to trade afterwards: sat at the table, hawking her wares. “Sleepease,” she called as she held out the little parcels of lavender. “One for you, Wolf? Beauty sleep? You need it.”

Faol strode past without acknowledging her. He seldom did. They talked briefly and tersely on missions and seldom ever else. Orfeus sparred with other people when she could, and understood now why Faol had wished her good luck: training sessions always ended with her beaten black and blue, and she was just lucky that so far she hadn’t lost any teeth, which her Blood wouldn’t be able to fix.

At least the hunters weren’t all as vicious as the Wolf, outside of training. Some were even friendly, a rough-worn battle camaraderie. Luga was cryptic, mysterious, but Juana never did slide a knife into her back, at least not yet, and the Starfish built towers out of cards. Dormarch shared ver small flasks and bottles of contraband, and Orfeus shared them in turn, quick and easy: if she was to do this, she needed friends.

Two weeks in, Orfeus got Galahad out from under her bed and tuned it carefully. Too long since she had played: the courses no longer sung in time with each other, let alone working together toward a song. She fixed them, so each of the four sets of doubled strings sung out the same note when she strummed them, and the top highest string sounded out true. She played a few chords, getting her fingers used to it.

The Blood had healed her callouses in the time she’d been here. Without them, her fingers grew tender and pink in barely a minute. Well, she’d just have to get them back.

At the feast that night, she carried her guitar in over her shoulder and settled in and chewed at her meat. In the moment of contentment after the meal, the moment of brief quiet, Orfeus pulled her guitar out and she played. A few notes, testing, and silence fell.