“Afraid not.” He looked me up and down, apparently trying to decide what manner of friend I might be. He scratched his beard. “That boy’s been keeping odd hours these days.”

“How so?”

“Moves around a lot during the early hours of the morning.” He tapped the wall. “The sound comes right through.”

I frowned. “Moves around?”

“Walking, dropping things, who knows? I don’t think he means to make a noise, but it’s woken me three times this week already. He’s driving half the tenants mad.”

“Have you spoken to him about it?”

“Of course. And he’ll settle down for a day or two, but then it’s back to the midnight wanderings. Have a word with him, will you?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

The man tipped his cap and retreated back into his flat.

It would be an interesting conversation when I did track down Finn, I reflected. Hi, sorry that I blew you off—I was being chased by a Haunt. Also, your neighbour lodged a noise complaint with me. Now, what was the important thing you wanted to tell me?

I trudged back down the stairs. I had tried. There was no point spending the rest of the evening combing the streets for Finn; Ceyrun was just too large, and he could be anywhere. So why couldn’t I just let it go?

The smell of wood smoke intensified. Across the street from the tenement, a woman had lit up a coal brazier. She knelt on the ground, where she had spread a large oilcloth, and applied a wicked cleaver to the joints of a pig’s leg. Thunk, once, twice; she moved with practised skill, and the flesh and gristle gave way. Flecks of blood dotted her arms and face.

Stark, in my mind, Morwin’s chest peeled open like the thick rind of a fruit.

I quickly looked away. There was a terrible ringing in my ears, and I felt like I was going to be sick. Even from across the road, the iron-sharp smell of the meat reached me.

“Fresh pork skewers!” she hawked. “Get them hot.”

Some of the people playing dice wandered over. The woman speared squares of meat and thrust them onto the griddle over the brazier. Fat sizzled and dripped.

“Most affordable meat in the city,” she said. “Place your orders quick.”

I crossed the road. The woman noticed me and flashed a greasy smile. “Hungry, hon?”

“Where did you get pork?” I asked.

“My friend delivers it weekly. I promise it’s the fresh stuff.”

“But the Sisterhood has an embargo on meat products. It’s supposed to be seized at the gates.”

She rotated her skewers. “I guess he doesn’t use the gates, then. You want?”

I shook my head. “It just strikes me as very risky. With the shortages, if the Order finds out that you are trading without a license—”

“Aytrium isn’t short on food,” she interrupted. “Some just get more of it than others. I’m evening things out.”

“The shortages are real,” I insisted.