It had begun to rain. At first, only enough to wet the ash that clogged the streets, but by the time Celeste had passed the boardinghouse on Elysium, rain was filling the gutters and dripping from the eaves. She wondered who had claimed her old room and when she might be able to retrieve the belongings she had left behind and send Mariel’s things to the house on Gethsemane. But that was a problem for another day.

She walked past the offices of the Howler and could not help but look for Grace in the window, but there was only Mr. Song at the typesetter. She turned before she reached the Excelsior Hotel and the neighborhood of mansions just beyond. The rain had soaked through her coat and boots.

By the time she reached Perdition Street, it had turned into a downpour, and the rain fell in great sweeping sheets. It was still early, even though the sun was lost somewhere behind the low clouds and gray gloom, and only a few determined merrymakers populated the various pleasure houses and saloons. The Eden had reopened, and its doors were flung wide despite the storm. There was a poster board over the cracked window advertising a new songstress, someone come down from the capital. Celeste could not read her name through the deluge.

The heavy rains had washed out the bridge to the Drench, so she took the steep and mud-slicked path down through the ravine. She slipped more than once, but she finally made it, skirts torn and hands bruised from catching herself against the rocks. To her left was the way to Abraxas’s cabin. She took the road to her right.

She passed through the gate, past the Tabor Land Corporation sign, and up to the porch. She hadn’t thought to try the door when she was there before, but she did now. It opened into a house she had once called her home—and would again, if she could convince Ibrahim to sell it back to her. She wasn’t sure where she would get the funds for it, but she had some talents and a bit of savings. She would find a way.

The first thing she did was open the window. The rain blew in, hard spittle against her face. It would soak the floorboards soon enough, maybe even settle to rot if she didn’t replace them.

The people before her had left their furniture. It was old and shabby, and when Celeste sat on the narrow bed, it sagged in protest. Resigned, she curled up on the worn mattress, wet and filthy and lost, and closed her eyes.

The night settled in. At first, she did not sleep, even though she was exhausted. Finally, she drifted off, only to awake in darkness, aware of a presence behind her.

Soft cotton fell across her body, and she smelled rosewood and amber.