He did, leading them out into what was most certainly an alehouse basement. Barrels lined the walls, and the sharp smell of fermentation prickled in Scratch’s nostrils.

The woman emerged from the tunnel, closing the trapdoor behind her.

“Through the window now.”

They slipped through a high-set window (Scratch insisted on going last) and rolled out into a dingy alley. The stranger pressed a finger to her lips, gesturing them to follow. She led them through small streets, quickly darting behind buildings and carts when anyone came near. They didn’t need to worry. It must have been close to four in the morning and the streets were nearly deserted. Scratch didn’t recognize the area, but the sickly, heady smell and general filth had the feel of the slums where she was raised. It gave her the sensation of jolting through time, running from the neighborhood children whose greatest joy was to corner and pummel her. Her lungs felt tight, and she could taste her own breathing, rough iron on her tongue.

Finally, the stranger opened a warped wooden door and shooed them inside. It was a living room. Dingy paint cracked from wainscoting to baseboards, and the floor beams listed like a ship carried by sea wind. A hearth crackled with the last gasps of tired-out logs, spitting ash and dust onto a balding rug.

“We’re here,” the stranger announced.

From the dimness, a man and a woman approached. They looked to be siblings, both thick and broad-shouldered, as if they had been well fed on milk and eggs since birth. They had nearly identical ropy arms, russet skin dappled with scattered-spice explosions of freckles. Their hair was the medium brown of burnished bronze, hints of gold peeking from the man’s cropped curls, the woman’s twin thick braids. Their lips were plump and rosy-brown and, like the rest of their bodies, so startlingly healthy. Scratch could see the definition of their muscles through the soft linen of their garments, the dips and divots of biceps hiding under the man’s open-necked tunic, the woman’s simple, pale-blue shirt. Oddly, even though she wore trousers, the woman had tied an embroidered apron around her waist.

“You got them,” the man said by way of greeting. His voice was low and rich, a bass that rumbled through her toes. “Good.”

The new woman said nothing, the lines of her mouth tense and downturned. Her eyes burned a dark topaz verging on amber, ancient sap grown hard, long dormant insects trapped between the threads of iris.

James drummed his fingers on his thighs. “Hello.” He wiped the drool from his swollen lip. “I’m terribly sorry to report that I’m not at my prettiest.” He eyed the man. “You, on the other hand—ow, Scratch, o-kay. I’m James.”

The man bowed his head in greeting. “Vel Shae. This is my sister Brella.”