The Society of the Eleventh Hour

Trust Issues

I had to quit my job today. It felt a little like abandonment, but Mrs. Crawford was overjoyed for me and refused to accept the stipend I offered to cover for my loss. She said that the reason she had me work there for room and board was that I needed a home and that it was unrelated to her own needs entirely.

I guess it makes sense. If she can afford to put her son through college— she could definitely afford to pay a cashier. I was a terrible one anyway, always running off to do a million other things.

It's more than a little embarrassing. I make myself a cup of coffee, slip double what a customer would usually pay into the register, and sit at a little patio table in the courtyard outside the bakery to really think about what I need to do next.

About now, I'd like to meet with Morgan and go over our notes, but she's not here. I'm not really sure when she'll be here, because we don't have a real way of organizing meeting times and places— so I decide to run errands instead. I first pawn off the remainder of my jewelry at the sketchiest locale possible, to avoid witnesses. With the last of my money for a long time, probably, I bribe the seamstress on 34th Street generously to place two new orders at the top of her to-do list... and also pay for a consultation with a blacksmith to see how much it would take to re-armor my soldiers.

Too much, I can tell you that already. I sit in the courtyard near the Ginger Cat scheming for the rest of my time, seven different problems ruminating in my mind and mixing together like soup.

What kind of life am I living where the brutal vivisection of four girls, Monday's picnic, and the price of decent broadswords are all of equal importance in my mind? Gods' sakes.

The killer has begun to feel familiar to me. I don't know if this is a side-effect of thinking too much about him, or because he really is someone familiar to me. William... he's not smart, but it's sort of a delusion to believe that all serial killers are mastermind puzzle-obsessed weirdos. Sometimes, all that one needs to kill is a whole lot of opportunity and rage. Both William and Richard have the opportunity— hell, the entire suspect list does! Anyone rich enough to fit the profile could easily get away with whatever it is they want.

For the first few days of the season, we should try and puzzle out exactly how many of the men in the noble circle also belong to Morgan's society. It'll give us an easier chance at narrowing things down definitively.

I jerk, violently, at the feeling of someone's hand on my shoulder.

"Hey! Just me, Lucy, you don't need to freak out." Morgan retracts her hand, looking a bit guilty. "Sorry, you looked like you'd practically dozed off over there. Do you even know what time it is?"

I shake my head, unable to summon up a response.

"Lucy," Morgan chastises, a grin creeping onto her face. "Don't worry, it's only noon."

"Already?" I get up so quickly I nearly smack directly into Morgan. "Shit. We're late to meet Javier."

Morgan gives me a blank look.

"Who?"

I wave my hands dismissively.

"Step seven of my master plan— whatever! We need to go or it's going to be a whole stupid social breach of contract thing... I hope that bastard is as late as he normally is!"

Morgan is a good sport and allows me to drag her halfway across town at a breakneck speed, not even questioning it until we're there at the eastern border overlooking the other Marquis's territory, hunched over and gasping for air.