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When a pause from her makes me glance over, there’s a depth to her eyes that I can’t quite parse through, although it’s gone just as quickly as it appears. “Whichever calls to you, Penelope.” She smooths out her eyebrows. "As far as anyone in Carden knows, I am a baker known for my scones.” Her gaze fixes on me. “And my assistant will be a brunette novus named Petra, who doesn't stare at castles or remove pinky rings.”

She hands me a cloak and tells me to cover my hair. Bonhilda—no, Judica… the crone opens the carriage door and steps out with the posture of someone who has owned this street for years.

I get out after her, the rain drizzling over us as the dark clouds above move menacingly, thunder stretching across the sky as dark leaves waft in the wind. I glance back at the carriage, and the Reaper with the white eyes is already pulling away, the horse moving in eerie silence. Within seconds, it looks like nothing more than a shadow between buildings, and then it's gone.

The air is chilly in my lungs. Everything here is autumn. Perpetual, gorgeous, rotting autumn.

I pause for a second in the rain, realizing how much of Earth I have seemed to have forgotten. I shake my head when the crone hisses at me, and the first thing Bonhilda—okay Judica might fit this image better—does when we enter is lock every entrance and press her palms against the walls. Runes bloom white underneath her fingers, melting into the wood like water into dry earth before disappearing. She shutters all the windows as well, waving her hand as a myriad of candles erupt with flames. Thunder rumbles outside.

"There," she says, wiping her hands on her robe. "Should keep eavesdroppers away."

This place smells of old flour and cold stone, some of the walls made of brick. We stand in a front room with a counter, display cases, and a stone oven that looks well used. One of the walls has a menu written in chalk, dried herbs hanging from nails. There’s a whole kitchen room behind it. A narrow stairwell leads to the second floor.

"He'll never suspect a bakery," Judica proudly declares, more to herself than to me. “You’ll learn soon why I’ve chosen this and why we’re really in this area. Let me get you some stew, and we will go over ground rules.”

I stand in the middle of the room, still wearing the brown potato sack under the cloak, still barefoot, still entirely unsure if I've been rescued or kidnapped. The ring she shoved onto my finger sits heavy on my left pinky. I glance down at it, metal marks making me think a blacksmith made it in a hurry.

I can’t rule out that this is a trap.

"The ring," I say, holding my hand up. "What does it actually do?"

Judica moves to a fireplace with a cast iron cauldron over it, using a wooden spoon to fill a bowl. "It silences the bind. As long as you wear it, Kallúm cannot feel you, find you, or follow you. You are invisible to his powers that could otherwise hunt you down before the moon is up.”

Something in me shivers, like a primal part of me is enticed by such a chase, which only confuses me. "The bind? Wait a minute, who even am I to this, I don’t know, demon-king-person? And what if I take it off? Like it slides off or something?”

"He will sense you immediately. Like a compass needle finding north." She affixes her gaze to me. "It won't fall off. It's fused to your energy. The only way it comes off is if you choose to remove it." She pauses with a bowl of steaming stew in hand, and I can see her deciding whether to say the next thing. "Or if he removes it himself. Which he can, if he touches you. To which you will lose yourself, and this will all have been for nothing."

I stare at the ring, my heart fluttering more than I care to admit. "All of what?”

"Sit." She places the bowl on a small table. “Eat some food before we discuss that.”

Despite nodding and lowering my hand as if accepting I will obey, I notice something peculiar. There's a hum in my chest that I've been attributing to anxiety, but now, paying attention, it doesn't feel like anxiety at all. It feels like something in me is muffled, like the way tinnitus is constant.

I do believe her that the ring is covering something up that perhaps Maragaret’s presence was also numbing.

Alright, fine. I admit to myself that a reckless indignation wants me to remove the ring. Those glowing, orange eyes of the Dominus haunt me, along with the sound of him compelling me to come to him. Perhaps I’ve gone a little mad in my transition to this life. Or it’s a part of a curse that maybe haunts my soul.

Filling my belly sounds like a wise decision, for now.

“Eat the stew. It will help continue the process of integration, so you’re less likely to end up in purgatory. That will make this extremely complicated if you do so.”

I pensively move the stew around with a spoon, frustration rising in me. “How does it stop that, exactly? Is it magical stew?”

“No, it’s just lamb from the butcher.” When I glance up at her, there’s a period where we stare at each other, and I cannot tell if this is a joke or not. I clench the spoon tighter. “Ah, Penelope. You’re letting your emotions run. We can’t have that right now. The whole process of integration is all sensory-based. Docents have an aura about them that dampens your ability to perceive the world around you. Gives them control over your integration, so they can better observe you and understand where you’d fit in society and ensure you don’t go to purgatory. You and I don’t need the slowed-down version. What we need is for you to be able to function and move about without being noticed as a novus, so the sooner you ‘ground’ yourself here, the better. You’ve already given Devotion, so you need to eat, take a bath, and then change your clothes. The first sleep without you wearing that brown sack should do the trick. Before then, if you get caught in a fit of rage, then, once again, all for nothing.”

I take a bite, filled with an unnatural offense at how I’m being treated almost like a child. I shovel the stew in, hating the idea of purgatory even more, only for my eyes to roll behind my lids. “This is really good,” I say, covering my mouth, nodding.

Interestingly enough, it does calm me down. “So, why would I even move about here? Shouldn’t I stay hidden? I mean, what’s the plan? I don’t even know why Kallúm actually wants me. Honestly,” I say, swallowing. “I’m still not convinced this isn’t all happening in my head.”

“Once you sleep, it will feel real. Right now your soul is like a balloon trying to fly away, and after tonight it will be deflated.”

I watch as Judica disappears into the back and returns with a bowl of something dark and foul-smelling, thick like mud. She sets it on the counter and pulls my hair forward, examining it in the candlelight. "In the meantime, this has to go," she says.

"My hair?"

"The color. Every blonde novus in this city will be stopped and inspected. You might as well be carrying a sign. As I said, a brunette." She dips her fingers into the bowl and begins working the paste through my hair, starting at the roots. It's cold and smells like charcoal. “Keep eating, or I’ll get the centipede back out.”

I shove in another mouthful, cringing at the idea of those legs touching me again.