Chapter Text
“I’ve nowhere to go, anyway. My apartment was in the Flooded District.” -Cecelia
“If you hide from the world long enough, eventually nobody remembers you.” -Billie
The planks nailed across the windows permitted slithers of dawn’s grey light. At the sound of metal landing on metal on the distillery walkway, Cecelia’s eyes opened.
The covers of the bunkbed flew as she bolted into the servant’s quarters bathroom to hide in the tub. Paralysed, sweating, she curled around herself, eyes scrunched shut as she waited for the grenade's detonation.
There was little to hear, other than her own shallow breathing, and what she prayed was just her clock ticking beside her bunk.
Minutes passed. Nothing happened.
Her heartbeat surged as she silently opened the door to the distillery. Through the crack, she pressed her right eye to the opening.
At Cecelia’s feet was a purse with her name on it. After moments of agonising indecision, she snaked her arm out to cautiously pinch the purse between her thumb and forefingers. It was heavy. She jangled it carefully.
It felt like coin, but it couldn’t be.
Crouched behind the door, she untied the strings and held up a coin in the light. It was real.
She pressed her eye to the door again, and saw a tall figure elbowing open the door to the yard, his head down, his hands jammed deep into his pockets.
Who…? Could it be?
The coin purse slipped from her shaking hands, coins rolling across the floor as she shoved her arms into her jacket over her underclothes and jammed her feet into her boots without tying them up, and her footsteps clanged hard and fast down the metal stairs, her red hair bouncing loose at her shoulders.
As she skittered down to the distillery’s main floor, surrounded by empty casks, she hugged her body against the Wrenhaven’s seeping cold in the old warehouse.
Surely it wasn’t Corvo Attano?
Cecelia ran to the door and yanked it open—it slammed against the brickwork—and she stood in the doorway, gripping either side of the doorframe. The Wrenhaven’s breeze whistled around her, rustling her clothes. The sparse yard was empty save for metal scraps. Beside the door, a lone rat looked up, whiskers twitching as she panted to catch her breath.
He was gone.
Was it even him? If not, who else would have a heavy coin purse to give?
No, there was no one else. No one else living, that is.
Cecelia looked down at her undone bootlaces, her unbuttoned shirt, and felt the red heat of embarrassment behind her freckles. Her head down, hair falling over her face, she closed the bulky door, its weight cold beneath both her clammy hands.
There was a lingering sense she’d missed something important.
Maybe it was a trick of her mind; she hadn’t slept much, fearing the Watch would find her living here illegally. Hopefully no one saw her. Hopefully no one saw her, this dishevelled.
And well, wasn’t she a fool, anyway? It couldn’t have been Lord Corvo Attano. Little Emily was due to be crowned tomorrow.
Cecelia put a rag on the puddle of beer and half-heartedly smiled at the clean-shaven lieutenant who had spilled it. “Cleans right up.”
She recognised the way he looked at her, the probing calculus that factored in likelihood and opportunity, and nothing of her own wishes. Her face dropped into a blank mask, her gaze sliding away as though she was suddenly absorbed in cleaning.
He lost interest, and his broad form became another shadow in the crowd at the Hound Pits Pub. It wasn't long ago that she’d have been bothered by the immediate indifference, almost as much as the attention. Now, well.
It could be worse.
Cecelia adjusted the audiograph’s volume to tune out of the squadron's lewd banter, and focused on the steady flow of beer and whiskey, and the clink of coin. She liked the Hound Pits when it was quiet, but filled with the too-human liveliness of husky shouts and braying laughs, the oak wainscoting and broken tile floors seemed like something that didn’t belong to her, even though on paper it did. Standing beneath the stained glass ceiling light, the luminous heart of the pub, her own chapped hands were hard to look at. She had long stopped caring that her faded tartan jacket with the nipped in waist was fashionable three decades ago. It wasn’t like anyone noticed.
Hours passed and the squadron stumbled out to the old port to their boat, and took with them their loudness and their size and their smells. From behind the bar, Cecelia exhaled silent relief. She reduced the audiograph player’s volume, and eyed her cash register beneath the counter. If she had calculated right, this was the first night she’d turned a profit. She surreptitiously rolled her shoulders, wishing she was glad.
Two customers left. Outsider willing, maybe they would leave soon and she could close. As she scrubbed the tables she could hear the pair of them whispering.
“You can’t be serious,” the older man said to the woman across from him, incensed.
With a cloth in her hand, Cecelia paused, hovering over a table. She knew his voice, but could not place it.
As though she’d sensed Cecelia listening, the woman across from him cleared her throat pointedly, and Cecelia turned to hide her mortified blush. She retreated to the bar to wash glasses, but just as she immersed her hands in hot water, the elderly man’s voice rang out. “Young lady! Are you still serving customers?”
“Yes, of course,” she responded without looking away from the glassware clinking amongst the sink’s bubbles. “What can I get for you?”
“We’ll have two pints of,” he stopped abruptly and his voice became shocked. “Cecelia? Is that you? I assumed you had been…”
Jolting at her own name, she looked up. In the corner booth, a scraggly-bearded man draped his arm over the seat behind him.
Anton Sokolov. Oh.
“Welcome back to the Hound Pits Pub, Anton, sir. It’s good to see you again,” she lied. He sat across from a slim young woman, who faced away, leaning her cheek into her fist, watching out the frosted glass like it was possible to see anything.
“Have you been quite well, Miss Cecelia? I’m sorry to hear you were caught up in…” Sokolov waved his hands, “well, you know.”
Cecelia’s smile was strained. Exhaustion made the task of friendliness impossible. “Thanks, you too,” she said. “I’ll bring your ale shortly.”
Her mind numb, she poured two beers and brought them to the corner table, and as she placed them down, she covertly glanced up at the clock on the wall. Closing time, or close enough.
Cecelia slid the heavy glasses across the stained table. “Two pints of house ale." With a fixed smile, her eyes rose to Sokolov’s companion.
Mouth agape, the woman stared at her.
Cecelia stared back, lips parting. She was beautiful. Leaning against the window by the softened street light, the high points of her brown skin seemed silvered. Her mottled grey oilskin coat was crumpled like it had been slept in, or recently taken from storage, but she made it look good.
Her hooded eyes were almost black in this light, and though they were tightened in silent accusation, they were breathtaking.
Drawn to motion, Cecelia’s gaze flickered to the woman’s clenched fists upon the table—her nails dug deep into the lighter skin of her palm.
Did I do something wrong? Cecelia swallowed. She hadn’t met this woman before, she was sure of it. She checked her shirt-front in case she’d spilled something. “I have to close up,” Cecelia stuttered. “This area is not safe at night, not for women or the elderly…”
The woman covered her mouth with her palm and averted her gaze, leaning away from Cecelia as though disgusted.
Cecelia rubbed the back of her own wrist. It had been a long night, and she was imagining things. Didn’t matter, she would close soon.
“No, no,” Sokolov waved his hand dismissively. “By all means, bar us in. I came here to have a word with my dear friend. She has many talents and foremost amongst them is disappearing. Any barred door is an ally of mine in this matter, though I suspect we each define ‘insurmountable’ in very different terms.”
“Okay,” Cecelia nodded, accustomed to not understanding him. She pointed to the doors to excuse herself from the conversation and hastened to bar the exits.
As she returned to the bar, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
She was being watched, she was sure of it, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn around.
Seeking pleasant familiarity, Cecelia switched out the audiograph card to a piano sonata. All was well, her shift was nearly done, and maybe Sokolov wouldn’t talk to her. Why would he come back here, anyway?
Unwillingly, Cecelia recalled Sokolov’s reputation. Should I help her? Does she know?
She watched the pair from the corner of her eye. They seemed to be arguing, and judging by the slump of his shoulders, Sokolov wasn’t winning. Cecelia turned to hide her shocked smile. Not even Martin ever won an argument with Sokolov, and he could sweet talk anyone.
Oh. Cecelia recalled the way Martin used to pace across these tiles, rubbing his jaw, his head bent in thought. He was dead, and he was the kindest of them…
Cecelia hummed along with the sonata as she worked to distract herself. With every passing day, she was more certain that she’d made a mistake in buying the Hound Pits Pub, but as the sonata progressed her mind quietened. Absorbed in the simple repetition of polishing glass, she didn’t hear the woman approach the bar counter.
Leaning on her elbows over the counter, the woman watched her hands expressionlessly. “I’ll pay now,” she said, the coins already neatly on the counter before her.
Cecelia remained by the sink. “Two Hound Pits draft beers, so—”
“So eighteen.”
Cecelia’s brows furrowed, and she turned to the blackboard menu above her to double-check, her lips moving as she calculated. “I’m sorry ma’am, it’s twelve,” she said, and placed six coins back into the woman’s warm palm.
“I insist,” she said. “We’ve kept you up late.” She gestured her thumb over her shoulder at Sokolov. Leaning against the window in a booth, his arms were folded across his chest. He had his head tipped back as he snored.
“It’s okay. This is my normal closing time, anyway. But I appreciate you thinking of me,” she said, the words tasting strange.
“If you’re sure,” the woman said, and the coins disappeared.
“Thank you for visiting,” Cecelia said. Watching her put Sokolov in his place was the first time she’d smiled sincerely all month. “I haven’t seen Anton for a while, though I’ve seen his name in the Courier. He’s worked a miracle to cure the plague, truly.”
“How do you know him?”
Cecelia’s mind went blank. There was no easy way to explain her connection to the people who had kidnapped the Head of the Academy. “I met him at work.”
“Go figure you’d meet Anton working at a pub,” the woman nodded and straightened to her full height. Cecelia looked up in quiet awe, and did not correct her. “Listen, I’ll wake the drunk old coot and get him out of your hair.”
“It’s no problem. Please take care.”
Later, when Cecelia settled the till, she found an extra six coins in the cash register. She counted her coin again, and scratched the back of her neck. She definitely gave that that woman a refund, didn’t she?
Cecelia placed her foot on the stairwell. It creaked, and she exhaled slowly before she continued upwards. In one hand she carried a flickering lamp, and in the other, a loaded pistol.
It had always creaked but the noise had never bothered her until she was alone in the Hound Pits. The Loyalists lingered. Nothing ever followed Cecelia, except for the sound of Havelock's pistol, which she heard in every unexpected bang.
Cecelia’s mother had raised her to be pragmatic, and she wasn’t superstitious outside of a wary respect for shrines and bonecharms and such. Logically, she knew that the Hound Pits Pub's rooms had been barred and boarded up, but cold logic alone wasn't enough to allow her to close her eyes until every room and every corner had been twice-checked.
The last room to check once belonged to Havelock, and she pointed the pistol at the last of that darkness. There was a lingering temptation to burn everything that reminded her of the Loyalists. It hurt to remember their names, including Emily’s. She felt guilty about that; it was not the girl’s fault that her scream echoed in Cecelia's mind.
But she had checked every corner, now, so she could reassure herself tonight that she was truly alone, no matter what else she heard. Tiredness settled heavily over her shoulders as she shut the door to the servant’s quarters and tugged the heavy dividing curtains closed. She changed into her nightclothes and slipped under the rough linen sheets, wiggling her toes, waiting to feel warm enough to sleep.
Laying on her back, her mind turned back to the woman who sat across from Sokolov. How strange that her mind kept turning back to her, like a song lyric she couldn’t banish. She was very striking, yes, with those high cheekbones and plush lips. Although, maybe it wasn’t her appearance, maybe it was her confident aloofness too. Cecelia wondered if she’d ever come off that way. She sighed, and covered her face with the crook of her arm, knowing it would never happen.
What else would never happen? What was she doing here, anyway? She tugged the covers over her face. Everyone agreed that Dunwall had become worse recently. The Dunwall Courier newsboys waved around titles like “THE PLAGUE IS CURED!” What a joke. Most Weepers lived underground, their moans echoing beneath the cobblestones. Why would they say the plague was cured when no one made any move to help the people in the tunnels?
Jessamine didn’t do enough and then she died, and Emily was too young to know what she was doing, and parliament would be more than happy to blame the interregnum for the plague deaths across the Empire.
Perhaps that was only tired cynicism on her part. Perhaps.
Cecelia frowned, rolled to her side, and pulled her pillow close to her chest. No, she would not think of Weepers before she slept. They haunted her nightmares often enough without the encouragement—that is, when it wasn’t rats, her sister bleeding, or Lydia’s lifeless body crumpling.
She forced herself to think of anything else. The pretty stranger and her long fingers lingered in her memory. When she counted coin, she remembered seeing tattoos peeking out from her rolled up shirtsleeves. What were they? It distracted her for a time, inventing a story for this stranger. How did she know Sokolov? What brought her to this part of town?
Cecelia curled up around her pillow, thinking about the way the streetlight lit the woman's skin.
As Cecelia swept the centre of the pub, a shadow interrupted the afternoon's sunlight across the pub’s cracked tiles. She looked up but couldn't see anything unusual, so she continued cleaning, bent over with both hands on the broom.
Dust tray in hand, broom balanced against her hip, she wiped sweat from her forehead with her wrist and surveyed her work. The Hound Pits Pub was cleaner than Wallace left it, even if some windows were boarded up now. She was armed with her list of what she needed to buy and repair when she had enough coin. She’d fix this place, somehow.
She opened the central door to the outside street’s intersection, and stood leaning on her broom, closing her eyes in the tepid sunshine.
Fatigue settled in her bones, and she hoped today would be quiet, even if it came at a financial cost. A breeze whisked away the smell of the sewers, and for a brief second, Cecelia could pretend she was somewhere else.
She turned in the doorway to face the always-dim pub. It would be lovely to let some sun in. Cecelia warily eyed the manhole on the street, which led to the tunnels below the pub. The Loyalists had sent Corvo into the tunnels to ‘deal with’ the Weepers, and he had only nodded and disappeared, and Cecelia heard sounds that she could not describe but could visualise in hundreds of increasingly worse ways. Later, she saw him washing blood from his clothes in the river.
She shuddered, and closed the door to the sunlight and fresh air. She did not know what she would do, if a Weeper walked in. She only hoped her hands would not shake, at least for long enough a bullet to do mercy when she had none other to give.
The little doorbell chimed only a few minutes after she opened the Hound Pits, and Cecelia looked up from where she sat in a booth, leaning over her accounting book.
Her lips parted to see the tall woman crossing the room to the same corner she sat in yesterday. She strode with ease, comfortable in her frame, and wore the same nondescript grey jacket rolled up at the sleeves, her pinstripe trousers flattering her muscular curves.
“Hello. It’s good to see you again,” Cecelia called softly to the woman’s back. “What can I get for you?”
The woman didn’t stop, and nodded without looking at her as she sat on the other side of the room. “House ale is fine.”
“Coming.”
Cecelia poured beer and watched the woman covertly, as she pulled out a book and plucked the bookmark from between the pages, settling back to read. As Cecelia crossed the room, she mentally rehearsed her question—‘did you give me extra coin yesterday?’—but it sounded like an accusation, no matter how she rephrased it.
She blinked as she realised she was already standing at the woman’s table, no closer to asking. Her tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of her mouth, so she slid the beer across the table silently.
“Thanks,” the woman said without looking up from her book.
Cecelia pressed her palms to the table, covertly running her thumbs on the underside until a splinter needled her skin, startling her into the reality that she was taking too long to respond. “You’re welcome.”
She retreated to the counter and her messy accounting book, with its scribbled calculations in the margins. Every time she looked up, the woman was deeply absorbed in her novel. She felt stupid and vain, but she could not shake the suspicion she was being watched. After everything, I’m still a fool, she chided herself. I should know by now that no attention is better, anyway.
The doorbell rang again and Cecelia was glad for the distraction, and soon she was busy serving beer, whiskey, and blood oxen sausage to the factory labourers who worked as the plague, officially 'cured,' still swept through the local population. It was no real choice of their own.
Every hour the woman in the corner would flag Cecelia down with a raised finger for another pint, and would nod her thanks when it was placed before her. The night wore on and the woman remained in the corner, reading. When she finished a book, she pulled another from her seemingly bottomless pockets.
When most of the lingering crowd had left, Cecelia ducked away to eat as she usually did, sitting on the bottom stair of the stairwell to scoff down a tin of hagfish. She put the empty tin between her boots, checked herself for spilled food, closed her eyes, exhaled, and returned to the bar.
When Cecelia turned the corner she did a double-take to see that the woman had moved to sit at the counter. Inscrutable, she leaned her elbows on the benchtop, and beckoned Cecelia over with a single finger without moving her chin from her palm.
Cecelia picked up a cloth and flung it over her shoulder. Customers usually were only quiet when there was something to clean. “Good evening, ma’am. Would you like another round?”
“Don’t call me that. And no, hey, listen,” she replied easily, and beckoned Cecelia closer still.
Cecelia furrowed her brows, and leaned in as the woman dropped her voice to a whisper. “The man with the moustache and suspenders.You know who I mean?”
She thought about the patrons here tonight. “Yes?” That could only describe Hamish from Bottle Street, and she swept her gaze across the pub to try and find him.
The woman leaned in close enough that Cecelia could feel her breath, which tingled against her skin. Cecelia’s head snapped back to her, lips parting. “He’s bad news. Don’t leave your register unattended if he’s here.”
Cecelia glanced down to the till beneath the counter. “I appreciate your help,” she said, whispering into the woman’s ear. The intimacy of it was too much, and she leaned back. “It’s difficult to juggle when it’s only me, but, um. Hopefully I’ll have money for staff soon.” She immediately wanted to put her foot in her mouth. She had lied to customers about having a husband who was 'busy upstairs.' It was not a sustainable ruse, but it was better than feeling vulnerable in her solitude.
“Good luck,” the woman said earnestly.
“I should ask your name, to properly thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t ask sooner.”
The woman gave her an odd look, and responded slowly. “Billie.”
It suited her. “Thank you, Billie. My name is Cecelia. Nice to meet you,” she smiled, and extended her hand. Billie shook it, her grip calloused, though in a different way to her own. “What do you do?”
“I… am between jobs at the moment. I’ve got something lined up soon, though.”
There was something about the way she tucked her hair behind her ear to frame her sculpted features. Cecelia blinked. “Oh. I’m glad to hear it. Seasonal work is hard to balance.” She could not place the butterflies in her stomach. Maybe because she couldn’t remember the last person who looked her in the eye when they did her a kindness. Not Martin, not Corvo, not even Lydia.
Billie half-smiled back, though it didn’t reach her eyes, and Cecelia’s giddy hope evaporated. She watched Billie slide off the counter stool to return to her corner booth.
A group of late-night drunks came in and Cecelia was run off her feet for the rest of the night. She missed Billie leaving, but later, found a stack of coin that more than made up for the beer.
The two stained glass hounds above the bar cast a blue light. Their eternal toothy snarls darkened the shadows beneath Cecelia's cap, which hid the widening of her eyes as Billie walked through the door the next day.
Hands in pockets, Billie strode across the chipped tiles unhurried, her shoulders back. She nodded expressionlessly to Cecelia and slid into the same corner booth, and produced a thick book from her jacket.
Cecelia turned to hide her pleased smile, glad she hadn’t said the wrong thing, despite her lost sleep.
The days blurred into each other, becoming a full-circle week; Billie’s quiet daily presence the only detail of note. Every day, Billie ordered the same thing, and she always tipped. Dark rye bread at lunch, eaten so quickly that Cecelia occasionally noticed her stifle a hiccup when she came to collect the plate, and after the dinner rush she ate blood ox sausage with the same gusto. She drank pint after pint from early lunch to early morning but always left the bar with the muscled, effortless grace of a dancer.
Cecelia looked forward to the lulls. She could almost pretend that Billie was a friend keeping her company. It didn't matter that they didn't speak.
Presently, between Cecelia's line of sight to Billie was a man with patchwork repairs up his shirtsleeves. He tapped his fingers aggressively against the counter as he spoke. “You should have seen the way she looked at me. Like I’m offal and she’s never eaten anything less than a prime cut. Can’t get good service anywhere these days.”
Cecelia nodded, her back to him, keeping an eye on the nip of whiskey she poured for another customer. His fingers tapped again, out of sync with the audiograph. “So I said, I said, miss, if you’re going to overcharge, it’s not my fault if my bon—”
Cecelia stepped out of line of sight of the man in patchwork, but he continued talking even as she presented the whiskey to the other patron.
She poured another beer, single-mindedly watching the ale pool and foam as the glass filled. “She did what I wanted, anyway,” the man continued as he leaned heavily into his forearm into the bar. “Guess that’s the benefit of being a regular.”
Cecelia levelled the pint glass and hastened from beneath the stained glass lighting's aura, seeking respite. The man continued talking, only louder, his voice following her around the pub.
She placed the beer at the end of Billie’s booth, and she looked up at Cecelia, surprise in the raise of her brows. Cecelia leaned across and took her empty glass, and Billie nodded her thanks, her eyes lowering again to her book.
She lingered a moment, looking at the empty seat across from Billie. Briefly, she pictured what it would be like to sit across from her.
She banished the thought, and trudged back into the harsh light to return the dirty glass to the bar, where the man in patchwork continued his monologue. As he spoke, eyes gleaming as he detailed his most recent trip to The Golden Cat, Cecelia wiped the counter around him, thinking about Billie’s profile as she leaned over her book.
What brought her here? She had never seen a customer stay from open to close multiple days in a row, except for those who bought the cheapest thing on the menu and pulled their hoods over their faces to hide that they needed a warm place to sleep, even if it was a loud bar. She didn’t kick those people out. Her ma would berate her but she couldn’t. She had been living here herself with the lights out to avoid the Watch since the Loyalists left.
Oh, that’s right. Sokolov had said something about Billie leaving, didn’t he? Then she probably wasn’t another worker attracted to the wages that illegal factory work commanded. Many of her customers were tradesmen who knew the Watch patrolled this area, which remained in plague lockdown. Funny, that they never knocked on the doors of the factories that weren’t meant to be in operation, and instead waited until workers were tired and alone. Not even the men who were all swagger and brawn walked by themselves, here.
Cecelia side-eyed Billie, who sat like a beacon of calm impartiality. How was she getting by?
Another day, another jostled doorbell that prettily announced Billie’s return, and Cecelia looked up from behind the taps with a warm smile.
My first regular. When Billie returned her look with a utilitarian nod, Cecelia stood a little straighter, and fiddled with her top shirt button. I thought my first regular would be a weird old man. Perhaps my luck has turned around.
Without waiting for Billie to order, Cecelia poured a pint of ale and brought it over to her, and leaned over the booth to place down a bowl of roasted hazelnuts from Serkonos.
Billie looked up, brows furrowed. “I didn’t order—”
“It's on the house. I thought you might like these. It’s nice to have a new familiar face around.”
“Thanks,” Billie said, slowly, and sipped her beer.
“I didn’t mean that in a bad way. I’m glad you’re always here.”
Billie swirled her beer and watched the bubbles rise.
Cecelia rubbed her own upper arm, trying to remember what she planned to say.
“Do you have a sister?” Billie asked without looking up from her ale.
“Yes, I do. Why?”
Billie’s expression became fixed on the cushioned seat across from her. “Did she… look like you?”
“No.” Cecelia fiddled with the braid at her shoulder. “Meagan and my mother used to pick on me for taking after my dad. She’s blonde. Pretty, too, never even had blemishes, growing up. I used to envy her but I don't now. It brought her trouble.”
“Must be the wrong person. Uh. Do you have any cousins that look like you?”
“Just me with the red hair and too-wide face, I’m afraid. I might be the ugly duckling but at least I still have my teeth,” Cecelia laughed uncomfortably. Her sister Meagan had come home bleeding and inconsolable, and she had sobbed something about a Watchman but refused to elaborate when she stopped crying. She probably shouldn’t joke about it—it was hardly her joke to make—but as usual, she hadn't thought about what she was saying until it was too late.
She opened her mouth to correct herself, but Billie spoke first.
“Ugly duckling?” Billie sat up, her lip curled.
“I’m sorry,” Cecelia said immediately. She wished for a Weeper corpse railcar to take her away. “I meant to make a joke about myself—I didn’t mean to insult your friend. I don’t think she’s anyone I know. Does she really look like me?”
“It's uncanny. I guess it’s only a coincidence,” Billie said, and downed half her ale. “She passed. A long time ago.”
“Sorry about your friend.”
“Me too.”
“Um,” Cecelia adjusted the brim of her cap. “I only meant to thank you for being here. I'm sorry. Enjoy the snack.”
Shame clawing at her ribs, she ducked her head as she slunk over to the next booth's empty glasses. Teeth grit, she stacked the sticky, heavy glassware into her arms, and kept working.
Another day, another district ablaze. From the Hound Pits Pub's perspective, only the smell distinguished the heavy grey industrial smog from the grey smoke of tragedy.
Billie’s nod in Cecelia’s direction was no warmer, but business carried on. The usual lunch rush became the usual lull which became the usual evening hubbub. Cecelia barely knew herself outside of whatever the next order was.
She took the coin from her customer’s large paint-crusted hand. “Eight exactly. Thank you sir. Enjoy your evening.”
She sorted the coin with metallic clinks, and as she closed the register’s drawer she eyed the group of women in grimey overalls. As the night wore on, they had become louder, angrier.
Cecelia knew what was going to happen, but she could not think of a way to prevent it.
The two women staggered to their feet from either side of their booth like malfunctioning clockwork.
“Girls, stop that,” one of their sitting companions warned them, “you’re going to get us kicked out again.”
Broad and scarred, the older of the two women pulled herself to her full height and slammed her fist into her palm. “Maybe if your void-damned husband didn’t try to fuck my daughter!”
The stout woman crossed her arms. She looked like a bully: sometimes, not even a pretty face was enough to hide the cruelty of a smile. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you try keeping your whore-child away from my family, Eileen.”
The other patrons were quiet as the argument played out. Frozen by indecision and fear, Cecelia's mouth was dry. She wracked her memory. There was something she was meant to do.
What would Corvo say in a situation like this? She pictured him standing behind the counter in her place. He was tall and intimidating, so it wasn’t really what he said. Havelock was like that too; less erratic, maybe. Martin, Lydia and Pendleton would see the bar fight as entertainment, and Wallace would turn up his nose at 'the impropriety.'
Useless, the lot of them.
Were.
Were useless. I suppose that doesn’t matter, in the void.
The taller woman raised her finger, and the younger woman slapped it away. “You insult me, you insult my husband! It’s no wonder you get fired every season with a mouth like that on you. The Outsider’s whore, you—”
A louder slap rang out—“how dare you! No better than the pervert you married!”—and the fight devolved and the two women were hidden by a sudden opportunist crowd that crossed the bar to watch as though drawn by magnets.
Her knees locking as she walked, Cecelia ducked through the patrons. She raised her voice. “Excuse me, sorry. Take it outside, please.”
As the smaller woman roared and elbowed the other in the gut, the crowd cheered, ale and whiskey spilling as glasses clinked.
Unwillingly, Cecelia was pressed in closer, and she staggered to remain upright, then ducked to avoid a fist, and held out her hands beseechingly. “Please, ladies, if you don’t mind…”
A feral laugh came with the shattering of glass and Cecelia flinched away too late as a shard of glass cut through her right eyebrow and grazed her eyelid.
She gasped and flinched inward at the sharp pain and closed her eye as hot blood ran down her face, and pressed her palm to the wound. She pushed through the uncaring crowd towards the familiar harsh light of the bar.
She licked her lips, salt and rust on her tongue. There were streaks of red down her shirt already. Void, not blood again…
She found the bar by walking into it, and she dizzily sat cross-legged behind the counter. Still pressing her right palm to her right eye, she clenched her fingertips into her thigh and grit her teeth, tears of shocked denial overwhelming her.
Beyond the bar, another glass smashed, and the commotion changed, and her mind raced as she weighed her rapidly decreasing options. With this blood down her face, there was little she could do. She probably looked like a Weeper: she couldn’t go out to summon the Watch, and the patrons here were no help.
Shit.
In the privacy behind the bar, Cecelia’s chin crinkled and her lips downturned involuntarily, as she held back a sob. I’m so stupid.
She breathed deeply, until she could lift her chin from her chest. She rolled her shoulders, and placed her free left hand on the shelf below the counter to pull herself up.
She looked up into Billie’s brown eyes. As Billie leaned over the counter, the colourful light above cast her face in shadow; strands of her hair frizzed and caught the light, creating a soft glow around her features. There was concern in her expression, and her jaw was tight as though she felt Cecelia's pain too.
Looking up at her with one eye gummed shut, it hit Cecelia that she'd never seen anyone prettier than Billie. She looks like that while I'm covered in blood and grease.
“I’ll get you a drink in a moment. I just need to…” Cecelia began and stood fully to look past Billie to the Hound Pits Pub’s floor.
It was like the fight had never happened. Patrons had returned to their seats or turned their backs, leaving a conspicuous empty space where the fight had been. The brawling women were gone, and their companions downed their drinks without making eye contact with each other.
Cecelia knew she’d missed something important. How? Did I pass out and not realise?
“Are you okay?” Billie asked her. She frowned, lips pursed, her expression intense as she searched Cecelia’s ruddy, bleeding face.
Cecelia didn't hear the question as she leaned down to grab another cloth from the pile of clean ones, and furiously scrubbed the rest of her face. I should clean up and get on with it.
“Hey hey hey,” Billie reached over to pull her hand away. “Hey. Don’t.”
“It's okay, it’s only one cut, I think,” Cecelia said, and winced at the searing sting. “It hurts. There might be something lodged in it, but I can’t go check it properly without leaving the bar. Where did they go? Do I need to call the Watch?”
“No,” Billie said automatically. "Always a bad idea.”
"Oh. Yes, you're right. Sorry. I…" Cecelia looked around. People were finishing off their drinks and leaving. So much for tonight’s profit… “I don't understand. What happened?”
“Must have left. Selfish bitches to bring their shit in here.” Billie stared intently at the cloth Cecelia held up to her face, her eyes tight. “Did they hurt you on purpose?”
Cecelia felt redness creep up to her ears. She laughed, and it sounded forced. It was. “Wrong place, wrong time. Story of my life.”
“Let me look.”
“Um,” Cecelia began and leaned against the bar counter, closer to Billie on the other side. “You can look.” She let Billie pull away her hand from the wound. Her palm was warm wrapped around Cecelia’s wrist.
Eyes clenched shut against the burning pain, Cecelia felt blood drip down her jawline as she awaited Billie's assessment. Breathing seemed presumptuous, so she held her breath. She wasn't sure if she should expect Billie to touch her face or not. When she pictured Billie's musician-like hands, she blushed. Realising how childish she must look with her face red and scrunched up, she forced her expression to relax. It was one thing she could control, at least.
Cautiously, expecting revulsion, she opened her good eye.
Something in Billie’s face had changed. She stared past her.
Cecelia raised her hand again to the wound wordlessly. It seemed to break the spell.
Billie leaned away and cleared her throat. “It’s hard to tell in this light. I'll watch the register so you can clean yourself up.”
“Oh no, I'm okay, I don’t need your help—”
“I’m not offering, I’m telling you to clean up.”
Cecelia looked down at the bloody cloths that she’d scrunched up in her hand.
Billie caught her expression, and gestured dismissively. “I meant that in a nice way. Don't worry. Head wounds bleed a lot, so it’s going to look worse than it is. If you don’t want to leave a stranger with your register, I won’t judge you for using that sink there.”
Cecelia turned to the sink Billie gestured to. It was stacked high with unwashed glasses. Unbidden, she thought of the hours she'd spent scrubbing blood off Corvo’s things. She'd tried in earnest to wash away the stains on his clothes, leaving his linens in tatters, and her hands no better. He thanked her, the first time. But not the second, or the third.
She leaned from the door frame that led to the stairwell. “I’ll be right back,” she breathlessly called out to Billie, and darted upstairs, lightheaded by the time she reached the servant’s bathroom.
The lamplight in the corner did little to ease the darkness up here. She gripped the edge of the sink, and leaned over into the cracked, foggy mirror. She winced at what she saw. Blood had dried in streaks across her forehead down to her jaw, and it settled on her thicker upper lip. Unable to find a clean towel, she sighed, and loosened the tap.
As the sink filled the water rippled violently, splashing droplets over her clothes. When there was enough water she pressed her lips together, bracing for the cold, and plunged her head in beside the gushing water. In the sound-warping depths she involuntarily gasped at the cold and came up for air, coughing.
The water mixed with blood and thinned it, and it flowed fast down her face. In the shadows of the cracked mirror in the half-light, she used her fingers to clean herself up imperfectly, scratching away the dried spots.
Billie was right. It was only a small cut through her eyebrow, barely glancing off her eyelid, though it bled freely. It could be worse.
She rinsed herself off again and then rummaged under her bed to find the bandages in her travel case, and placed the fabric across her right eye, and in the mirror wrapped her head and tied a knot.
Cecelia stood back from the mirror that had become foggy from her breathing. Her face was red from embarrassment and from being scrubbed. I could hardly embarrass myself more at this point.
That thought was freeing, somehow.
Why, perhaps it was time to thank Billie properly.
Unsure if it was giddiness or delirium, she jammed her cap over her red hair and hastened downstairs to find Billie sitting reading at the counter, like the calm in the centre of a storm. Noticing Cecelia’s return, she closed her book with a snap and leaned her chin into her palm, inspecting her intently.
She waited for me. Cecelia raced over and held Billie’s hands in her own and squeezed. “Thank you. Thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver.”
Billie shook her head slowly, and withdrew her hands.
Cecelia closed her fists where Billie’s fingers had been, rubbing her cold fingers over the ghost of Billie’s warmth as she surveyed the room. The last few patrons were leaving. “I feel like I tried to run a marathon, and the race isn’t even over,” she said, glancing back to the unwashed glasses and pressing her palm to her chest, in hope that it would soothe her heartbeat. She turned to Billie, who sat expressionlessly. “How are you so calm?”
“Lifestyle choices.”
“You’re so cool,” Cecelia said earnestly, and reached beneath the counter for a pan and broom. “Sitting here, unworried by it all. I wish I could be as calm as you.”
“No. You don’t want that.”
“I guess the grass always seems greener.”
“So they say.”
“I’ll bring you a beer on the house for watching my register,” Cecelia said, already pouring ale. She was running off adrenaline, and her hands shook as the ale filled the glass. “Here,” Cecelia smiled as she passed the pint across the counter.
“Thanks,” Billie said, and downed half the beer without hesitation. She gestured with the glass at the taps. “Why not pour yourself something too, it’s nearly closing time.”
“I don’t drink, but you’re right, I should close up," she said, raising her chin toward the nearest door. "And I should sit with you,” she declared, louder.
Billie nodded, and Cecelia moved quickly, ignoring her body’s tremors as she checked the tables on the way to the door. It was useless: the pub was a mess. Normally she’d clean before she slept, but Billie sat in the centre of the pub, a beer in one hand and a book in the other, the light above the counter making a silhouette of her relaxed profile.
Cecelia found it impossible to say if her trembling body was entirely adrenaline, or a different, unfamiliar type of excitement.
“You read a lot, huh,” Cecelia called over her shoulder as she pulled down the bar she’d added to the main door’s entrance.
“Wish I could say yes. I’ve never had the time to before.”
Cecelia checked the windows. “Oh. It’s nice to hear of someone who has been fortunate with seasonal work.”
“Fortunate is a relative term.”
Cecelia smiled, lopsided, as she grabbed a stack of glasses from a table to move them closer to the sink. “I think I know what you mean, some work does more harm than good… Shame it’s impossible to get by without coin,” she mused aloud. The stack of beer glasses were loud as she placed them by the sink.
“You shouldn’t be moving around this much,” Billie patted the bar stool beside her. “Sit with me.”
Oh, it felt good to have an invitation. Cecelia gripped the edge of the counter to pull herself onto the bar stool beside Billie. She smiled wholeheartedly, pressing her hands flat together and squeezing them between her thighs to lean in. Up close, there was a hint of blue shimmer on Billie's eyelids that she hadn’t noticed before.
Billie caught Cecelia looking. She raised her shoulder, tipped her head and searched her face with an arresting smile.
Cecelia swallowed. Billie looked like she knew, but somehow it didn't look like she minded. Did that complicate things, or make them easier?