The fog swallowed the city whole.By the time Adrian and Greaves reached the alley off Pike Street, it was like walking through wet cotton. Gaslamps burned as dim smears of light, and every shadow felt alive.
The constables had strung up a rope to hold back a small crowd. Faces loomed and vanished in the haze — dockhands, market women clutching shawls, children peering through the mist like it was a curtain at a theatre they didn't want to watch but couldn't look away from.
Inside the cordon, the air was colder. The smell of scorched plaster and wet stone hung heavy.
Adrian saw it immediately: another silhouette burned into the wall, this one slumped forward, head bowed, hands limp at its sides. But here, unlike the last, there was something left behind.
A woman's shoe, black leather, lay on its side in the middle of the alley. The heel was snapped.
Greaves crouched, picking it up. "Not from around here. Imported leather. Expensive."
One of the constables cleared his throat. "Sir… there's someone inside."
Adrian followed him through a side door into the back of a shuttered tailor's shop. The place smelled faintly of cedar and dust, but under it was something warmer — a trace of perfume. A figure sat on a low stool by the window, face in her hands.
She looked up as Adrian approached. The lamplight caught her features — pale skin, dark hair pinned into an elegant twist, eyes the color of storm clouds. She was beautiful in a way that made the room feel smaller.
"Are you hurt?" Adrian asked.
She shook her head slowly. "No. But she was here."
Adrian took a step closer. "You saw her?"
Her voice was low, almost musical. "She came out of the fog. I thought she was a customer — she was dressed so finely. Then I realized her face was… wrong. Not ugly. Just wrong. Like it didn't belong to her."
Greaves entered behind them, his presence making the woman's gaze shift. "This is Lady Helena Varrick," he said. "One of the old families."
"I don't care about titles," Adrian said, watching her. "I care about what you saw."
Her eyes met his, unflinching. "I saw death. She looked at me, and it felt like my soul turned to glass. If you hadn't arrived…" She trailed off, then gave a faint, almost teasing smile. "You're not afraid of her, are you?"
Adrian didn't answer.
Instead, he noticed the faint tremble in her hands. Without thinking, he reached for her wrist. Her skin was warm, pulse quick beneath his fingers. She didn't pull away.
Something about the moment — the heat of her skin, the closeness in the cold fog — tightened the air between them. For an instant, it wasn't the Widow he was thinking about.
Greaves broke the spell. "We should move her. Fog's rolling in thicker."
Helena stood, letting her fingers linger against Adrian's just a fraction longer than necessary before she stepped back. "I can find my own way," she said softly, and swept toward the door, her perfume trailing after her like a secret.
As soon as she was gone, Greaves muttered, "Careful with that one. The Varricks have skeletons in their closets — and I don't mean the human kind."
Outside, the humming had stopped. But Adrian had the feeling it was only because the Widow was closer than ever.