The rest of the morning passed without much trouble. Inside the tailor shop the steady snip of scissors, the low rattle of sewing machines, and bits of talk between the workers slowly brought the place to life.
Percy kept his head down at his station, hands moving through the familiar motions of stitching and cutting. The work felt steady under his fingers, even though Ronan had never held a needle in his life.
Percy had done it for years, and the skill sat there waiting, like muscle memory that did not belong to him.
Near noon one of the men came over. Gareth, a bit heavy around the middle, carried a stack of folded cloth under one arm. "You really all right now?" he asked, voice easy. "Miss Gracy said you landed in the hospital yesterday."
Percy stopped the needle for a moment and nodded. "Yeah. Nothing serious."
Gareth clicked his tongue. "Lucky for you. Old Bram was already grumbling about losing another hand for a few days."
From his desk Bram called out without looking up. "I heard that." A few workers chuckled under their breath. The shop stayed warm and loose after that, the kind of easy quiet that came when no one was pressed for time.
More of them drifted by his station later, asking about the night before. Most sounded worried rather than nosy. Percy gave the same short answer he had already told Gracy and Silia. It was enough for them. Only Silia kept glancing over when she passed, her face carrying a trace of worry each time.
The day moved on that way until the light outside started to fade. When the shift ended Percy cleaned his table, stacked the finished pieces, and stepped out with the others.
Evening had already settled on the streets. Carriages rolled by now and then, and the lamps along the road were being lit one by one, their glow spreading in small pools.
His feet slowed without him meaning to when he reached the corner. The Shrewsbury Drunkard sat there like it always had. Percy stood for a while, watching the door.
This was the hour Percy would usually stop in for a drink or two before heading home. Ronan had never cared much for alcohol back where he came from.
A glass now and then at work events was all, and even then the taste had never sat right. Still, the memory of the place pulled at him, familiar in a way that felt borrowed.
He let out a breath and turned toward the tavern. One drink would not change anything.
The wooden sign creaked a little in the evening air. Warm light spilled from the windows, and the sound of voices and low laughter leaked into the street.
Inside, the smell of spilled drink, roasted meat, and old smoke met him at once. The room was busy the way it always was at this hour. Men in dusty work clothes filled several tables, merchants and laborers talking loud over their mugs.
Percy looked around out of habit and then walked to the counter. Before he reached it a voice called from the side.
"Well damn, Percy. Thought you died yesterday."
He turned and saw Harris in the corner, a half-empty mug in front of him. The man had rough stubble and eyes that looked tired even on good days.
Harris was the one who had shown Percy how to make charcoal toothpaste back when money was tight. Percy walked over and took the seat beside him. "You look worse than me," he said lightly. "Haven't seen you around for days either."
Harris usually would have laughed at that, loud and rough. This time he only managed a small smile and took another drink without answering. Percy noticed the change right away. "What happened?"
Harris stayed quiet for a long stretch, staring into the mug. When he spoke his voice was low. "My daughter died nine days ago."
Percy went still. Harris kept his eyes on the drink. "She came down with a fever out of nowhere. By the time we got a real doctor to look at her…" He stopped there. His hands tightened around the mug until the knuckles showed. "She had been fine. No warning at all."
Percy sat with that for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.
Harris nodded once, the movement small. The space between them felt heavier after that. Eventually Harris waved a hand like he wanted to push the talk away. "Enough of that. Go get yourself something."
Percy stood and moved to the counter. Doran, the bald bartender with sleeves rolled to the elbows, spotted him and kept wiping a glass. "Heard you were in the hospital yesterday."
"News moves quick," Percy said.
Doran gave a short laugh. "Around here it does. Faster than anything else." He set a mug of cheap ale down in front of him. While he kept cleaning, Doran spoke again, voice dropping a little. "Things have been off lately."
Percy looked at him. "How?"
Doran leaned in slightly. "You haven't heard? Women turning up dead in the lower parts. Some just gone, others found with no clear reason. People are already whispering the usual nonsense."
Percy kept his face steady. "What kind of nonsense?"
Doran shrugged. "Ghosts. Curses. Monsters. Killers working in the dark. Same stories whenever the bodies start to stack."
He laughed once, short and dismissive. Percy could not join in. His mind went straight to the twisted shape on the bed from that night, the way the body had looked under the dim light.
A cold line ran down his spine. He lifted the mug and finished the drink in one swallow, the taste sharp and bitter.
Not long after he left the tavern and started the walk home. The night air was cool against his face and helped clear some of the fog in his head. Still, one thought stayed with him as he moved through the quiet streets under the weak lamps.
Thank god I am not a woman.
The moment the thought formed, the image of the dead woman returned, clearer than before. Goosebumps rose along his arms. Without thinking, his steps picked up speed.