The narrow street in the financial district was dark, even though it was daytime. The buildings were tall and leaned close together, blocking out the sun. The air smelled of ink, old paper, and dust.
Ashlyn stepped out of a plain, hired carriage. She was not wearing her usual bright silks. Today, she was dressed in a long, dark cloak made of rough wool. A hood covered her hair, and a mask covered the lower half of her face. Only her eyes were visible, darting back and forth nervously.
She clutched the parchment—the deed to her mother's estate—tightly against her chest under the cloak.
She walked to a heavy wooden door with a small iron grate. There was no sign above the door, but everyone who needed money knew this place. It was the office of Mr. Silas, the city's most notorious lender.
Ashlyn knocked. Three sharp raps.
A small slide in the door opened. A pair of suspicious eyes looked out.
"I have business," Ashlyn whispered. "Big business."
