Morning cracked over Ebonbridge with the color of pewter. The fog hadn't lifted so much as turned pale, smothering the streets in a dull glow that turned every stone wet and every shadow thick. Crowds swarmed the markets already, whispering about the Thespian's grin and the clerk who had lit a candle in the dark. I kept my head down, but whispers follow men more faithfully than dogs.
Seraphine led us through the streets like she owned them. Her coat was repaired hastily from last night's tear, but the iron arm shone freshly oiled, pistons sighing with each movement. Passersby parted unconsciously, not because they recognized her face, but because authority clung to her like a Rite.
"The Maskmaker's shop is under the bridge," she said, not slowing her stride. "Every Thespian buys their faces there. If we want Casimir Rook, we start with the one who crafts his masks."
"You think he'll just hand over his most notorious client?" I asked.
Seraphine shot me a sidelong glance. "The Maskmaker doesn't deal in loyalty. Only in currency. Secrets, truths, oaths. Something you now have in dangerous abundance."
The Ledger thumped once in my coat, as if pleased to be included in the conversation. I ignored it.
The shop was a narrow hole of a place wedged beneath the Saint Vellum Bridge, where water dripped constantly from the stones above. A plain porcelain mask hung as its sign, unpainted, featureless. The door groaned when Seraphine pushed it open, the sound like a sigh through teeth.
Inside, the air was thick with varnish and plaster dust. Shelves lined the walls, every inch crowded with masks: laughing, weeping, snarling, silent. Hundreds of faces stared out with hollow eyes, a choir of emotions cut from porcelain.
At a workbench near the back sat a figure whose own head was covered in a blank mask. No mouth, no eyes, no nose—just porcelain polished to a cruel smoothness. It turned toward us, and somehow I felt its gaze pierce straight through the emptiness.
"Seraphine D'Artois," the mask said. Its voice was layered, old and young at once. "And ballast."
"I'm not ballast," I muttered.
The blank mask tilted. "Not yet."
Seraphine ignored the insult. "Casimir Rook. He was here."
"All my children are here," the Maskmaker replied, gesturing to the shelves. "Some wear their faces better than others. Casimir is among my brightest. He pays his debts in secrets, and secrets are the sweetest coin."
The Ledger stirred against my ribs. Pages itched, demanding to be opened. I obeyed before I could question myself. Lines flared on the page:
Redline Active: Debts outstanding.
The shop blazed with threads. Every mask radiated faint blue lines, tied to whispers I could not hear. Truths traded, lies purchased, identities borrowed. And one mask shone brighter than all the rest—a grinning porcelain face painted in red, its threads knotted tighter than a hangman's noose.
"That one," I whispered.
The Maskmaker's featureless head turned toward me. "Ah. The Ledger's child sees the stains. How long before they drown you in numbers, I wonder?"
Seraphine's iron arm flexed. "Tell us where Rook is."
The Maskmaker's voice softened to a purr. "Payment, inquisitor. I do not deal in favors. Not for you. Not for your Church. Not even for your iron arm."
"What do you want?" I asked.
The Maskmaker leaned closer, and for a dreadful moment the porcelain rippled, hinting at something beneath. Flesh that should not be. Eyes that looked back from behind the veil of clay.
"A truth," it whispered. "A secret. Or perhaps…a heartbeat. One will buy what you seek."
The Ledger's pages twitched violently, as if urging me to spend. My palm burned where the candle sigil rested, reminding me of what honesty had already cost.
Seraphine's gaze snapped to me, sharp and warning. "Don't," she said. "Not without knowing the price."
But the Maskmaker's head tilted, waiting, the shelves of masks leaning forward as if eager for my choice.
—End of Chapter 4—