The gas lamps along Vellum Street had been lit for barely an hour when the first real rain of the evening began—fine, persistent, the kind that finds its way beneath collars and into seams without apology.
Elias Varn stood at the tall window of the office above the pawn shop, coat still buttoned from his return. The fog had retreated under the downpour, leaving the cobbles glossy and black. Reflections of brass light shivered across them like uncertain futures.
The sealed mahogany box sat on the desk behind him. The black silk glove had not moved since it turned itself inside-out earlier. Its fingers remained extended, palm-up, as though still waiting for something to be placed there.
The copper coin rested beside it—edge aligned precisely with the grain of the wood.
Elias had not touched either since the card from Crowe had been folded into his pocket.
He spoke to the rain-streaked glass.
"Midnight in the Veil Markets is not an appointment.
It is a transaction proposed in the dark."
The sigil on his wrist pulsed once—slow, almost contemplative.
He turned from the window.
The singed ledger page had rearranged itself again. No quill required. The copper script simply was:
Bankrupt the Heavens: My Guide to Staying in the Old World Forever
Chapter 5 – The Veil Markets Open at Midnight
He regarded the words for a long moment.
Then he lifted the black iron key from the drawer where Quill had placed it earlier. The teeth shifted subtly as he held it—never the same shape twice. He slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat beside the folded card.
The Severing Shears followed—small, black iron, blades that drank light. He wrapped them in a square of dark silk and tucked them beside the key.
The Probability Prism went last. He held it briefly to the gaslight. Inside the crystal, futures branched and flickered—most still ending in quiet misfortune, one still showing the glove and the whispered word.
He closed his fingers around it.
The futures dimmed.
He descended the narrow staircase.
Harlan Quill waited at the bottom. The older man had already donned a heavy coat and a wide-brimmed hat that had seen better decades. A small lantern rested on the counter—brass, shuttered, ready to be lit only when needed.
"Alley route?" Quill asked.
"Always."
They stepped into the rain without further words.
The streets were nearly empty. A single steam tram rattled past in the distance, its headlamp cutting a brief tunnel through the wet dark. They moved north toward the Veil Markets boundary—through narrow lanes where the buildings leaned close enough that one could almost touch both walls at once.
The copper coin in Elias's pocket grew warmer with every step.
Not alarm.
Preparation.
At the boundary arch—black iron now slick with rain—the air changed again. The scent of coal smoke gave way to incense, old paper, and the faint metallic bite of secrets being traded by the ounce.
The Veil Markets proper began where the gas lamps turned green—subtle, almost imperceptible unless one knew to look.
Stalls were shuttered, but not all. A few remained open under heavy awnings, lanterns hung low. Vendors did not call out. They waited.
Elias and Quill moved deeper.
At the seventeenth stall from the arch—a narrow frontage selling ledgers that wrote themselves when unobserved—a figure waited beneath the awning.
Charcoal coat.
Veiled hat.
Black silk gloves.
The Correspondent.
She did not turn as they approached. Only lifted one gloved hand and brushed a fingertip across the ledger on the stall counter.
The pages warmed.
She spoke without looking at them—voice low, amused, carrying the faint accent of old libraries and older debts.
"You brought company, Mr. Varn. How… considerate."
Elias stopped three paces away.
Quill halted a step behind.
"Miss Voss," Elias said. Tone even. "One assumes you received the same invitation."
She turned then.
Eyes the color of wet slate reflected the green gaslight.
A small smile touched her lips—thin, private.
"I received several. Lord Crowe is generous with his stationery tonight."
A pause.
The rain drummed softly on the awning above them.
She tilted her head fractionally.
"You brought the Prism."
It was not a question.
Elias inclined his head once.
"And you brought… curiosity."
Her smile deepened—barely.
"Curiosity is a poor word for it. One prefers 'due diligence.'"
She stepped out from beneath the awning. Rain touched her veil but did not soak it.
"Crowe's people are already inside the central pavilion. They expect you at the hour. But the hour has not yet arrived."
She glanced at the sky—though nothing could be seen through cloud and fog.
"Time," she said softly, "is the only currency that still trades at par in the Veil Markets."
Elias regarded her for a long moment.
Then he spoke—voice low, carrying just enough dry amusement to be heard over the rain.
"Then let us spend it wisely."
She inclined her head—almost a bow, though not quite.
"Follow."
She turned and walked deeper into the shadowed lanes.
Elias followed.
Quill followed Elias.
The copper coin in his pocket grew warmer still.
Somewhere ahead, in the central pavilion lit by green-flame chandeliers, a ledger was already being opened to a fresh page.
And a discrepancy—seventeen points overnight—was about to be discussed.
The black silk glove on the desk back at No. 17 curled once more—at the wrist.
As though something on the other side had just decided the terms were acceptable.
The sigil pulsed twice—slow, patient.
And the rain continued to fall.
Quietly.
Relentlessly.
Compounding.