Cordelia and Elsbeth used the stones to find their way to the carriage—a test run of sorts. They could have taken the main road, but sneaking through yards and gardens made their upcoming mission feel more real.


    Percy must have been startled when the carriage door opened by invisible hands. Moments later, the two girls were inside. If he was bothered by this mysterious occurrence, he kept it to himself—the less Percy knew, the better he slept.


    "Should Hex be driving? Last night, he could barely walk."


    "Don''t worry, love. You''d be surprised how well he''s healed," Cordelia said, a smile tugging at her lips.


    Elsbeth remained silent, but she understood. The ointment contained more than just myrrh. Though youth made Hex a quick healer, the wound had been too severe—he should still be hobbled.


    "Besides, Hex and Percy will stay with the carriage until we return."


    "What about Corvus?"


    "He''ll keep a watchful eye—nothing more."


    Elsbeth let her mind settle. This was their third consecutive night prowling the darkness. Though earlier than their previous outings, fatigue crept in—and with exhaustion came mistakes.


    The carriage rattled eastward through the darkened streets of Bloomsbury, its wheels clattering over uneven cobbles slick with winter''s damp.


    Elsbeth gathered her thoughts, contemplating whether to share her acceptance to Queen''s College. She knew she would attend—the opportunity was too extraordinary. Her dream of becoming a doctor seemed more attainable now. Times were changing, and she might be fortunate enough to stand at their forefront. Dr. Elsbeth Wren. The title resonated perfectly.


    She stared out the window, watching gas lamps cast pools of flickering yellow light along the quiet streets, holding back the fog that curled between buildings and wrapped around iron railings and soot-streaked windows.


    "I received a letter today from Arthur in the deeds department."


    Cordelia looked puzzled. "What? By Royal Mail?"


    Elsbeth feigned ignorance. She didn''t want Cordelia questioning why a man she hardly knew would hand-deliver a letter to the house.


    "I suppose. Mrs. Leford left it for me in the foyer. It contained the name of the man who leased the farmhouse—John Ashcombe. Does that sound familiar?"


    "Doesn''t ring a bell. We should both ask around. If he''s just a random person, it''ll be harder to find information—but if he''s someone notable, that would make our search easier."


    Cordelia changed the subject.


    "Are you sure you can handle the stone safely? I''m worried you might accidentally swallow it. Who knows what would happen if it stayed in your stomach?"


    "I''m not going to swallow it."


    "Well, if you do, you''ll be the one fishing it out later—and that won''t be pleasant."


    Elsbeth rolled her eyes. She wasn''t about to swallow the stone.


    "So when we get there, I''ll be following you. Do you know the way?"


    "We''ll enter through a service entrance—where they bring in laundry and supplies. Once we reach the main wing, I''ll know where to go."


    Elsbeth wasn''t convinced. Cordelia had a habit of overlooking inconvenient details in her plans.


    "What about locked doors? I doubt you have keys."


    Cordelia shook her head dismissively. "Els, this is a prison—people try to break out, not in. When Durry and I left the main office, we didn''t pass through a single locked door."


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Though Elsbeth remained skeptical, she didn''t doubt Cordelia''s memory—their minds were like sponges, soaking up every detail and scrap of information, no matter how minute.


    Ahead, the looming bulk of Newgate Gaol emerged from the mist—grim and hulking—its high walls and barred windows stark against the shrouded sky.


    We''re really doing this.


    Elsbeth watched Cordelia from the corner of her eye. Her friend appeared calm and composed, without a care in the world. How long could they go on like this before something went terribly wrong?


    <hr>


    The heavy air inside Newgate Gaol carried a damp, oppressive chill, thick with the scent of old stone and mildew. Cordelia pressed her back against the cold wall inside the narrow service entrance, breathing steady but shallow. Elsbeth''s heart thundered in her chest, its pulse thrumming in her ears like a distant drumbeat. She had never attempted anything like this before—never broken into anywhere, let alone a prison—but there was no turning back now.


    The dim lantern light sputtering along the corridor glanced off them without catching, their outlines lost in shadow. Their footfalls, muffled by damp straw strewn across the stone floor, made no sound beyond the whisper of fabric and breath.


    Cordelia moved with purpose and confidence, as if she had walked such halls countless times before. Elsbeth followed close behind, willing herself to match that calm despite her racing mind. Every echo, every shift in the silence, rang sharp and clear. She steadied her breathing, anchoring herself to the task at hand.


    The Capital Convicts wing loomed ahead, marked by a thick iron gate and a poorly lit alcove. Two guards sat half-slouched at a crude wooden table with scattered dice between them. One guard scratched his beard with a yawn while the other swigged from a tin cup, unaware of the invisible intruders closing in.


    Cordelia reached into her coat and drew out a slender glass bottle. One squeeze, then another, and a mist hissed through the air like a sigh. The scent of laudanum and poppy oil drifted in the air before the guards slumped in their chairs, dice clattering to the floor in a forgotten scatter.


    Elsbeth exhaled through her nose, feeling the tension ease from her shoulders.


    With practiced ease, Cordelia retrieved the ring of keys from one guard''s belt. Within moments, they were inside the wing, walking past locked cells where shadows shifted and murmured behind bars.


    Elsbeth''s eyes darted to each doorway, expecting some sudden alarm, some cry in the dark—but nothing came. At the far end of the corridor, behind a rusted gate, waited Henry Wright''s cell. Cordelia turned the key, the lock''s mechanism grating before the door swung open.


    Henry lay on a narrow cot inside, his state of consciousness impossible to determine in the heavy darkness. As they stepped into the cell, leaving the door ajar behind them, they removed their stones, their forms emerging like ghosts from the gloom.


    Though Elsbeth''s fingers tingled with nervous energy, she stood tall, ready to hear whatever truth this man had to offer.


    A sharp intake of breath and the creak of the cot’s thin mattress broke the silence as Cordelia reached out and touched Henry’s shoulder.


    He jolted upright with a hoarse gasp, eyes wide and searching in the darkness, fists already clenched. The dim light from the corridor hardly touched the cell’s interior, but it was enough to catch the glint of fear—and something harder—in his gaze.


    “Get off me,” he growled, voice rough with sleep and days of disuse. His eyes darted past Cordelia to the shadowed figure behind her. “What now? Another beating? You won’t get a penny from me, and I’m not groveling for kitchen scraps if that’s what this is. Go on, then—get it over with.”


    “It’s Cordelia Greaves, Mr. Wright,” Cordelia said, her voice low but firm. “We met this afternoon. Do you remember?”


    His eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat, his breath caught in his throat. Then, a flicker of uncertain but actual recognition broke through the suspicion. He leaned forward, squinting into her face as if confirming a memory too distant to trust.


    “Greaves… yes. You questioned me. Asked about Hetty. About… what happened.”


    His gaze shifted to Elsbeth, guarded now, his body tense once more.


    “And her? Another solicitor? Or something else?”


    “She’s with me,” Cordelia said, stepping to the side but not away. “You’re safe. We’re not here to harm you—we need to talk. And this is the only way.”


    Henry blinked hard, expecting the vision before him to dissolve into smoke. His eyes darted between Cordelia and Elsbeth, lingering on the former with incredulous intensity.


    “You…”


    He shook his head, a humorless huff escaping him.


    “You can’t be here. Not in this place—not at this hour.”


    He glanced back toward the cell door, half expecting guards to be waiting there with keys in hand and smug expressions.


    “What did you do? Pay someone off? Pull favors with one of those powdered judges?” His voice dropped, laced with disbelief.


    “They don’t let well-dressed women waltz into Newgate at midnight.”


    He rose to his feet, slow and unsteady, one hand braced against the wall. His expression was dark with suspicion and a glint of something close to awe.


    “God above… you broke in.”


    He let out a short, rasping laugh, shaking his head again.


    “Broke into Newgate Gaol—for me. You’re either mad, Miss Greaves… or desperate. And I’ve no idea which frightens me more.”


    “Given the choices,” Cordelia whispered, “I prefer desperate.”


    Henry stared at them both for a long, uneasy moment, the weight of his sleepless nights etched into every line of his face. Finally, his shoulders sagged, suspicion not gone but dulled by exhaustion and the faint thread of hope.


    He nodded once, slow and wary. “Fine. But talk fast. That door can''t stay open forever.”