The name on the byline was printed in a heavier weight than the rest, set apart, underlined. Beneath it, in smaller italic type:

  Mr. Alderton sustained significant injuries during the attack on the Lacquered Swan and composed this account from his hospital bed at St. Crispin's. His wife, Mrs. Dorothea Alderton, was among the thirty-two confirmed dead.

  Florence stared at the page. The words blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. Her face was very warm.

  "I write this with my left hand, as my right is presently bound in plaster from the wrist to the elbow, and with a debt that no column of newsprint can begin to repay.

  "When the wall of the Lacquered Swan came apart, I was seated at a table near the eastern window with my wife. I will not describe what followed in the immediate seconds after the blast, as I have no memory of them. My next coherent recollection is of lying face-down in the rubble with a pain in my right leg that I can only compare to the sensation of being opened by a hot knife from the knee to the hip. The shrapnel had laid the thigh bare. I could see the muscle. I could see things beneath the muscle that a man should never see outside a surgeon's theatre. The blood was extraordinary in its volume, and I understood, with the calm that sometimes accompanies mortal injury, that I was going to die on that floor.

  "Then a girl appeared.

  "She was young—seventeen, I was later told—and she was wearing a plum dress that was already dark with other people's blood. She knelt beside me without hesitation. She did not scream. She did not freeze. She looked at my leg the way I imagine a surgeon looks at an incision: with focus, with intent, with the absolute exclusion of everything that was not the wound in front of her.

  "She tore a strip from the hem of her own dress. She tied it above the wound. Her hands were steady. I know this because I watched them, and in the state I was in, those hands were the only thing in the world that mattered.

  "'Hold on,' she told me. 'I've got you. Hold on.'

  "She stayed. While the Inspector and that spectral creature and those terrible cultists fought across the ruins not thirty feet away, while gunfire cracked and spells shattered and the building groaned as though it meant to finish what the bomb had started—she stayed with me. She kept pressure on the binding. She talked to me. She told me her name was Florence, and that she was a medical student, or that she was going to be, and that I was going to be fine, and I believed her. I believed every word, because she said them the way one says things that are simply true.

  "I saw the man with the axe before she did. He came through the smoke on her left—a huge figure, the largest of them, the blade already high above his head. I tried to warn her. I believe I managed two words, though they left me as little more than a wet gasp, and I was certain, with the same calm certainty with which I had earlier accepted my own death, that I was about to watch hers.

  "She turned. The axe was already falling.

  "I do not know how to describe what happened next, because I do not understand it. She was a girl of seventeen in a torn dress, kneeling in the rubble, and he was a man who could have felled a draught horse with that swing. But she caught it, or turned it, or did something that my eyes registered but my mind refuses to assemble into a coherent sequence, and then the man was on the floor and the axe was in her hands and she was standing over him, shaking violently, staring at the weapon as though it had materialized there without her consent.

  "She came back to me. She set the weapon down next to me. She checked the binding. Her hands were steady again, or she had made them steady, which I think is the harder thing.

  "Then the Inspector fell. I could not see clearly—the smoke was dense, and my position on the floor afforded me very little—but I heard him cry out, and I saw Florence's head snap toward the sound. She left me. She crossed the rubble at a run, disappearing into the haze, and I did not see her again for what felt like a very long time but was likely only minutes.

  "When she returned, she moved with a different kind of urgency. Not the desperate scramble of someone reacting to catastrophe, but the measured, purposeful stride of someone who had decided that no one else was going to die on her watch. I watched her cross the rubble to a woman trapped beneath a fallen crossbeam—Mrs. Poole, I believe, the silk merchant's wife—and I saw her brace her shoulder against the timber and press upward until the woman could be pulled free.”

  "She was everywhere. She was tireless. She was seventeen years old and she moved through that hell as though she had been made for it.

  "I have published newspapers in this city for thirty-one years. I have reported on fires, floods, riots, and the occasional act of political violence. I have used the word 'hero' in headlines perhaps more often than I should, and the word has, I confess, been cheapened by that excess. But I use it now with the full weight of its meaning, because I watched a girl in a torn dress save my life with a strip of fabric and two steady hands, and I do not have a better word.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "My wife did not survive the blast. Dorothea was seated closer to the wall. They tell me it was instant, and I choose to believe them, because the alternative is not something I am prepared to carry just yet.

  "Miss Bannerman did not know my wife. She did not know me. She owed nothing to the strangers bleeding on that floor. But she helped them—helped us—with a ferocity and a tenderness that I have spent the better part of a sleepless night trying to describe, and I find that the words will not come. They are inadequate. All of them.

  "If you are reading this, Miss Bannerman—and I hope with all that remains of my battered heart that you are—I want you to know that George Alderton is alive this morning because of you. I am writing these words because of you. And when I visit my wife's grave, which I intend to do as soon as these doctors release me from this bed, I will thank the Eternal Lord that He saw fit to put you in that building on that night, because without you I would not be making that visit. I would be lying beside her.

  "Thank you, Florence. From the bottom of whatever is left. May Eternity be with you.

  "—G. Alderton, 19th August, 1297, St. Crispin's Hospital"

  A cart rattled past on Greybridge Road. Someone was arguing about the price of something.

  Florence was not breathing.

  She became aware of this only when her lungs insisted, and the breath that came was sharp, involuntary, hitching in her chest like a swallowed sob. The paper trembled in her hands. Her face was hot—burning, actually, the flush climbing from her collar to her hairline in a wave she could not suppress, and her vision had gone slightly liquid at the edges in a way that she refused, absolutely refused, to attribute to tears.

  She had read the account of the ghost—Alice—and she had seen the distance between what happened and what the paper described, and she had laughed, because the distortion had been absurd. She had read Thomas's profile and recognised the same alchemy at work—real events melted down and recast in the mould of heroism, the messy and the frightening and the human burnished smooth until the story gleamed.

  But reading it done to herself—seeing her own name attached to words like saintess and grace and the reason I am alive—Florence understood, with a clarity that sat heavy in her chest, that it didn't matter whether the words were accurate. It mattered that a man was in a hospital bed with forty-seven stitches and a dead wife, and he had used whatever strength he had left to write them.

  Saintess.

  Did words mean anything? Did they ever? Or were they just shapes people pressed over the world to make it hold still long enough to bear?

  She had read three accounts of the same night. In Thomas's, he was a titan. In Alice's, she was a revenant. In hers, she was a saint. None of them were true. All of them were real—real in the way that mattered, which was that the people who spoke them believed what they were saying, and the belief had a weight that the facts did not.

  The article concluded with a short boxed section, set apart from Alderton's account in a different typeface.

  When reached for comment in the early hours of this morning, Senior Inspector Bannerman provided the following statement:

  "My sister is the bravest person I have ever known. Without her intervention, I would not have survived the events at the Lacquered Swan. She rendered medical aid to multiple casualties under direct enemy fire, including myself, without any regard for her own safety. She is seventeen years old and she performed with more composure and courage than officers I have served with for years. I am proud of her beyond anything I have the words to express."

  — Senior Inspector Thomas Bannerman, D.A.A.

  Florence closed the newspaper.

  She folded it. The motion was careful—lining up the edges, pressing the crease flat with her thumb, the mechanical precision of someone whose hands needed something to do while the rest of her caught up. She folded it again. Then she realised that the paper was no longer flat but crumpled, the edges compressed and buckled where her grip had tightened without her noticing, her fingers leaving shallow furrows in the newsprint.

  She stared at her hands. Opened them. Smoothed the paper as best she could.

  She tucked it into the satchel, pushing it down beside the coin purse where it wouldn't get more damaged. She was not going to leave it on a bench. She was not a litterer, and she was not going to start now, regardless of what the paper said about her.

  Florence stood. She straightened her dress. She exhaled. It came out in a huff—a short, sharp breath through the nose, the kind of sound that was too dignified to be a snort and too frustrated to be a sigh.

  "You're welcome, Mr. Alderton," she said, to no one, very quietly, and the words came out strange.

  She slung the satchel over her shoulder and stepped off the bench onto the pavement.

  A man's elbow caught her square in the ribs.

  "Mind yourself!" he snapped, already past, already gone, another coat-tail vanishing into the Dunwick current.

  Florence stood on the pavement, her hand on her side, and stared after him.

  Why, she thought, with a slow and building incredulity, does everyone in this city walk directly into me?