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I roll my eyes when I hear Sergeant Heartnell calling “Open up, Ange! I should give it to him soon, before the shiny giftwrap dissolves completely, but this time I drop it right next to the boy.

He jolts at the sound and gives me a look of a cow who’s just found out what a sledgehammer’s for. I assume he’s smart enough to use the fire escape, otherwise a dumpster laden with as he scrambles to dress himself.

Like this, all I have room for are half a dozen ready-made magics–fainter, healquick, motion, flask–the necessities. “Like I’m gonna believe that.” His bulbous nose creeps up when he snorts. “You know, there are special scissors, they’re real tiny so you can get ’em up the nostril and just – ” I make a snipping move with my fingers.

Admittedly, I did once make a receptionist burn from the inside out, so maybe there’s a smidgeon of fear somewhere in Heartnell’s anger. I tie on my bespoke boots, silver-tipped with a mix of screetcher teeth and herbs under the heel, grab a coat and my satchel. I don’t lock it–those who know where I am know who I am, and those who’d dare steal would see only bare walls and one soiled mattress leaned to the radiator.Heartnell’s knuckles have already turned white gripping the wheel. Our strained ride ends at the edge of Verago, where centuries ago stood the Seventh Gate.Story goes its rock was black as the darkest sky, thicker than a giant’s midriff, and infused with magic that would spark the air blue, twisting it until it looked like billowing cloth.Old Ellis, the last man to hang, had given us a game of Telephone that’s lasted for over eighty years.A crazy faction says he never really died, despite the hanging body, but they also believe bees are magic-made surveillance.

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