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Moments later I was outside with Maya, our breath misting in the cold air as we trekked across the courtyard in near-darkness. We left by the vaulted archway and entered the bustling street, oddly reminiscent of scenes in an ancient television series I’d watched, set in Victorian London. This was a city of slums, thieves, street-urchins, lawlessness, and pointless violence. But the Aristos and others from the Inner City were safe here, witness the many sedan chairs making their steady way through the crowds, unmolested.
Night had fallen and the street lighting, provided entirely by lanterns and torches on the walls, turned each person’s face into a surreal demonic portrait. Even Maya, with her full lips and high cheekbones, had the look of the devil about her.
A beggar with a deforme
