“Ready?"
The Snowpaw driver checks the harness. The cart smells like yarrow and soap. The two escorts—Rook and Sable—settle their shoulders the way walls settle when a house is full.
“As I'll ever be," I say.
I don't wear the mask. The city already knows my face.
Word outruns wheels. By the time we reach the square, the street has gathered itself like a choir that doesn't know which song to sing. People who once pretended not to see me now invent errands along our path.
“Amelia," the baker's boy blurts, clutching a loaf like an apology. “My mum says—"
“Give it to the ward," I tell him gently. “They'll eat your apology warm."
He flushes and bolts. A dyer with red-stung fingers murmurs a blessing without looking at me, as if gratitude is a bird she's afraid to spook.
“Amelia," someon
