Lynda lugged the heavy trunks on her shoulders while Clarky has slung the softer luggage on him as if he was wearing armour as they made for more familiar parts of town. Their march through the city was occasionally stalled as other carriages that had been stopped at the barricade behind them trundled on past. It had taken three rather ornate carriages to roll through the streets, each bearing a more complicated noble crest than the last, before Lynda and Clarky saw the butcher’s cart limp towards their shop, ice slush slipping onto the road.

Those few who walked the street tended to move aside for the pair, often going far out of their way to avoid them. Some glared fearful daggers at Lynda's odd form, while other looked almost offended at the muddy and patchwork clothes that bore the pair and thus didn’t wish to be contaminated.

Their pace slowed at the corner of "Scribbler's Way" under a gloomy sky.

“We don’t have to go back, we could find something else; I’m sure there’s plenty of rooms we can rent…” Lynda offered as they turned the last corner. The houses on the street all looked similar in design; a simple grey brick construction with a slanted slate roof designed for function rather than form and all looked somewhere between familiar and near identical.

“It’s our house.” Clarky said, but his previous effervescence had slipped away replaced with a quiet nervousness that masqueraded as confidence.

“But we’ve not been in it since…”

“I know, but…I want to. It’s our home.” Clarky slipped a heavy key from one of the satchels and placed it in a lock far too sturdy for pick-locks or buglers. After a moment's struggle with the cumbersome key, The door creaked open to show the dark interior inside.

“If you’re sure about this, then after you…” Lynda said. Hesitation gave way to a nod as Clarky slipped through, only for his breath to catch in his throat. He had gone but a few paces into the dark, his eyes wide not with fear but with pain, as he froze in place.

Heavy thuds of the trunks hitting pavement was heard as Lynda ducked through the door and placed a hand on her stilled brother’s shoulder, moving him slightly so she could squeeze past to to get to the large shutters. Dust fell from them as she swung them open as the influx of sickly daylight washed the previously dark world with a pale glow that seemed to bleach anything it touched.

It was a dismal affair and the house looked oddly abandoned; Plates had been left where they’d been stacked on the drying rack, a cup of wine sat desiccated and stained while pages and quill pens were left mid reply. Lynda caught the sight of her own letter, laid open on the desk side and browned with age while the remains of candles coated the outside of their holders, almost making a mould of whatever held them upright. Boots were stacked, and coats had been thrown over the back of a chair as if life was in full swing and then suddenly just stopped.

Clarky’s eyes took it all in, still and silent.

Lynda rested her large hand on Clarky’s back, her face trying to affect a smile that would reassure him. She nearly succeeded.

“Why don’t you take some time out back with your crossbow? I’m sure the garden has more than a few pests.” Lynda asked, turning him toward the back door and the thin garden beyond. “I’ll start clearing up; you can...join me later?” She said, almost guiding Clarky through the dim house and out the back door, only stopping long enough to gather up the bow and quiver from the trunk.

Nodding, without the strength to argue, Clarky took them and slipped out back where an old wooden archery target sat, still covered in holes from the last time he had visited home.

Lynda turned away from him and to the kitchen. Slipping off her red jacket, she rolled up her sleeves, and wrapping around her an all-too-small apron and head-scarf, the giant began to slowly and methodically tidy. Documents, old crockery, and more found their way into piles befitting if they were to stay, be sold or thrown. Once or twice Lynda paused, wiping an eye clear as it became misty before moving on to the next task, backed by the occasional noise of a string loosing, and a bolt hitting the wooden target with a splintering smack as Clarky took his own time to process.

Everything that was meant to stay was put away in its proper place wrapped in a black ribbon, everything else was dumped into the crates. She passed from room to room and cleared away all of their old lives. Once a crate was full she shifted it to one side and labelled it by the means of a simple paper tag with her exact writing. It wasn’t ornate but instead a perfect representation of each letter.

Lynda had used most of what light was left tending to the living room and the kitchen, and the sun made the clouds a fierce red before she could turn her attention to the closed bedroom door.

Lynda extended a hand, pausing only briefly, before opening up her guardian’s bedroom. It had been one of the smaller rooms in the house, only really used for sleep with a twin bed and a simple wardrobe. The sheets were musty and rumpled, with a few dark spots adorning the old bed linen, and all that had been left of Lynda’s guardians were two indents in the bed’s cheap mattress. Taking but a brief moment to get a pair of sturdy gloves for shovelling coal or chopping wood Lynda removed the sheets and hefted the straw palliasse mattress up and out of the house to be burned, dumping it into the garden.

Once again Lynda took an exacting hand to the room, though it was not a quick nor pleasant process as she processed everything with a grim expression never leaving her features. Taking up clothes, and expired make-up, old sheets and more and placing them all away to be sold or cut up before she turned to a small chest near the mirror.

She opened the jewellery box, looking inside to see that her guardian’s meagre possessions had mirrored their lives and fled. “Stealing from the dying, how low can you get?” Lynda asked the air, holding back the grief.

A knock from the living room caught her attention, and she returned to it with the box in hand, taking a moment to clear the corner of one eye.

The knock was more of a formality than anything, the door had been left open to try and let some fresh air into the stuffy bungalow and a man dressed in a rather formal grey suit stood there.

“I am afraid I am here on behalf of Doctor Bartholomew Munroe.” The man said. He was an older, clean shaven, gentleman with hair matching his grey and uninspiring clothes. Lynda turned, looking at the man who had wandered into her old home. “As you are well aware, Doctor Munroe tended to the Clarks. We were all very sorry at the fact there could be nothing done to save them and as such the surviving family have our most sincere sympathise.”

“Thank-you, I’ll pass it on…” Lynda said, though her words were guarded with expectation. “How did you know we were here?”

“I offer no offence Miss but it was remarked on the street that you had returned and word got back to Doctor Munroe, who sought me out at the earliest opportunity. The Clark's affairs were well known and you are a most notable sight.”

“Did you know them?” Lynda asked, taking a quick glance outside to see if people were spying on her, and without fail she found a few glances that quickly occupied themselves with other things. She turned back to the man in the grey suit, now aware that their lives were being played out on a larger stage of local gossip.

“Personally I did not, at least not well.” The man said, offering a shrug. “But my firm was more than aware of them and their good reputation and what few occasions I had chance to entangle them with my own paperwork I found them to be upright people. It is a hard thing to see another of our number struck from the records, as it were, and I have buried my own family so one knows and sympathises their son is going through.”

Lynda’s mouth twisted into a grimace, turning away from the man.

“It’s hard, but both of us are getting by. It was some time ago, though coming home has opening up a lot of healed wounds.” She said, hardly able to hide the disdain for being overlooked. “But thank-you for your concern Mister…”

“Oldacre; Mister John Oldacre, esquire; accountant to the medical profession.” Oldacre replied with a grin, overlooking or just missing her displeasure. “I wondered if you were the Outcaste girl they had adopted; a very odd move that but the Clarks were known for their good heart if not their good sense.”

Lynda’s head snapped back around to Oldacre, who seemed taken aback by the sudden ferocity within the pale woman’s pitch-black eyes. When happy she looked somewhat like an ink-sketch as the iris and the pupil was just one black blob but when angry it looked more unnatural; unholy.

“What is this about Mister Oldacre?” She asked, placing the jewellery box on the table lest the break it in her hands.

“No need to be hostile, my girl; it’s only a word.” He waved off the incident, his tone light at the slur. “But I digress. There were a few matters that had to be tended to thanks in part to the Clark’s unfortunate departure, Miss Clark.”

“Marker.” Lynda replied.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not Lynda Clark, I’m Lynda Marker; I was adopted but my name wasn’t changed.”

“Oh.” The grey suited gentleman paused, bringing up a crooked finger and tapping it against his bulbous chin as he considered. “Well that would make sense given certain obvious...features.” He said, his old hand unfurling and indicating the giant before him. The frustration Lynda showed was promptly replaced by uncertainty, the subtle barb having sunk deep. “And I suppose they had expectations that you’d marry their son and would become Mrs Clark then…”

Lynda took a quick breath to calm her nerves, and changed tack.

“How can I help you, Mister Oldacre?” She asked in a soft voice that was attempting to be placating. The grey suited man rolled his lips into a smile, though it seemed hollow as if it had been a mask he wore simply for show; a painted smile on frowning lips.

“Unfortunately the Clark Estate, such as it is, left several issues that need to be addressed.” He pulled from his scroll pouch a document, unrolling it in his crooked hands. His fingers were like the legs of an insect crawling over the parchment, rolling and tapping as he held the document open.

Stabbing finger at the page he began. “It would seem that the doctor’s bill for your guardian’s care, despite its unfortunate end, were not tallied for and the doctor has yet to be paid. There are also other consideration that must be addressed given the use of new techniques, creams and-”

Lynda’s head hung a little as the litany was read aloud. She only took a brief chance to cast a quick glance out the window to the small garden where Clarky was stood, prising arrows out of the bull’s-eye of the target. Her brow furrowed as her eyes softened slightly.

“How much does he want?” Lynda asked, without much care. Oldacre paused mid-list and was seemingly taken aback before a grin split his face like a crack in an old tree.

“How refreshingly direct.” The accountant said, slipping to the last page. “The total was considered to be fifteen shillings a day.”

“Fifteen shillings?!” Lynda’s head snapped back. “That’s more than a week’s rent in a single day!”

“Quite.”

“They lay in their death beds for a week, for Mother it was a week and a day…” Lynda trailed off as the maths tallied in her mind.

“Quite; now having talked with my client he is willing to settle for a high percentage but...”

“I suppose it’s no good to argue that he didn’t succeed and there should be some monetary consideration?” Lynda said, a hand rubbing the back of her neck as she interrupted the accountant, who took a moment to look at the giant sharply before responding.

“Actually the opposite.” Oldachre said with a jovial tone that lacked any real sympathy. “Due to it being the result of combative action during the last few days of the troubles, he was worried that visiting the house might mark him as an enemy.”

“To whom?”

“To either side. It was a most uncivil civil war, after all. Add this to the rather frightful injuries they sustained, and the emotional trauma that it caused him to look upon such frightful wounds, not to mention the post-operative infections and…Well it all adds up.”

“I thought dealing with infections and nasty injuries was a doctor’s job and why they get paid more than a day’s house-keeping per ten minute visit.” Lynda grumbled, before her eyes seemed to focus on the accountant. “Why was this house bad for it? I mean others must have been injured in the skirmish.”

“Partially, but mostly because he felt that the infection to their wounds may have been passed on and spread by your people.”

“…Scribes or students?” Lynda’s eyes cast to her satchel in the corner of the kitchen, the leather bound books and scraps of parchment seemingly trying to escape what would be, to the giant, a little knapsack or purse but to others would have been the sort of satchel you’d employ a mule to carry.

“Outcastes.” The accountant replied, as serious as the grave.

“I had nothing to do with it!” Lynda snapped, indicating herself to emphasise her statement. “I only arrived today, and it had been a few months since our last visit to them; how can I be responsible for an infection that I wasn’t even here for!” Lynda’s voice boomed, mainly due to her sheer scale.

“Opinions matter little; people are scared and common medical practice states that this was a risky place to be, especially if the doctor has a wife who was with child.”

“Did the doctor have a wife who was with child?”

“Not as far as I know; not even married from what I understand.”

“Then why is it a problem? He has his protections doesn’t he?”

“Yes but he equally doesn’t want to catch whatever causes those to be born like yourself either; what a cruel thing to pass on to their children.”

“Now you’re just being insulting.”

“Not at all, I’m just explaining why the bill costs as much as it does. If you wish me to explain how you don’t want to pay it I’m sure the Validators would love to visit.”

“No!” Lynda reached out a hand. “We’ll see what we can gather.” She said caving in an instant. “It just…may take some time. We haven’t been able to get everything together; we’ve got to go through their possessions and see what we have, what we can sell and so on. Would you be able to talk to the doctor and say we’re happy to discuss the matter but we just...need a little time to know what our actual situation is?”

“Of course.” Oldachre smiled and turned, closing up his case as victory was now assured. “Have a pleasant evening, Miss Clark.”

“Marker.”

“Which-ever you wish.” Oldacre turned away and left, leaving Lynda alone to her thoughts in the dim room.