The four lead her through the bright hallway, past more burning candles, and into a parlor far nicer than she would have suspected.

On the wall, a wreath of dried flowers around a bust of a holy woman.

Kitt pulled Ophelia to a chair and nearly pushed her to sit. “Wait here.” He moved to a stairwell and called up it with little grace or care to the hour of the night. “Hey, Mum, Mu-um. Get up, ya’ve got a customer.”

The older man scoffed and yanked on Kitt’s shirt. “Hush now, you’ll wake the whole house!”

Kitt batted him away and joined the rest of his trio. They stood around Ophelia like guard dogs. She didn’t hear Kitt’s Mum, but saw the kicks of her slippers down the stairs, and the flair of her sleeping gown and robe.

“Kitt,” she said, “what’s with the noise?”

His Mum was slim. Hair curled into a bun below her left ear. A face full of freckles. Sharp features and equally sharp eyes. She looked comfortably in her fifties.

Kitt and the boys held their hands out to Ophelia. “Saw her fell and busted her arm. Couldn’t just leave her there.”

“Yeah,” said the other of the trio, “wouldn’t be right, right? You taught us better than that.”

Kitt’s Mum crossed her arms over her chest. She looked over the boys then to the older gentleman who leaned on the wall gnawing on a hangnail. He had stopped paying attention long ago.

She put a hand to her face and sighed. “Good grief. --All right. Since we’re all up. What’s the problem?”

Kitt lifted Ophelia’s arm before she could. “Swole all up.”

“Sure looks that way.” She moved across the room and stood before Ophelia. “Now, my only rule is that I have to see your face. Need to know who I’m talking to.”

Ophelia lower her head. “I’d prefer--”

“Under my roof and care, you have to t--” She started to push Ophelia’s hood back, but the first glimpse of white was all she needed. “Out.”

Kitt growled, “what?”

“Get her out, now.”

Ophelia stood and tried to leave, pulling her hood further over her face. She ducked behind the curtain and dumped herself into the back alley. Behind her the boys followed, even Kitt as he yelled.

“What’s wrong with ye, ya old bat? Ya said ya helped people.”

“Not her.”

“Hypocrite, ye are. All of ya, in a damned holy house, too.” Kitt literally spat on their floor. “How dare ye.”

“Out, and don’t come back!”

Ophelia tempered her breath. She held her swollen arm to her chest as it tightened. It had been some time since she had such a visceral reaction. It stung the same, every time, no matter the frequency.

The trio encircled her. “Don’t listen to her, she’s a crazy old coot.”

Kitt reached into his pocket and pulled out another rolled cigarette. “I can’t believe I trusted her. What a liar.” He snapped his fingers a couple times until he had a flame. Then he held it to the cigarette. Ophelia stared with wide-eyes. “Oh, shit,” Kitt gasped, “I wasn’t supposed to do that.”

The trio looked to Ophelia, waiting for a response, bracing to run if they had to, but she felt at ease for the first time. She held out her good hand and twirled it off the side of the stone. The magic crinkled from her fingers. Then the dark grey turned a brilliant moss and sprouted a little red-cap.

The trio gawked in disbelief. “You, too?” Ophelia nodded. “Wicked.”

The trio and Ophelia then moved down the street.

When they were out of sight, the Old Man squinted his eyes towards their direction.

“They gone,” said the Holy Woman.

“Dun look like Kitt will ever come back.”

She moved to the edge of the alley and poked a finger at the moss. She gagged and dragged the fingers across her robe. “Pluck it,” she ordered then turned back to her house.

The Old Man pulled a knife from his belt and scrapped the moss and mushroom from the wall. When it fell to the stone floor, he ground it under foot until it was nothing.

“Who was she?” He asked as he followed her back to the house.

“One of Goldie’s.”

“Want me to deal with her?”

“No,” the Holy Woman said as she moved to the wreath-covered bust in the parlor. “Not yet.”

“What of the children?”

“This is a holy place, not an orphanage. If they think themselves comfortable enough to walk about at night and demand things, then they are more than capable of fending for themselves.” The Holy Woman plucked a dead petal and crumbled it between her fingers. “If my son shows his face again, alert the priests. I’m sure they’ll find use of him.”

“Yes, mam,” the Old Man said as he slid his knife in the sheath beside a dagger.