“Can I ask you something?” Grace asked as she buttoned Cheshire’s coat around her.

“Of course!” Cheshire replied, utterly devoid of the caution that should have been aroused by such a question. As far as he was concerned he was on top of the world, exhausted but happily so, Grace’s shawl draped over his shoulders like a badge of honor. It was likely a Godsend that there weren’t more people wandering the sidewalks by then, because he was sure he looked like a grinning fool. Not so different than normal, some might have said, but the last thing he wanted was to embarrass Grace in front of strangers.

Grace hooked her arm through his as they walked. “Was that your first time?”

Cheshire’s mind went white. He had no idea if he would be better served by a version of the truth or a lie, let alone could he think of either, let alone could he speak. They went for several steps in total silence, and it wasn’t until Grace gave his elbow a tug that he was able to recollect his scattered wits. “No!” he blurted out, and then laughed, which could have only thrown his answer into doubt. “No, of course not,” he recovered poorly. “Sorry, it’s just...hard to explain? I’m not sure if the last time...counted?”

Grace giggled, and normally the sound of it would have cured him of anything, but for the first time it only tangled his brain further. “It’s not that complicated,” she teased him. “Did you or didn’t you?”

“We, ah….” Cheshire gulped. All he could think about were hands, too many hands, gripping him from all sides, and he started to sweat. “We did. There were three of us, actually—it was kind of sudden.” He glanced to Grace hesitantly, and seeing her eyebrows arching made him blush all the way through his ears. “Honestly, I don’t even remember it that well,” he babbled. “It wasn’t my idea. You know, sometimes I think I might have dreamed the whole thing? I mean, I’m pretty sure it happened, but….”

He trailed off when Grace began to laugh. “Chesh, it’s okay,” she said, and he started to feel real relief until she added, “You can just say it was your first time. You don’t always have to make up stories.”

“I don’t make up stories,” Cheshire protested, rubbing his nose. His shoulders slackened even though he felt more uneasy than ever. “What about you? Was that…?”

Grace hummed like she was going to keep him in suspense but then surrendered the truth. “Nope, but only by one. Are you disappointed?”

“Should I be?” Cheshire realized a beat too late that she’d probably been expecting a different answer, but he was still frazzled, still thinking about fingerprints on his palms. “I mean, it wasn’t...bad...right…?”

She giggled at him some more. It was starting to sound like another language he had no hope of interpreting. “No, of course not.” She hugged his arm closer—that, at least, he understood. “You were...very gentle. I liked that.”

With her cheek pressed to his shoulder, Cheshire couldn’t hope to judge her sincerity from her face, but he did allow himself some hope. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Cheshire breathed a quiet sigh. At least if she thought he was a liar, she wouldn’t ask him again. “I’m glad.”

They reached Grace’s dormitory, and as they exchanged outerwear, Grace became a bit more serious. “Cheshire, please don’t tell anyone,” she said. “If it got back to my uncle….”

Cheshire had only met the ferociously protective Hans Overgaard once, and that was plenty for his liking. “I won’t,” he promised, but then he winced. “Well, Jakub knows. But you don’t have to worry about him—he’s no rat.”

“That boy has no music in him,” Grace said disapprovingly as she took hold of the rod iron fence surrounding the building. “I don’t understand why you spend so much time with him.”

“He’s got...uh, plenty of music...in him…?” Cheshire winced at himself as he laced his fingers, giving her a boost. “I don’t really know what that means, but Jakub is a good friend. Yeah.”

Grace hopped the fence, landing deftly on the other side. “If you say so.”

Cheshire took hold of the fence, and whatever doubts had plagued him during the trip, Grace covering his hands with hers cast them aside. “I’ll see you at the bar for my next song, right?” she asked. “I always sing better when you’re cheering for me.”

“I’ll be there.” Cheshire leaned down to kiss the back of her knuckles. “Don’t get in trouble.”

“Of course not.” Grace winked as she pulled away, and she hurried toward the dormitory quiet as a mouse. Cheshire waited until she was safely through an open first floor window before turning to leave.

The walk home was much quieter. Cheshire kept off the main streets, eager to stay out of the path of any late night coppers looking for a pair of jewelry thieves. He whistled for most of it, drifting between different melodies he’d heard Grace sing, just to keep his mind from wandering too far off. He hoped that by the time he arrived home he would be so tired he could fall asleep right away and not dream.

He was only three blocks away when he heard footsteps behind him, and a voice asked, “That you, Bloom?”

“Yes?” Cheshire turned toward him and was completely unprepared for the sucker punch that caught him full in the face.

Cheshire stumbled back, his glasses sent flying as he caught himself against a brick wall. Just one punch shouldn’t have hurt that much, but already his head was spinning. Someone was reaching for him, someone big. He threw a punch of his own but all he succeeded in doing was rattling his wrist, because the big man only faltered for a moment and there was more than one of him. Several pairs of hands grabbed him from all sides and dragged him around the corner, into an alley.

“Remember me?” the biggest of the three snarled, his fingers thick and strong like links of heavy chain as they twisted into Cheshire’s collar. “You know who I am?”

He slammed Cheshire’s back to the wall, knocking the air out of his lungs and ringing his bell all over again. The alley smeared dizzily; all Cheshire could make out was a pile of trash near the opposite wall. He reached for it as he’d been taught, picturing a fire roaring beneath the layers of refuse, but with his focus shattered the best he could do was shower his assailants with a burst of sizzling debris.

Two of the men jumped, cursing as they swatted the ash and cinders from their clothing, but not the biggest one. He grabbed Cheshire by the arm and swung him about, shoving him chest first to the wall and wrenching his elbow painfully. The brick scraped his cheek and jaw raw, but it wasn’t until he felt the flat press of a knife against his ear that real panic set in.

“Try that again,” the man growled as his pals returned, grabbing at his coat and hair to keep him still. “I’ll put this through your eye.”

Cheshire tried to squirm, but the grip on his arm only tightened. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go—there should have been a way out. He’d seen Jakub slip out of some uneven scuffles but for the life of him he couldn’t remember how.

The knife scraped across his cheek, until he could see a fuzzy hint of the blade in the corner of his eye. “Who are you?” he asked, barely daring to breathe. “I’m not—”

“Name’s Shane,” the big man said, but the name didn’t register until he carried on. “Shane Foley. You roughed up sum’a my boys a while back over some cigarettes. Remember now?”

Oh. Cheshire had been too excited over the score, and how pleased Jakub had been with the quality of the loot, to even remember much of the fight that had earned it. Hadn’t Barney said the river-side boys were too small and too stupid to make a fuss over cigarettes? “That was….” Cheshire took a deep breath, thinking maybe there was still a way to talk himself loose. “That was some fine quality tobacco.”

“Yeah, no shit it was,” said Foley. “Over a quarter a pack.”

“I’ll pay it back,” Cheshire said hurriedly. He even chuckled, out of habit. “This jacket is worth more than the lot twice over.”

“You think that’s funny?” Foley pulled the knife back, and Cheshire was foolishly optimistic about his chance until the fist crashed into his temple. The brick took a layer of skin off his nose, but it was the impact shuddering down his neck that made his entire body ache. Then the knife was back, digging into the side of his throat. The blade was dull, but he knew that would only make it that much worse when Foley put his arm into it.

“I heard a little rumor,” Foley said close to his ear, breath hot and foul. “All that firestarting you do, it burns you, too. Which is why you haven’t lit up my friend here, huh?” He tapped the knife against Cheshire’s throat. “That’s right, ain’t it? Say so.”

Cheshire gulped and felt the blade drag against his skin. “That’s...that’s right.”

“Which means I can cut you up good, and you can’t do a thing about it,” Foley continued, and Cheshire cringed. “I ain’t gonna kill you, okay?” He adjusted his grip on the knife so that the point jabbed Cheshire in the corner of his jaw. “You just hold still for a bit while I carve my twenty packs outta your hide. Then we’re even.”

“Wait,” Cheshire gasped, but the men only laughed, drowning him out. “Wait! I can just….” He shut up when he felt the tip break his skin. It was barely enough to draw blood, but he felt it, and desperation coursed all through him.

Anything? he remembered asking a pair of beautiful strangers, and they had smiled at him, promising, Yes. Anything.

Cheshire pressed his palm as flat as he could against Foley’s chest. Even through his panic he could feel the shape of the man, outlining the heart of him like lines of a charcoal sketch. He put a fire in him.

In an instant Foley was gone, but it wasn’t anything like Cheshire was used to. Safes, boxes, even cigarettes he’d incinerated with plumes of fire and ash; Foley split apart like overripe fruit. Flesh and bone disintegrated in a gush of formless blood that drenched Cheshire and his remaining assailants. The splash of it against his back was revolting, but worse was the rush of heat that came with it, as if the explosion he’d expected of his victim was igniting in his veins. His palms burned as if beneath an iron, his face stinging in jagged lines that he for a moment thought were Foley’s knife. But he was loose, and he leaned hard against the alley wall as he turned to see what he’d done.

There was nothing left of Foley but a gooey smear. His two cronies were soaked in it, and they looked to Cheshire with abject terror, the whites of their eyes grotesquely wide against the crimson coating them. Cheshire couldn’t breathe as their faces carved themselves into the inside of his skull. When one of them finally had wits enough to start to turn, Cheshire went tight with fresh panic.

It was easier, the second time. Both men exploded into slop, painting the alley floor. Cheshire watched each drop hit the ground, and as everything went quiet again, he turned away and vomited.

He’d always known it was possible. His youthful imagination had even supplied him with speculation a time or two, but nothing like this. The alley stank of blood and sulfur, only a few lumps among the stains any evidence of the men that had stood there only moments ago. Cheshire found himself trying to trace some kind of recognizable shape in the mess, and only then realized how clear his vision suddenly was. Without his glasses he shouldn’t have been able to make out anything in such dim lighting, but every inch was was piercing.

When he squeezed his eyes shut, he could feel fire against the inside of his eyelids. When he took a deep breath, he could taste it in the base of his throat. He looked down and found the red of his sigils gleaming even through his gloves, each ring and line a stinging brand that he could feel crossing his forehead, cheeks, and chin. He was lit up like a demon and at any moment someone could walk by and—

A sob clawed out of him, and he clapped his hand over his mouth to keep from making another sound. Without sparing one more glance for the blood he turned and fled.