The crowd dispersed unevenly after the boy collapsed, but the echo of their whispers clung to the air like damp fog. Cups clattered against cobblestones, some shattered underfoot, others still clenched tightly as though the wood or clay might yet bleed a face. The canals rippled faintly, but no new visage surfaced. Still, the citizens lingered. Their eyes burned with hunger, not for bread or coin, but for masks.
Seraphine guided me away from the bank, her iron arm stiff from strain, her other hand firm on my shoulder. "Don't look back," she muttered. "If you give them a glance, they'll think you're giving permission."
But I couldn't help it. I looked. The boy lay still, chest rising shallowly. His own face remained, streaked with tears, but around him citizens pressed cups to the water again and again, desperate. Their lips moved with mutters of hope, of prayer. "Give me a face. Give me anything but mine."
The Ledger burned against my ribs, forcing itself open:
Phenomenon: Whispers in Broken Cups.
Nature: Fragments of reflection cling to vessels. Witnesses hear promises.
Directive: Contain whispers before contagion spreads.
I rasped, voice breaking like splintered glass: "Not finished."
Seraphine scowled, steam venting from her arm. "It never is."
We returned to the counting-house, the satchel still heavy with lingering dust from the shattered saint's mask. On the table, broken shards of clay and wood lay scattered—cups taken from citizens we had torn away in our flight. They vibrated faintly, emitting whispers that crawled under the skin.
I leaned close. A clay shard whispered Aurelius' name. A splinter of wood hissed my own voice, urging: "Drink, drink, drink." Another piece rattled with a child's sob, pleading for another life to wear. Each fragment carried a promise, a temptation.
The Ledger wrote furiously across its pages:
Options:
Grind shards to dust. Cost: One marrow beat each.Seal by confession. Cost: One truth per shard.Let them whisper. Cost: Contagion spreads. New debtor rises.
I swayed, the weight of the choices crushing. My marrow was already ash. My voice was nearly gone. To confess again risked collapse. To grind them demanded beats I no longer had. But if left unchecked… the city would wear nothing but stolen faces.
Seraphine smashed one shard beneath her iron hand. It cracked, releasing a hiss that smelled of brine and rot. Her lips curled in disgust. "I'll do it. I'll break them all."
The Ledger shuddered violently, words carving themselves into the air: Not hers. The balance is yours.
I coughed black, silence tearing through me. "It… wants me."
Her eyes blazed, fury and grief entwined. "It's killing you, Varrow. And you let it. Every damn time."
We argued until the fire died low, shadows deepening across the counting-house. Outside, footsteps shuffled. Citizens lingered beyond the walls, muttering, their voices cracked from thirst for masks. Some rattled the shutters, others pressed broken cups against the wood as if trying to catch echoes leaking through. Their whispers wove together into a chant: "Faces, faces, faces."
I pressed the Ledger against the shards. My candle-mark flared weakly, its light guttering like the last flame in a storm. I offered no confession this time. Instead, I burned marrow, one beat for each shard, until pain hollowed me to the edge of collapse. The shards screamed, splitting into dust. The whispers cut off. Only silence remained.
The Ledger scrawled its verdict:
Whispers severed. Balance partial.
Cost: Four marrow beats. Bearer lifespan thinned to breaking.
I collapsed across the table, breath shallow, body trembling. Seraphine caught me again, lowering me gently to the floor. Her iron arm hissed, her human hand gripping mine fiercely. "You're not going to last. If the city wants a saint, it's making one from your bones."
The Ledger pulsed faintly, ink curling in cruel response:
Curtain shifts. Role chosen.
—End of Chapter 34—