Welcome to Ashford Row
PARLOR TRICKS # 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
SMOKE & MIRRORS # 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
Between Tricks
Something had slipped out of place beneath the streets of Ashford Row.
Patrons still drifted between storefronts. Conversations carried across the sidewalks. Yet Arthur could feel the tension in the way heads turned. In the way strangers lingered beside one another a little too long. The city had begun noticing the shift, even if nobody could yet put it to words.
Arthur walked through it in silence. His pace never faltered, though it lacked its usual familiar cadence. Susan followed half a step behind. Neither spoke.
The Marginalia bookstore lay several streets behind them. The events that had unfolded there trailed after Arthur’s footsteps like a specter. Eleanor was gone. Again. All that remained were the consequences of his pursuit.
The reconciliation archives had fallen, releasing a backlog of souls that had never quite fit within the machinery of purgatory. Now the disruption was visible everywhere. More people occupied Ashford Row than should have been possible. Arthur noticed unfamiliar faces standing beneath awnings and sitting on benches. Some appeared confused. Others looked relieved. A few seemed quietly terrified. All of them had come from the backlog.
One man stood in the middle of the square staring at the clocktower as tears streamed down his face. A woman nearby was laughing and crying simultaneously while clutching the hand of an elderly gentleman who looked equally bewildered.
Arthur kept walking. The city was changing around him, but he barely noticed. Eleanor’s face occupied every available corner of his thoughts. The way she laughed. The way she tilted her head when considering a difficult question. The way she had looked at him in the moments before everything had gone wrong all those years ago.
Then the way she had looked at him again today. For a moment. Only a moment. Long enough to lose her a second time.
“Arthur.”
He did not respond.
“Arthur.” Susan’s voice cut through the fog.
He continued walking. Ahead, familiar brickwork emerged between neighboring storefronts. His shop. The sign that read Mercer & Co. in gold leaf, swinging gently overhead. Arthur climbed the steps. Before he reached the door, someone called out.
“Mr. Mercer,” said the woman. She stood several yards away. Middle-aged. Nervous. Her hands twisted together. “Can you help us?”
Arthur stared at her. Mrs. Bunter. Two blocks down. Standing before him now, she gestured toward a nearby bench where a young man sat. He looked twenty years old. Thin. Pale. Frightened. The woman swallowed. “He says he’s my brother.” She looked back at the young man. “He died before I was born.” Silence settled. The young man looked down at his hands. The woman’s eyes shone with uncertainty. “I don’t know what to do.”
Arthur looked at them. Then he looked away. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” It was all he had.
The woman seemed to deflate. Arthur turned and entered the shop, the bell above the door chiming softly as if it were any other day. Susan followed. A moment later he heard the deadbolt click home behind them. Susan and her precautions.
The familiar smell of paper, dust, and old wood greeted them. Arthur barely noticed. He moved deeper into the shop, past display cases, past shelves crowded with curiosities. Past the worktable near the back. His thoughts remained somewhere else entirely. At the counter he stopped and placed both hands upon the worn wood. He stared downward, and the silence stretched.
Susan waited. Arthur said nothing. Outside, faint sounds drifted through the windows. Voices. Footsteps. The distant pulse of a city struggling to understand itself. Still nothing. Arthur remained motionless.
Susan folded her arms. “What is the plan?”
Arthur did not answer. He continued staring at the counter. A minute passed. Then another.
“Hey,” she said, snapping her fingers at him. “This isn’t the time to check out. What are we going to do?”
Arthur’s shoulders shifted. “I don’t know.”
The admission hung heavier in the air than the silence had. Susan blinked. “Well. That’s concerning.” She exhaled sharply. “We are responsible for this. We have to do something.”
The words landed. Arthur’s fingers tightened against the countertop. Susan pressed on.
“We broke into the archives, Arthur. We released whatever was trapped in there. Whether the Ledger Warden deserved it or not doesn’t really matter right now.”
Arthur closed his eyes. Outside, a carriage rolled past. Somewhere nearby, somebody shouted. The city continued changing.
Susan stepped closer. “We may not have a plan.” She gestured toward the window. “But we have to help. There are a lot of scared souls out there. We need to do something.” Susan pointed a finger toward him. “If we don’t have a plan, then we need to get one.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. The room fell quiet. Something else shifted, this time inside. A small movement within Arthur’s thoughts. The first clear thought he had experienced since Eleanor vanished. Susan was right. They did not have a plan. More importantly, they did not understand the problem. Perhaps the city was breaking. Maybe it could be repaired. Maybe it was threading apart and their only salvation was departure.
Information first. Then decisions. Then action. The old rhythm returned, slowly and painfully, and Arthur opened his eyes. The grief remained. The hollow ache remained. Nothing about Eleanor’s loss had changed. Yet for the first time since the street outside the bookshop, he found himself looking at something other than the past.
Susan kept her eyes on him but said nothing as he pushed away from the counter. His gaze settled on the velvet curtain at the back of the shop. Without a word, he crossed the room and brushed it aside.
The air beyond was cooler. The familiar scent of metal, old oil, and faint ozone greeted him as the curtain fell closed behind his shoulders. Cabinets lined the walls, each etched with wards so subtle they resembled decorative flourishes. Drawers bearing Arthur’s precise labels disappeared into shadow. Binding. Consecrated. Do Not Open During Storms.
Susan remained in the front room, listening as drawers slid open one after another.
Arthur worked without hesitation. A length of faded red twine disappeared into one pocket. Next came a brass compass whose wandering needle had never once pointed north. A tuning fork wrapped carefully in linen, and then a notebook bound in cracked black leather, its pages crowded with observations gathered over decades.
His hand paused over several other objects before settling upon a tarnished brass key with no teeth at all. He turned it once between his fingers, as though weighing an old habit, before slipping it into his coat.
Finally, he reached for his cane. His hand found only empty space. Arthur stared at the vacant stand for a long moment before the memory returned. The crack of splintering wood. The broken pieces scattered across the cobblestones outside. The Marginalia. Eleanor. His hand lowered. Without a word, he crossed the room to a corner where another cane leaned against the wall. Simpler. Less worn. A spare kept for practical reasons rather than sentiment. He lifted it, testing its weight in his hand. Not his cane. But it would do.
When Arthur emerged through the curtain again, Susan studied the growing collection tucked into his pockets. “I take it you’ve decided to stop staring at the counter.”
Arthur settled his hat onto his head and crossed toward the door. He unlocked the deadbolt. “Come on.” A hint of purpose returned to his expression. “We’re taking a walk.”
Susan recognized the look. “What are you thinking?”
Arthur’s hand went to the door handle as he contemplated the city beyond. Questions waited. Somewhere in Ashford Row, someone would know what happens when the machinery of the afterlife breaks down. “I’m thinking we don’t know what’s happening.”
“That’s hardly a revelation.”
“No,” He opened the door, letting afternoon air drift inside. “It’s a diagnosis. Now we can begin.”