"Well," I said to myself, "I've got a few hours to myself. What should I do?"

  I was standing in my room on a bright and wintry Sixthday morning with my hands on my hips, staring at the mirror at the plucky misfit girl that I saw there. For once I didn't need to charge straight into my plans immediately on waking. The first order of my business was the meeting with my new adventuring party, to introduce them all. And that doesn't start until noon, because having a meeting at an adventurer's pub before noon is not done.

  And since I'm not someone who can go back to bed to get a few more hours of sleep, on account of I'm never fully asleep, I might as well do something fun with my morning. Fun and violent and victorious.

  Truth told, I'm still riding high a little bit from the trouncing we took on the camogie field. That was a bitter and hard-fought defeat. We did bounce back, and there is still that weird wash of relief, but that doesn't mean that I don't wanna go pick a fight just to win it.

  My smile in the mirror was cheeky and wicked, I liked it. "I know just the lich," I said. And I teleported away.

  I stepped out again into Broghton, a city I've not been to for a few years. I only really know it from a few locations in the original game, like a refugee camp that hasn't been built yet, but also from a twelve-hour stakeout I did when I was planning an incredible Robin Hood bank heist. I came back to the exact spot I'd left from, a rooftop. My last sight of this place was the side of a vault exploding out and showering Grade Kralcit's money all over the Fifth Quarter of the city.

  That district was called that because originally Broghton was divided into quarters- meaning fourths. The High Quarter, the Artisan's Quarter, the Trade Quarter, and the Garrison District. The shantytown that grew up and trenched in and calcified and metastasized, that was not part of the original city plans. So, it's the Fifth Quarter.

  So I stood on that rooftop, with the same perspective, and the change of almost four years from now to then. For an instant, for a sliver of time I saw the overlay. The familiar shapes locked in and the memory was there, the silhouettes, the sounds- just a moment there was enough to remind me that I recalled everything. And then the differences slammed in like a frame cut.

  New construction. New buildings. The town walls extended outside of the Fifth now, watchtowers even further out. The sprawl of shoddy shacks all built off of each other like a coral reef was replaced by straight streets, high roofs, and chugging chimneys. The smell of the city was different, no undertone of filth and desperation when the wind was in the wrong direction.

  "What the fuck," I said. This was not the Broghton I knew. This city strongly resembled the one I knew, if I turned to face the Artisan's District or the High Quarter. But out towards the garrison?... Facing downhill from my elevated position, it was like a new city was built where I remembered a different one.

  Last time I was here, I couldn't fly. I lifted off the slate roof tiles and I went exploring.

  Paved roads, and I could pick out manhole covers, evidence of a working sewer system. The buildings were in good repair, each edifice showed pride in workmanship. But also thrift. Small plots of land behind the homes all seemed to show food gardens, neighborhoods had a communal stable for the use of a common coach, and windows were shuttered to keep the warmth inside rather than just feeding the fireplace more.

  And a repeated pattern. A white circle with two circles inside of it, yellow and blue. It showed up on murals on the side of a business, it was laid out in tiles in the plaza. The motif was not pervasive, but it struck me that I was seeing it at the rate of about once per block. Children's chalk on a sidewalk, and the shingle sign hanging outside of a pub.

  Seems like this is a day for pubs. I dropped out of the sky, straight down, and anyone who saw me must have decided their eyes were playing tricks on them. Even in a realm with magic, you just don't expect to see people landing from flight. I looked up at the sign, and in a proud filigree the name was proclaimed: The Golden Gift.

  More mysteries. I stepped inside. The interior was warm and lively, we were still in the breakfast hour and unlike those night owls at the Final Form, this was a public-house for a working neighborhood, and people needed breakfast. I could smell stew and a meat with a sizzling sear, a bit of onion and garlic. The lighting was cheery, the layout was spacious, the specials were posted on a chalkboard next to the main counter, and the conversations were quickly dimming from a roar. The place was rollicking and energetic until I walked in, and I could see each table in turn as the silence spread back. And of course everyone was staring at me. A wave moved through the crowd. Ahead of that wave, a bustling and lively community. Behind that wave, surprised silence, wide eyes.

  "Holy shit," someone singsonged, almost under their breath. Total shock. But as surprised as they were to see me, I was just as surprised at their surprise.

  I stared back at them all, and I walked over to the counter, between the tapster and the owner, who were also staring at me. I tried to make it look natural but with everyone's eyes pinned on me I felt like I was on stage. "Um," I said, trying not to carry too far. "How much for the stew? It smells lovely."

  The woman at the taps glanced at her boss. He glanced back at the kitchen window and then back at me, and took a few steps closer. The light in here was good, I could see every detail of his hard-lived face. Pox scars, and a split eyebrow. Childhood ailments and hardscrabble fights. "You look like her," he said, skeptical. "Are you her?"

  Ah.

  Well, own up to it. "I don't think anyone else looks like me," I said. I was dressed down for traveling, but I could still pluck my skirts and curtsy. "Lady Natalie Harigold."

  He nodded. "Thought so. Stew's on its way. Sit anywhere. Your money's no good here."

  "Why?"

  He was already turning away from me towards the kitchen, but he turned back with a look of pure incredulity. "Because it's your town, my lady. We've put your picture everywhere."

  Behind him was a mural eight feet high. A round white shape. And two circles side-by-side: one blue, one gold.

  My colors. My face.

  "The name of the pub," I said, and stalled out. Could not articulate my question.

  "You didn't stay around," he said. "But we remembered what you've done for us."

  "I'm very confused," I said.

  There were a hundred eyes on my back, but I did not want to turn around and see them directly. The murmur of conversation was picking up again, but it was different this time. Muted. Awed.

  The owner of the tavern glanced over at someone over my shoulder. "Genry. Bring a stool 'round for the lady."

  Hearstwhile public houses are not American dive bars. Sitting at the bar counter is typically frowned upon. It's a working surface, not an elbow-rest, and there's plenty of tables to go around.

  There was a pouring sound at my left, and I glanced to the tapster filling glasses for the waitress that stood by with a tray. The waitress was staring at me, and her free hand went up to her cheek. I flushed and broke eye contact.

  "None of us spoke to you when you were here before," the pox-scarred bartender said. "Never knew you were here until the broadsheets said. Just a big damn boom, and money falling out of the sky. Gold coats, almost all of it. Rooftops and gutters alike."

  A bar stool was set down next to me without a word, and self-consciously I took a seat. The room seemed to relax around and behind me. "The vault," I said. Kralcit's money.

  "Saved thousands of lives right away, you did. And thousands more after that since. And those lives... they're not mean and meager anymore, my lady," he said. He paused, and under his stern chin his throat worked, Adam's apple bobbing. The man with the scars and the rough-and-tumble childhood was choking up a little. "Children get medicine now, my lady."

  "How?" I said. "I didn't- I just assumed that the smart ones would take the money and start a new life somewhere. That the landlords would fleece it all out of you."

  "The land- oh," he said. A bell dinged behind him. He turned, took a bowl of stew off the window, and turned to hand it to me. He surreptitiously washed a spoon in a tub in front of him, and then rinsed soap away and dried it before handing it to me. He looked a little apologetic about that. "Sorry 'bout that. Normally we keep the tableware clean, except we've just had the breakfast rush. Anyway, 'bout a month before your gift of gold, the town passed a year-long rent freeze for all unincorporated spaces. That meant N- meant the Fifth Ward. Unincorporated spaces, is what they called us. That rent freeze was the terms for the new account bank opening up."

  "What?" I was confused.

  He looked frustrated, pacing forward and back a step. "It's- sorry, it's hard to start from the beginning." I started ladling stew to my mouth, and he calmed himself a bit. "All right. Was Autumnhigh, we lost our bank here. Skyback House pulled their representative out, so there was no more guaranty. Got hard to do business, merchants suffered. Fifth suffered most of all. For six months the only way to pay any bill was coins and clips, not an IOU or a credit line nowhere. Inconvenient if you're posh, beggin' your pardon my lady, but for those of us with mud in our living rooms, it meant that crime went sky-high. All your life savings is in your pocket, or in your shack in the hidden drawer. People getting robbed of their pockets, or break-ins just to find what there was... wasn't much to go around in the Fifth, and what there was all went to thieves and dealers. We were just about done."

  I stared at him, eyes wide. I had known that the Fifth was in bad shape, but I assumed it was ordinary poverty. Or, fuck, maybe that is ordinary poverty. I've been posh for fifteen years, I've forgotten a lot.

  "Pinking House brought in a baronet. Not enough to challenge the mayor for ownership, but enough to open a bank and negotiate terms. They demanded a year-long rent-freeze on all properties, including improvements. The mayor and his bunch, they laughed about it and signed. Pinking started backing credit lines, business gets back to normal. Fifth was slowly mending. They sent kids 'round, urging everyone to head to the baronet's, and sign up a bank account. Even if you had nothing, they wanted your name in the ledger, with a copy of your signed hand. Some of us went to made deposits, some of us went 'cause we were curious. Me, I went to get out of the rain for an hour. They gave me warm tea and let me dry off with a towel. The landlords, they doubled the rents, to 'anticipate rising costs over the next year', they said. Mostly just retribution for the rent freeze."

  I started to get a new understanding of all these eyes on my back. I stayed silent. The room was returning to normal volume, but the tone still wasn't right.

  The owner stepped to the side, took a handful of copper coins and chits from a waitress and added them to his till, then jotted something in a ledger and sent her off with a nod. More drinks pouring to my left, some water and some child's-beer.

  He turned back to face me direct, and his eyes pierced. "And then money came falling like rain, right where we needed it. We had gold, my lady. Some of us have five or six coins of it. And we had bank accounts. We ran to the baronet, and his door was open, and they were taking deposits and marking our new balances. My rent then was six coops a month, and it was frozen there. I had enough to pay my whole next year, and five silver keys after that. So we fixed things. Built stuff. Pinking helped with the exchanges, brought in their own construction teams."

  I whistled. "They did this construction? They did good work."

  He smirked. "Now, the cynical types of us, they say that Pinking made a great deal of money. Pretty much every coin that you sent us went straight to their bank, and from their bank to their construction company. Be that as it may, shacks went down and houses went up. With windows, my lady, and chimneys- brick chimneys, not a pipe. We laid streets, we dug wells, we built, spending the money you rained down on us."

  The man turned, looked at the mural behind him. White circle, blue-and-gold eyes. Hand on his heart. Then he looked back at me. "By Summerhigh, Newtown looked like you see it. But we were scared. Just three months and the landlords would be able to charge whatever they wanted. But they knew something we didn't know. We weren't landowners, we didn't know how it worked. Gods, I remember the fear that summer. The fear that we had something to lose, and we'd lose it all. But the poshes, begging your ladyship's pardon, they were more scared than we were. They tried to send thugs to burn buildings down, but it didn't work, because there wasn't any more thugs in Broghton. The old thugs were the new shopkeepers and barbers and gardeners."

  He grinned fiercely. "And then with the harvest came the taxman. He had no care for us, my lady. We didn't own nothing. We were renting, recall. But that tax assessor, he strolled through the streets, and he jotted in his ledger, and the landlords sweated. Then he came to them, one after another, with the new land valuations for their property. And one after another they went bust. None of them had the cash to pay for all the new value we had added to Newtown. Pinking closed their accounts, and everyone that owned land in Newtown by Summerslow was penniless. The Pinkings handed him the coins that the merchants owed. With no accounts and no House to back them, busted merchants had nothing."

  "Right?" I prompted.

  "They lost the land titles," he said with satisfaction. "The legal entities that held our deeds were all dissolved, as it was said. So with no ownership-"

  "Adverse possession," I blurted out. "You were living there and paying, so with no legal challenge you all became owners of your own land!"

  "And we made improvements, that's also key," he said. "Pinking House made a fortune off of us. But we made a fortune off of them. The grubbers and slumlords have all slunk away. King gets his taxes paid happily every year. And... and you got sent to slammer." He paused, and rested his fists on the countertop, knuckles-down, and leaned on them, a slow flex of his arms like he was doing a pushup just to feel pressure against his knuckles. "You did what nobody could do, and you paid the price."

  I almost protested. I almost interrupted to say that I went to prison for murder, or more precisely I went for contempt of court. But-

  But I remembered the trial. I remembered the tone of voice, and I remembered how things were phrased. I remembered that when the charges were read to the judge I was a murderess, but when the charges were read to the jury of my peers- the barons, genteels, lords and ladies- they were focused on property damage, damage to public stability, economic progress, consumer confidence and the reputation of noble families. The jury was read my charges as if I was a threat to their way of life. And that was the truth of the matter. I was sent to prison because I pissed off the High Council and the Houses that control it. They wanted me gone for three years. They did not give a tinker's damn about the dozens of people I'd killed- all commoners. They were angry about the disruption of commerce.

  They can list the charges as murder, but everyone knows that what I did wrong to get sent away, was to endanger the flow of profits and to scare them that their own savings accounts could get stolen. I had to be made an example so nobody else would steal from the banks.

  The murders in Byeview and Port Noit, that was the pretext for my incarceration. But Broghton was the reason.

  And at the crux, that's what matters here. Pinking House had laid the groundwork and handled the follow-through, they had opened banks and brought in construction teams. But I had helped, and I had suffered for it. You cannot be a patron saint unless you suffer. A saint must be martyred. So when I rescued them and was imprisoned for it, I became the saintess. And Pinking House got rich.

  "And now," he said, smiling like a second sun with scars, "you're back." He was staring at the returning saint, salvation walking among the people once more.

  I choked up, touched. I was able to hold his eyes, but I could not speak. He nodded to me, and went back to his business, food for coin, making change. Gave me some space, let me process it.

  I stared at the mural, the same image all over the district. He noticed me looking, and chuckled. "None of us here ever saw you in person," he added. "We read about your trial. They described you. Most of it was hard to draw, only woodcut pictures to work from, and we never got copies of your portraits. But they told us this: you were all white from your hair to your collar, with one eye blue and one eye gold. We could draw that. And in the shape of coins, circles all. It was money you used to save our lives, coins were how you helped."

  His eyes flicked over my shoulder. "And, beggin' your pardon again, my lady, but if you're done with breakfast, it appears a line has formed outside my door, and they seem to want a moment of your time."

  Tentatively, I glanced back over my shoulder, and saw that there was a middle-aged lady with a flower-laden hat standing a polite distance away, with her purse held in both shaking hands. She was staring at me worshipfully. Behind her a bent-backed old man with his hat in his hand, and the same gaze. Behind him a plump young lady with four children gathered in her arms. And the line did stretch out the door.

  See, this is why I love leaving Hearstcliff.

  I turned on my stool, and stood. The woman with the flower hat curtsied, and I returned the gesture, and she approached me. The men at the table nearest me stood, raggedly, first one then all. Seconds later every chair in the room was pushed back, and waves of men and women stood for me. Silent, unspeaking, a vigil. And as a ragged, unrehearsed movement that spread across them, they bowed and dipped towards me. I curtsied back, my eyes lowered, and we all stood. A solemn, respectful gesture. I was overwhelmed by their gratitude. They looked at me like a hero or a patron saint.

  Well, I'm going to have to come back here and sit for a portrait, that's for damn sure. The three-circle symbol is iconic and meaningful, but I want them to see me as I was here. Proof that I came back.

  The woman in the flower hat stood before me, shivering where she stood, and began to tell me her story. She stammered through it, telling me about being raised in Bander and moving to Broghton when she got married, and about the failed business and the poverty. What it was like, living in the Fifth Quarter. Things she'd seen, things she had gone without, things she had given up on ever seeing again. Until a miracle rained gold over her shack. Her voice quavered helplessly, but she could not explain her gratitude until I understood everything I had done for her. She could not thank me fully until I knew what I had saved her from. And with effusive thanks, she blushed and excused herself, making room for the next.

  After the bent-backed man had proffered his thanks and his regrets, I took a moment to glance back at the owner of the Golden Gift. "I- I really really hate to say this, but I have an appointment in Hearstcliff at the seventh bell..."

  He nodded and gave a wry smile at my predicament. "I'll send a girl down the line to tell folk. It might be easier if I could tell them when you'd be back?..."

  I winced. Next weekend was the temple run, and after that was Spring Fashion Week, and after that I had blocked out a day with Larianne. These were promises made, and I would keep them. "I didn't know... I couldn't.. Springebb. Every Sixthday of Springebb, dawn to dusk. I could rent a room in your-"

  "Your money's not gonna be any good here in Springebb, either," he said. "I've got dining rooms, you can have one of those. And.. we don't like that word here. Nothing in Newtown is for rent."

  I turned to the next woman in line, and got to meet all four of her children, all of them born after she could afford doctors.

  Funny thing is, I forgot that I had originally come to Broghton to kill that damn lich again.