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hindered despite being so plain. Forgive my unkind honesty, but one sat as burdened as a heifer, while the other had the face of a horse - an old horse fed on lemons. We spoke little, those nameless girls and I, but we all knew the truth of the day. Following the coach of our chaperones, the three of us sat studying each other and exchanging the most cordial of pleasantries, Horseface, Heifer, and me - Plainface .
    The three of us wore similar dresses in the fashion of the time. They were all substantial, well covering, of rich fabric, and showed off a little of the curve of the hip and bosom - a taste if you like. White lace showed through in places as a symbol of our purity, but lay amidst the strong colour of the main body of each dress; mine a deep blue, Heifer’s an emerald green, and Horseface’s a brave violet that verged on burgundy. No one wore red; that would have sent out a whole new round of messages, none that our families were ready to associate with.
    The main streets of Ossard were cobbled, seeing our meandering ride towards the northern district in the late summer sun as one of lazy pleasure. Before long we were earning glances from men alongside the road, all flattering and good-natured. Our duties of maintaining fixed, polite, but disinterested smiles in response to their looks and whistles became a challenge in itself. The longer it lasted, the more we gave in to quiet giggles as the iciness between us melted.
    During our progress through Ossard’s streets another challenge brought itself to my attention; my undergarments were too tight. Some of the lacings felt as though they were cutting into me, a thing made worse by the constant rocking of the coach. I began rehearsing the conversation in my mind, the one that saw my mother scolding me for bleeding inside my dress. My reply would be that she shouldn’t have laced me up quite so strictly just to hide one of my more popular attributes with the gents, my breasts.
    The streets flew by, the buildings changing in nature from the stout stone buildings of the market quarter, all signed and well kept, to the less affluent districts that would never be as successful as those on the high ground and main streets. Here the buildings were predominantly wood, some little more than daub-and-cane.
    Horseface spoke, dragging me from my whimsy, “There was another kidnapping last night.”
    I paled.
    Heifer asked, “Where?”
    Horseface indicated a passing alley. “This district, another boy stolen from his bed.”
    Looking down the shadowed lane, a place lined with litter, occasional stalls, and a steady flow of residents, it seemed so unlikely. I asked, “Another Flet?”
    “Of course,” she said with exasperation.
    My father had said that the crowded slums, the most poorly governed districts of the city, were simply the logical place for such diabolical crimes. They were also home to the bulk of the Flet population, not just in Newbank, but also to a lesser degree in the low-lying districts on the Cassaro’s other side. It was just a matter of circumstance. Regardless, we all knew it would take the theft of a Heletian child before the city’s authorities took action.
    In a fading voice, Heifer said, “My nephew disappeared a week ago.”
    Had he been the redheaded boy?
    Horseface and I didn’t know what to say. Her words left me numb, but nonetheless I found myself reaching across to pat her knee. “The Guild’s looking to help, my father’s talked to Heinz Kurgar, its head.”
    Heifer nodded as she fought to hold onto her composure.
    Horseface thankfully changed the subject, putting on a mischievous grin, “Look, we’re in the port!”
    She was right, and we were all glad of it.
    We passed along the edge of the district, one side of the road spreading as a seemingly endless row of warehouses, while the other lay thick with taverns, hostels, and brothels. We were supposed to be ignorant of the latter so we tried not to stare, but still took our time