Lizzie was late to work the next day. It wasn’t her fault, not exactly. She had been met in the morning with disapproving glances from her mother, who had clearly heard a series of one-sided suspicions about her activities from he father over the night. Lizzie had stormed out before things could turn into a full-blown argument. 

Several blocks later it occurred to her that she had planned on bringing in a new supply of dried pippali from her guerilla greenhouse that morning. There was an order supposed to go out that morning containing it to the quarters and she would rather risk being late to work than shorting a supply order from a toff.

Half an hour in delay was enough for the rest of her day to fall apart though. The bell rang too loudly in the silent shop as Lizzie let herself in the front door. Greta must have been in the back, and Lizzie wondered if she’d avoiding any repercussions for tardiness.

“You’re late.” The voice that hollered at her from the back of the building was scratchy and discordant. The sort of noise you’d expect to hear from an alleycat who’d had a brick thrown at it and not the stout, tall woman who came matter-of-factly around the corner, wiping eternally dirt-stained hands on a brown homespun apron. She took the canvas sack Lizzie handed her along with an apology, and began sorting herbs out onto the counter then and there.

After a moment waiting for a further punishment to descend and finding herself still standing, metaphorically, Lizzie began to sidestep her way around the herbalist to gather her parcels for delivery. Greta still remained blissfully silent at her maneuvering. 

She disliked high delivery day more than all the others. The interrogations at the gates crossing the levies from the wards to the quarters was humiliating. The people in the quarters either gave her dirty looks or worse pretended she didn’t exist. Most of the toffs she delivered to, them and their servants who she saw more often than not, treated her like she was simple too. It was if the snootiness of the upper crust were the thing holding them out of the mud with the rest of the people of the world. That and their magic, leastways. 

There were thirteen orders to deliver that day, and Lizzie that was a good number for it. There was a ring of finality to it and that reassured her for no concrete reason. On top of that, most of the orders were smaller ones, or at least smaller packages, which could be some of their most expensive work. She wouldn’t need the cart at least, that made her feel like a horse and she detested how it kept her confined to traffic and the streets proper.

“There’s another order came in this morning,” Greta’s great voice said over her shoulder. Lizzie jumped as the herbalist handed her back the pippali for one of the orders, this time wrapped up and sealed, with its special handling paperwork affixed to it with larger and official stamp of wax. Lizzie nestled it into its correct place in the orders.

Her heart sunk at the news. “How bad is it?” She asked, unfiltered and on edge. She hadn’t seen a runner delivering anything on her way in.

Greta “hmm”d at her. “Be glad enough it got here afore you did. It’s worth four weeks your pay.” 

Lizzie wavered between feeling relieved that this was the reason she hadn’t faced a more stern punishment, and visions of the cart as she wondered what the order’s contents were. Late as she was, she’d be able to deliver the order today as well, but its cost might mean a lot of cheap items or something bulky. 

Greta had passed Lizzie by and returned from the back of the shop with a small wrapped parcel under one arm. When she set it down on Lizzie’s pile, the array of permit papers and their ribbon attached seals on top of the parcel almost obscured its entire surface. 

Lizzie found the order slip and flipped it over on its ribbon to look at the contents. Nightshade, monkshood, dried coca leaves, snakeroot milk, jequirity beans, dried oleander leaves… Lizzie gave up finishing the list and stared at Greta. 

“Is someone planning on wiping out the quarter’s population?” Not that she would have minded, at least as a general concept, but the diversity of toxins in the package was ridiculous. The first thought of her suspicious mind was that someone had placed their order with Greta in an attempt to divert blame for a future action onto the inhabitants of the wards. It turned her stomach. 

Greta just shrugged. “It’s marked for the university,” she said, the whole of her explaination, and pushed aside several more permits to reveal the address on the parcel paper. It was addressed to the Dean of Thaumaturgic Studies, Wesley Hall, Acquitaillas University, Millston Quarter. That made slightly more sense, but it still left Lizzie feeling uneasy about the package. 

“I can’t believe you took this order.”

“Came in by ‘graph first thing,” Greta said. “From the Hill itself. You’d’ve got it if you were here on time.” 

Lizzie still hesitated. The Hill usually placed their orders through sources more in league with the University. Most of the time they could get what they needed through their own greenhouses or botany students. A hint of a memory from one of the books she’d read made her think they didn’t condone growing every one of these herbs on the university’s grounds, however. It made her frown, but there was a sliver of reassurance in that thought. There was a chance this wasn’t the doom she considered it to otherwise be. 

“Fine,” she grumbled, adding the package carefully to the bottom of her delivery basket. “If I hang for this it’s on your head.” It wasn’t the first time she made that sort of comment and it didn’t strike her as an odd thing to say, just a mean one.

“Don’t joke like that,” Greta said, her voice oddly quiet. 

“What’s the matter?” Something was, Lizzie could tell from the woman’s face. Greta shook her head.

“Best get on with your rounds. You ought to take the second gate today.” It was fine advice if there were to be crowds on the main market thoroughfares. 

Lizzie hadn’t heard of anything taking place. That was two odd things her boss had said in a row. She wasn’t much a believer in portents but this was a bit much. The lingering look of worry on Greta’s face was enough to tip her over the map’s edge of worry. 

“Who is it” She didn’t need to say anything more, Greta knew she’d figured it out. 

“Some guy from the Fourth Ward. Caught making spell satchels out of crab shells from the fisheries discards.” Her face hardened back into its business-like demeanor. “Hanging’s in half a bell, you might want to hurry before traffic starts up again.”

It was practical advice. Lizzie did want to beat traffic at that. She couldn’t get the news out of her head as she double checked her delivery basket and swung it up onto her shoulders. Her delivery papers went into her purse inside the fold of her blouse as did her passport. She’d need both to get into the upper quarters, along with a bit of luck. She hoped that the stench of fish from the wards wouldn’t cling to her and impede her passage today. 

Still the thoughts of the impending hanging lingered in her mind. If a man was hanged in her ward, the Third Ward, the market streets surrounding Franchen Square was the place to do it. If the man was from the Forth Ward it might have been the reason Lizzie hadn’t heard of it before now. Or it was the reason her parent’s had been unduly agitated over the past day. 

It didn’t make a difference to her occupation though. It couldn’t afford to. She thought she could hear the roaring of a crowd as she made her way out of the herbry front and towards the levy walls separating the quarters from the wards.