John Marney was dead. And thank all the gods and goddesses for that.

It was the only faint ray of cheer Eben could find on that dreary December morning, though all the bells were ringing and the scent of spiced ale drifted through the streets like Yuletide itself had been diffused in the air. Men lifted their hats to strangers, and women smiled as they bustled past with laden market baskets.

Truly, it was vile. But at least, Eben was quite certain, John Marney was dead. He had watched the coffin lowered two days before. He’d also slipped a shilling to the priest in attendance at the goddess Tilthe’s sanctuary to give him a moment alone with the deceased to grieve. And if he’d taken the opportunity to surreptitiously peek inside that coffin, well, who could blame him? If anyone was capable of pretending to be dead in order to cheat his way out of his debts, it was Marney.

But he was very, very dead.

Eben cursed under his breath as he veered around a cluster of cheerful young women admiring the new ribbons they’d purchased, sidestepped to avoid the young man eyeing the young women, and then — cursed again. There was nowhere else he could go, no convenient alleys to duck down, and coming up the street just before him were Carter and Forsythe, the two most obnoxious directors of the Association for Charitable Merchants. Eben dressed as conservatively as any of them, and lived far more quietly, but he was some two or three decades younger than most — and they treated him as such, with condescension that made his teeth grind.

“Sypeman!” Carter called out, with joviality stretched almost to its breaking point. “What a lucky happenstance! We had meant to call upon you in the course of the morning.”

Of course they had. “I fear I have a great many matters requiring my attention today, gentlemen,” Eben said, with a perfunctory touch to his hat. “I beg you will excuse me.”

But the walkway was too narrow, and a passing cart prevented him from stepping into the street. Eben was trapped. He stopped, perforce, and Carter cut him off to one side, his jowls split in a toothy smile and his drooping gray mustache wobbling, while Forsythe hemmed him in on the other. Forsythe’s ample paunch made squeezing past him quite impossible. If he gave half the roly-poly puddings he ate to the poor of the city instead, likely both they and Forsythe would be the better for it.

“Surely your clerk can settle matters in your absence,” Forsythe said, his soothing tone grating on every one of Eben’s nerves. “Or better yet, let them wait a week. It’s only two days until Yule!”

“Bah, humbug,” Eben muttered. “Yule’s another day. Work that needs doing won’t disappear simply because everyone’s swilled too much punch to attend to it.”

“Well, well,” Carter interjected. “That’s as may be.” He shot a glance at his companion, as if to say, Don’t bother arguing with him, he’s hopeless. “But surely you have a moment to contribute to our noble cause. Ten guineas is what we’ve been asking from others in the neighborhood.”

The headache massing its forces in Eben’s temples chose that instant to stage an attack, and he swayed a little from the strength of it. He had a moment, yes. Barely. But the desired contribution itself? Not likely. If Marney had been alive, Eben might have tried to choke it out of him. He almost — almost — wished he could.

“I need to earn my guineas rather than fritter them away,” Eben snarled, his heart pounding. Forsythe took a quick, startled step back, and Carter opened his mouth, his eyes already wide. “Now excuse me. I must be getting on.”

Eben pushed through the gap left by Forsythe’s movement and all but ran down the street, a small chorus of “I say!” and “Well, I never!” echoing in his wake.

The chill air rasped in his lungs as he hurried down the last few feet of the walkway between him and his office, and his head began to spin. Not now, not now, not now, although of course it would be now, and always when there was anything resembling an argument…the moment he reached the narrow staircase that led up to his office, he ducked within and slumped against the wall, not quite out of sight of passersby, but at least concealed by the shadow of the doorway.

A long breath in, and a long breath out. Another. And another, as he forced his clawed fingers to uncurl and the ringing in his ears to quiet. At last he was able to push off the wall and make his way upstairs.

The door at the top bore a small brass plaque inscribed with Marney & Sypeman, Importers. Eben pushed it open and stepped through into the office’s outer room, a space just large enough to hold desks for one partner and one clerk, with a small open area of bare, splintered floorboards in the middle and a few cabinets and shelves against the walls. There was one large window, and it was letting in just enough light to show the room’s shabbiness and make it feel even less welcoming than it might have been in the dark. Another narrow door led to Marney’s former office, a cramped and musty den packed with decades of moldering papers.

Bob Pratchett already sat behind his desk, bundled in what looked to be a whole wardrobe’s worth of patched and threadbare coats. The little brazier by his desk held a pitiful single coal in the process of glowing its last. Eben knew Pratchett would have already lit the brazier by his own desk, filling it with rather more coal, but still not much. Marney had tutted and frowned at the profligacy of staying sufficiently warm to feel one’s fingers and toes, and Eben, the junior partner, had swallowed his annoyance in the interest of keeping the peace.

Now he was glad of it. Pratchett was accustomed to working under a skinflint, and so Eben could avoid discussing the reality: that more coal would not be forthcoming, and that Pratchett’s continued employment itself was far from guaranteed.

“Good morning, sir,” Pratchett said thickly, and then buried his face in his sleeve to muffle a cough.

Eben crossed quickly to his own desk. He knew the fellow couldn’t help it, but Eben could all but see the contagion spreading in his direction, like a predator stalking its prey. “Pratchett. Cold in the head?”

Pray to any goddess listening it was nothing worse. Eben fought the urge to pull out his handkerchief and tie it around his face.

“Yes, sir, the whole family’s suffering from it, save for my boy Timmy. And if the lad did catch it, he’d still be taking care of his mother and sisters and brothers as much as if he were well and whole, bless him—”

Eben turned his attention to the correspondence stacked on his desk. Goddess, but he wished he could tell Pratchett to spend more energy on his work and less on blathering. If he didn’t find a way to cut Pratchett off quickly, he could go on for hours. Good goddess, as if anyone cared about Timmy’s many dull virtues, nor his physical suffering, aside from his doting parents. Eben never intended to become a father, if for no other reason than to retain his intellect and sense of proportion. His utter lack of interest in women thankfully made the resolution easy enough to keep.

Pratchett stammered to a halt after a few more long sentences, finally noticing Eben’s inattention. A short pause followed. “Sorry, sir,” Pratchett muttered. Eben waved a hand in his direction and sat, absorbed within moments in calculations of how many of his bills he could put off, and how much he could sell in the meantime. 

Not enough, was the short answer.

Eben flipped again to the first page of the ledger before him, resolving to examine each entry afresh. Something, something in these pages didn’t seem quite right, beyond the simple fact of there being far more debits than credits. There was something, if only he could focus his mind sufficiently to see it…