This prison is rank with the stench of urine, shite, and the heavy odour of people's unwashed bodies. The first few rays of the morning sun are just peering into the window cell. It has been an entire night, and the smell doesn’t get any better. In fact, I think it actually gets worse, because at least three more wriggling bodies are thrown in cells during the course of the night in addition to those captured at the inn.

​

This is what being arrested smells like. The prison’s reputation for smelling fucking terrible is well-founded.

 

I stare at the fan circling over the desk of the guard Cop sitting and writing something. Every once in a while when the fan slows down the guard reaches up and tugs the length of wire or rope or something hanging down from the fan and it starts rotating again with renewed vigour. Each time he does this, he mutters colourfully under his breath in a deadpan tone. Like clockwork.

 

Some of the other inmates –the other people who’ve been taken in at the inn –occasionally call out to the guard, but they may as well be trying to communicate with a brick wall for all the attention he pays them. He only gives them any mind when they threaten to defecate right there in their cells. This coming from the women, just as well as the men.

​

Disgusting. It’s just –this whole place, it’s fucking disgusting. How the hell did I end up here?

​

As I stare at the fan, I pick at a scab on my thumb, ignoring the pinpricks of pain when I pull at the flayed skin too much. I glance down and see a needle-spot of blood well up. The skin on my thumb is ridged, like the waves of sand, pink and red, and the faint wind stirring in this cramped space stings the wound.

​

“Nice ring you’ve got there.” An amiable voice says behind me. I glance down at the ring I’ve been unconsciously worrying at. It’s plain silver, wrapped around my left forefinger, and on the inside is my name and family name engraved in elegant curling script. I look at the person who’s spoken.

 

Of course –who else’d it be? There’s no one else in this cell except him, and nobody as cheerful sounding –it’s Arrow sitting there, next to the rails of the cell door. His back is against the wall, head tilted back. The light falling in from the bulb outside our cell slits through the iron bars and throws little shadow lines across his face. His eyes look even more literally out-of-this-world than they’d been in the candlelight of the inn, staring right at me.

 

What I’d thought about them earlier is true, I learn as I continue look at him, at them. Him looking at me, with his head tilted just so, makes me feel like I am the only one left this world.

 

I really wish the guards didn't throw me into a cell with this almost-irresistibly attractive, complete stranger. What the hell happened to men in one cell, women in another? And why oh why do I have to notice he’s attractive? Why couldn’t I be like a nun, with the predisposed gene that prevents them from acknowledging beauty in any way whatsoever? Honestly, I feel robbed.

 

“Thanks.” I mutter, forcedly tearing my eyes away and looking down at the finger wound I’ve inflicted on myself.

 

“So who’s one the outside?” he asks. From my periphery I see him sitting up a little straighter.

 

“What?” The hell’s he on about?

 

“Haven’t any of the guards asked you who’s willing to come pick you up from this place?” he asks, sending me a quick smile.

There’s little up-lifts in the corners of his lips, and I see the faintness of a dimple on his stubble cheek.

 

“Yes.” I reply warily.

 

“So is it your mother, father, uncle, aunt...?”

 

“Why do you care?” I say, none to courteously.

 

“Well.” Arrow crosses his right ankle at the left knee, and lifts his arms over his head, using his hand as pillows as if he’s sitting on a beach with the sun pouring over him instead of in a stinking prison cell. “We’re both stuck in this abominable institution. I figure’d we could get to know each other.” He shrugs with his arms still held up. He looks remarkably at ease in that position, despite the current predicament. “Become acquaintances, if you will. Hi, my name is Nathan.”

 

Now I know his name. He gives it away so easily –freely, as if it were just some cheap thing that could be easily replaced. I’d never give mine away like that, not unless I trusted the other person enough to let them carry my name round in their minds.

 

I smile, lean forward and brace my elbows on my knees. I say in the sweetest voice manageable, “And what I figure is that we are complete strangers with the unfortunate luck of being stuck together for the next hour or so in this godforsaken hovel, so we should continue to remain complete strangers until we are released and never have to see each other again.”

​

He is entirely unaffected by my harsh words. “Come now, that’s not completely true, is it?” he grins rakishly. “You know my name.”

 

Who said I wanted to? “You don't know mine. So we are strangers, and that’s the way it’s t’remain until this nightmare is over.” I huff, leaning back and crossly folding my arms over my chest.

 

“Cheesed off, are we?” he remains unperturbed by my words. He lowers his hands and instead laces his fingers together over his stomach, continuing to look at –no, inspect –me with those damn eyes.

 

“I’ve got a right to be,” I retort heatedly. “It’s your fault I’m here in the first place.”

 

He screws up his eyes and looks up at the ceiling, giving off the appearance that he’s thinking deep about something. Then he looks at me, shakes his head and says, “Nope. I’ve wracked my brains and can’t seem to remember ever doing you that wrong.”

 

“You did me that wrong when you started that fight back at the inn.”

 

“If I recall correctly –and my memory is a sharp, fine thing, if I do say so myself –I was not the one who aimed and executed the first blow.”

 

“You provoked it.”

 

“I did no such thing.” He says, in a much offended voice that is clearly to mock me. “Martin is just a sore loser.”

 

Yeah, I think, remembering the Cops dragging a kicking and snarling Martin out of the inn. He’d gotten himself a bloody, broken nose. His hair stood on end as well, thanks to those electric batons. Fine, that’s fair.

​

I drag my wayward attention back to Nathan. “I beg to differ, but –” I start.

 

“Oi! Shut t’hell up in there!” the guard sitting at the desk looks over at Nathan and I with death’s glare lighting his eyes. He points his pen menacingly at us. “There’s far worse places to be in this prison, and I’ve a mind to dump yer miserable arses there if ye don't keep quiet!”

 

I press my lips tight together to keep myself from shouting back an angry rejoinder.

 

Nathan glances at me with his eyebrows raised. “He’s having a bad day, don't you think?”

 

“Oh, I bet.” I grumble under my breath.

 

I twist the ring round on my finger a couple of times, tapping my foot impatiently on the cold, damp cement floor and focusing my own death’s glare on one of the cell bars, on the opposite end of where Nathan is sitting. I don't want him thinking that I’m staring at him –he’s already got a big enough ego, I can see. He doesn’t need an ego-boost. I bet he’d be intolerable to his family then.

 

“Martin owed me money,” Nathan says after a little while, in a gentler voice than what I think is normal. For him, leastways. “From the last time we’d played. I gave him a deal –said I’d clear him of his debt if he’d beat me in best of three games.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?” I say, looking straight into his eyes.

 

“Just thought you’d like to know something of the truth before you go on judging someone you don't know.” He said, shrugging and looking back at the wall opposite him, effectively shutting off any ideas of carrying on a conversation with him.

 

I realize that I just wounded him, or some part of his pride, and a part of me is stunned to find I’m somewhat chastened at his words. I accused him of doing something that wasn’t really true, not completely, and he don't like that –clearly. He probably wants me to feel ashamed now, to go over to him and apologize for thinking oh so wrong of him. I am sorry –a bit. But I’m going to do any such thing. I’ve got my own pride.

 

But I do have to say something. I was taught that it’s better to swallow a morsel of your pride and acknowledge you’re in the wrong than remain silent and let the wound fester. Wars have been started over lesser crimes.

 

“Sorry,” I murmur quietly. “I just don't make a habit of getting arrested.”

 

Nathan blinks at me unbelievingly. “What, you’ve never been arrested before?”

 

I shake my head. “This is my first time. You been before?” even as I ask the question, I scold myself for it –I just threw a friendly line over at him, invited the conversation to keep going when that’s the last thing I want. Dammit.

 

Nathan smiles slowly, slyly, and a little tremor traipses down my spine. “A young girl’s initiation into society nowadays is to have a ball thrown for her, wear the finest silk dresses, the most dazzling bits of jewellery, and she gets to meet every suitor and every dame. A boy’s initiation into society is to get arrested and meet every scoundrel there is.”

 

What kind of world do you live in that that’s your idea of a girl’s initiation into society?

 

With eyebrows raised, I smile appreciatively and say, “That’s a cynically interesting analogy. What were you arrested for?”

 

“Well,” Nathan stands up and walks over to me, sitting down and gesturing with his hands. “They all sort of run together once you’ve hit the five-pointer mark, but –”

 

“You’ve been arrested more than once?” I quietly exclaim in shock, almost ignoring how close he’s decided to set himself next to me.

​

“There was that one time I picked some poor unsuspecting rich man’s pocket, but mostly it’s for being in too many gambling fights.” He rolls his hands dramatically, as if he is presenting something extraordinary to me. “As now.”

 

“But that’s all your doing.” I reply, frowning in confusion. It doesn’t make sense. “Why would anyone willingly want to come to a place like this?”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say willingly, but –”

 

Just then, we both hear footsteps, two of them by the sound of it. A female voice rings out, muffled by the layers of stone thanks to the prison cells being right under the bustle of the station above (hence the cold and damp), but still distinctly a woman’s voice, followed by a man’s.

 

The first person I see is a young girl, around my age of twenty, barely out of the soft youthfulness of maidenhood. She is dressed severely simply, in a plain navy blue dress, but I can see –even from a distance between us so great –that there is a certain quality to the clothes, a richness to the texture and the way the dress’ form fits to her slim body just so. Her hair is wheat blonde, with streaks of silver-white jetting through the strands, and her eyes are a light green, or blue. I can't really tell.

 

Her hair’s done up in a fishtail braid hanging down over her right shoulder. Her posture and countenance, as she walks towards the guard sitting at the desk, is straight and her face is carefully arranged to be devoid of most emotion, although the disgust at the awful stench in here is easy to see.

 

Walking in behind the Lady (for sure, she’s a Lady –there ain’t no doubt about that) is Michael, with his limping right leg, using an ebony cane as a substitute for his leg. His hair is different shades of brown, alternating between almost blonde to almost black. His lips are set in a firm, unyielding line as his eyes seek mine.

 

Guilt plaguing me stomach, I mouth ‘I’m sorry’ to him and he nods quickly as he stands behind the lady, waiting his turn state my name and get me out of this stink-hole.

 

“I want to see my brother.” The Lady says in a clear voice when the guard doesn’t look up at her and just continues writing in his ledger book, or whatever it is he’s writing in.

 

“Name?” he says in an empty, uninterested voice.

 

I’d stood up and moved a step forward when I saw Michael walk in behind the lady. Now I glance back behind me, and I see a vaguely irritated look pass Nathan’s face. I wonder at it, and when he sees me looking at him, I nod at the girl.

 

“She for you?” I mouth.

 

He nods.

 

Holy shite, I think, stomach tightening. You’re a fucking Noble? What the fuck is a Noble doing around these stinking parts?

 

“Him?” he mouths back at me, inclining his head to Michael. I nod mutely.

 

“Nathaniel.” The girl says in her clear, piercing tone. “I am here for Nathaniel Foakes, your Prince of the City.”