Zechariah had promptly squared away paperwork, once the ink sentencing declaring Sonia his wife had dried (and not a second after). Invested much of the fluid assets, and made certain all the insurance was up to date. He still remembered how surreal it felt to be working with that many digits.

For the sake of their marriage, Zechariah had decided to spend the High Holy Days with his family in Bohemia (much to their bafflement – why did he get married and not bring the new family!). After that, he had taken his sweet time returning back to Whitby and York (but especially Whitby). Absence made the heart grow fonder, and Zechariah was truly aiming for unimaginable fondness!

It still felt bizarre to visit his sons at a brothel of all places, but he had just purchased a real home for them (a home where Simon had never been …) on their shore. Considering the insane amounts of money that den of sin raked in – it would pay itself off before they knew it!

His brow crinkled when he smelled … something burnt, as he turned the corner. His head lifted, eyes landing where the Diamond Pony stood – or should have stood. Was. Zechariah's pace had quickened before he realized it, and suddenly he was running to the building that had changed his entire life.

“Esau! Jacob!”

Damn it! He knew he should have chosen better names!

“Sonia?!”

It was not at the Diamond Pony that the story would unfold, but the constable's …

Ruth’s life had never been better. She had a warm and comfortable cottage, elegant dresses made in Paris, jewellery to die for, every pretty little trinket her heart desired, and more money than she could ever have imagined. And on top of all of that, she looked fucking amazing. Her bony angles had turned into soft curves. Her skin and hair looked better – clean and oiled and without the bruises from the rotten apples in filthy backstreets. Magnus never hurt her. He worshipped her. The initial repulsion she had felt towards him had long since melted away and been replaced with something softer. She basked in the feeling being so desirable. She was addicted to her own power.

It would come crashing down. Magnus didn’t know about her family yet, and her family had not yet discovered her new-found fortune. She dressed down when she went to visit her kids. But that was a concern for the future. In the meantime, she’d bleed Magnus of as much of his wealth as she could.

The fire last night had reminded her just how lucky she was. Like so many, she had gone to watch the blaze when she heard the bells and smelled the fire. It was unlike anything she had ever seen and the chaos outside had been overwhelming. She believed she had seen two people being led away, but what with the blaze and the smoke and the jostling of the crowd, she couldn’t get a proper look. She had heard a woman say that she had seen one of the girls and she had said that that all the girls had been told to leave before the blaze started. But the situation had been too chaotic to make much sense, and Ruth had been too full of liquor to remember to care for those inside.

It was only this morning, as she lay in bed, half-dozing, that she suddenly sat up and remembered: “Lory!”

Lory was probably fine, she told herself as she got dressed. Hadn’t she heard someone say that the girls had been sent away beforehand? She had heard other accounts as well: charred bodies, screams coming from the burning building, girls jumping from top windows. But she had seen or heard none of this for herself, so she chose to focus on the former. Still, it was probably best to go looking for her friend.

Dressed in a fine but ‘modest’ day dress and coat, she made her way over to the smouldering remains of the Pony. The firemen were still at work dousing the structure, though she could see no more flames. Most of the brothel was destroyed, the middle a charred skeleton of a building, like a rib cage, torn open to expose its black insides to the public. They had managed to save the adjacent buildings, though they too were black with soot. The entire scene looked surreal. And Ruth was absolutely delighted to realise what a bullet she had dodged.

Suddenly her attention was drawn by a man shouting two names while he ran towards the building. Male names. Ruth glanced about her awkwardly. Bit risky, this. She glanced back at the man, assessing him.

At the same time?

Then the man shouted a woman’s name.

Greedy.

Ruth glanced around again. Then she approached the poor fool. When she was just behind him, she leaned in and muttered: “How many people did you fuck in there?” Someone had to remind him of where he was. Crane would sooner bend over for this man than put him in cuffs, but the new Whitby police force wasn’t quite so soft.

His sons! His wife! His … bizarre stable of whores! But mostly: his sons! Where on Earth was he going to marry another impregnated heiress with twins and a father too dead to compete?!

His wallowing was cut short by a mutter far too close to his ear to be proper. Kurva! He bristled and straightened his back, head whipping around to cast a death glare at the finely dressed young woman before the words and proximity registered. Oh. Probably one of his whores.

“None,” he answered, with a disgusted curl of his lip.

Wait. His whole life revolved around the lie of fornicating with that Carrington strumpet.

“There, at least,” he 'corrected', frowning.

The frown deepened, and his brow furrowed.

“You no longer work for me,” he decided peevishly, then and there as the workplace in question smoldered.

Translation:

Kurva = equivalent vulgarity of “shit,” or “fuck,” in English – but literally translates to “whore” in Czech.

Ruth raised her eyebrows. Oh. That Sonia. Her name was Sonia right? And this was the mysterious new owner, Mr. Stronzo or something, her husband.

She leaned sideways to look over his shoulder theatrically, then turned back to him with a sardonic smile. "I think at this point nobody's working for you, Mr. Stronzo," she pointed out.