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I roll my eyes when I hear Sergeant Heartnell calling “Open up, Ange! I should give it to him soon, before the shiny giftwrap dissolves completely, but this time I drop it right next to the boy.He jolts at the sound and gives me a look of a cow who’s just found out what a sledgehammer’s for. I assume he’s smart enough to use the fire escape, otherwise a dumpster laden with as he scrambles to dress himself.He leads me to the gutters below the memorial where they found the shiner.Despite the cold breeze pushing against us, the girl looks like she’s just taking a nap.Eyes wide open, amber, stare up at the sky, no expression in them. When she danced, her face would pull her eyebrows up with each jump, her laugh painting the air like magic, I–I don’t know this girl in the gutters. “We dubbed her Sparrow Rose.” I start at Sarge’s voice. ” “Just…” He waves his hand towards the girl’s face, then lets it fall.When I push my finger between the broken X-shaped stitches on her lips, I swear I can hear blood cracking. “White rose petals and birds’ beaks.” I push them around my palm. I outline a rune above the satchel, my finger cleaving the air and emitting a dim white light.A “scholar” I bet, just an ignorant kid who thinks magic’s only use is a quick high. A melancholy beat weaves itself around the smoke, edging by piles of filthy clothes, slithering into the wrinkled sheets until it reaches the boy. If only I had gotten to that kid sooner, the bottle laced with a dreamwake charm would’ve never reached his lips and I wouldn’t have magic jammed in my throat every time I woke up. I snag the pillow off the boy’s head, lean to his ear so he feels the ember warming his skin. The way the tobacco falls it looks like my skin is flaking, sprinkling brown-beige on greyed white sheets. I harrumph at my stupidity for offering a place to crash. The radio’s finished its meandering song and a man is signing off, wishing us a good night.A stray speck of ember jumps to the boy and he winces. By the sound of fists slamming at my door looks like my night is just beginning.

It’s been a week since that kid got himself killed and I came too late to do anything about it. I light a cigarette trying hard to ignore the boy in my bed tonight.

On a plateau framed by four lilac trees, bronzed gallows stand as though they’d emerged from the earth itself.

Sometimes I wonder if the air is cleaner up there, when your neck is wrapped in rope. I breathe in the lilacs, savouring the scent as it makes my chest swell, and not failing to take a good look at the splintering imitation wood of the gallows.

A row of gallows had flanked the door where the dead, while swaying in the wind, would howl and moan and wail.

When Old Ellis did his jig, a couple of fellas went home with their ears bleeding and cheeks clawed raw.

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