Her back to the wall, Ophelia listened into the dark.

“It’ll work,” a voice said calmly, “trust me.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” another hissed, “One can't possibly—”

“One can't, blah, blah!” Cut in the first, sharper. “Shut it!”

Two spoke. For eight years, Ophelia had worked for the Spiders, operating as a Daughter of the Cause. Eight years of sneaking, listening, learning—paying attention to slight changes, the smallest details. So although she arrived late—the curtained door closing just as her figure appeared at the window—by the squeak and groan of the wooden chairs, Ophelia knew not two, but three conversed inside.

And it was the third, the silent one, that she needed.

Gas lamps flickered along the wall. Wind whistled through the arch of the open window, a chill pickling Ophelia's skin. A rhythmic clicking pattered against the cobbled stone floor, and a ghostly white ball scampered past her boots.

The rat skidded to a halt before the door. Lifting the cone of its nose, its silk whiskers twitched.

Ophelia tugged on the sleeves of her jacket and shuffled an inch to the left. The rat glanced her way. Two beaded eyes met hers, and Ophelia raised a brow. After flicking its ears, the rat scurried forward, a scattering of red dust covering its plump body as it parted the string curtains and disappeared inside.

Ophelia waited. Waited for the swaying curtain to settle. Waited for the conversations to stop.

A minute passed.

A lamp beside her popped...

A sharp intake of breath...

Then something heavy—two somethings—collided with wood.

From her pocket, Ophelia removed a pair of gloves and slipped them on. The first part of her plan, the easy part, was completed. “Now,” she whispered, “for the hard part.”

She parted the curtain. Rivulets of stringed beads fell over her like water, trickling down her back. Two candles, on the centre of a round table, lit the small room. Smoke twirled toward the ceiling, but below, the orange flames flickered over two slumped forms, their opposing heads resting on the tabletop. Ophelia touched the leather pouch at her hip.

She could hear the gentle breaths of the two sleeping bodies, as for the third... She heard no breath—the rise and fall of their chest motionless, for they had no need to breathe.

The Cause taught Ophelia that genies were pure magic, a seemingly impossible creation that could make just about anything possible.

Dangerous, some would say.

Evil.

Yet others considered them harmless—but a figment of their host's conciseness. Without another mortal body to control them, it was as though they didn't exist at all, purely a puppet to be used, and the thing that made them dangerous was the host themselves.

Ophelia didn't know what she thought, nor did she really care. She knew the facts. And the facts were that she could still hear the subtle creak of the chair posited between the sleeping, proof that, despite no physical manifestations, two still remained awake in that room.

“Where is your lamp?” Ophelia moved towards the empty chair. “I’m here to help. Tell me where your lamp is, and I'll set you free!” Her words were pointless. If the genie was smart, they’d know she wasn't there to help. Her mission was to destroy magic, and that lamp—that genie—was a tonne load of magic.

“This yours?”

Ophelia froze.

“She cute. Got any tricks she can do? Besides knocking people out... Or not knocking people out.“

Ophelia turned. One of the sleeping figures was awake, a young man, with a scar below his left eye. He stared at her, and Ophelia was certain she had seen him somewhere before. “How—”

“Thanks for shutting Thea up,” he said. In his hand, the rat squirmed, and as he held the rodent over the sleeping girl's head, a few more specks of red powder flittered over her brown hair. “She was really starting to bug me,” he added. “Mayhaps she’ll be nicer when she wakes. What do you think?”

Ophelia didn't know what to say. Poppies never failed. The right dose could have kept them both asleep for over an hour... And it was the correct dose. Never had she made a mistake. Ever.

She didn't know what to do. She hadn't planned for this.

“You work for him.” He said it as a fact, which meant he knew who she was.

But who was he?

The boy leant forward, and his face hardened, scowling like a stone gargoyle. He lifted the rat, holding her body next to his face. The rat's whiskers twitched.

“Has he come for me?” The boy's voice deepened to an almost comical tone, and Ophelia shivered as the boy suddenly grinned, slumping back into his chair. “Nah!” He added loudly, lightly booping the rat's nose. “Doubt it. He probably don't remember I exist. What does he want then?” He gestured to the genie in the chair. “Not this mug, I hope. He's taken...”

The empty chair groaned, and the boy huffed. “I ain't a creep! But seriously.” He turned back to Ophelia. “What does Ciarán want?”

“You know Ciarán?”

“Durr! I’m his brother, Cosmo.” The boy frowned, and a flash of hurt crossed the boy's face. “He's never mentioned me?”

“No... And he never mentioned it was you who owned the genie.”

“Woah, woah! I don't OWN Clay.”

“Then you won't object to me taking the lamp.”

“Ah... No.” Cosmo released the rat onto the table, her ghostly white body gliding across the table before she leapt off, vanishing through the curtain. “I know what you lot do. Clay's staying right here.”

Ophelia reached for her pouch, her fingers twitching in the powders inside.

Cosmo held up a hand. “Hey, poppies don't work, so look, spy to spy—” His head snapped to the genie. “Shut it! You're making me look stupid. He thinks I ain't a spy,” Cosmo conversed to Ophelia, “but game recognises game, am I right? And you're game. I didn't even hear you when your first came in—real sneak attack.” Cosmo planted his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands. He smiled. “I have something way more valuable.”

“What I need is that lamp.”

“What youse need is to know your queen’s a witch—the big bad—the thing you fear the most. The thing you fight against.”

“I need the lamp,” Ophelia repeated, “I don't care about the queen.”

“That's cool, me neither... She is rather pretty, thou—” Cosmo sucked a sharp shot of air through his teeth and be rubbed his arm facing the empty chair. “Whatever... So you don't care for her,” Cosmo continued, “but my brother does. Mayhaps you should tell him, as a gift from me.”

“Why?”

“You're a spy. Thought it was your job to relay important gossip... And you might be able to help us.”