Enid. The single syllable hung in the air, a bell tolling impending doom. Oona, already pressed flat against the dusty floorboards, instinctively pulled Julian closer. His small frame trembled, radiating a cold dread that mirrored her own. She could hear the distinct tap-tap-tap of Enid’s polished heels on the linoleum just beyond the door. Then, the rhythmic cadence moved, drawing nearer, the sound amplified by the sudden silence from the back room where the poker game had inexplicably quieted. “Peregrine’s little sugar stand,” Enid’s voice drifted in, laced with a venomous sweetness, “is becoming rather… resilient. Like a stubborn weed.” The heels stopped directly above them. Oona squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling the scent of old paper and stale cigars. She could feel the vibration of Enid’s weight through the desk’s underside, a monstrous presence looming. “The boy, Rourke, had his chance. Callan squandered his. It seems I must take more… direct measures.” Julian whimpered again, a tiny, choked sound. Oona clamped a small palm over his mouth, her gaze darting to Boombox, who was huddled silently in the corner, one eye wide and luminous in the gloom. “Mercer,” Enid called out, her voice now sharp, cutting through the thin wall separating the office from the back room. “Are you listening?” A gruff, hesitant voice replied, “Aye, Matriarch. Always.” Julian’s ‘Da’. His voice, thick with a mix of deference and resentment, sent another shiver through Julian’s small body. Oona felt his panic rising, a frantic energy vibrating through his skin. “The Carlows need a reminder of who they answer to,” Enid continued, her voice drawing closer, as if she were inspecting the desk itself. “Tonight. While the rain is coming down in sheets. That unsightly little Sun-Pocket stall. It needs to disappear. Completely.” A chill seized Oona's chest. Burn it down? Their stall? The one they’d poured their meager savings and endless hours into? The phantom static in her ears, usually a whisper of a future echo, now screamed with silent horror. Julian’s body went rigid under her touch, his breath sawing in and out. “Just a little ‘accident,’ Mercer. A faulty wire. A forgotten pilot light. Something messy, but plausible. And make sure the little *ferret* is gone first. Wouldn’t want a scandal.” Enid’s laugh, brittle and chilling, scraped against Oona’s nerves. “Consider it a final lesson for Peregrine. A lesson in obedience.” Julian’s Da mumbled something Oona couldn’t quite discern, but it sounded like an assent. The heels began to move again, receding from directly above them. Oona heard the distant clang of the main door closing. The low rumble of men’s voices resumed in the back room, a tense, muted affair. “We… we have to stop him,” Julian whispered, his eyes wide and glazed with tears. He pushed against Oona, trying to crawl out. “He can’t! My Da… he can’t do this!” Oona gripped his arm, shaking her head furiously. “Not yet. She might still be out there.” She waited, counting the slow ticks of an unseen clock, listening to the muffled arguments of the poker game. The air in the cramped space under the desk grew thick and stifling. After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only five minutes, Oona slowly, carefully, pushed herself out from beneath the mahogany. Julian followed, scrambling up, his eyes still fixed on the back room door. “The ledger,” Oona breathed, her voice barely a whisper. “We need it.” She grabbed the heavy, leather-bound book from the cubby. Its pages were filled with neat columns of numbers and coded names, a labyrinth of illicit transactions. This was the proof she needed to dismantle Enid’s empire, to free her family. “What about… Da?” Julian’s voice was small, cracked. Oona looked at the boy, his face a mask of profound hurt and confusion. Her adult mind, usually so calculating, felt a pang of something akin to maternal protectiveness. She couldn’t let Julian's elder destroy everything they were building, or trap him further in Enid’s web. “We’ll deal with him,” Oona said, her voice firm. She tucked the ledger into her small satchel, then looked around. A small, red fire alarm box sat next to the main entrance, its glass cover gleaming faintly in the dim light. “Hold Boombox,” she instructed Julian. “And be ready to run.” With a deep breath, Oona reached up, slammed her small fist against the glass cover of the fire alarm, and then, with a determined grunt, pulled the lever down. A shrill, piercing wail erupted, echoing through the building, a cacophony that instantly drowned out the poker game. Men’s shouts, chairs scraping, and the thud of heavy footsteps followed. “Now!” Oona yelled, grabbing Julian’s hand. They burst through the office door, the alarm blaring, and sprinted down the narrow, rain-slicked alleyway behind the building. The night was a canvas of inky black and the pulsing glow of distant neon signs. Rain, fine and cold, began to speckle their faces. They hadn't run twenty paces before a shadow detached itself from the gloom ahead. Julian’s Da. He stood, shoulders slumped, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, his face etched with a familiar weariness. He looked up, startled by the alarm, then his eyes landed on Julian, and a flicker of something unreadable – shame? anger? – crossed his features. “Julian? What in the blazes are you doing here?” he growled, his voice rough. He took a step towards them, his hand instinctively reaching out. Julian recoiled, his face contorting into a mask of pure fury. “Don’t touch me!” he screamed, his voice raw. He had been carrying a small jar of Oona’s famous sugar glaze, a treat she’d given him earlier. Now, with a desperate, guttural cry, he swung his arm, launching the jar. It spun through the air, hitting the elder Mercer squarely in the face with a wet splat. Cold, sticky glaze dripped down Julian’s Da’s face, mingling with the rain, his expression frozen in shock. The sweetness of it, usually so comforting, now seemed sickly, a symbol of everything tainted. “You were going to burn it down!” Julian sobbed, pointing a trembling finger. “Our stall! You were going to burn down Oona’s stall!” His Da wiped at the glaze, his eyes narrowed, but there was a deep-seated humiliation in them, too. “It’s… it’s what I gotta do, kid. You don’t understand.” Oona stepped between them, her small body a surprisingly firm barrier. She looked up at the man, his face a mess of sticky sweetness and rain. She saw not the ruthless enforcer, but a man trapped, just like Peregrine. Her heart, despite her adult mind’s pragmatic warnings, ached with a familiar, irrational kindness. This man was a cog in Enid’s machine, exploited, just like everyone else. He was Julian’s Da. “No,” Oona said, her voice small but clear, cutting through the blaring alarm and the rain. “You don’t have to do anything. Not anymore.” She reached into her satchel, pulling out a wad of crinkled bills – a significant portion of their meager savings, money she’d meticulously hoarded. Her breath caught in her throat, the sacrifice physically painful. But it was for Julian. It was for her parents. It was for a chance at a different future. “Take this,” Oona said, holding out the money. “Enough to get far away. Get out of Port Oram. Away from Enid. Away from… this.” She gestured vaguely at the alley, the flashing lights, the rain. “Start fresh. Anywhere else.” Julian’s Da stared at the money, then at Oona, then at Julian. The anger in his eyes faded, replaced by a profound, complex emotion Oona couldn’t quite decipher. He hesitated, then slowly, his hand shaking, reached out and took the bills. “I… I don’t know what to say, kid,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse, raw. He looked down at the money, then back up at Oona, a silent question in his gaze. “Just go,” Oona said, her voice softening. “And don’t look back.” He nodded, a single, jerky movement. Then, without another word, he turned and melted back into the shadows of the alley, the blaring alarm his only witness. [Timeline altered: Police dispatched to arrest Oona’s father tonight.]

Blood and Glaze