Despite the morbid nature the gallows held, there was always a crowd waiting to witness the demise of the next unlucky soul on hanging day. Dark curiosity drew them to the scene. This execution in particular brought the masses in, both the menial poor and the pompous wealthy. The latter was especially unusual, as it was typical for only the required city officials to attend the event. Several politicians had also chosen to make an appearance. The governor himself was supposedly coming, although he had yet to arrive. The majority of the upper-class who weren’t involved in the government, unsurprisingly, ignored the goings-on.
It was also special because it was said that the hangman’s chosen victim was, in fact, a woman.
A murmur of shock overtook the crowd as the prisoner was brought out in clothing that confirmed the unthinkable. A woman had never been hung in Moncharine before, but there she was, to be escorted to almost certain death. Her dress was dirty and old, black and not particularly form-fitting, and not very flattering at all. A dirty blonde braid stopped at the small of her back. There were two guards accompanying her, one on each side, looking quite dashing in their neatly pressed uniforms of dark blue and silver. On her left was a large and burly man with a look on his face that gave the impression that he perpetually smelled the odor of sour milk. On her right was a much younger man, looking barely more than nineteen. He seemed to be very nervous as they shuffled through, occasionally having to push people out of the way. The woman herself looked as though she was quite calm about everything. It was as if the prospect of being mere minutes from death didn’t faze her in the least. The end of her life was so near; anyone else would fear the fast-approaching event.
She knew better.
In a few moments, her guards had led her up onto death’s cruel stage. A one-woman act was about to begin, one showing only. A city official, clad in black with a silly-looking (though he probably did not realize this) powdered wig, climbed the wooden steps and cleared his throat, preparing to speak as he unrolled a scroll full of charges.
“Citizens of Moncharine!” he attempted to bellow, failing miserably; only half of the crowd could really hear him and know precisely what he was saying. “We are assembled on this day to witness the punishment of one Mary Bates!”
The woman looked to her worn leather boots with a tiny smirk. Poor Mary, whoever she was.
Her charges were read, some of which had been added to instill fear in the common folk. Not everyone was paying attention, however. There was trouble afoot. The Faction wasn’t about to surrender one of their top revolutionaries. She may have gotten caught, but it only gave them incentive to play with the government. There was no telling what they were up to, or how many people in the less-than-cheerful audience were in on the master plan.
The drum roll was deafening as the noose was set around her neck. Things looked immensely grim for the alleged criminal.
“THE GOVERNOR’S BEEN SHOT!” a voice screamed suddenly. “GOVERNOR BELOS HAS BEEN SHOT!”
It was, unfortunately, plausible. The man had not made an appearance, which automatically raised questions as to his whereabouts. Why would he not attend an event that would significantly damage the opposition? An absence could potentially give the impression of apathy, that he already viewed the government and those loyal to it as superior and that the execution of a noted rebel did not merit him being there. If he had been murdered, well, it would certainly explain things, albeit in an alarming way. This alarm was quite evident as the people sprang into a frenzied uproar. If their leader had just been assassinated, then this was surely an attack on the country, which meant, in turn, that none of them were safe.
The officials’ attention was now focused on keeping the peace. Miss Bates was left unattended, although this didn’t do her much good: she couldn’t go free unless her leash of sorts was severed. Nevertheless, she remained calm, standing still in the midst of pandemonium. There was so much noise and movement that it was hardly noticed when an arrow shot straight through the rope. Mary, now released, calmly yet quickly and very sure of herself and what she was doing, walked down the steps and into the fray. She let herself be jostled around as long as she made her way generally to the right. The waist-length rope around her neck continued to single her out, but no one seemed to care— no one except her two guards, anyway. They were attempting to follow their assigned target, but as it was also their duty to ease the ongoing panic, they were struggling to keep up. Mary was aware of her pursuers but continued to flee, breaking into a run once she encountered a space in the crowd. The alleyways were typically Faction-friendly. Things were going precisely to plan.
• • • • •
“Stand still love, that’s a dear.”
“Louisa you cow, would you kindly let me breathe?”
“Well I have to wash your face somehow, little Miss Let’s-Get-Arrested—”
“Not another word from you both!”
A small flat deep in an alley was full of activity, most likely the most it had seen in years. Moncharine’s newest fugitive was in the center of the hustle and bustle. An older woman, brown hair dull and frizzy and maroon dress faded, stained, and very old, was behind her and in charge of removing her bonds. The handcuffs were proving to be a bit of a challenge, and she had to rely on patience with a pocket knife to cut through a weak point. In front, currently removing their clever cosmetic disguise that had made the woman appear older and in ill health, was a rather young woman, approximately eighteen years of age—Louisa. Despite the filth around her, her curls were soft and golden, framing a face full of innocence and ending at the shoulder blade. She held a blonde braided wig in one hand whilst the other continued to toil with its given task.
“Not another word,” the eldest of the three said once again. “I mean it. Get on with it then, Zulira. They’ll be around any minute now.” She didn’t wait for a reply before she began to pull a pale blue gown over the center of attention’s head. It was simple, but it was far more clean and respectable than her hanging costume.
But who was Zulira, and where was Mary Bates? Quite simply, Mary Bates had never existed. Her identity was entirely a work of the Faction’s imagination. One could not truly expect them to overlook the art of disguise and basically let themselves be caught. To do so would be absurd. No, the woman that her comrades were so set on preparing was one Zulira Leonhart, the top woman within all of the Faction. If she ever did come across a Mary Bates, however, she would most likely feel somewhat obligated to speak to her and possibly extend her apologies. Whether Mary understood or not wouldn’t matter.
“Relax, Dorcas,” the black-haired woman said with a small grin. “They’ll be blinded by three beautiful ladies.” Zulira and Louisa both struck poses to add to the joke. Dorcas, though mildly impressed by the very rare occasion of the two actually cooperating, rolled her eyes and shoved Zulira’s fashion disaster into a trunk, covering it with a shabby excuse of a tablecloth before she sat on a stool near the fire.
“Be serious now,” she scolded mildly. Louisa murmured a small “yes ma’am” and hid her makeup rag and the wig. She then grabbed a broom to make herself appear busy. Zulira took to a small pile of vegetables on the counter, chopping a green pepper into neat and even slices.
Within minutes, the guards announced their arrival with a single loud knock—the larger one’s doing. Louisa had moved to open the door, but the two men let themselves in with no qualms. All three women set their current chores to the side and stood, presumably out of respect to the guards, being higher than they on the social ladder (even if it was only just).
“What can we do for you fine off—” Dorcas began, cut off by a grunt-like noise.
Zulira fought to keep from wrinkling her nose in mild irritation. The more she was in the brute’s presence, the more she came to associate him with a pig. The younger man’s company was far more pleasant. He was not supposed to speak to the prisoners on conversational terms, but Zulira had been persistent when he was the only guard on duty and, in time, she had worn him down. She had learned much about his life thus far. His name was Noah Jacobson. He was nineteen years old and was only in such a line of work because it paid so well and because of its government benefits. There weren’t many of those, of course, but the few that they had were of great help to his family. He was the firstborn out of five. He disapproved of violence—and therefore his own job, to some degree—but he yearned to help ease his family’s financial struggle, and so he kept quiet and obeyed his superior officers.
Secretly Zulira had every intention of eventually bringing the boy into the rebellion, but this would take time. Joining the Faction would mean leaving the police force, which would obviously injure his family’s money supply. Noah had morals, but if it came between standing up for his morality and protecting his family, Zulira knew his family would come first. It was understandable, and she couldn’t blame him in the least. Although she herself did not have a family, she was still aware of what they were supposed to do in one’s life. They posed quite the obstacle in her plan, however, and until their circumstances improved to the point where a halt in his monetary aid would not drastically affect them, Zulira’s plan would take even longer. She had one step completed already, though: she had his trust. In his mind, she—or rather, Mary—had done nothing wrong. As long as he perceived her as innocent, the chances of eventually bringing him right into the Faction’s arms were good, in the long run.
“What do you want?” Dorcas asked, dropping her flattery act and folding her arms across her chest.
“Miss Mary Bates has escaped execution,” Noah said. The three women gasped. Louisa nearly dropped her broom, though whether or not this was intentional was hard to say, as she fumbled with the handle for a bit and smiled sheepishly.
“Good heavens! Are we in danger?” Dorcas asked, reaching to rest a hand on Noah’s arm to enhance how serious she was. She withdrew at another grunt from the second guard.
“Don't stare, Louisa,” Zulira muttered, giving her a look. "For all we know he's grunting about your face." A small grin crossed her face when Louisa's cheeks grew quite red within seconds. It increased when she noticed Noah's shy smile to the embarrassed lady. That could prove to be useful in the future, especially if a genuine interest were to develop between the two. Not that Zulira was about to play matchmaker or anything.
“Are we in danger?” Dorcas repeated. The sooner this meeting was over with, the sooner Zulira and Louisa could part ways. That woman was always picking on poor Louisa for some reason. Maybe she was only trying to toughen her up; Dorcas had never been able to put her finger on it exactly. But then Louisa did have the type of personality that Zulira always seemed to target for her teasing, so maybe it was just meant to be.
“No ma'am,” Noah said quickly. He seemed to make certain that his eyes stayed away from Louisa for now. Zulira nearly giggled and glanced at Dorcas to see her reaction, if any, but the woman paid no attention to the emotional escapades that were afoot beneath their attention spans. “But she's a known rebel, and we're to warn everyone to keep an eye out. We think she escaped into an alley. You haven't heard any strange activity out here, have you?”
“Good sir, surely you don't think we would deceive you and withhold information on this criminal,” Louisa remarked. She clutched the handle of her broom with such intensity as was as if she was truly hurt by his unintentional suggestion. Zulira couldn't help but raise her eyebrows at how well the young woman could work her facial expressions. With her innocent green eyes so wide, innocent, and pitiful, she could melt the heart of a snowman. “If we knew anything at all, we would certainly inform you.”
This time it was Noah's cheeks which flushed. He looked to the second guard for support, but was met with a roll of the eyes.
“We appreciate your cooperation,” he said, nodding politely to the women in preparation to leave the alley and alert more citizens.
“Oh of course,” Zulira replied. “Think nothing of it, officer.” With a smile, she snuck a wink in. It took him a few seconds to understand; Zulira knew when his brows rose significantly. He covered quickly, clearing his throat and giving a small nod once again. The second guard grunted again, and the two hurried off. The trio watched them until they turned the corner, then ducked back inside their imposter home. It was only when safely hidden inside that Zulira and Louisa burst into giggles.
“That was too precious,” Zulira said as she attempted to calm down. She failed when Louisa couldn't do the same.
“They fell for it so easily!”
“I was talking about those looks you two exchanged, or maybe you didn't notice.”
“Zulira, be nice,” Dorcas warned. Immature as it was, Zulira proceeded to make a stubborn and childish face at Louisa before she was through. Louisa stuck her tongue out in retaliation. Dorcas sighed and shook her head, putting out the fire.
“She's never nice to me,” Louisa whined.
“Only because you need to learn how to handle it when people are rude,” Zulira grumbled in her own defense. “I'm not even all that mean.”
By this point, Dorcas had grown accustomed to tuning out the duo when arguing commenced. It was almost always pointless and not worth fixing. Now was no exception, so she gathered up their props in a basket and covered it with their ratty makeshift tablecloth.
“If you're quite finished,” she began, “then we should be heading back. The others will want to actually see you've made it out; you know how that lot is.”
Slipping back into their roles as three poor women, doing the best they could whilst probably waiting for their husbands to return home, they slipped out into the alley and entered the maze that was the Moncharian underground.
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