Chapter 4: Borrowed Time

What happens in the dark stays in the dark.

Welcome and happy Wednesday, all! Today, we’re back in Aisen’s shoes as we finally get a peek at what’s behind those darkened alleyways and tarps in Scudder’s Row. I had so much fun writing this one, mainly for all the tidbits and inspiration from real history and the criminal underground of 1800s London. Stay tuned after the chapter to see how I blended the history with the gaslamp elements.

If you’re left craving just a little more after you read this chapter’s conclusion, you’ll want to be sure to come back for Friday’s drop, because it is going to be a TREAT. ❤️‍🔥Here’s a little picture hint of what to expect:

Musical themes for Chapter 4:

⚠️Content Warnings (contains spoilers):
Strong, coarse, period-appropriate profanity. A medical procedure is depicted on the page. Alcohol, tobacco, and drug use. Discussions of criminal activity and the immigration experience. Occult imagery.

Aisen's night with the Forty Crows becomes a crucible, forcing him to confront his dual lives—and the seductive voice that has been guiding his fate. But when an unexpected message arrives, his carefully constructed walls begin to crumble.

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CHAPTER 4: AISENGALE

Niles Lancaster’s cluster of warehouses and shady property acquisitions stood at the far end of the dockyards, among them a tavern, a brothel, a gambling hell, a workhouse, and the many storehouses where his employees kept their illegal imports stashed away. One could spot the occasional constable patrolling the sidewalks nearby, bribed under the table and retained on Niles’ payroll for extra insurance. And obscuring it all was a thick curtain of fog rising from the cobblestones, a result of Fabinmore’s dreadfully wet summer.

One particularly shoddy warehouse had transformed into a boxing mill—an establishment only open in the wee hours of the night, where men would gather to place bets on illegal prizefights while their families stayed safely tucked in bed. In the center of the cleared-out space was a sturdy fighting ring surrounded by wooden bleachers, now empty except for a handful of gang members passing around a bottle of gin and a spliff of devil’s grass.

Among them was Hawke—a brawny descendant of the Summer Court, one side of his head shaved and the other a tangle of messy orange locks. Aisen knew the thief from his days in the First Served. Both of them had been lads full of righteous indignation, quickly making friends with each other and the blade, the lock-pick, and the poisoners’ artifices. Alas, Hawke had fared slightly better than Aisen, escaping the manhunt after the gang was raided, then miraculously crossing Pria’s border first. The two men had a tenuous friendship, and Aisen suspected Hawke didn’t trust him after his time in the Royal Navy. Even now, they eyed each other as Robin led him over to where Niles was seated at the makeshift bar.

“Oi, Aisengale. We ain’t seen you ‘round lately. ‘Fraid the Ton might hear about your side gig?”

“Piss off, Hawke,” Aisen mumbled with a quiet menace that made the thief scowl, paving his way to Niles in long, impatient strides. The cartel leader peered over his shoulder with his good eye— the other covered by an eyepatch from when it had been plucked out by a Fralisian at Irameshi— and flashed a smile at Aisen, brandishing his gold-tipped canines.

“It’s about damn time,” Niles grinned, slamming his whiskey glass down on the bar. “Thought maybe I was gonna have to send me sergeant after ya.”

Next to Niles was a courtesan of indiscriminate Elven heritage and rouged cheeks, sizing Aisen up. “He don’t look like he belongs here,” she huffed over the rim of her wineglass.

“He’s me Fixer,” Niles grunted as he slid off his stool. “And he owes me at least five thousand quid for a bad day at the races, so he better not lose me best scuttler. Eh, Aisengale?”

“Nice to see you as well,” Aisen replied dryly as he shed his tailcoat and rolled his sleeves up. “I hear you had a misunderstanding with Molly Kerrigan’s Butchers.”

“Yeah. Her boys tried to give this fucker a haircut and missed,” Niles scoffed, indicating that Aisen should follow him to the bookmaker’s office. The courtesan trailed behind them, her wine still in hand as if she were about to partake in a parlor game. Aisen could already hear the painful distress signals of groans and squeals coming from behind the locked door. “Took out Weasel and Tommy before we caught ‘em. They were raidin’ our storehouse on Beckett Street. Markin’ their territory like tomcats.”

As Niles swung the door open, they were greeted with the sight of four armed men pinning a Dark Elf down to the bookmaker’s desk as he writhed in agony. His sleeve was cut away to reveal a dislocated shoulder, and from chin to ear was a laceration oozing with black ichor, a missed attempt at a slit throat. It was clear the poison had already settled deep inside the wound, the Dark Elf’s veins distended, his pallor ashen, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

Aisen flinched at the display as he fished for his keys. “I take it the other two are—?”

“In the Shroud. Billy gave ‘em red smiles. Bled out before we found ‘em,” Niles muttered as he peered over Aisen’s shoulder at the man thrashing about on the table. “So, can ya fix his arm or not, lad?”

“The poison’s my bigger concern. He’ll have to suffer a moment while I draw out the toxin.” Aisen went to the locked cabinet behind the bookmaker’s desk, where he kept a private collection of wound care supplies and poisoner’s artifices, sliding the leather case off the shelf. “Unless you’re alright with him being paralyzed? Can’t imagine he’d do you any good in another scuttle.”

“Poison? Goddamn,” Niles whistled as he patted the Dark Elf’s leg. “Ya hear him, Duncan? Hold fast, mate.”

“Ask your barkeep if he has any milk. I need to mix an antidote,” Aisen said, levying his commands to one man holding Duncan’s legs. Then he took his place at his head to examine him up close, adjusting his spectacles.

“So what’d they get ‘im with?”

Aisen dipped his fingertip into Duncan’s festering cut as the gigantic man moaned and shivered. Then he rubbed the poison between his thumb and pinky finger, studying its viscous, oily sheen as he held it to his nose to sniff it.

“It’s Lishai,” he said, his tone clinical as he examined the wound. “Manufactured in Felune. Concocted from arsenic and the venom of rock adders. A favored tonic of assassins,” he continued as he rummaged through the poisoner’s kit, looking for magnesium powder. “And if we don’t act fast, he’ll lose the nerve function in his face. That,” he muttered as he looked up, pointing to the wineglass in the courtesan’s hand. “Give me that.”

“You heard him,” Niles grumbled, yanking it from her as she squealed in protest.

Aisen promptly emptied the wine on the floor, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the glass clean, then placed it over the festering wound to create an improvised suction valve. The men all raised their heads to watch as he carefully pulled on the stem to draw the poison out, noxious black foam oozing out of the injury like a pestilence. Then he removed it to clean the poison away, rinsing the cut out with the milk and magnesium mixture to neutralize the acid.

“I’m not suturing it. It needs to drain,” he mumbled as he approximated the edges of the cut with his fingertips, peering over his spectacles. “Sorry, mate. I’m afraid you’ll have a nasty scar. Time to find a new barber.” Then he positioned himself flush against the side of the desk to reduce the shoulder injury, firmly planting his feet. “This next bit’ll hurt, I’m afraid. Gentlemen, hold him down. And someone give him something to bite on.”

“It’s alright, mate, we got you,” one man spoke up as he offered his flask to Duncan to take a long pull of spirits, then slid the end of a leather belt between his yellowed fangs.

Niles’ men all grunted and nodded, firming up their grips on Duncan’s limbs as Aisen first tried applying gentle traction and manipulation. When he felt Duncan’s muscles beginning to tense, he then applied counter traction by pressing down into his body using his free hand. The Dark Elf yelped as his upper half came off the desk, his back arched in misery while the men scrambled to hold him down.

“It’s not going back. Take a deep breath,” Aisen huffed, wiping the beads of sweat off his own brow with his shirt sleeve.

“Ancestors, Duncan,” one man shouted up at him. “Hold bloody still, mate!”

“I can’t! This is fuckin’ torture,” Duncan groaned, his head lolling off to the side.

“Once more. Ready?” Aisen replied, not waiting for an answer. He tried again with significant effort to guide the humeral head back into its socket, sighing in relief when he felt the bones and joints finally click into place. Duncan let out one last shout of pain, then closed his eyes as it melted away, relaxing back against the creaking desk. Aisen felt the ache in his own shoulders as he wiped his brow and the back of his neck with his kerchief, politely accepting the congratulatory handshakes that came from Niles’ men.

“Let’s get you foxed, mate. You’re right as rain, now, eh?” One man laughed as he and his companion came on either side to ease Duncan off the desk, helping him stumble his way back out to the bleachers.

“May as well have a drink with me, lad,” Niles tipped his head towards the makeshift bar in the corner with a crafty smile. “And since I took ya away from your fancy party, I owe you one. Eh, ya salty fucker?”

Aisen shrugged as he ambled up next to Niles. “I wouldn’t say no to hazard pay…knowing my exit will likely be in the Society Papers come morning.”

Niles chuckled as he signaled to the barkeep to pour them drinks and reached into his breast pocket with a little flourish. Then he withdrew a tiny corked vial, filled with powder the color of red poppies, nonchalantly setting it down on the bar. “Redflower. Brought in yesterday from Orlimar. Pure as snow.” He laughed at Aisen’s sour frown and fixed stare at the highly potent stimulant-in-a-bottle. “Oi. Don’t look at me like that. You never know when you’ll need a pick-me-up. Thank me later, lad.” He rummaged around in his pocket a moment more, setting down a stack of banknotes and an envelope carrying the faint whiff of terpenes from the devil’s grass within. “And here. Your preferred poison. A little coin to ease the pain, too. Now you can pay up for that blonde chit at Fitzgerald’s–”

“Severine.”

“Severine. She’s a pretty one. Practically her benefactor, ain’t ya?”

Aisen sighed as he shoved the vial into his own pocket. “I don’t know if I’d go that far. But she sees me exclusively now, so perhaps?”

“Lucky. Most courtesans won’t sign up for that unless you’re either payin’ ‘em well or they’ve gone sweet on you. And in your case, I’d wager she don’t care where you’re from—”

It was true. Severine and Aisen hailed from opposite ends of Forran, at the cusp of a civil war. While the South advocated for closed borders, higher taxes, stricter conscription laws, and military aggression against Arleham-Fralise, Aisen’s former duchy had promoted peaceful trade treaties, amnesty policies, and the right to vote. It made Aisen—during his brief time back in the peerage married to Neria—both a folk hero and a political agitator. And while most of the Crows were from the North, many Elven immigrants in Pria had not forgotten the ungraceful fall of House Mythrien.

“Severine and I don’t discuss politics. It’s not in our contract,” he muttered as he lit a cigarillo, fanning the match to extinguish it.

“Speakin’ of politics…I hear rumors that the mighty king up there in the Palace is talkin’ about raisin’ the import tariffs. Bad for our investors, of course. And now he’s talkin’ about shuttin’ down all the gamblin’ halls. They say the Cardinal of Illmestys had a hand in that one, cuttin’ us off at the bollocks.”

“Oh, Niles,” Aisen laughed bitterly, “Of course they would. Let’s call a spade a spade. What you run down here in the Row is illegal.”

“Look who’s talkin’, eh, lad?” Niles slapped Aisen’s shoulder in half-jest. “Don’t look at me like that. Men like us never change, Aisengale. We love the night too much,” he continued with no lies in his words as Aisen snorted. “And down here, we’re kings. We write the laws ourselves, and the people respect ‘em. They fear ‘em. That’s what makes a good ruler, Aisen. It ain’t people lovin’ you. It’s people being afraid of you enough to keep their heads down and their pistols holstered.”

“That’s also what makes life worth living, then, eh, Niles?”

“Fuck me, I love it,” Niles laughed as he made a sweeping gesture with his hands to indicate the empire of dirty schemes surrounding him. “Who doesn’t enjoy the jingle of coins in their pocket? The freedom of knowing we got the coppers on our payroll? How good it feels to smash in the skull of some Southern bastard while they beg forgiveness for sendin’ your elders to the gallows?”

“Yes, violent delights indeed. I’m afraid those come with a heavy toll, friend,” Aisen sighed, waving at the barkeep to refill his glass.

“Yeah?” Niles narrowed his eyes as he gave Aisen a hard nudge. “Lemme remind you…we also ain’t payin’ a single dragoon in Forrani taxes. We’ll never see another day in prison. Our kin ain’t worryin’ about when little Johnny’s gonna get called up to serve. And that shitshow they call a war? We never have to fear fightin’ the Fralisians again.” Then he leaned in close to lower his voice as if the gods were listening. “You’ve seen death on the waves just like me. At Irameshi. Towers fallin’ and fire rainin’ down from the skies. Every night you see it, just like I do. And you can’t tell me when they called the order to retreat, you didn’t praise your ancestors for that borrowed time you’re now livin’.”

“You know…I try not to think about it. It was one of the worst days of my life. But thank you for the reminder.” Aisen suppressed a shudder as he knocked his drink back. “Borrowed time. Hmph.”

“You heard me. That’s what we get for makin’ a deal with the Archfey. So live it out. Seize this city by the bollocks for all it’s worth. Enjoy those little rewards. Like money, Aisen. Money and whores and whiskey and a little fisticuffs now and then. And power.” Niles gave him a wolfish grin as he tapped his hand on the bar top to emphasize his point. “That’s the real reward–havin’ power for once in our damned lives.”

Aisen was pensive as he twirled the envelope of devil’s grass between his fingers. “Living among the humans has enlightened me, Niles. There are no gods or Archfey up there pulling the strings. Just men like us making choices. And if there were gods, they’d have better things to do than watch countries burn.” Then he dropped it on the stack of money, crossing his arms as he met Niles’ grin with a cunning smile of his own. “Which is precisely why I tried to do something worthwhile after the Navy. Now I’m in control of my fate…and not some imagined force of nature. Or kings and Admirals. Being able to make my own rules? Now that’s real power.”

“You know, Aisen…you’re smarter and faster than half me sergeants. I’d pay you double what you’re makin’ at that damn hospital if you came to work for me.”

“I told myself a long time ago I’d never employ the blade again,” Aisen sighed as he stroked his chin, studying Niles out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps the blade was still very much an option, just not his first choice. “And you speak of freedom, yet you’ve just proclaimed yourself the king of this cesspit. Why would I trade one master for another?”

“You and your fancy, educated airs,” Niles countered as he poked Aisen’s chest with his index finger, a veiled challenge. “Feels like you’re betrayin’ your roots, eh, Aisengale? I see you. I know you still got the devil inside you. And I reckon he’s just rarin’ to get out.”

“I’m not betraying a thing, Niles.” Aisen shrugged as he stood, adjusting his tailcoat with deliberate precision. “I’m just a shining paragon of the working class. One who climbed out of the gutter but remembers where he came from.”

Niles shook with raucous laughter as he slapped Aisen’s shoulder again. “You’re a cunt. I still respect ya, though. And one of these days, I’m takin’ you back to the Royal Ascot. We’re gonna fix that race, and both walk away filthy rich. And fuck all this noise, eh?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Fuck it,” Aisen replied as he gave Niles a mock salute and turned to go. “I’ll see you by and by, Niles.”

On the carriage ride home, Aisen changed his mind about his planned assignation with Severine, instead opting to slide the envelope of banknotes under her door with nary a knock. Then he spent the rest of the journey home fidgeting with the vial of Redflower as he thought about his conversation with Niles. The proud part of him that once wore a commander’s uniform considered flinging it out the window and dashing the temptation on the cobblestones below. But that part was getting smaller and quieter by the day.

“And what delight is this you hold in your hand, Aisengale?”

He conveniently ignored the voice’s return, slipped the vial back into his pocket, and traded it for the letter he’d received just that evening as he was leaving his flat. All night long, he’d carried it like a millstone around his neck, delaying the inevitable torment of actually reading it. He examined it under the passing light of the gaslamps, running a finger over the sender’s name and the postmark from Benevento as he chuckled. Perhaps he’d bother to read it another night, one when he wasn’t already weighing his guilty conscience.

Two hours later, the inevitable arrived, smiting him with the will of the gods themselves.

“Aisengale. Darling, wake up…”

A delicate, feminine hand had appeared on Aisen’s shoulder, and it was slowly sliding across his chest to hold him close as he jolted awake from a dead sleep. He could practically feel someone’s breath on his neck as they leaned in to murmur in his ear. The air in his bedroom, which always smelled of old books and shaving soap, was suddenly fragrant with night-blooming jasmine and the burnt cinnamon of Abramelin incense. Beneath him, the bed linens transformed into a lush carpet of springtime grass dotted with foxtails and clover. The moonlight streaming through the window had changed to the rich hues of a supernatural sun, eternally at the station of dusk. He swore he could hear the chirping of crickets and frogs as his room transformed into a sylvan Fey glade right out of a storybook.

No. He was still dreaming. He had to be. This was the one about Neria singing to him across the ocean again. Except that her angelic voice was absent this time. And something much more corrupt had replaced it. More darkly sinful and seductive. A voice that beckoned to him from the depths of the Nine Hells themselves.

It was the voice, the voice of a deity older than Antiquity, an echo of the Divine Feminine but inverted toward its shadow side. It was the voice Aisen knew well over the last twenty years, and it was constantly in his head…a secret he held so close and so carefully that no one would ever know of it, or else he’d fall on his own blade and take it to the Shroud. He felt his heart pounding as every hair on his body stood on end, his fists balling up the bedsheets in a death grip.

“How I cannot wait for your adventure to begin, Aisengale. In fact, I couldn’t be more delighted about the plans I’ve been dreaming of for you. Because, darling, the sins of the flesh that await you…you can’t even imagine them, disciple. You and I are going to have the best time together. And I cannot wait to watch your fall from grace, the tributes you’ll make in my name, and the secrets you’ll unravel. And best of all, darling? Justice. This is the justice you’ve been craving for all this time. After all…when the sun goes down and no one is watching you…who says you can’t be the life of the party?”

This was enough to drive Aisen to throw the sheets off, jolt from the bed, and begin his usual maddening pace when insomnia and the insidious voice of his patroness struck. The minute he rose, her voice dissipated, as did the illusion of the Feylands surrounding him. Instinctively, he poured himself a glass of whiskey from the decanter on his dresser, tossing it back in one swallow as the comforting burn settled in his chest.

Then he caught the letter out of the corner of his eye, carelessly tossed aside with his evening attire, and now searing itself into his brain. Had his patroness woken him just to prompt him to find it? It wasn’t unusual for her to send him vague signals like this in his waking hours.

And all bets were off once he’d unfolded the letter to scan it, penned in feminine whorls and swoops.

Because now all he could picture was a sweltering summer day on the deck of a passenger ship seven years ago.

Then, meeting a woman whose countenance was like the blessed sun to his eternal winter.

Then, having that perfect dream shattered by a simple exchange of names.

Even now, he could hear the charming lilt of her Southern Fralisian accent as she spoke to him through her written entreaty:

Doctor Mythrien,

Greetings. I trust your summer sabbatical has been a welcome respite from the burden of educating wayward medical students—present company excluded, of course. I write on a matter of some urgency concerning my required six-month apprenticeship. As my academic advisor, I’d appreciate your guidance in helping me navigate my options.

I’ve just accepted a permanent appointment to serve as personal physician to His Grace, Leonardo VII, the Duke of Azureport. And I now find myself in want of instruction that extends beyond the obstetrical arts in which I specialize. Your reputation as a surgeon who excels in precision and successful outcomes precedes you. If you should be so possessed of both the time and inclination to suffer my presence in the operating theatre, I would be most grateful for your consideration. And I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge that I have more than proven my mettle while acquiring boundless patience under your tutelage over the last three years.

At your pleasure, please find my attached curriculum vitae and prospectus for your review…although I suspect you’re already intimately acquainted with my capabilities.

Most sincerely,

Revered Sister Evelyn Venturi

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In the space between salvation and damnation, Aisen’s discovered that the most dangerous contracts aren't written in blood—they're heralded by voices that know exactly which strings to pull. Join us this Friday to find out what happens when Aisen concludes his night in a whirlwind of memories, both beloved and despised.

Chapter 5 drops in your inbox Friday morning, and it’s a special one…💞

My Afterthoughts:

I wish you all could see my Google search history as I researched this chapter. Here’s a fun bird’s-eye view of some of the lingo and real-history tidbits you saw today…and may continue to see in Boundless:

Assignation: An old-fashioned term for a secret or forbidden meeting of lovers, seen often in Regency Era love stories, although the term’s been around since the 1400s.

Epistolary: A literary work in the form of letters between the fictional characters of a narrative. Some authors you may be familiar with who used epistolaries in their novels are Jane Austen, Bram Stoker, Honoré de Balzac, and Mary Shelley. Boundless has an epistolary element every few chapters.

The Forty Crows and the Bond Street Butchers: While these gangs are my own creation, they were definitely inspired by the real-life London gangs of the 19th century, such as The Forty Elephants. If you haven’t watched Hulu’s series about The Forty Elephants and London’s underground prizefighting culture, A Thousand Blows, please do—it was a major inspiration for our protagonist, Oliver. 🥊

Aisen’s Poisoner Artifices: This was a delight to research. Everything you read in this chapter—arsenic as a base, cupping, milk and magnesium as antidotes—came from real-life Regency and Victorian apothecary practices. Stay tuned for more fun poisoner’s lore from the good doctor. ☠️

Courtesans: Sex workers who were considered “high class” and well-connected socially. For those who have watched Bridgerton, Sienna was a courtesan. To be clear, these were honest, working women in the Regency Era who endured incredible hardship at times, and are sometimes misrepresented in older romance novels as a “foil” to the virgin heroine. I strive to portray courtesans like Severine in Boundless as powerful women with agency, hopes, and dreams, more than their profession, and in a sex-positive light.

Boxing Mills and Gambling Hells: These two pursuits were extremely popular and widespread during the Regency, but sometimes viewed with a degree of social condemnation depending on one’s class and the legality of the establishment. Gambling in the Regency could quickly lead to a peerage member’s utter disgrace and financial ruin, as we’ve now seen with Evelyn’s father and even Aisen’s racetrack debt to Niles. I’m going to share a little more about boxing in the Regency when we get to Oliver’s story.

(Late edit: I originally had a video here about the evolution of British gang culture, but I had not watched it in about a year. I went back to watch it today, realized it had some ugly stereotyping in it, and decided to remove it. Apologies for that, and I will find a better resource that treats the subject with more sensitivity!)

See you on Friday for a very special illustrated “double chapter” to kick your weekend off with a bang! ⚓🪽💞🌶️✨❤️‍🔥