The Crystal Lantern flickered, not so much as flared.

Fatigued bar wedged between broken-down buildings and broken sidewalks, it was the kind of neighborhood most women shunned after nightfall. The kind of neighborhood Leya Anderson—Blackwood wife, convict bride, painted china doll of a poisoned manor—shouldn't be a part of.

And yet… it was where she lived.

She was alone on the sidewalk for a minute before her first shift, fingers buried in coat, the spinning neon sign beating a ...