AI The Raven's Nest hummed like a nest of contented wasps, low and insistent, when Aurora pushed the back door open. Dusk had seeped through the dusty windows, gilding the scuffed oak bar and turning the green neon sign into a pulse of light on the sidewalk. She flipped the "Open" sign over, the clink sharp in her ears, and reached for the mop leaning by the jukebox. The wood was sticky—beer residue, someone's spilled gin, years of it. She scrubbed at a stain near the foot, the mophead dragging, and missed the floorboard creak upstairs.
Not Silas. He preferred to let the creaks be heard, a warning, a signal he was coming . Aurora paused, listening. The bar was empty, save for Marlowe, the newsagent, nursing a bitter, and Mrs. Hargrove, the librarian, her knitting in her lap and a gin and tonic that never seemed to empty. They saw her as the girl who delivered takeout from the Golden Empress, the one with the quiet eyes and the scar on her wrist. No one saw the girl who used to sit on Silas's desk, going over case files he'd "accidentally" left out, asking about Prague and MI6 and why he flinched when someone said "limp."
The door bell jangled. Aurora tensed, then relaxed. "Evening, Laila," Silas's voice came from the back.
She froze. Laila was her alias—Eva had stuck it on her the night she fled Cardiff, said, *"Names get left behind. You can't outrun them if you call yourself Aurora."* Silas had never used it in the bar before. Never.
She turned. He stood in the doorway to the back room, his auburn beard trimmed, his left leg slightly bent. The signet ring glinted on his right hand, a family crest she'd memorized: a raven with an olive branch. It had been three years since she'd called him "Sir" out of habit, four since she'd stopped flinching when he touched her shoulder.
"Evening, Si," she said, keeping her voice steady. She set the mop against the bar, wiping her hands on her apron—too small, borrowed from Mrs. Patel . "Early soundings, or you just miss my company?"
"Company's overrated." He crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under his weight . "How's the delivery run? Still out there chasing night owls and drunk students?"
"Drunk students tip better." She nodded at the cash register. "Mrs. Hargrove's gin's on you. She's got her eye on the barkeep again. Says he's got 'better hair than the last one.'"
Silas snorted. "Told her I'd introduce her to my cousin in Leeds. Real close cropper." He pulled a flask from his pocket, took a sip, then poured her a glass. "Scotch. On the rocks. For the nerves."
Aurora took it, her fingers wrapping around the glass. The liquid burned going down. "Nerves are for people who care. I don't care."
"Bullshit." He leaned against the bar, his voice softer. "You care too much, that's the problem. Always have."
She set the glass down, hard. It clinked. "How's the knee? Still being a pain?"
"Worse when I think about you drinkin' on the job." He nodded at the glass . "One I won't charge you for. But only 'cause it's you."
Aurora picked up the glass again, took a slower sip. The scotch burned, but it didn't numb. "You ever think about it? The old days?"
Silas looked away, out the window at the neon light. "What days? The ones where I had a job, or the ones where I thought my job was supposed to make sense?"
"Both." She set the glass down, too. "I think about 'em. The ones where you'd stay up all night explainin' how to read a map, or why you never wore a holster 'cause it slowed you down. Or the time you brought me a lollipop when Evan yelled at me."
His jaw tightened. "I should've..."
"You couldn't have stopped him," she said, too sharp . "You weren't there."
"I could've tried," he said, quieter . "I could've done more."
She looked at her hands, at the scar on her wrist, a pale crescent. "You did more than enough. You gave me a place to stay. A job. A name."
"Laila," he said, and it was a whisper .
Aurora's eyes snapped up. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't remind me who I'm supposed to be." She pushed away from the bar, wiping her hands on her apron again. "I'm Rory Carter, delivery girl. That's who I am now."
"No," he said, taking a step toward her. "You're Aurora. The girl who used to climb on my desk and ask about your dad's cases. The girl who cried when I told her your mom was sick. The girl who's still scared of the dark, even if she won't admit it."
She flinched. "You don't know shit."
"I know you better than you know yourself," he said, steady . "And you know what? I'm sorry. For not being there. For letting you think you had to be someone else."
"I didn't think I had to be someone else," she said, but her voice cracked . "I thought I had to survive."
Silas reached out, hesitated, then touched her elbow. His hand was warm, calloused. "You did survive. And you're alive. That's the point."
The door bell jangled. They both turned. A woman stood there, silhouetted in the light, her hair dark and straight, her height 5'6". Aurora's breath hitched.
"Rory?"
The woman stepped forward, the light catching her face. She had Aurora's blue eyes, but her face was softer, younger, the lines around her mouth not yet there. "It's me. Eva."
Aurora's throat went dry. She looked at Silas, who was already staring at the woman, his mouth tight. "You... you came."
Eva stepped closer, her gaze falling to Aurora's wrist, to the scar. "I never stopped. I knew you were here. I've been looking for you."
She reached out, and Aurora didn't flinch. Their hands touched, warm and solid. "It's been so long."
"Too long," Eva said, and there was a tear in her voice. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I was scared."
"Scared of what?"
"Scared I'd find you... changed."
Aurora looked at herself in the mirror behind the bar, at the woman with the scar, the apron, the name Rory. "I am changed."
Eva smiled, a little sad. "I'm glad. You needed to change."
Silas cleared his throat. They turned. "I'll... I'll get us drinks."
He walked to the bar, his limp noticeable now, and Aurora watched him go, her heart pounding . Eva sat down on the stool next to hers, the wood creaking.
"How old are you?"
"25."
"Jesus," Eva said, shaking her head. "You were 15 when I last saw you, and you had this... this fire. Like the world was a puzzle you were determined to solve. Now you just... fit."
Aurora laughed, bitter. "Fitting's all I can do."
"No," Eva said, taking her hand. "You're still solving the puzzle. Just in a different way."
They sat there, silent, as Silas set three glasses down. Aurora stared at her drink, at the way the light hit it, and thought about Evan, about the way he'd hit her, about the way she'd run from Cardiff to London, from Silas's warnings to Silas's protection. She thought about the scar on her wrist, a reminder of a childhood accident, of a life before Evan, before London, before Silas. And now Eva was here, a reminder of the girl she used to be, and Silas, a reminder of the man who'd helped her become more.
"We should go," Eva said, after a while, standing up. "It's late."
Aurora nodded, standing too. She hugged Eva, tight, and felt the older woman's arms squeeze back. "I'm glad you came."
"Me too," Eva said, pulling away. "Call me."
She walked to the door, turned, and smiled. "I will."
Aurora watched her go, the neon light casting strips across her face. When she turned, Silas was looking at her, his eyes soft.
"She looks like you."
"Like me did," Aurora said.
"No," he said. "Like you are. Just... softer."
She laughed, quiet. "Softer's overrated."
"Maybe," he said, "but it's necessary."
He held out his hand, and she took it, their fingers lacing together. His hand was warm, steady.
"You'll come around," he said.
"Maybe," she said, but she didn't pull away.
The bar hummed, the neon light flickering. Outside, the city of London sprawled, endless and alive. Inside, two friends stood together, the weight of years between them, but the hope of something new, too.
The bell jangled again. A man stumbled in, muttering, and Aurora stepped away from Silas. He squeezed her hand once, then let go. "I'll get his drink."
She nodded, watching him walk to the bar. The scar on her wrist itched.
Eva had been right. She was changed . But maybe change wasn't a bad thing. Maybe it was just... time.
The jukebox clicked, and a scratchy song came on—something old, something sweet. Aurora grabbed a cloth, wiped down a stool, and waited.
For what, she wasn't sure. But she waited.