She was going to kill him. She was absolutely, completely and definitely, going to kill him.

That is, if she wasn't going to die from embarrassment first.

"Mon Dieu! Sis is a travesty! Sis is an outrage!"

"Whose sis?" Amy enquired. "I'm an only child."

The seamstress Mademoiselle Balzac sent her a chilling look. Which wasn't all too difficult, considering the blasted Frenchwoman had already divested her of most of her clothing! Damn was it breezy around her naughty bits!

"Don't get smart with me, petite fille! I 'ave dealt with self-absorbed ladies, countesses and se princesses of se royal court of France! You, little girl, will be easily dealt with!"

"Of course, just as you say, Mademoiselle Ball Sack," Amy replied obediently.

In answer, Mademoiselle Balzac tore the last vestiges of clothing off of her. Now Amy was standing there in nothing but her underwear. Not that that was a problem, per se. She'd been naked in front of people more times than she could count. But those people had been men, and they had looked at her like she was the best thing since sliced bread. Mademoiselle Balzac on the other hand...

"'orrible! Absolutely 'orrible!"

Amy's fingers twitched, itching to indulge in a little choking game. "Why, thank ye!" Her eyes swept over the wrinkled woman. "I'm sure ye also look spiffin' with yer clothes off!"

"I am not talking about sat, you silly girl!" The woman gestured at Amy's form as if it were of negligible importance that a half-naked prostitute was standing in a dowager duchess's drawing room.

"No?"

"Non. I am talking about sat!"

The seamstress stabbed a finger towards the clothes she had torn off Amy's figure. Judging by her expression, she considered them the greatest crime since the assassination of King Henry IV of France. Except crimes against fashion warranted a far more ruthless punishment than such paltry misdemeanors as regicide.

"What's wrong with me dress?" Amy peered down at it. True, due to the fact that she had set out to meet a bunch of criminals at an East End tavern, her attire might be somewhat...ehem...less than glamorous. In fact, she had put quite a bit of work into making it the opposite, but... "It's not that bad."

"Not sat bad?" Grabbing Amy's dress off the ground, Mademoiselle Balzac thrust it under Amy's nose. "Not sat bad? Look at sis!"

"Oy! Be careful! It took me hours to sew dose patches onto da dress!"

"You sewed sem on? Deliberately?"

"Aye."

"Why? Mon dieu, why? Quality aside, se dress underneath is not even damaged yet!"

"It's called 'used look'," Amy proclaimed with complete confidence, folding her arms across her chest. "Don't ye know anythin' about fashion?"

Anyway, she was sure stuff like that would be fashionable some day, right?

Right?

Oh crap. Who was she trying to kid? Nobody would ever be stupid enough to swallow that.

"Now you listen to me," the venomous French serpent of a seamstress hissed. "You will not let yourself be seen in anysing like sat ever again, or—"

"Or what?" Amy cocked an eyebrow. "Ye'll jab me with a safety needle?"

Eyes glittering, the seamstress raised her pair of scissors. "I was sinking of using somesing more...substantial, ma petite fille."

"Go ahead, Mademoiselle Ball Sack."

The woman narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Why do you pronounce my name like sat? So...strangely?"

Amy gave her a smile radiating with innocence. "I couldn't possibly say, Mademoiselle Ball Sack."

Her eyes widened with sudden realization. "You...!"

"Aye?" Amy's smile broadened.

Just then, the door opened and, a moment later, the dowager duchess stuck her noble noggin into the room. "Hello, there! How are things going with the two of you?"

"Fabulously!" Amy beamed. "Me and Mademoiselle Ball Sa—mmmph!"

"Merveilleuse," the French seamstress exclaimed, her hand clamped over Amy's mouth tightly enough to make her suffocate. "Everysing is going simply merveilleuse."

"Wonderful!" Lady Henrietta beamed. "So, what kind of style do you think would suit this young lady best?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Amy saw Madame Ball Sack's face twitch. "For her...I shall 'ave to create somesing special. Very special indeed, Madame la Duchesse."

"Aww...I can see the two of you are already getting along splendidly, aren't you?"

"Well, I wouldn't say famously, exactly," Amy quipped. "Perhaps infamousl—mmphmphmph!"

"Yes, famously, Madame la Duchesse!" Madame Ball Sack sent the dowager duchess a broad smile, while simultaneously sending Amy a death glare. Quite the impressive facial contortion, Amy had to admit. "Famously, that's just it!"

"Great! Simply great!" Lady Henrietta clapped her hands. "I can't wait to see what you'll come up with!"

And with a last delighted twirl, she rushed out of the room, the door falling shut behind her.

"You...!" Eyes glinting dangerously, Madame Ball Sack, whom Amy should probably not address by that nickname again if she wanted to live, grabbed her by the corset and drew her close. "You listen to me, petite fille! I am going to make se most beautiful, stunning dress sis world 'as ever seen for you, mademoiselle, and you are going to like it, or I'll—"

Just then the door swung open again. "Oh," the dowager duchess announced, "I forgot to mention..."

"—do my very best to serve you, mademoiselle. Rest assured, I shall complete sis task to se duchess's utmost satisfaction." Patting down Amy's front as if all she'd ever intended to do by grabbing her was remove dust particles, the seamstress smiled up at her. Then she turned towards Her Ladyship, smile widening. "'ow can I 'elp you, Madame la Duchesse?"

"Oh nothing, really. I was just going to tell you that the other instructors are on their way here. Soon, Mademoiselle Renoir, Mr Salisbury, Madam Chernyshevsky and Madam Preobrazhensky will be arriving!" The dowager duchess clapped her hands. "I can hardly wait for them to admire you in all your glory!"

Then she left the room again.

People are coming. People who'll see me.

Just then, Amy realized that Mademoiselle Balzac's gaze landed on her, inspecting her in her underwear, the seamstress's eyes filled with a mixture of panic and fanatical, fashionable zeal.

"No!" Amy raised her hands protectively. "I like myself just like I am, thank ye! No. No."

"Oui." Mademoiselle Balzac grabbed her by the knickers. "Oui, immédiatement!"

Damn you, Patrick! was Amy's last thought. Damn you to the deepest pits of hell!

***

Lord Patrick Day was quite certain now: he was in hell. What had he done to deserve this? Who had cursed him like this?

If he had thought the underground level of the gang's hideout he had seen yesterday had been horrible, he clearly needed to readjust his definition of the word. The underground rooms had been dark, yes. They had been filthy and filled with the stench of death, despair and diarrhea. But the upper level?

That was another thing entirely.

Below, there was only the stench of despair. Above, there was despair.

With every few steps, Lord Patrick Day passed a steel-reinforced door. The noises that came from behind those doors...

He shuddered. Not for nothing had he compared this place to hell. And behind him were two hulking demons, leading him down the road paved with good intentions.

There's one difference, though, he thought to himself grimly. There's no escape from hell. Unlike this place. I'll make sure of it!

"Dis way," the thug he'd secretly named Hammerhead ordered. "Da boss wants ta see ye."

"I can't wait."

If Hammerhead detected the sarcasm in Lord Patrick's voice, he didn't comment on it. He simply strode down the shadowy corridor, not even bothering to look back to see if Patrick was following. His Lordship was secretly glad he wasn't in the man's line of vision. Every time they passed one of those darn doors from behind which these hellish noises issued, he couldn't help but flinch the tiniest bit.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon.

Lord Patrick found himself led through a door, around two corners, through another door, and so on, and so on. The place was a labyrinth. At irregular intervals, there were alcoves along the wall, and protrusions jutting out into the corridor. Clearly, this place was built expecting a siege. And, to judge by the reddish-brown stains on the ground, it had survived more than one.

"We're 'ere."

The door in front of which they had come to a stop was simple and unadorned. It looked no different than any other door in this place—except that it had no lock on the outside.

Reaching up, the thug knocked on the door. "Boss? I've got 'im."

"Bring 'im in."

The room they entered was like nothing Lord Patrick expected. Mostly because it seemed so eerily familiar. Smooth parquette. Wood-panelled walls with portraits painted by well-known masters. A glittering chandelier dangling from the ceiling, and plush leather furniture spread throughout the room. All eerily familiar for a peer of the British Empire.

Except for the man in the armchair.

He was fat. Lord Patrick had never seen so fat a being outside of a pig pen. His wine glass was held in one indolent hand, and his eyelids were at a lazy half-mast. In those eyes, though, Patrick saw anything but laziness. He saw a razor-sharp mind, in command of many razor-sharp blades, and firearms to boot.

"So..." Pig-like eyes narrowed. "Dat's 'im? Dat's Perv?"

"Aye." Suppressing an inner wince at the confirmation, Patrick nodded before his escort could speak. "Dat's me."

"Tell me, boy..." The fat man's voice was all too familiar from yesterday. Lord Patrick had no doubt. This was him. This was Rabbid Rathbone. "Do ye wanna join da Blackstreet Snakes?"

It sounded like such a harmless question, put in such a gentle tone. But Lord Patrick Day had no delusions about what was to happen were he to say no. It was no coincidence the Blackstreet Snakes had been so quick to find and proposition him. All gangs competed for promising recruits. They were so generous, offering power and riches if you joined them—and death if you didn't. And as the biggest and most brutal gang of all, the Blackstreet Snakes were the most swift and ruthless in their recruitment tactics.

Inwardly, Lord Patrick smiled. Just like we counted on!

"Aye," he confirmed, showing a hint of a frown on his face. "Aye, I suppose I'd better join, hadn't I?"

Rathbone smirked. "I see ye know 'ow things work. Dat's good. Very good. We're da best. Dere's just one little problem. Know what it is?"

"Nah. What?"

"We're da best. Which means not just anyone can join. Not me gang."

My gang? So...recruits aren't supposed to know about the mysterious boss in the background, are they?

He filed it away for later.

"Meaning?" he enquired.

"Meaning ye're gonna 'ave ta pass a little test of mine. 'ere."

Pulling a slip of paper out of his pocket, the fat boar of a man held it out to him. Patrick snatched the paper and read what was on it.

"Ye're serious?" he demanded, glancing up from the man to the order and back again.

Rathbone smirked. "Deadly."

***

Lord Patrick Day glanced around to make sure the street was empty. A few weeks ago, if someone had wanted him to check the surroundings for thieves, gangsters and assassins who might be tailing him, he would politely direct them to the nearest insane asylum. That was a few weeks ago. That was before her. Fighting dirty wasn't the only thing she had taught him.

No one had followed him. He was sure of it.

Then again...why would they? he thought bitterly. After all, they are demanding sufficient proof of the deed to be delivered.

His heavy gaze returned to the crooked little house he was observing. The windows were dark. Not a single sound came from inside.

In other words, I have no excuse not to get on with it.

Clenching his teeth, he checked the street one last time—then dashed across and swiftly disappeared behind the building. Kneeling in front of the door, he reached under his coat and pulled out a crowbar.

He might have learned from Amy, but he wasn't her. He preferred a more...direct approach.

Sliding the crowbar into the gap between wall and door, he twisted. It was almost laughable how easily the wood crumbled and the door slid open.

Splendid! Breaking and entering! Another item on my growing list of crimes! Bravo, Your Lordship. Your parents would be so proud of you.

Pulling open the door, he slid inside and, moving through the shadows, hid himself behind one of the mouldy old curtains in the tiny excuse for a drawing room. It didn't take long till he heard the click of the front door.

Their information on his schedule and habits are eerily accurate.

Tensing, Lord Patrick waited as footsteps approached, and watched the man enter the room. He was pale and sickly-looking, not from any illness, but from the knowledge of whom he had provoked, of what was awaiting him.

Am I really about to do this? I am a Peer of the Realm! An honourable gentleman!

He looked down at the knife in his trembling hand.

There's no other way. For the children. I have to do it!

He stepped out of the shadows. The moment the other man saw him, he froze. Then his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Y-ye're 'ere ta kill me, are ye?"

Patrick took a deep breath. Here it comes.

-------------------------------------------------

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Well? Do you think Lord Patrick will go through with the gang initiation?

Yours Truly

Sir Rob