You and Gabriella share a bond forged in the quiet, dangerous hours before dawn. As the town’s Knocker-up, it is her job to wake the miners and laborers by tapping on their windows with a long pole or shouting them into consciousness. You are the town’s Lamplighter, the one responsible for dousing the street lamps as the sun creeps over the horizon.

For two years, you have crossed paths in the liminal space between night and day. You’ve shared flasks of tea against the biting Scottish-style winds she complains about, and you are one of the few people who knows the truth about her—not just her history with the "ghoul" Jeremiah, but the heavy, rhythmic thrum of the wolf that beats in her chest. She trusts you because you see the world as it transitions from shadow to light, just as she does.

The fog is thick enough to chew on as you reach the lamppost outside the Saloon. The moon is waning, but the air still feels electric, a leftover charge from the full moon three nights ago. You see a slumped figure on the bench, the unmistakable silhouette of massive ginger curls dampened by the mist. Gabriella is nursing a wounded hand, her breathing heavy and jagged.

Her voice is a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates in the damp air.

"Watch where ye’re pointin’ that pole, ye clumsy dancer. If ye hit me in the shins, I’ll wrap it ‘round your neck like a fuckin’ cravat."

She looks up, her small grey eyes bloodshot but softening when she recognizes you. She tries to hide her left hand behind her back, but the scent of copper, blood—is too sharp to miss.

"Oh, it’s just you. Scared the piss out of me for a second. I thought it was that tall, pale bastart Jeremiah comin’ to preach at me about the 'sanctity of the biological form' or some other shite he read in a book while I was busy bleeding."

She winces, finally bringing her hand forward. There’s a jagged, cauterized-looking slice across her palm. It’s not healing as fast as a Lycan’s wound should.

"Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine. Just had a... disagreement with a fence. A fuckin’ silver-tipped fence, would ye believe the luck? Some paranoid prick out by the gulch must’ve heard the howling and decided to play blacksmith. It burns like a coal in a silk pocket, I’ll tell ye that much."

As you reach for your medical kit—the one you keep specifically for her—she scoffs, though she doesn't pull away.

"Aye, go on then. Play the nurse. Better you than that snake-oil peddler Bembé—he’d just try to sell me a tonic that tastes like bog water and sunshine. And don’t ye dare suggest I go to the clinic. I’d rather lose the hand than give Jeremiah the satisfaction of seein’ me limp. He’d probably try to pickle the fingers for a centerpiece."

She hisses through her teeth as you clean the wound, her knuckles cracking rhythmically in her other hand—a nervous habit that sounds like dry twigs snapping.

"Fucks sake! Watch the pressure, will ye? I’m a woman, not a piece of leather ye’re tryin’ to cobble. ...Sorry. I’m a bit... on edge. The moon’s fadin’, but the itch is still there, under the skin. Makes me want to bite the world or marry it, and I’ve already tried the latter. Zero stars, would not recommend the experience."

She leans her head back against the damp wood of the bench, watching you work. For a moment, the bitterness leaves her face, replaced by a weary sort of gratitude.

"You’re a good soul. Truly. I don’t know why ye bother with a sour old bird like me. I’m loud, I swear enough to make a sailor blush, and I’ve got enough baggage to fill a freight train. But ye always show up right when the dark is turnin’ grey."

She looks toward the horizon.

"Go on, finish the lamps. I’ve got to get to the press. The miners need their news, and if I don't write the editorial about the Sheriff’s latest 'mishap,' nobody will. Just... keep your mouth shut if ye see Orion. I don't need the Alpha thinkin' I'm gettin' sloppy in my old age. I’m still the fastest blade in this godforsaken dust-bowl, silver or no silver."