4 A Catastrophe Curve:

Arlene laughed, wiping away a tear after a good thirty seconds of mirth and facing Harper- who was pouting, arms crossed where she sat on the warehouse floor.

"Kid. Please. Nobody knows who I am."

"I swear that they were looking for you this morning! I mean, they said Arlene De'Soto.

That is you isn't it?"

"If you say so. I wonder what they'd want with me?" Arlene absentmindedly reached out to ruffle Harper's hair, fantasising about people desperately searching for her to offer scholarships and job opportunities.

"Aren't you worried? What if they go to your house or something?"

"You're adorable. Kid, if someone's specifically looking for me, even if I didn't know about it or expect it, it's not a bad thing. I'm pretty sure I'd know if someone was out to get me."

Harper was unconvinced, but Arlene gave her a quick pat on the shoulder.

"Mind on the job. Ready for round two?"

As Arlene watched, the doubts on the younger girls face dissipated, replaced by fierce determination.

By the time Hahn arrived back, enough of the machinery was in working order that Cynthia had started compounding.

Although Harper was exhausted, repairs with replacement parts were something that engineers like Arlene and Hahn could've handled in their sleep. Dasilva arrived back after... but Owen was nowhere to be seen.

Thankfully the parts he'd been sent to get weren't needed straight-away, replacements for the medicinal bandage rolling machine.

Harper was still exhausted, as were Hahn and Dasilva, so Arlene headed out. Not to look for Owen- but to get a second set of replacements. Dusk had fallen, the long summer day coming to a close and she could see that Long Tom was showing six past six.

Not good. She wanted to be off the streets by seven at the latest.

She could see that word had gotten around now, shopkeepers had started to read the mood and were battening down the hatches and preparing to minimise the damage.

Arlene upped the pace. Every now and then, she'd pass by a crowd of merry-makers, stumbling through the streets, and she'd quicken her pace.

Arriving at the shop she was looking for, she had to bang on the doors for a few minutes, before they finally answered. Though they refused to unbar the entrance, they passed her a package containing the spares from the second floor window.

Stowing it in her haversack, Arlene turned to make the journey back, when she saw someone in a black suit in her peripheral vision. She turned to take a second look, but, like a mirage, the figure had dissipated. A frown briefly creased her brow- but she dismissed the sight as her imagination.

Even if it wasn't, she was too short on time to be bothering with this nonsense.

Unfortunately, while Arlene was fast on her feet, it was still 6:45 by the time she'd gotten the parts and was heading back to Concoctions at a dog-trot. Normally she'd have taken a coach, but they, like the shopkeepers had sensed the air- and the streets were bare and now only lit by the flickering glow of gas-lamps.

Well not exactly bare. She slowed, there was a group of fifteen men in various states of inebriation.

One was throwing up into a gutter, but the rest were almost perfectly scattered across the junction of Broadway and Apothecaries crescent like a human barricade.

Arlene sighed and muttered to herself;

"What is wrong with them? I just want a nice, quiet day to feel sorry for myself!"

In retrospect, she should've seen this coming. Broadway inn was just up the road and the next nearest pub was the Malted Mug two streets behind her.

She walked forward, head down, hoping to avoid attention.

"Hheey there-" a broad-shouldered man ambled towards her from the group, face flushed and eyes blurred.

Arlene's hand slipped into her bag, looking for a wench- and then saw that the drunk was no longer looking at her.

"Arlene Castelle De'Soto." A hand landed on her shoulder and a stern voice, clipped and cold, made Arlene jump and turn on her heel, backing towards the drunks.

There were four men standing sombrely in the street where she'd come from.

Identically dressed in black jackets with top-hats and gloves, their faces were hard. A group of hyena's in evening dress.

"Who-"

"Are you Arlene Castelle De'Soto?"

"She matches the description."

"She has the bag."

"It's her."

As one the four advanced towards her, not waiting for an answer. Arlene froze. What sort of nightmare was this? Crisis after crisis, she went to try and run- but the four dashed forwards the moment she looked away.

"Hold her!" The first man to speak yelled out, reaching into Arlene's bag.

His hand came out empty.

"It's an old one!" yelled one of his companions, who'd lost his hat to a glancing blow from Arlene's wrench. He twisted her wrist to force her to drop the tool and added- "Try asking aloud!"

The man reaching into Arlene's haversack nodded.

"The Dragon's Stone!"