Jackdaw by Kj Charles

his existence. Nobody came.
    Some hours after he was put in there, the door was unlocked by Waterford, the pudgy youth with the broken nose. Ben felt the invisible force clamp around him as his gaoler entered, much harder than when Day had detained him. Waterford carried in a plate of stew and a jug of water, which he put on the table. He looked at Ben, said, “Bloody poof,” and deliberately let a long string of saliva drool into the jug.
    It wasn’t the first time—the only question in the cells after Jonah’s first escape had been whether he saw them spit or not. That didn’t make it any easier to bear.
    He drank the water anyway, because he was thirsty.
    There was no bed. There was a blanket in the corner and, when it became apparent that he would not be moved that night, Ben arranged it over himself and settled to rest in the chair.
    He spent a restive, uncomfortable night, thinking of Jonah, wondering if he’d made his escape. Jonah deserved arrest, he was well aware of that. Ben had, without doubt, been wrong to interfere with justice, and he had brought this latest disaster on himself. But Jonah had done things for Ben’s sake too, and he harboured the knowledge of that in his heart like the last ember of a dying fire.
    He tried not to think of what would happen to him in the morning. There was, he supposed, a chance that they might just let him go. He had a feeling his luck wasn’t running that way.
    He dozed fitfully and was wide awake, chill and bleary-eyed, by the time distant clocks struck five. Someone, thankfully not Waterford, brought him coffee and porridge, and he forced it down, then set himself to waiting.
    At last the door opened once more, and Day slipped in, followed by the lumbering Mrs. Gold. She looked, if possible, even more pregnant than before. Ben stood to give her the chair, which she took with a nod of thanks.
    “Spenser,” Day said. “Did you sleep well?”
    “Not really. And your man Waterford spits in prisoners’ drinks. Just so you know.”
    Mrs. Gold made a face of unutterable weariness. “For heaven’s sake. Steph, would you mind?”
    “Of course. Excuse me.” Day left the room. Ben waited for several minutes, not entirely sure what for. Mrs. Gold didn’t speak, sitting with her eyes closed, seeming to enjoy the rest. Ben wondered if she was asleep, if there was any chance he could slip out.
    “Don’t try it,” Mrs. Gold said, without opening her eyes.
    Day came back in with a jug of water and a cup. “Here.” He poured Ben a drink. “I’ve had a quick word with Waterford. Sorry about that, Spenser.”
    “He’s going to have to get used to it,” Mrs. Gold remarked.
    “Quite.” Day propped himself against the wall behind her. “We have an agreement with the Met, Spenser. We, practitioners, conduct ourselves discreetly, we govern ourselves to prevent magical crime affecting the rest of the population, and we ensure wrongdoers are punished. The Met were already furious at the dead officers and Pastern getting away scot-free. So it did not help when he and you windwalked out of a police raid on a molly house. And it really did not help that, yesterday, Pastern led Saint on an aerial chase all the way down Great Portland Street, over Oxford Street to Regent Street, and right through the Liberty Bazaar. That was not what they had in mind by discretion.”
    “In fairness, it’s just as much Saint’s fault as Pastern’s,” Mrs. Gold observed. “I told you she’s grossly overindulged.”
    “You may argue with her fiancé about that,” Day said. “I shouldn’t dare. And if we’re talking of fairness, Pastern made a damned good stab at destroying her life last winter. She’s got a grudge against him, and I don’t blame her for it. Though I do blame her for windwalking through Liberty’s, yes,” he added, as Mrs. Gold twisted round to give him a look. “In any case, the pair of them caused utter havoc, leaving us with an extremely angry police