By Rachel Ciaran It was the perfect night for cloaking secrets. There were no stars—just the faint nocturnal light from the moon above, pale-faced and mournful, and the lanterns swinging from the doors of taverns, pubs, and apothecaries. Ziva, ever-aware, ever-conscious, saw the poor and the lost crouching outside of crumbling buildings, holding out their

by Rachel Ciaran The dark swept in on black wings that evening, the sky scattered with stars that swung dizzily through the veils of remaining light. Inside of the Red Roan, though, the night had come alive: barmaids drifting through the press of bodies with ale on twin platters, raucous laughter that shook the ceiling