Lye Street by Alan Campbell, Dave McKean

Fragments of a smashed mirror lay strewn across the floor. The lack of ash on the glass made the angel think it had been broken recently. She saw a name scrawled on the wall.

    Henry Bucklestrappe

    Carnival returned to the hall, and then entered the third room: another chamber, similar to the first two. On this wall, somebody had written a second name in chalk.

    Flora Whitten.

    Fragments of chalk still lay on the floor beneath it. Carnival picked up one of these pieces and copied the name, Flora , writing it underneath the original. The handwriting matched, just as she had always known it would. She let the chalk fall to the floor.
    In the last room she found a single word, written in her own hand.

    Rape.

    A small diary had been left for her on the window ledge. Carnival picked it up. It was ancient, mould speckled, with a tarnished silver clasp. The leather bindings were falling apart, the pages brittle and yellow. She held the diary to her chest and peered out of the window. From the base of the lye tower, the street rose to the temple watchtower at the opposite end. Carnival could see the silhouettes of winged statues, falcons, perched upon the building's summit, and the outline of a ballista. A Spine assassin patrolled the spaces between, nursing a crossbow in the crook of his arm.
    The cobbles below the watchtower glimmered faintly in the starlight, but the tenements on either side of the street were dark and shuttered, heavily barricaded against Scar Night. Against her. Deepgate remained silent, but for the ever-present sound of creaking chains

Chapter Twenty
    Someone was hammering on the door. It being Scar Night, Sal Greene decided not to answer. He wasn't that dumb. Instead, he remained exactly where he was under the upturned bathtub and hugged Ellie and Mina closer to his chest.
    The pup yowled.
    Mina nuzzled it and giggled.
    A male voice shouted up from the street outside. "Open up, citizen. Presbyter Scrimlock's orders."
    Scrimlock's orders? Greene lifted the bathtub.
    "Dad?"
    "Stay here, princess; look after Mina. I'll just be a minute."
    He padded down the stairs, and unbolted the door.
    Six Spine assassins stood in the street outside, their pale, wasted faces like those of the dead. Was this about the smuggling investigation? The bastards picked a fine night to batter on his door.
    Greene shot a wary glance at the old lye tower beside his house, alert for wings, before he returned his attention to the assassins. "If you're looking for the House of Fans," he said, "you've come three streets too far." He pointed up the hill. "What you need to do is go back up Lye Street, left at the watchtower–"
    One of the assassins interrupted him. "We are not searching for a brothel, Mr Greene." She had the same dull, vaporous eyes as the others. Scrapes in her leathers indicated heavy use. "You are required to come with us for your own safety."
    So Cope had been right. The Church knew all about the angel's curse.
    And they thought a nice conversation under the darkmoon would be a good way to start ensuring his safety?
    "Thanks, but I'll pass." Greene closed the door.
    He managed to get ten steps down the hallway before they broke it down.

Chapter Twenty One
    Darkmoon had risen by the time Carnival closed Flora Whitten's diary. She wondered why the girl had chosen to use a rope instead of a knife in the end. So as not to spill any blood?
    To ensure she'd go to Heaven?
    The angel slipped the small book into a pocket in her leather jerkin. It fitted snugly, as though it had worn a space for itself over many, many years. Had Carnival always carried the book with her?
    She gazed out across the starlit rooftops.
    How many more secrets had she hidden from herself? What part of her had always known the truth about Henry Bucklestrappe's crime, had made him a promise, and then strived to keep it all these years? Carnival must have watched and persecuted his family for generations. It seemed to her that she harboured a ghost