“I wouldn't say it's a case of why I'm still here. A better question, I think, is why I should go.”

They reach up and take off the dark glasses. The skin around their eyes is just as bloodless as their hands, and it's hard to miss the pink irises. They blink a few times and then focus on you.

“I think I have a better chance of dealing with this peacefully if there are as few witnesses as possible.”

Technically, the sacerdotes have no authority whatsoever. They're civilians. But in practice the Guardian sacerdotes will volunteer their services to the police and mercenaries in times of crisis, as will the Healers. In addition to both groups being highly trained, the Church of the Nameless God holds a huge amount of sway in Victraedis and therefore the sacerdotes have a kind of spiritual authority that most civilians will respect even if they're not a follower of the Church. It's an edge that the mercenaries and police simply don't have. Not to mention that the sacerdotes have a better reputation, no doubt elevated by their connection to the divine. The real authorities look shabby and undisciplined by comparison.

But it's the real authorities who do the real work, and you're not going to feel comfortable about this situation until they're involved in it.

“I don't know what your armband means, and I don't care. Your whole plan, which is shaky enough, hinges entirely on the murderer actually turning up. If they're so freaked out, what's to stop them just running away instead of trying to deal with it?”

“Fear, I suppose. I don't think they can risk her surviving.”

You narrow your eyes. “I'm starting to wonder if you know something I don't about this situation.”

“Oh, undoubtedly. You're right in thinking that there's something unusual about my insistence that you leave. But I'll give you a clue: where are we?”

You stare at them blankly. Then it hits you.

“East of the river...” You turn in place, trying to visualise the streets around you. You turn back towards the body. “Leif Street is over there. So... this is near where the unrest exploded last night? A sparker... killed by a panicking assailant...”

“What does that sound like?”

They pull down their cowl and put their glasses back on, running a hand over their white slicked back hair. The wrapping around their nose and mouth stays in place. Their curiosity is less guarded now, and you feel the weight of their expectation on you.

What answer do you give them? Or do you ignore them and walk away to call the police, as you were intending to?

“Trouble.” You shake your head. “You win. I'm getting out of here before this gets messy.”

“Not even a guess? I’m a little disappointed. If you were so keen on staying, then maybe you could have been of some help... but you're not. Very sensible. Good day to you.”

The sacerdos watches you pick up the flowers and walk away down another alley. You don’t want to go back the way you came and you don’t want to attempt to step over the body.

After a minute you step back into the sunlight and look around, attempting to place yourself. The street is empty. To your left you can see a roadblock, but the people standing guard have their backs to you. You're on the wrong side. Fortunately, they're focus is the wrong way and they don't seem to have noticed you yet.

You step softly in the direction that ensures this state of affairs will continue. Namely the opposite.

You haven't gone far before you become aware of the stain on the pavement a fair distance away. The blood has soaked into the cement, occasionally accompanied by a bloody handprint. The right hand. Whoever made the trail was bleeding badly and yet still dragged themselves quite a distance...

You walk closer to the stains, until you're standing where the trail turns into an alley. You lean forward.

The dead girl stares at the sky. The sacerdos initially starts, then relaxes and mockingly salutes you.

You lean back again.

Your eyes follow the trail of blood back, back to a point where it stops abruptly. The exact point seems to waver and tremble, almost as if...

“I didn't hear anything about any unrest.”

“Good. Special Branch are doing their best to contain it, which becomes a lot easier when you have an entire unit devoted to illusions.”

Before your eyes someone starts to appear, the wall of illusion lapping over them and partially hiding them before they free themselves of it.

A mercenary walks towards you. He’s following the blood trail, his head down as he walks.

Most of the mercenaries wear uniform, with patches to denote their rank and unit. But a few of the elite get their own unique outfit, as well as a codename and their own persona. They're heroes, the authorities insist. They're here to make Victraedis safer. In spite of everything, a number of these named elite became fairly popular. They’re local celebrities, but that means a lot in a city-state. Especially one as isolated as Victraedis.

Too bad that the instant any of them achieve even moderate popularity they’re kept well away from any of the serious work. Usually.

But you recognise this guy. They call him Zephyr. He’s a telekinetic or has some kind of wind based power. Something like that. You've seen him on the front page of the paper a few times, posing in front of cuffed criminals while the headline declares another victory against the crime of Victraedis. It's a little surreal to see someone straight out of the propaganda walking around in real life.

But he's a mercenary. Or part of the Special Ability Branch, as they're officially known. And the Special Ability Branch is an offshoot of the police. So he'll follow the blood trail, find the body, and everything will be under control.

All you need to do is double back and take the slightly longer route to your office.

You edge back to the empty alley and stand there.

There would have been two kinds of sparkers present during the riot. The mercenaries, and the civilians. The girl was far too young to be part of the former. What happens at riots? The civilians and the police clash. It’s possible that she could have been involved in a fight unrelated to the unrest, especially if it had progressed past the ‘Us and Them’ stage to the ‘every man for himself’ one. But it doesn’t seem likely.

The sparkers in the riots would have been going for the mercenaries. The traitors. For some joining the mercenaries is the only work they can find, but the Special Abilities Branch was formed to deal with sparkers. It was necessary for dealing with criminals with powers. But normals aren’t supposed to even touch individuals with abilities. Too dangerous for the normals, apparently. When sparker unrest flares up, it’s the mercenaries that have to deal with it. Police sparker against civilian sparker. Traitors.

She must have been out on the streets. Suppose she got carried away. Suppose she drew upon whatever inherent power she had and, with her hands raised and aglow, ran towards the nearest mercenary. Or the mercenary had advanced towards her first and she had tried to protect herself with her abilities. The mercenary saw her, panicked… and then what? Stabbed her to death and broke her arm? If they’d struggled that might be possible, certainly if the mercenary had wanted to avoid using their powers on a teenager, but that kind of pacifism doesn’t fit with the stab wounds. And if the mercenary was surprised, it seems more likely that they would instinctively use their abilities.

But what kind of power could have caused the wounds you saw?

There would have been debris, probably. Broken glass. For the right kind of person, all it would have taken was the sweep of an arm.

The right kind of person being a sparker with telekinetic powers. Or wind-based ones, possibly.

And that sacerdos was convinced that the murderer would get there before anyone else, weren’t they?

Intriguing as the situation is, it leaves you with a problem.

When Zephyr follows the blood trail to its finish, he'll come face to face with a sacerdos. You have no doubt that there will be a confrontation, and that this confrontation will take place on the route back to the streets that aren't blocked off. Your only other options for getting away from here are either through the roadblock or past the wall of illusion into the riot zone. Neither appeal. Nor does walking in on a shaken murderer, for that matter.

Leaning out into the street, you catch sight of Zephyr crouching down by a handprint. He's not far from the alley entrance. There might be enough time to sprint past the sacerdos, but you're not sure. You could wait around and hope nobody ends up coming down this other alley. The roadblock might not be too poor an exit either; the police are only there to keep people out, right?

You can't think of a single good reason to head for the riot zone, apart from a possible way out somewhere else. But more likely than not you'll just run into swarms of mercenaries. It's mess and timewasting that you can do without.

What do you do?

You take a deep breath, clear your head.

This murder, while tragic, is nothing to do with you. You just need to get out of here, and compared to last night’s adventure doing so shouldn't be a problem.

Talk to the police. They’re here to help.

First discreetly checking that Zephyr has entered the alley, you slip back out of the shadows and walk up to the roadblock. A few metres away, you noisily clear your throat.

Five uniformed mercenaries turn and look at you. These are just grunts, bodies to stand around and look imposing. All the ones with any useful powers will be in the heart of the fray. You’d be amazed if there was even one Warder amongst them.

“You. Don’t come any closer. Put the flowers down on the ground. Slowly.” The speaker is a woman distinguishable from the others only by a red sergeant’s patch on her shoulder. She angles the palm of her right hand to face you, the other hand resting on her baton. The corporals around her seem to have similarly twitchy fingers, straying to the various toys hanging from their belts.

Like you said, useless powers.

You mutely put the flowers down beside you and straighten back up.

“What are you doing here? This area is off limits to civilians.”

“I didn’t realise. I was cutting through some sidestreets to get to Alder Street, only to find a wall of illusion down there-“ you gesture a little too suddenly, and they twitch, “and this roadblock here. I’d rather like to get out of the restricted area, if that’s alright with you.”

The sergeant nods slowly, as if giving the statement extensive thought. The red patch gleams, still not yet tarnished by daily wear and tear.

“Very well. You can pass, but I’d like to know where you got in. I’ll need to post someone there in case anyone else tries… tries to…”

An expression of terror dawns on her face. She’s not looking at you – rather, at something behind you.
Then she snaps out of it, and starts shouting at you.

“You! Hands where I can see them, and get down on your knees! Keebrook, find out what the fuck that is!”

You raise your hands, but turn to look at where she’s pointing. Bad idea.

The baton catches you on the jaw, spinning you around. By the time you recover you’ve fallen to one knee and the sergeant is screeching above you. You can taste blood.

“I said down on your knees!”

You say nothing and raise your hands, which fell when you did.

“Keebrook, report!” Some of the manic fury seems to have left her voice, but she’s no quieter for it.

“It’s a trail… I think – I think it might be blood? It leads in he-”

Behind you a yell is cut short, followed by the sickening crunch of shattered bones and a scream of agony a second later.

“Keebrook!”

One of the corps runs forward, the rest frozen by fear. The sergeant stammers out an order, her eyes still transfixed on the horrors you can’t see.

“Ferris, get us some backup. Tell them one of ours has been attacked.” When Ferris doesn’t respond, she spins around and bellows at her. “Quickly!”

You hear the sound of someone’s body being slammed into the ground.

“Sacerdos!” Relief.

“Zephyr?” Another, this one merely uncertain.

Ferris starts running down the street, her footfalls ringing out, presumably aiming for the wall of illusion. The noise underscores the silence. It’s taking all your willpower to stay still, which admittedly is not your most impressive trait, but fear of the inexperienced sergeant in front of you is managing to outweigh fear of a discovered and disgraced Zephyr.

A scream, and the sound of running stops. Another body falls to the ground.

“Zephyr, stop this.” It’s the strange sacerdos. Are they still trying to reason with him?

The only reply is something between a sob and a roar.

The baton falls from the sergeant’s limp fingers. She is frozen, overwhelmed. You take the opportunity to stand. Her eyes slide across you, but she doesn’t seem to register your presence. You turn.

The sacerdos in black is standing between Zephyr and the body. Keebrook is lying on the ground, completely still. Their legs are twisted and clearly broken. There’s another body slumped against a door: Ferris.

A dust spinner, low to the ground, is whirling around Zephyr’s feet. His hands are by his side but they’re open and the fingers extended, ready to draw out the wind brushing against his legs.

His hand twitches, and the sacerdos quickly steps to the side. An errant end of the stole, however, causes it to be ripped off and flung against the wall. They’re still talking, but the winds surrounding them break up the conversation and make it impossible to get hold of more than the odd marooned syllable. They dart closer, and at another twitch of the mercenary’s hands they drop to one knee. The hood is snatched off their head, and their white hair flutters in the residue breeze. They stand. The hands twitch again, and so it continues. Inch by inch the sacerdos draws closer, but so do the misses. One wrong step and the stranger will get broken like the others.

You can feel your gun pressing against your rib cage. Zephyr’s not even ten metres away from you. It would be easy.

But why should you get any more involved? This isn’t your fight. You don’t care enough to get your hands dirty. You should just quietly walk away.

You close your eyes. A dead and empty gaze stares unseeing at the sky. Her hair trails across her face and it seems like any moment she might reach up and brush it away.

But she won’t.

You open your eyes.

The spinner around Zephyr has risen to shoulder height, darkened by dust. He’s roaring at the sacerdos. You catch the last of it.

“…doing this?”

The sacerdos’ lips move in reply, but at that moment he swipes at the air out of frustration. They move, but their head snaps to the side and their dark glasses shatter and spin against the ground. Staggering, they hunch over and cover their eyes.

If you’re going to do anything, it has to be now.

What do you do?

You can’t watch this.

You fumble at your shoulder holster, and not a moment too soon both of your hands are gripped around that familiar weight. You level the gun, flick off the safety and line up your shot. Zephyr raises his hands. Either his concentration has unravelled to the point that he can’t restrain himself to twitches anymore, or he doesn’t mind letting everyone know where he’s aiming.

You don’t want to kill him. You don’t want the stranger to die either. Can you risk opening fire?

Zephyr’s arms start to move.

It turns out your trigger finger decides for you.

Silence follows the shot. The dust spinner collapses slowly, the paths of the dust becoming lazier and weaker until it settles upon the ground like the revolutions of a spinning coin. Zephyr lowers his arms. Almost mechanically, he twists and touches the dark, rapidly expanding stain on his side. He stares at his red fingertips blankly. He’s swaying. His legs buckle, and he joins the dust.

He says something. You don’t catch it.

The sacerdos reaches him first, being the only one to try, pulling off their grey jacket and kneeling down to press it to the wound. You notice that they’ve closed their eyes. You briefly wonder if they don’t want to look at the blood, but then you realise the obvious. It’s too bright; their glasses are gone.

“Sergeant, I’d appreciate it if you could take your remaining corporals and run to your nearest superior to get some medical attention.”

She stands to attention, apparently as an instinctive reaction to the commanding tone.

“Of course, sacerdos.”

“Take this.” They pull the black armband from their jacket and throw it to her. It’s a surprisingly accurate throw for someone with their eyes shut. “If they ask whose it is, say Guardian Phylaktos Ahazai. If there are any other Guardians there they will know me. Nameless guide you.”

Only pausing to offer the stranger a slight bow, the sergeant yells at the other two mercenaries to come with her and stalks off. Phylaktos waits until they’ve passed beyond the wall of illusion to talk again. More softly, this time.

“I suppose you must find my arrogance astounding. This is definitely not what I planned. You have my gratitude, for acting when you did, and my apology, for being endangered by my poor judgement.”

They’re still positioned to keep pressure on the gunshot wound, but the rest of their posture has slumped and shrunk, their head bowed and shoulders fallen. The difference between this person and the one radiating confidence and control in the alley is disconcerting.

While you struggle for a response, Phylaktos turns their head towards the wall of illusion.

“My glasses… did they break? Did you see?”

“They were smashed to pieces.”

They sigh.

“I did bring a spare pair, but finding where I put them can wait until I’m less occupied. Hopefully that will be rather soon.”

You glance up at the brilliant blue sky, then at the white hair of the sacerdos.

“If you don’t mind me asking, are you-“

“Albinistic? Yes. Oculocutaneous, if that means anything to you.”

“I can’t say it does, but… doesn’t it present problems? For being a Guardian, I mean.”

“Not so much now, but it did. I was born nearly blind, and when I joined the Church no one had any reason to believe I would be capable of any discipline other than Thinker.”

There’s a faint note of pride in their voice. You start to piece things together.

“But you didn’t become a Thinker. You became a Guardian instead. The fighters of the Church of the Nameless God. And not only that… you became one of their elite, didn’t you?”

A bit of a stretch, perhaps, but Phylaktos smiles.

“Yes, well done. That’s part of what the black armband means. It’s my rank, and the highest honour available to the Guardians, barring ascension to the station of Hierophant.”

“What else does it mean?”

The smile vanishes, and they hesitate.

“I’m not sure I’d be able to explain the significance to someone so… unaware… of the Church.”

“Give it a go.”

“If you say so. Do you know what the Abominations are?”

“Unforgiveable actions. The things you should never do.”

“In simplistic terms, that’s more or less accurate. Those who commit Abominations are spiritually scarred and their souls are in great peril. But they are not completely condemned. Sometimes it may be deemed necessary for an Abomination to be committed, which will not spare the perpetrator but the context of the action will weigh in their favour. Upon death, if all other actions outweigh the Abominations and unforgiven transgressions, the Nameless God may grant pardon.
“And so the reasoning is this: if there are necessary Abominations, surely it is preferable for those already scarred and with hope of reparation to carry them out, rather than damage the innocent? That is what we are, the Guardians who wear black. To take this rank, we must have committed justified Abominations in service to the Church. Unjustified Abominations are grounds for excommunication, naturally.”

They grin.

“There’s a reason there have been so few Hierophants who were previously Guardians. The elite of the other disciplines don’t want what they see as the ‘spiritually degenerate’ in charge of operations.”

That’s somewhat unsettling. You’re not fully aware what constitutes an Abomination under the teachings of the Church of the Nameless God. You’re fairly certain murder is one of them, and you have a vague notion of a few other malicious acts which might count, (Corruption? Defiling? They seem like words that could fit in there somewhere.) but that’s not enough to give you a full range of what the person in front of you might be capable of. But even so, whatever you choose from the list of the worst possible acts a person could commit, it’s not going to be pleasant.

“I see. If I may ask-“

“You may, but keep in mind that you should be gone before the police return. Unless you want to be detained as a witness, that is. Normally I would advise that you stay, but I don’t see anything to be gained by it.”

“What if they ask who I was?”

“I don’t believe I know your name, and I was far too preoccupied with events to get a good look at the mysterious shooter.”

“I appreciate that. But tell me, how were you dodging Zephyr’s hits? The wind around him was dusty but the air in his attacks was not. I don’t see how you could have otherwise predicted what he was doing.”

“He was very confused about that as well.” They shrug. “I was born virtually blind, as I said, but I was lucky. A few weeks after my seventeenth birthday I started seeing things. Things that weren’t always necessarily or literally there, but of the few things I could see with almost perfect clarity were people… and powers. In some respects it was useful, in others infuriating, and occasionally terrifying. I couldn’t block it out, and most of the time what I saw was nonsense. It was only when I joined the Church as an Acolyte and I underwent several unusually successful surgeries that I was able to see the real world. My sight was still bad, even with glasses, but it was enough to temper the visions. Together they form a happy compromise that gives me sight good enough for most situations. Good enough to be a Guardian, and with a few added bonuses. Such as being able to see Zephyr’s wind. He was controlling it, therefore I could see it.”

“You’re a sparker, then.”

“If you want to use that word.”

A short silence.

“Right. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If we meet again, may it be under more favourable circumstances.”

You nod, turn, walk and vault over the roadblock and head onwards to your apartment building. The lobby is dark and deserted when you get there. It’s nearly noon.

As soon as you enter your apartment you drop the flowers on the table and pick up Number 6’s letter. After slipping it into your jacket you pull out your gun. You sniff, and the faint scent of gunpowder, already fading, greets you. You sit down at your coffee table with your cleaning kit and start dismantling the weapon. You spend a few earnest minutes inspecting the disassembled pieces and scrubbing the bore and action. The methodical steps leave your mind free to drift. The worries about Number 6, your parents and Dominique are completely brushed aside; your mind is dominated by the events of the past few minutes. Away from that street it feels strangely dreamlike. You shot someone. You might have killed them. You’ll find out, sooner or later. Zephyr wasn’t the most famous of the mercenaries, but he was famous enough. The press will be all over this.

You suppose… if you’re quick, you might be able to cash in on it yourself. The Voyeur might be interested in the details of the situation. Or you could go straight to a newspaper with it. But you’ve got to be quick, and your time is already scarce.

You think of the dead girl and those mangled bodies, and a wave of fear crashes down on you. You stop cleaning the gun.

Think of something else. Not of stillness or mortality.

Your eyes fall on the flowers. You pull out an indigo rose and raise it to your nose, drinking in the heady scent. They’re beautiful flowers, and a kind gesture. The Festival of Faces has never held much allure for you, but the thought of seeing Evelyn again is enough to make you smile. It’s been too long.

You snap off the majority of the rose’s stalk and place the flower in your buttonhole. Feeling calmer, you return to cleaning the gun.

Later, after the gun was satisfactorily cleaned and returned to its holster, after your feet had taken you back to your office along a route that completely circumvented Leif Street, you found yourself sitting at your desk with your typewriter in front of you.

“Red Queen,” you type. A perfect copy of Number 6’s letter follows it, and upon forging the masked man’s insignia you replace the letter and burn the original.

Then you sit back and wait. Ten minutes to noon. It seems likely that the Red Queen’s goons will show up soon, but that probably still leaves you with a few minutes to spare. Time enough to make some phone calls, perhaps. Number 6’s assignment seems rather straightforward, ignoring the mystery of how Dupont happened to end up lying on top of your name, and only requires time enough to follow the linker parchment’s directions. Dealing with your mother is only a matter of waiting. The case of Dominique’s disappearance is mostly untouched, however, and might benefit from a few inquiries. Arranging an appointment with her sister and her agent would be useful for a start. If you can spare the time it could be worth calling the reading room to put aside either old newspapers or books on crests. Evelyn also asked you to call her in the letter she included with the flowers, and there’s the matter of the monetary value of Zephyr’s disgrace…

Who will you call, and what will you say?

If anything needs your attention, it’s the disappearance of Dominique. Retrieving the business card of her sister, you drop it on the desk in front of you and dial.

“You’ve reached the receptionist of Antoinette Fabron, Professional Consultant. How may I help you?”

“I’d like to talk to Ms Fabron.”

The man on the end of the phone laughs.

“Yes, you and everyone else. I’m afraid the waiting list for an appointment with Antoinette is booked up four months in advance, but if you’re happy to wait that long then –“

“This is urgent. I need to speak to her about her sister.”

“Her sister? I didn’t know she had – oh. Excuse me, one moment please.”

You hear a faint exchange on the other end of the phone, but the words are impossible to discern. He returns a few moments later.

“Can I ask your name?”

“Alexus Silk.”

“I see. It seems Antoinette was anticipating your call, and will be happy to talk with you at three this afternoon. I trust you have the address?”

“I, uh, yes. Thank you.”

“Have a good day.”

He hangs up on you before you can complete the pleasantries.

What kind of consultation is Antoinette Fabron giving that’s put her in such demand? And how did she know that you would want to speak to her? Katherine could have told her, but she said herself that she’d never so much as seen Antoinette. It certainly opens up a few intriguing possibilities.

Perhaps you’ll get some answers this afternoon.

You replace the receiver and reach for the pad containing the agent’s phone number only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. You swing your legs up and rest them on your desk, relaxing back into the chair.

“Come in!”

The door opens cautiously. A thick set man dressed in a suit evidently tailored to emphasise his intimidating bulk (and to gloss over any hints of an individual or personality) leans in. Dark glasses obscure his eyes, but his movements still make it clear that he’s doing a quick once over of the cramped office. He nods to someone in the other room, and a nigh identical man files in after the first.

“Ms Ashe requests your company at The Blue Rose. A car is waiting outside.”

You grin at them both.

“Let’s not keep the lady waiting, then.”
_ _ _

You kept up the appearance of insouciance for the entire ride, in spite of the two goons sitting in stony silence on either side of you. A third drives.

When you finally step out of the car, the Blue Rose looms before you: glass, stone and art nouveau curves. The scent of the sea greets you and you turn your head to stare out at the turquoise waves beyond the cliffs. The Blue Rose sits near the mouth of the river that runs through Victraedis, close enough to still be central to the city but far enough to cultivate a sense of isolation away from the docks and warehouses. In the same direction of your gaze, further than the naked eye can see, lie the shores of Riisneia. You silently curse it for what it let loose.

One of the suited thugs watches you as you ascend the steps to the restaurant, but they don’t follow you. They at least respect your intelligence enough to believe that you’re well aware of the inadvisable nature of letting the Red Queen down. To their credit, they’re right.

A smartly dressed man at the door opens it for you as you approach. You nod at him and step into the cool interior. The Blue Rose is just as impressive inside as it is outside. There’s very little artificial light on display, the natural daylight and clever placement of large windows having been utilised to their fullest extent. The result is a very light and airy layout, and a majestic view of the ocean. A slight, warm breeze laden with the smell of the sea wafts through the restaurant, weaving its way around the other delightful smells on offer. Waiters in black and white glide around the tables, as light on their feet as dancers. The Blue Rose is certainly very busy at this time (all the tables appear to be taken) but the noise level is restrained to gentle chatter, with the odd burst of polite laughter. You linger for a couple of seconds to take it in, and then walk over to the maître d’.

She accosts you with a bright flash of a smile.

“Good afternoon. Do you have a table booked?”

“I’m here with Ms. Ashe.” At the mention of the name a steely glint enters her eyes, but her air of professionalism doesn’t falter.

“Of course. Name?”

“Alexus Silk.”

“Ms. Ashe has already arrived. Right this way, if you please.”

You notice that she doesn’t even consult the booking list sat on the lectern. But perhaps it’s standard for someone of her position to be aware of who’s expected at any one time. Perhaps not.

The maître d’ leads you across the main room and out onto the sun-soaked balcony. The chattering of the diners fades and the distant crash of waves amplifies. There are fewer tables out here, and they’re spaced further apart. The two of you walk around the curved balcony a short way, and there she is.

The Red Queen. The maître d’ has paused a few metres away from the table where she sits, her posture rigidly upright, her face blank with an imperial indifference. Victoria’s gaze was directed at the sea, but as you watch her head turns towards you. She smiles gently, somehow managing to exclude any semblance of warmth from the expression, and you freeze in place. You knew this was a bad idea, but only seeing your mother in the flesh do you realise how poor your situation is. A waiter appears at your elbow, hesitating with the rest of you, before sweeping forward to remove the previous meal's dishes from before the Red Queen. She's clearly been making headway on the courses without you.

The maître d’ flashes you a look of pity. “Here is your table. If there’s anything you need, please inform the serving staff.” Moving a little faster than might be considered usual, she turns and departs back into the restaurant. The waiter, laden with his dirty dishes, hurries after her.

You walk towards the table.

“Good afternoon, Alexus,” she says. “I took the liberty of ordering your main for you. I trust steak will suffice?”

You stare at her. You haven’t even sat down and already you feel completely disregarded. You don’t reply and take a seat, then place the message you typed between the two of you on the table.

“This was what you wanted, I believe?”

Ashe makes no move to pick up the envelope, although she does glance at it.

“I thought you realised: it was a pretext. Although I’m very sure the rambling of a madman will make for interesting reading, this scrap of paper is not the reason for us meeting.”

“Then what is? You’ve been quite content to stay out of my life following that incident on my eighteenth birthday. It’s been, what, six years now?”

“You refrained from getting kidnapped and used as leverage prior to this point. Your happy anonymity has come to an end, and arrangements must be made.”

The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“Like my death?”

She smiles again. “If Kierkgaard had her way. But that seems distinctly unfair. It is by no means your fault that you failed to live up to the standards I expected of you, so I will be merciful.”

A thought occurs to you.

“Where’s Daltroy? What’s his take on all this?”

Ashe sighs.

“He was never particularly interested in you. He came along to our last meeting at my request, but after that point he left your affairs entirely in my hands. And so we come to my solution to the problem of you.”

She holds out a hand towards the bodyguard lurking behind her chair. They produce an envelope and place it carefully in her hand, as if it was made of paper rather than glass. The Red Queen places it next to Number 6’s envelope, which she picks up and opens.

“Take a look,” she commands. Pulling out the sheet of paper you typed, she starts to read. A quick glance at her face rewards you with a flash of irritation across her face, but then you reach for your own envelope.

Inside are boat tickets, for a departure time on Saturday night. The day after the Festival of Faces.

“Arnova? Why would I need to go there?”

“To live. Both in the sense that you will be moving there, and in the sense that if you don’t Kierkgaard has my permission to kill you.”

“What? I can’t just leave Victraedis.”

“Everything will be provided for. Money, lodgings, bodyguards, an entire new identity. You will indistinguishable from the other wealthy socialites who move out there. No one will know who you are, and the distance will ensure that any of my enemies will have quite some difficulty finding you. Of course, it’s entirely up to you whether or not you board that boat, but you only have one chance. After that, you are completely on your own. If your life is placed against any part of my property or power, I assure you that you will die. If Kierkgaard finds you, I assure you that you will die. The choice is yours.”

She folds up Number 6’s letter and returns it to the envelope, which she places on the upward facing palm of her other hand. She looks at it ponderously until it simultaneously disintegrates and bursts upwards, an explosion of dust. The sea breeze carries it away, and then the letter is gone.

The welcoming aroma of steak serves to further distract you from your discomfort. You turn to see a waiter approaching the table.

“Native Lobster for the lady,” he says as she places the plate in front of Ms. Ashe. “And Sirloin Steak, medium rare.” The meal is set down before you. You thank the waiter and mechanically start eating, trying to figure out a response to this situation.

What do you say?