Futuristic The Editors | [Closed]

If there is one thing to complain.


Collette looked at her clock. It was quite an unfortunate event, and she really wouldn’t blame herself for it happening. But one of the heavier clothes slid so soundlessly, and the smooth fur and even smoother silk offered no resistance. It pushed the clock on the floor, let it scattered over her waxed redwood like a kaleidoscope piece. With that being knocked over and scattered, Collette could no longer tell the time, and she was lost beneath the painted ceiling and four solid walls. Having picked the humble location for her office, she didn’t have the convenience of windows, nor did she check the time for quite some hour. So, is it day time? Night time? Has the city slept? She couldn’t tell. Once she collected the pieces from the floor and the fur scarf which fell with it, the actress slumped into her chair, and drew a long breath. The time has froze, she thought. The air was stagnated and dull. One could almost use a cigarette to lighten this place up, or really, she had stayed in this space for too long.


Why hasn’t she left the office, she wondered.


It’s the pile of clothes. She reasoned. Everyone of them had went on and off her in these long hours. One must be selected, the director said, and everyone else had something to do besides choosing the clothes. It must be done.


Or, it was just an excuse to stay here. Collette could have easily find something to do, someone to meet. But she was here, putting on and putting off these threaded fabrics, wondering about them against the mirror, and slid them back into the pile. Her eyes within pointed somewhere else. Something else. Her instinct moved restlessly.


When her soul started to doubt the dullness of her actions and the reason for it all, the reason answered. A sound. A dull sound, almost didn’t get to her wondering little mind. But there she was, leaving the garments, pulled up the dress skirt over the cleaned floor, and reaching for the door knob. The welcome sign was hung already, swinging as it showed her the visitor.


Behind the door, Hieronymus stood, dressed as if flustered. The collar of his black dress shirt was untamed, and his sleeves had the distinct pattern of those that had been continuously raised over time. His eye seemed to have been distracted, and he stared at the doorframe with wide eyes, his right hand still raised slightly where it was after he had knocked.


He noticed the door had been opened for him about ten seconds after the fact. The actress’ form tightened his figure, causing him to return both hands to his pockets, straighten his back and narrow his eyes with a clearing of the throat. The only recalcitrant part of his normality was the fact he wore no jacket, nor any waistcoat or vest. His arms shaped the sleeves.


“Miss Holst, I…” he stopped, looked away, then looked back again, “... just had to see you again.”


Not even a casual or formal greet, but a disarming honesty gifted in a statement, Collette smiled out of genuine amusement while she invited him in with a gesture. It was only after she closed the door for him, and the single chuckle long faded with his entrance, that she managed to piece together a reply. “And I supposed you could say that I had to wait for your visit?” She looked around, especially on the pile of clothes still arranged on her table. “Though do excuse the mess. I was waiting but… Didn’t expect it to be this exact moment. “


She didn’t expect it... But rather, she felt it. Like he would walk in the door any minute.


He laid eyes on her as a child would lay eyes on ivy climbing a wall of their home: a hardy plant finding root and nutrient in the impossible; an insect’s climbing path to unseen heights; a secret natural touch; the suggestion of a secret garden.


“I’m glad you’ll make the exception for my visit,” he said. “I would have notified you but… I didn’t walk here consciously. I don’t think I did, at least. It’s been a strange day. Excuse me.”


“Then I am honoured that you would visit my humble office unconsciously, Mr Hartley. I would take it that you came here… Well, let’s ask it this way. “ Collette prepared a meaningful smile, guiding him to the sofa and stood opposite him. “Did you come here as a journalist of Capers? Or have you come … Privately?”


Was he even prepared to answer the question in his state? The actress chose to trust him to understand her inquiry, the seeking eye moved from his sleeves to his collar to his face, wondering about the traces, and their reasons. Her real curiosity lies underneath his features.


“As a journalist? No. That ended yesterday. Anything I’m here for is purely personal. Or,” he shrugged one shoulder, “the very opposite of personal. Even so, it all comes back to personal in the end, really. One way or t’other at least. Firstly,” he gathered himself for a moment, not sitting down just yet, “I’d like to apologise for… actually, no, I’m not sorry. Forget that. What is it about you? How can one woman be so open yet so… veiled, simultaneously? I suppose you and the Nightingale share the same thread. Actually, I’d wager you, the Nightingale and Mrs Horowitz share the same thread. You’re from the same ilk, if you like. And yet… I’ve come to you. Even if we forget all we know about the other two I just mentioned… I’ve come to you regardless.”


“But I think we both know why you came to me instead of Olympia and Bernadette. Isn’t it because you think that answers will come easier through me than the others?” Collette remained standing, and the two faced off each other with the hanging light between them. The warm light reflected rather strangely in her emerald eyes. Though her word could potentially be in a challenging tone, it wasn’t. It came out like a casual statement, almost like an assessment through an old friend. Her stance, though straight, emit no guards or hostility. “Though I would say the same to you, Mr Hartley. You are not exactly open, if I could say so. “


One of his hands hand wandered to his collar, and he was running its corner through his finger in a slow, preoccupied pattern as he remained before her. His eye was both trained on her, and not on her. Like he was resting unliving golden gems in her direction, gems that caught the light under his mask of similar white and gold, but gems that served no purpose. It was evident he soaked up her words because the faintest suggestion of a smile threatened his lips.


“You know, I almost want to deny that. Given my reputation, is it not entirely possible I’m in front of you and speaking as I am because I want, simply, you? That’s the sort of message my fans like to spread. It is important to... listen to messengers,” he had his eyes on hers as he spoke, but his expression took on subtle masques depending on what he said. When he finished speaking, which he did which a careless shrug of one shoulder, the hand resumed its pattern on the collar. The eyes, though, kept their spark.


Upon the mention of “messenger” yet again, Collette raised one brow at him --- He knew it mean something, alright, so it wasn’t like she could conceal it with yet another one of reactionless. But he threw it around too often and too carelessly. Given the weight she knew the word applied, it was… Unwise.


“Well, given your reputations, I doubt the desire for… me, will hold your tongue back as much as it did?”


Collette’s reply was almost as playful as the follower of his described his words to be. But then, she pulled on her long dark frock, wrapped the velvet around her legs, and settled down on the cushioned seat. With the graceful leaning on the sofa, she assumed a position, one that was too relaxed for any mere acquaintance. “And, before I can help you with what you seek, Mr Hartley, it is I who want from you. Honesty, and trust, if you are willing to spare it to me. Because it would be an awful disappointment if you don’t. “


She gave a pause, returning his gaze and places her hands lightly on her knees.


“Tell me, Hieronymus Hartley. What do you live for? When trouble and conflicts arise, where doth your loyalty lie?”


“Again, no point denying anything,” he said. The serious look lasted only a second longer before it cracked, and Hieronymus smiled. Genuine enjoyment, seasoned with mirth, broke through his façade. He fairly lost and regained himself in a moment. His hand raised, roughly pulling at the strings of ribbon behind his head as he doffed his mask. When he looked back to the actress, she would see the dark, weathered hint to his face gone, replaced with an expression that would have been lost if he had kept up his public appearances. He didn’t say a word until he dropped his mask onto the table as he sat down, discarding it atop the day’s copy of the Capers which lay neatly there.


“Since you essentially uncovered the conformation I have been searching for, I’d say you have given me what I want already. But I’ll humour you, Miss Holst, I’ll humour you. I’ll be more naked with you than the world, if you wish. My answers will have what you asked for. I live for myself, and I live for my son. Both of those things are saturated with the colour of Cassiopia. That’s why I know something is wrong. Something below the surface, and I’m ashamed I haven’t an eye more open to see what is wrong. I’m rectifying this. Risking my job by acting up in front of Bernadette; risking my reputation with illegal eavesdropping - I’m not sorry for that, by the way. I’d rather take a small hit than my city goes down in smoke. And you know what? I wrote about the Nightingale, and realised I knew only a hundredth of what she knows about the city. I can’t call it my city with this knowledge. I want to call it my city. Because it is my city.”


So, a loyalty to Cassiopia? It wasn’t heroic or grand, a selfish tie to the city, and with a little self-care and greed hanging here and there like the baskets in her garden. But then, it was an honesty that --- like his first spoken sentence today --- disarmingly honest. Her playful smile was put away, like the mask of his, and only a faint hint of it remained as well as her side leaning pose. She considered every enunciation of his words and every movement on him, then the possible future of this man who now sat in front of her. Maskless, more naked than the city know of. She quietly admit to self that she was at a loss of reaction. But there was more at stake than just the immediate reply and her image to him that she needed to remember.


Will he be on their side? If he obtain that knowledge, enough to claim that city as his again, what will he do then? Will he be a friend? An enemy? Or just a bystander that cuts off relations? Collette strangely find the thought of facing off him unpleasant. The felt of dread puppeteered by Inge, and the horror of nearly losing Olympia, and that helplessness of watching her allies disappeared, all still loomed over beneath the solid roof. She let a sigh away, let it disperse in the air like smoke of cigarette. She… She wanted to get her answer, but the former question wasn’t enough. Her knowledge wasn’t enough.


“It is not something that I would describe as ‘wrong’, exactly. It’s never as simple as that, Mr Hartley. We both watch this city as long as Olympia did, but there is something… Something we will never gain as much… “ The thread of thoughts unconsciously guided the actress forward, a hand pressed on the glass of the coffee table, her mind search again in his eyes, now without the barrier of the mask. It was strange, how when the mask was off, one almost felt self-conscious as the sight grazed the skin, parts that were normally exposed with another individual. “I’m asking, Mr Hartley. What you said, love for the city or love for self, is it something I can count on? “


Then her fingers found their ways to his mask, and gently move it to reveal the article Hieronymus authored. It was read so close to the printing time that a few letters had smudged, as if watered. Like presenting something precious she rotated the paper, both hands carefully shifted it, moving the article surely in front of the eyes of Liar Hartley until the colours of the picture can be caught on their reflection.


“Is this something I can count on, as well?”


He watched her as if she’d not picked up the paper. “If part of you didn’t think you could count on it, you’d have sent me away already. Am I not correct?”


She blinked. “Well. Yes, I hope. I would hope to hear your account on that instead. Afterall, we have known each other for… How long? Barely three hours?”


“My account means nothing without your assumptions of me to begin with. I could give you my word, but what’s the point? I know a word like Liar, despite being so small, never really washes off. If you want my word, I’ll give it to you regardless. Yes. I want to know what’s going on in my city, and I want to fix it. Takes more than an actress, a songstress and a journalist to turn the city’s wheels. It takes… uh,” he looked away, realising he couldn’t just say ‘a journalist’ to emphasise his point. He looked back with a bashful chuckle. “Two… journalists? I don’t know. I didn’t really think that sentence through.”


She chuckled with him, but her action was somber --- walked to the door, checked if anyone was near, quietly locked it and she returned not in her seat, but only a thread away from where he sat. Close enough that he could hear even her breath, and could converse in a volume that one couldn’t hear two steps away. “I know that the effect of ‘Liar’ still lingers for Bernadette, and for a lot of people. But the word you give will prove better than my assumption. You have already touched on things you shouldn’t have, Mr Hartley, one that could have affected people you love easily, and it is not something you can back out. If you continue to be ill-informed, and… For example, mentioning the Messenger too many times, you risk putting you and your son in danger.”


Her words were nearly just breath, but she made sure he heard every word she intended.


“I myself would think that is not a path some of us would like to see. So, though I can’t guarantee you I know and can answer everything, ask me questions. Quietly. “


“I didn’t mention anything,” he said, looking at her. Her expression floored him for a second, his defiance drained. In her voice, unabashedly, was the truth of what he’d been circling the whole time. A secret layer, two parts of which were right in front of him the whole time. And one of those parts had got shot. Shot, no doubt, not by a rabid and jealous fan or mad actor, but shot because of who she was to this secret layer.


Collette wasn’t afraid to show him that. To show him who was in the firing line. To show him where the gun was trained to: himself; his son.


The realisation caused a fluttering in his chest as breath abandoned him. He was nothing short of afraid. What he was afraid of seemed unbearably close. Fiction made reality. A monster jumping from a book to bite your neck, to draw blood.


His mouth, though, had other ideas. It was not so afraid.


“What is it I have failed to see all these years, then, that even Bernadette is a part of?”


“When the fish lays quiet in the water, it is harder to find it. “ Collette remarked, as her fish swam ever slightly in the bowl behind them. “But when the water is disturbed, and the fish has to go, you will see it once it escapes the ripples.”


That didn’t quite guide her to begin explaining. With a quick glance of his face, she searched for his thoughts. She didn’t quite find it, yet.


“I supposed I can begin with the Messenger. “Another of her breath landed on his folded sleeves. “He is exactly like the name suggest. Nothing more, nothing less. He was in a place where if he gives information, they are valuable and insightful. But, if someone knew the name, they are… More involved. I wonder how you came to find it. “


That’s what she wanted to know for all these time. How did Hieronymus Hartley, a journalist who ever noticed their activities, came to know a name that she had only heard of. That curiosity overcame all the doubts she had concerned for Liar Hartley. Perhaps, perhaps.


“Would you enlighten me? Or should I continue?”


“I’ll tell you. Just to prove what I said about giving you my word. It’s very, very simple. A man in the capital died, and I was besieged the day after this happened by both Dr Ashley - if you remember who she is - and Mrs Horowitz, despite the fact I would never have been the one to write, or to confirm, an obituary. They both said not to write about him. Of course, given my confusion, I felt there was something I didn’t know that Bernadette did. So I looked into it, I looked into him. Then I got into contact with someone who sold me a dossier of information on the guy, at which point I was reminded by Bernadette not to write on him. Since Dr Ashley agreed, I put the dossier aside and haven’t used it anywhere. I’ve looked at it a few times recently, but never used it… only since his son came to me.”


“His son, and the person who gave you the dossier, are they safe?”Collette appeared concerned, but then seemed to paid a bit effort to wiped it off. “But I see, so you have interest before now. “


It took yet another moment, time to consider what his words amount to, and where her words could lead. “I supposed his son might be aware of some hints, but how did you first consider that there is something more? I wouldn’t think there was enough traces to get you this close.”


“His son is,” Hieronymus nodded slightly. “But the person who sold me the dossier, I have no idea. He wasn’t one of your people was he? On top of that, I… ah, well. It started with his son coming to see me, then I was rather annoyed at Bernadette kicking me out of my interview so she could speak with the Nightingale, then there was her Ruth telling me she thought something existed… then yesterday when she was quick to bite at me and defend you. Then of course, the fact you three make up some sort of group... Plus… a few nights ago, I realised that you entered the room when Bernadette was talking with the Nightingale,” he blinked at her. “That just cemented it for me. Friendships are one thing, but I never heard of Bernadette having links to two actresses as friends.”


“Here I thought my imitating voice was good.” Collette said, a bit sulkingly, but then agreed with him with an amused look. “Forgive me, it is the one thing I was praised for above Nightingale. It is true that our friendship with Mrs Horowitz developed only shortly, and what you heard on the other end…” She blinked back, “Was really my first conversation with Mrs Horowitz. I hope our interview wasn’t too unpleasant, though to my defence, you did become harsh briefly. It too brought to me the idea that you have more knowledge than Mrs Horowitz would expect. She wouldn’t have brought you here if she had known. ”


Then she smiled widely, and gave him a stare like looking at an interesting puzzle. “And, if you didn’t know so much, you wouldn’t be here, then. Would you?”


He sat very still, his expression altering slowly to a mixture of bashful admittance and slight annoyance. “I suppose I lost my temper. It was very unlike me… though I don’t regret it, if only in that it allowed me to… find you. And yes, I fear my recent conduct has put a veil over me in her eyes. She thinks me reckless, unprofessional. Fairly good assumptions, yes, only perhaps to a degree more than usual. If anything, I am thankful that you see the light where she only sees dark. She is an opinionated and strong woman, and those qualities are what elevate her to her status in the Capers. She doesn’t take chances, not with anyone in her team. She says ‘no,’ she means ‘no.’” Then he smiled again. “I suppose I’m the other side of her coin. We look for different things. And I’m not what she wants to see… not recently at least. That’s all it is.”


“What she saw was not lost in our eyes. “ She referred to Olympia, with a slight melancholy in her tone. “But it is because you saw something more than just a journalist. You didn’t come to inquire so you can put in on your paper, nor did you turn harsh in the interview because you want my reaction exposed. Not to the crowd, but to your knowledge. “


“I supposed I am… Taking chances. “ Words came out slowly, like Collette was slowly digesting her own thoughts. “You are less predictable than a lot of people would like, Mr Hartley. I have not a clue what you might do after your veil is lifted from your eyes. I can only… Assume. Assuming you won’t end up turning the gun at us, assuming you won’t just write and publish it all, assuming you are worth saving… I mean... “ The possibility of what he might be was too grim to mention for now, she reckoned. “That may have put me as very optimistic, compared to Mrs Horowitz. What she does is indeed, safe. But I have worked with people and the unpredictables… and you are, I supposed, instinctively worth taking a chance on. You are not of dark nature, Mr Hartley.“


What led her to that assumption, she didn’t explain. There was a darkening in her expressions that, sitting so closely by the shoulders, difficult to notice from his sight.


“Only good things, I hope… Slap me if I get it wrong,” he smiled again, chuckled a slight bit.


“Would a slap stop you from what you do?” Her amusement came once again, mirroring his. He only shrugged, as if to suggest a slap would do something, even if it wasn’t stopping him. “As for your dossier supplier, I fear… It’s, hard to say without a name. Tell me, when you say ‘one of your people’, what do you have in mind?”


“I mean… you, Bernadette and the Nightingale. And of course… deceased Apollo. In whatever secret clubhouse you have going…” he gave a dismissive wave of his hand, in jest. “The guy only called himself Xylem, by the way. Not sure if it means anything to you.”


She grinned wider thanks to his phrasing of “secret clubhouse”. “I don’t remember that name, but then again a lot of names are forgotten. Including mine. And, well. It’s not exactly a clubhouse. It’s more like a connection. An agreement. More formal than us sitting here sharing and less committed than an actual existing building. It just so happens that its influence was a little more than a University sorority. What do you think about that, Mr Hartley?“


Hieronymus had begun scowling slightly as she spoke. In his mind, connections were being made as assumptions were being broken. Every word that fell from her lips was building his view of the world higher and higher.


“From what you’ve said… there must be more of you. It can’t just be the four of you. It can’t be, not if people forget names.”


He sat back, his mouth falling open slightly as his expression hovered on the verge of acceptance and intense frustration. How had he missed so much… in his own city? If it was simply the three woman like he thought it was, he believed he could forgive himself for his short-sightedness. But what if there were a hundred? Two hundred? Or maybe even just twenty, fifty.


“How did I miss so much?” he muttered very faintly, his expression still unable to make up its mind.


The actress seemed to have found his expression very intriguing indeed. She had waited him to wander in the maze of his mind, before she finally decided to give another hint. “It is easier to observe changes. “ She said, smiling like a child observing. “But it is harder when it has been there all along, yes?”


“I… suppose. You must just be being polite to me by saying that. The change must be regarding the boy. And the Nightingale getting shot… your… the secret layer of Cassiopia must be out of balance somehow. I only began thinking this way when Mrs Carlyle’s daughter suggested such a thing might exist. At least I have something to report to her…” he laughed, shortly. “Although considering who Ruth Carlyle is… I don’t imagine her being ignorant to this, not at all… She’s the daughter of a woman who single-handedly changes the economy, and a man who built Klokklsby. No way she was ignorant. Tell me I’m right.”


“You were helping Ruth? That makes it a lot easier.” The blonde gleamed at the mention of Olympia’s daughter. “She must have grown much since I last saw her. But if she would even tell you something, then it must have meant things were grave. “ Her expression turned solemn, and she corrected herself. “Things are grave. Olympia being shot was not the beginning nor the end. You are right, things are off balance. “


“Ruth’s got… Marlow’s son. Safe, of course, under her iron fist. Um…” Hieronymus cleared his throat. “What can I do? I won’t leave without you giving me something to do. Since you know whatever is going on, and I don’t, all I can do is grovel and ask for something to do. If not for the Nightingale’s sake, then for the city’s. Please, Collette. Please.”


Watching the man who once turn sharp words toward her, the very same man sat maskless and honestly pleading, Collette wished, if only she knew what to do. If she hadn’t been so helplessly sitting around wondering the very same thing. “I am… Olympia’s voice. Her own connection was cut off completely the month before abruptly, and from what I heard, violently. You know the three of us, but other than us and our family. “ She paused, remembering she had no family, and moved on. “We had no one we could trust. I just, in a way, took you into our … My confidence, and I see that Ruth had done the same thing. What’s more, she did the one thing that I am worrying about. “


“She.. Did not give you a name, did she? Mr Hartley?”


“A name? No… I suppose she wanted me to figure that out myself.”


“Because giving you the name will bear the responsibility. We swore confidentiality for more than its sake. Ignorance could have keep you safe. My hope was that you would realise the severity of your action, and be more cautious for your own safety, but not only you are too close in multiple ways, you won’t really stop knowing and investigating. And I… I want people she can depend on. “


Without any warning, Collette pulled his arm so she could reach above his neck. Unaware that her hair had blocked his eye, her lips brushed into his ear the name.


With her hair in his view, Hieronymus instinctively closed his eyes, just in time for him to hear the three syllables. He realised how little it meant to his inexperienced brain, but felt the weight of the word, punctuated by the weight of her against him.


His hand raised as he turned his head, his own features very close to hers, and brushed the hair from his face, bringing it gently back into Collette’s style. As he did so, he allowed the backs of his fingers to make themselves known against her shoulder.


“You know… perhaps I have been a bit reckless. There are things at stake… I recognise that now,” he spoke slowly, his eyes on hers, not moving away from her. He focused on the flecks in her green eyes, the splashes of brown, perhaps of amber.


“Then I hope that you remember. “ She lowered the curtain of her eyes, only to bring it back up again. “Because I can’t let the the children bear the responsibility. You know the name now, and I hope you remember the people who is important to you and people that care. And, perhaps, spare me the responsibility of bearing your danger in my hand? “ She brought up a smile.


He merely raised his finger to his mirthful lips with a wink.


Accepting that reply, Collette slip herself back down along his shoulder, and rested back onto the sofa. With the composure that only an actress could have, she leaned back, taking a break. “You can, I think, finish doing what Ruth might want. I can only wait here and wait for the moment I am needed.”


Then, with a question that she did not want to answer, yet another reason her mind knew but search for, she parted her lips once again, eyes nailed on the ceiling. Dull, without sun or stars or the indication of time. “Then, if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps you can visit me? To share what is happening out there, of course. ”


Spoken like a caged bird without the Siren’s guide.


“Now I know what Ruth wanted, I can give it to her,” Hieronymus agreed, fiddling with his sleeve. It was a distraction, a distraction from Collette breaking the surface of the silver pool that was their closeness to each other. “I will take whatever comes my way. Which, now I know what is happening, should not be impossible to predict. Care. Attention. Attentiveness. All things very unlike me,” he laughed. “I joke, of course. I care immensely. Now…”


He stood up, deciding it was he who would bring a ceasefire to their conversation. He retrieved his mask from the table, doing it up around his eyes with intricate hand movements. When he was done, and after he had smirked down at his article for a moment, he looked to his host again.


“Do not wait for me,” he said. “It is more fun, don’t you agree, if we simply… appear in each other’s presences?”


It was unlikely, from Collette’s point of view. She was Olympia’s voice, but now it appeared that Ruth became the action, and another person became the eyes, and there was the weariness that suddenly worn her that she may have to stay in this skyless room for a long time. But she showed no such weariness, instead she returned a smirk to him.


“I look forward to it, Mr Hartley. “


“Of course you do,” he said, airily, and proceeded to stroll from her office with no more than a flick of his wrist and glance over his shoulder to signify his goodbye.

In the low blue light cast just before dawn from the blinds, a silhouette held on to some papers while making big sighs. It happened so often that the woman could no longer ignore him. She rolled up from the tangled mess of blankets that they had caused and slid up his back like a salamander. "What is up, my dear?" She whispered lowly, circled him with her arms.

"It's nothing, love. "

It's not "nothing". She looked down the paper, and there on the front page, it clearly printed the name Nightingale, with a bright photo of her included, bright orange as bright as it is painful. She pulled the man even closer to her, and stroked his hair lovingly.

"Again?"

"Not again, no. "

He shook his head and held her hand that was on his chest. But then, as if in a frenzy he stood up away from her, and started pacing frantically back and forth. In his unshaven and annoyed self, he yelled out. "Why can't they see? This woman is a serpent! "

"They won't. If what you said is true, she had hidden it too well. "

"But they must!" The man waved, exasperated. Though not being angry at the woman, he shouted at her while still making heavy noises on the floorboard. "She broke my heart! Tore it straight apart!"

"Well, you have to expect it if she is married..."

"But she did! Are you implying you will too?"

"I'm not married..." She frowned, rather annoyed.

"But you are... Didn't he proposed?"

"That was nothing, I was not serious with him. I'm meant to be with you, can't you see?"

After her voice trailed off in the air, then he finally looked at her. The traces of frenzy remained, and he stared at her with widened eyes, tears evidenced still in the dawn light. He mumbled, but she understood. He embraced her tightly, with trembling chest.

"If only she died..."

"I can be with you then..."

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His smell lingered long after he left. It wasn't perfume or cologne, just the mixture of tobacco and sweat and... Something she couldn't yet make out. She took a long sniff, fell back into the blankets. Not the most comfortable, and had been slept in by too many people. But she liked it here.

But then she felt unsatisfied.

It was only a second after she noticed where her hateful stare was directed to. Whether by coincidence or not, he had left the Capers noon edition right there on the table, and right in front of her. With a certain unrestfulness, she picked it up, read it, put it back and picked it up again. Hieronymus Hartley... Even he was moved by this diva, emotions reeked from every single letter. Indeed she looked enchanting. Dark waves and a slender waist, a face too beautiful to be considered human. She could see why a man would go as crazy over such a person. Not to mention the girls she worked with admired her too.

It wasn't until she met him. A beautiful man in the bar sitting alone, drinking way too many and embraced her by accidents in the bar. She took him somewhere safe, and then it started. A long course, hushed but passionate love. She had abandoned all suitors for his charm.

But he seemed to claim that the Nightingale broke his heart.

At first, she only treated it with doubts. If it did happen, the press would know all about it, right? But then now and then she was reminded that the media can be hushed, and no one knew better than her how they can be so misguided. Slipping on her satin, she folded the paper and toss it in the bin.

"If only she died..."

She whispered, hushed in the morning light. It had gotten bright, and the traces of him is dissipating. She had a meeting with the suitor he mentioned. The man's honeyed words no longer work on her, but admittedly his gifts and wallet were still profitable. Much more than her day and night job that she could slip away from.

Was she too passionate? She couldn't know, she thought she'd never know until she met him and kissed by him under the moonlight.

Pulling up her purse, she pushed in the metallic object that almost slipped out, and left the place hurriedly. The magazine, without anyone's gaze, unfolded on the side where the article was painted. The strong paper got itself out and landed outside where the light now blazed and the wind came still.

It took days, even a week, before the frail Jane Clay to feel like she could move again. Her identification card was sent to her shortly, and she was recognised as a resident of Cassiopia. Then a day after that she received an address and from what the note attached said, a key. Of a small stone house far from the buzzing center of cities and the prying eyes. Knowing the reason behind them, she placed them away in her pillow, until the day she was deemed healthy enough to leave. Fresh, tailored dress fitting for a governess was placed on her bed when she came back from breakfast. Everything was ready before she could say anything.

Yet, she couldn’t meet the Nightingale again.

She visited the house only briefly, too big and too hollow for a lowly girl like her. It was a lot smaller than her master’s home, but she was alone, and the big windows and tall hallways kept reminding her that. With that horrible reminder, she pulled all the heavy curtains closed, including the one in the master bedroom. That’s where she left her clothes, a lonely pouch on the overly-sized wardrobe, and set out to the address on the card.

The card. Of that man who so abruptly visited.

Briefly remembering the content of the card, she travelled immediately. On foot. It took a long while from her place, but what is time for someone who barely knew her aim? The time that she was a governess trained her a good memory, and she took notes of some other addresses. Addresses that she may have heard Baines mentioned. Not many, just one two houses. No lights come from the windows, no smokes out of the chimney, no one working in the gardens. They were, as Nightingale feared, unreasonably quiet. She could only pray, before she passed them by. Cassiopia Pinnacle. That’s where she needs to go.

Then, from the disappearing of imitating antique buildings came a growing of tall pristine and modern buildings. It felt nothing like the world she came from. People could sense that. People had sense that. She pretended not to care about people’s prying eyes, and entered the place in scared but steady footsteps. In a governess dress, tight gloves, hair net and face almost too thin for modern times. Cassiopia Pinnacle was almost too alien a concept for her that she approached the receptionist in the tall glass building with a sharp pain of panic in her chest.

“I would like to go to the Penthouse. “

The receptionist eyed her, and from her mind, quite critically.

“What business you have with the resident?”

What business? It was not like she should just openly tell the receptionist, or tell her what business exactly when Clay barely knew herself. “Just… Business. He had given me the address. “ She took out the card nervously, the card with the address and Braithe’s name.

The receptionist took the card from Jane's fingers, her nails nothing short of perfect. To have nails like that would be impossible for anyone outside of the stock market, or the highest governmental careers. Her makeup was spotless too, with mascara that shaped her eyelashes subtly, and blusher that gave her face a youthful and slim appearance. Between those eyelashes, she read the card. Without even a glance to Jane, she moved to the size as if on tracks, and slipped the card into a machine and closed the lid. To Jane, it was a strange device, but close in brotherhood to a computer scanner, only A5 size.

"Just a precaution," she said. “Can you give me your name?”

“Jane Clay. “

It wasn’t clear to the governess what the receptionist just did, only that she waited for a short while before the receptionist nodded, and waved to the man in uniform standing beside the silver lift doors. He too was professional and almost inhuman in the way he nodded, gesture her on, and stood behind her as the doors closed on the nervous Jane in a somewhat spacious box. Her mind was unclear, distracted. Scared senseless by what she was not familiar with, and how clinical it all seemed in this building. Yet it was not even a fraction of the world the Nightingale ordered her to enter. The escorting man gently pushed her forward, through the gaping door and to the blinding light. Then he didn’t go with her, but went back to his post inside the metal box travelling down the height again.

Her ears rang.

She looked around. There wasn’t much distractions like how normal Klokklsby buildings would have. No decor, no floral papers or paintings. Just two wooden doors stood in front of her, without any confusions. The door themselves didn’t have much on it, the light didn’t reflect on it like it would on polished wood, but instead it offered a comforting dark to the white walls. Beside it, Jane Clay spotted a button. Or rather, she spotted the text on top of it first, of English Capital Letters that spelled out “GUEST”.

Then, not having much options, she gingerly pressed on that button, waited.

The button lit up green and small arrow appeared on it, pointing towards the doors.

Obediently Jane followed the sign and pushed the door. Again, the design of the place was simple and bare, almost. The host was there at the other end, standing tall and hard to ignore when everything else seemed little more than just lines. He was… Just as intimidating as when he visited in the hospital ward. Not knowing what to do, and in a streak of panic, she went close, curtsied and then second-guessed the way she greeted.

"I... I have come, sir. As… As you have asked. “ She helplessly gulped.

Braithe’s head moved as if it was a robot’s. The smooth way his countenance followed her as she ran over, yet the lack of any expression, told her he was not about to speak yet.

Without any help from his side, she paced her breath and started again. “I have learned that Siren have introduced me. I am Jane Clay, in place of.. Of Baines. “ The face of her old friend had steady her a little bit, and she tried to look him in… the sunglasses. “Is there anything I can be of help, sir? Or would you have something to tell in regards to the Siren?”

“The Editor that never was. Baines, Baines, Baines. The movements he made were always too oleaginous for me to follow efficiently, but follow I did,” he turned his head to the other side and angled it towards the ceiling. “Imagine the city as a pool table, and all its important players as one thousand marbles, all moving against each other and the table. I can track every one.”

“Is he still… alive? Sir?” Feeling the air punched out of her, she gasped. Words, just words, hopeful but powerful words. “Did you track him? After… after last month?”

Braithe looked back, sharply. “Do you hope I did?”

“Yes. It won’t be easy but… Yes.”

"I spoke in the past tense.”

“I know Baines. He already take the chance of being tracked into consideration. “

“The Editor that never was. Pity. I know not where he is, but he is, as you hypothesised, alive.”

With that being stated, the governess grinned the widest she ever had since she reached Cassiopia. “You have my gratitude, sir. Then I know he is well. Not necessarily well but alive. What business do you have with the Siren, then?”

Braithe kept quiet for several seconds. He was looking right at her. “She is another marble on my table.”

That wasn’t a lot to go with. Jane tried again, following his metaphor. “Would you like the marble to go somewhere?”

“Yes. There are shifts. The Siren is out of her own control, and in someone else’s hands. Inge Antolij’s hands.”

Inge Antolij. It wasn’t a name that she recognised, but sounds like an important name to note down. “Do you intend to play against him?”

“I don’t play. I umpire.”

“Then who is on the other side of him?” Jane mused, her voice more steady now she had to consider a scene outside of the room. “If you say the Siren is a marble, in my understanding, she had set others down as soon as she lost control. She had set me in front of you, the umpire…”

Her eyes stopped focusing on him, yet, whatever was in her mind involved him and revolved around him and the Siren. A light frown evolved on her forehead, where she found the concept of unfamiliar ground.

“How many players are we talking about? And… Who is yours?”

“Whoever pledges themselves genuinely to the Nightingale following that news article is our side. I can show you only then who we are up against. I do not have a player yet. But I will direct as applicable. Inge Antolij has one fatal flaw: his hamartia is his weak understanding of me. My only problem is, I will not jeopardize my position by sending Yulian Volkovoi to do what must be done. I need a player, though.”

His stare remained on her, unseen, but certainly felt.

She understood, and does not question. It was not her place to question. “How would you like me to play?” She said. As simple as a slave would answer to her master.

“You must provide ways to protect the Siren. People. Places. Take her where the adversary would never assume she would go. You must play against my ability, Jane Clay. Hide the Siren from me, and she will be hidden from everyone. Make her marble disappear.”

No easy feat. But then, it wasn’t the problem of difficulty, but it has to be done. “Understood.” She said, simply. “I will bring messages once it is done.”

Braithe tilted his torso forward a little. By the abruptness of his stop, it seemed that it was supposed to be a bow of silent gratitude, but his body prevented him from following the motion through.

Seeing that he offered no more words, she curtsied and left the scene. The horror had returned to her shortly when the metal box closed on her again, but it was bearable. She had something to do, and little energy to spare for any scare.

She remembered what her first master said. It was ingrained in her.

“If she has time to worry, then she isn’t working hard enough.”

Ferdinand von Potter entered the saloon with a hopeful smile and something wrapped in his arm. The staffs looked at him —- the time is still too early for their major customers—- but they looked away as if it was only a leaf blown inside the door. Their lack of attention escaped the oblivious teen, as he walked assuredly to the group of girls in the near corner. Three, four of them about his age, dressed in the corset dress uniforms, and were chattering and giggling before he suddenly emerged behind the one with light brown hair.


“Marianne.” He called, with the confidence a teen could convince himself to have.


“Ah, hello!” From the signs of her widened eyes she didn’t expect this visit in any way. But knowing what was happening, the others scurried away, giggling still. Their heels tapped rhymically on the cream-bricked floor. “What brings you here today?”


“I just thought I should drop by… and.” Ferdinand forced himself to pull back his purposeful wandering stares. That was not how he wanted to present himself today. “And I thought you might appreciate this.”


“Oh you shouldn’t have.”


She said, putting the wrapped wine on the chair behind her. It didn’t need opening. It was obvious that it was wine by the label on top peeking out, the ribbon at the bottleneck and it’s nicely framed shape with the creme purple paper. She didn’t need to read the words either. She knew that was more than his salary, even for his luckier times.


“Oh, your friend didn’t come with you today?”


“Chaunte? He is with his father today.”


“Oh…Thank you for the wine. Is there anything else?”


“Ah, I was just thinking whether you can go and see the pictures…”


“Ferdinand. I… I think it is best that I make it clear. I am not interested in that way.”


“But…”


Seeing how his eyes nearly drifted to the wine, Marianne put a hand on her waist and raised her brow at him, making him flinched. “You don’t think a bottle can buy me, do you?”


“No, of course not!”


“Good.” She didn’t look convinced. “I have to say it. You shouldn’t bring me gifts like you did with the other girls and expect something back.”


“You knew them?”


“Kitchen gossips.”


“Ah…”


They let the silence dropped. At least he did. This time, however, he guessed why her eyes wandered. “So em… I can bring Chaunte over if you’d like.”


“Oh no, no it’s not that…”


He forced himself to laugh, but instantly regret at the tone under it. He heard the same tone in her “no”, like his. Trying to conceal what she really thought. If that was not enough, she was obviously more moved by that statement than that bottle of wine. Her eyes gleamed and her cheek puffed like everytime she heard a joke. Charming, beautiful, but like many others it was not his. No. Not a smile for him.


But he pressed down the jealousy. He couldn’t get mad at Chauntecleer, could he?


In her attempt she even offered him drink, which he politely declined, once again regretting the grumpy attitude that leaked out of him with a dismissive shake of hand. “I got to go.”


“Ah, okay.”


“Oh, by the way.”


“Hmm?”


“You haven’t heard of a guy named Talon Marlow right?”


“Talon… Not that I can remember.”


“Okay… See you…”


He waved weakly, and then he was out the door so full of thoughts. The streets of the dancers were not as glamorous as the insides of doors. While the insides have drapes, striped leggings, sequins and laughter; the outsides were chilled, littered, full of whispers of the poor men as their reality came back to their senses. Ferdinand could hear them. Not from the streets but the inside. Already he was fighting the sense to do something reckless, something foolish. Something he didn’t need to think. Anything so that he couldn’t think about the pitiful walls and his pitiful father whom he blamed all the troubles on. He inserted his hands in his pocket, and felt the holes in the right pocket. In frustration he pulled away yet another thread from it and threw it down.


“Ferdinand?”


Not the voice he would want to expect. It was not a woman’s or a girl’s voice. It was a gruff voice with an undertone to it. One that you wouldn’t wish to hear at any point of your life. Because it would send chills in your bones and blades in your chest.


He looked at the source. A man. A stereotypical rich man with a grey suit exactly fitting his rounded waist and thick neck. Men stood behind him in suits and shades, men stood behind Ferdinand with breath down his loose collar. Man walking closer to him, fearless and sizing up him.


“I have overheard you. “


He wasn’t even in a hurry to explain. From his trouser’s pocket he fetched himself a cigar’s holder, and then from his suit pocket a fancy lighter, one with government serial code carved into it. Lighting up the cigar, and once again looking at the dirty teen closely, he blew out a lung-full of smoke.


“You know the Marlows?”


Only then Ferdinand understood what happened. Talon Marlow. Of course, he would have to brush Marianne and Chauntecleer away from his mind, but. But Talon Marlow. An important name, important enough to get him into trouble. He didn’t even know.


“I won’t ask again. You know the Marlows?”


“No, no sir. “


“Then how come you mentioned his name?”


“You must have heard it wrong.”


“Oh?”


His plump lips kissed the cigar, while the man behind Ferdinand sent his hard shoe up his knee. He didn’t have time to object or cry pain before he was kneeling in front of the man.


“I’m pretty sure my ears are good. Maybe it is your own little head that is faulty? Dear?”


The imitation of the Cassiopia girl’s tone gave his lips a curl. Ferdinand wrinkled up his nose. The things carried by the soles of men visiting the parlours were never cleaned by anything but rain. An indescribable smell and disgust was giving the boy nausea.


“See, I am reasonable. Maybe you don’t remember who you just mentioned. Bad memories. I understand that. They don’t feed the children as well here in Cassiopia, do they? But I have an offer. “


“I will be watching you. If you can fetch out any of the Marlows, just give… Well, I can’t just give you an address. “ Another one of his self-satisfied laughter. “Well, let’s see. Marianne? Chaunte?”


Chaunte. Chauntecleer. A shot of fear shoot up Ferdinand’s head. Not his friend, no.


“You family? But if you loved your family you won’t be here loitering would you? I should just send someone your way and if you can’t give me anything, I will then decide. Fun, isn’t it? Am I too predictable?”


“Now, you know what to do. Demonstrate him. “


He said, and walked behind the wall of men he had blocking the alleyway. It was not clear that amidst the boots and punches and cobbles and brick walls that if the man was standing there all along. All he could remember is that bitter smell of cigar, and what he thought was the bones in his limbs cracking, or the biles in his body shaken like cocktail in a shaker. He didn’t know when they left. He didn’t know when he got moved. He didn’t know why he managed to wake up against a red lounge chair in a storage. He did, anyway. From the discarded mirror at the corner, he couldn’t see himself wounded beside that bump up his forehead. The arms and legs and stomach, however, could barely withstand the weight of the fabric. Without the eyes of any bystander, he enlivened all the curses he had learned and knew climbing up and trying to leave.


It wasn’t a dream.


Ferdinand looked at the figure in the mirror. Tall, skinny, almost a stick figure.


Almost disappearing.


Chaunte. He must warn him.


Trusting his own legs, he stumbled on the rolled up carpet and fell head down, smashing that tall nose of his into a painful bloody mess. Panting. Wheezing. He got himself to the door.


The klokklsby Clock Tower. He could see it.


Only, he didn’t have any more strength left in him to venture outside. In his pain he felt around the trousers locating all the parts that were damaged. Not much was visible, however, it was as if they were considering how he would appear in the public. He stayed on the door frame, long enough to finally put himself to sleep.


“... Potter?”

The silent cog of the Klokklsby clock tower had abandoned her post minutes after winding the mechanism. It would tick down slowly through the day, so she had time to venture across the boarder into the the modern part of the city. When she stepped across that threshold, her mind always confirmed to her how disconnected the two places were. Although she could hardly judge the two sides for being overly tense towards each other now: the crime wave, that murder she'd read about. The clocktower had modern graffiti paint on its eastern side, so the overseer of the building was venturing into the city to purchase spray paint remover.

She was certain the families that gave Klokklsby its form would hate to see her fixing the issue on the wall with such modern means - in their eyes, would it not be the same as using modern paint in it in the first place? - but Schoe didn't really mind herself. She renovated, wound and fixed the clock on a frustratingly regular basis, all for a trickle of currency that was vastly overshadowed by her on-demand payments she received from her clientele when they wanted something large made, fixed or renovated.

She had taken the streets like a princess, strolling through the Klokklsby crowds towards the city proper, and didn't give the pub where Ferdinand suffered a second glance. Not that she knew who Ferdinand was, but she wasn't unaware of what he represented.

The evening of chaos had been scripted. It was not an unusual thing to think, and it was obvious. But Schoe wanted to know why.

For now, she walked. Walked and walked. Twenty minutes from Klokklsby. Half an hour. Forty.

Fifty. She was in the winding roads of the business district. Schoe walked past buildings she didn't know the weight of.

Some people looked at her. Looked at the black pseudo-goth Victorian style of her clothes, at the boots, netting upon netting, the short skirt around her thighs, the gloves, the painted face. And when they looked, she held her head higher.

She slowed when she came to a more rustic-looking area. That is, as rustic as the city could look: it was more gritty than rustic, but the word still stood. A little corner, a little strip of shops surrounded by houses. Laundrette, chinese takeaway, bike shop, car shop. That is, car renovation. Paint. Paint remover. That'd be there.

So she aimed for it. Inside, the air hung heavy with the smell of rubber and stale carpeting. It took her a glance to find the location of paint remover, to which she bought a large tub of it. No messing around. It was heavy as she carried it back towards Klokklsby, once again crossing paths with people she never would know the weight of.

Only one man she had an inkling of the weight of.

The man who came to see her the other day. He was not from Klokklsby, and made no attempt to try to be. He was issuing challenges: "try to meet Jane, I dare you." Schoe's expression darkened. She continued walking.

She crossed a street, a street overlooked by the Cassiopia Pinnacle building.

It would be impossible to see the face of the man who overlooked the street, just as it was impossible for him to identify her in the crowd of crossing people, cars and smog. But yet, raised above the world, he watched anyway. He watched the green felt and felt the marbles running on it.

"When Schoe Sharma contacts Jane Clay, be there."

Volkovoi, metres behind the voice, did not even look up from his duty of organising the dishwasher to agree. It was only full of three things: identical white side plates, identical butter knives and identical white ceramic cups, so it was almost hypnotising when he slid the shelves in. But, as he did, and pressed it to go, a relief filled his pores.

It took a long time for Edna to know what happened. But when she did, she was properly mad. She threw hard punches to a desperate drunks on her way home, and that day her underlings were all too scared to even talk to the furious leader. The bartender said nothing and asked nothing as he piled up liquors on the bar table, she dunked all of them inside her system. Red, dizzy, and about to explode, she picked another fight with a man. Ignorant, however, to the man's one-sided feelings for her, she came out unscathed and done relatively little damage. Unlikely that she would remember who she picked on. The name and face was a blur for her.

All she knew was, when she walked towards her favourite safe house today, it was no longer a place she could enjoy alone. A dark figure was there at the gate. Edna felt surprised, but walked up to the person anyways. It was not a man she recognised.

"Hello. " She greeted, pretended that she was just casually talking but inside being very stirred. The tall and muscular build man in heavy guard uniform sized her in alerted gaze, but didn't answer.

"I walk by here, every day. Really. I was just wondering since I've never seen you before. You new?"

He looked at her again, for a moment she thought he would told her to go away. "I'm new. "

"And the owner has returned?"

"No."

"They just sent you here?"

"Yeah, they heard that houses were vandalised. It was. I found that it was opened and things were littered everywhere. They were not happy to hear that. "

"I didn't know. " She gaped looking at the house. "Must have been shocking. "

"Yeah. "

"Anyways, have fun guarding. I'll see you around, yeah?" She said, but turned away without giving him any names or contact. With reasons. Burning reasons. It took unbeliavable control for her to vanished from his sight without reliefing her anger.

It was her favourite house.

To say she would miss it was an understatement.

Cracking her knuckles and streching, the bartender seemed to have understood that sign. "Should I make a last drink, Edna?" He asked, the dark moustaches hiding his moving lips.

She glared at him. "No, later. "

With that, she stepped out of the place. All the drinks refilling and glass clanging sounded once again behind her back, like a rule of silence finally being lifted. She paid it no heed. She only extend the heeled boots towards the filthier streets of the area. Smoke, grease, wary and scheming gazes, all normal staples of the streets she survived in. Normally, the experienced thugs would smartly avoid her path. Not tonight. No. They won't have a chance. Her claw would extend to their collars, and she would put her biting growl in their face, until they answer what she needed to know.

Who, with the nerves, would vandalised the houses.

They trembled, to her knowledge, like criminals before the queen, fearing their necks would snap under the guillotine.

It wasn't even a difficult chase. Soon, she was already questioning the third thug she could find. Not just any lowly thief, this one. He was a leader of a five men gang, growing and promising. Handsome face. Too handsome. So handsome that he thought he had a chance to bargain with her. So Edna smashed his face into the wall with her heel pressing his spine. Cold, thin, like a gun point. He knew what it could mean.

"I didn't know! I was paid, handsomely!" He begged, sobbing for his broken nose. "I was told I can keep what I take as well! I sold.. I sold them to the pawn shop nearby!"

"I don't care where you sell them. " She bit the air, threateningly. "Who paid you. "

"I... I didn't see. I got a note, an envelope. We sabotaged the houses in Klokklsby. Just Klokklsby. "

"I see. "

Throwing the man on the floor with all the contempt she could manage, Edna paid the man no more attention, delivering the last blow to his ego. The investigation reached a dead end. The sour taste on her tongue was nauseating, Edna frowned to the smokey alley, to the invisible trouble brewing somewhere. Normally it wouldn't concern her too much if she wasn't directly involved.

An image came up to her mind. A familiar face. Brewing trouble.

Should she ask him? Or should she really just give him a punch and give a grand scolding?

Refraining from handicapping the man forever, the rogue entered the network of streets once again, first time considering that hitman he dared offer her. If she pay him coins, she wonder, would the hitman slap that egoistic bastard for her?

Tempting. Very tempting. But knowing the man, probably not wise.

"How's this one? I really like this one. I mean you're not smiling again, but you're not smiling in any of them so... I guess it's a moot point. Do you think I could cut it to the right size without cutting your face out? I don't know. I don't think it'll fit. How about this one? No, you have to look at it, you can't just say you don't like it. Look at it, please, I wanna put something in my watch. I'll show the girl who made it, I'll show her I'm really caring about it. It wasn't a waste of money either, I'm really happy to have it."

Isn't that always the case. "Oh I love it! I love it!" and then you forget about it? Sure, you love it, you'll love it for two weeks then misplace it behind the TV and then who'll have to pick it up? That's right. Not you. No one. It'll stay there forever. I'm not picking it up. Take a hike. Shut up.

"I think it's great. Remember when I took this one, you were so angry! But you calmed down then bought a milkshake."

Don't remind me. Just don't remind me. Stop following me. Sit down, get your fucking photo, and forget about the watch in two weeks. What else are you going to do?

"Where's the printer?"

Right where it always is. Beside the TV. Always there. Do you know how much I spent on that printer, and you're using it for your fucking pictures? I spent a lot on it. Can't be a proofreader without a printer, only I'm not a proofreader. I spent almost three hundred pounds to fool you, and the census, that I'm a proofreader. I have bought guns for less than that. I've killed for less than that.

I've killed for nothing, Lois.

I saved your life. And this is what you use my printer for.

"Hah. You are so angry. Can I plug my phone in? Oh no, wait, it's wireless. Alright."

The world's useless thing.

"Can I go out tonight and show the woman this? If her shop's open. Wait, what time is it? Three, half three, that's fine. She won't close til five probably. I can be back before five, too, can I go?"

No.

"Why not? Please. I just wanna show her this. Show her what picture I chose for my watch."

You're not going out. You're staying in here. Print the thing off, you're not going anywhere tonight. She'll be closed. By the time you get there in this traffic, she will.

"I can take a fast cab."

You're not using more money up, Lois.

"... Right... okay but..."

No, Lois. You're not going out. You're just not. Not now. Not later.

"What do you mean not later? I have plans for the weekend. With Annie and that lot."

Fucking bint Annie, what does she want?

Cancel them.

"I don't want to! I want to go out! You can't stop me, I have my own keys."

I can change the locks if I want to, in five fucking minutes. Don't make me do that. Cancel.

"Why?!"

Stop yelling.

"Well why then! Tell me! Why can't I go anywhere! Is something happening? I won't come back late, I've told you in advance."

It isn't about any of that. It's not about any of that.

"Then what is it? I have some money left. I have money, I can walk to where I'm meeting Annie and the rest of them, and I'll be back before, like, six, if you want. I'll even get milk or whatever we need. I'll get you something too, we'll be going into the city centre."

You're not going anywhere.

"Well I am, because I said to them I was."

You're not going anywhere. Lois.

"I am."

Shut up. Shut up, shut your mouth.

Shut up, you're not, you're absolutely not going anywhere.

"Can I just go out to the shop then. For more credit on my phone. So I can call Annie."

Fucking Annie. What does she matter?

No. You're not going anywhere. Any. Where. Drop it, Lois.

"You drop it."

What?

What?

"You drop it, I've asked nicely if I can go out, and told you in advance, and done all the things you said to do, and you're not gonna let me? I want to show the woman who made this our picture in it, and I want to go out with Annie. I won't even buy anything."

Shut up.

I don't want you going anywhere. Nowhere, Lois! Fucking nowhere!

"But why though! What did I do?!"

Me me me, it's always me, it's always fucking me me me. Shut up. What did I do, me me me.

You didn't do anything, but you're fucking winding me up.

"You allow yourself to go outside and smoke but I'm not allowed to even go to the shop? How's that even remotely fair? If you don't want me seeing Annie for whatever reason, then at least let me see the girl who made this! I just want to show her this!"

She won't care! She doesn't care! There are bigger things to care about! You just don't see them, you never see them. You never see them. Come here.

"No, I don't want to! Get off me!"

Stop struggling, and shut your mouth.

"Ow! No, get off my phone! Give it back! Stop pushing me! Lull!"

Get in your room! Shut up, say nothing to me. I can't listen to you right now!

"I don't want to get in my room!"

Shut up.

I don't care.

"Ow, stop it! Lull!"

Stay in there, and don't fucking ask me to fucking leave. Do not ask me. Do not ask me! Stop breaking the door.

"You locked it though!"

Stop pushing it. Shut up! Shut up!

She's crying so loud. She can't even be quiet when she's crying. She can't even shut up when she's crying.

And she wants to leave?

Another bit of cigarettes burning between his fingers, its spark scorches a heat on the skin. With a swing, he flung the burning end into the puddle by his feet. There was already a collection of ashes in that puddle, now it stained with the shade of his emotion. Smokey, dull, chaotic mixture of the burnt particles when it was brushed by the alley wind. Even the wind stank of alcohol and its aftermath, as the customers of the tavern comes in and out of it. With the smoke their face looks like all parades of the hallowmas. Pale, skull-like, snarly grins and evil eyes.


The lids of his eyes shutting, in protest of the hours he spent standing here.


But, it was because of the temporary darkness that he smelled it, while it was funny to think he could recognise that distinctive scent. When has he started to know it, about ten, or eleven years-old? It had become such a novelty of childhood, that it brought on a bit of comfort to the long soldiering hours.


He almost smiled.


The opening of his eyes, however, introduced him to a face that he wasn’t so wanting to see. The furrowed and defined lines of brows, the smokey shades on painted lids, the ashy powder on her face and the crimson on her thin pressed lips. It wasn’t the smile Lorretta usually give him when they are present in the same place, same room, same air. Never had he thought he would miss seeing that smile, it always just came naturally. Now that it was gone, then he missed it, like family dinners or, warm bed. Soft and clean like feathers on dandelions.


She spoke first before his tired lips could make even a shape. “You are tired, Norberto. Please go back to sleep. “


But he can’t. He told her the reason. About… When? His head is heavy, he’d admit that.


“I can’t, I have another shift to do after…”


“Tomorrow morning, or the day after. You must rest, your body can’t handle three nights without sleep. “


“But what if…”


“You can’t chase him. You can barely see, not to mention running after someone who was trained to escape. What if he turns his gun at that point? At you? “


She was right. Yet, he turned his dark eyes over to the ends of the alley, to the almost foggy sight of light and shadow of the still inhabited street. Any of them could have been the person who dare have the guts to… He shook. He was shaking, when his arms somehow came into her palm. No, it must have been the maiden who grabbed his arm, while he was weak and ready to tumble. She looked into his eyes, even inviting her darling face under the rim of his fedora, lashes flapping gorgeously.


“I will stand here for you. I will stand by. “


“You surely can’t chase a hitman down?”


“I can.”


“It’s too dangerous.”


“I have this.”


A click. A pistol, one with a shiny metal tip like a soldier’s metal and well-polished chestnut wood handle pointed to his shoulder. Norberto looked at Lorretta, an incomprehensible expression came onto his face. Like, for years, he had forgotten what this maiden can do.


“Go home and rest. “


“No, I can’t. “


She pushed the slender silver tubes on his chest, pressing into his suit. The absurdity of it almost made him chuckle, but he didn’t. It was almost insanity, to the maiden almost a profanity, but inside him, he knew that he would never back down from his post, unless someone had given him a very good reason. A pistol and a bullet made an argument for most men on earth. Not to mention the gun was held steady in her hand, unshaken. Her dark eyes observing attentively. If she so wished, carrying certain will to shoot him to his rest, she would. A convincing markswoman and to him, a more than convincing woman who could probably carry on the task, his reluctance could not deter it. Now he sees it.


So he gave in… Tactically. He let the smile he felt climbed on his face. Pretty shades appear on her cheeks, one he only just observed up close, but had missed so many times before. “You do know threatening a police is a serious offence?”


Lorretta was about to flinch, but didn’t back down. She only agitated her gun for it to click. “A policeman with the lack of ability to police is an offence to citizens. “


He closed into her. Yes, even closer than the reach of his fedora. Closer than the gun and her arm’s reach, pushing the pistol and her hands up upon her own chest. He moved close enough, that their toes in the safety of their shoes was only leather apart. His fingers wrapped around her waist, and felt the lined bodice within, synthetic silk of her dress offered little protection to his touch from what’s under. He could have blushed. He couldn’t tell. But he redirected his gaze to the constable standing behind Lorretta, steps apart but staggering. It was obvious, the man was intruding. Norberto wasn’t on official business, since the case of Nightingale was called off to cater to other more common daily occurrences with the limited manpower of the police. This, from the officer’s point of view, was a private and intimate business with Norberto Carlyle and his woman, embracing and sweet talking and not appreciating his presence. Not that his colleagues were aware of him having a fiancee. Sharp tiger-like gaze and constricted arms were telling enough.


The man saluted, in a safe distance. “The Chief called, Norberto. Cassiopia General. Urgent. “


The hospital? He frowned and glared at the officer, until the officer finally fleed the scene. Only then, he let the maiden in his arms go, apologetic of his strength. Lorretta was now beet red, gun held carefully but out of sight of anyone else's.


“Sorry, threatening police is a serious offence, can't let others spot it, so…”


“I, I understand…”


Her face was even blushing through the heavy pale powder.


“I must go. “ He said, “Stand guard for me. “


“Yes. Will do. Wait, Another thing, Norberto. “


“Yes?”


“Come back to the Carlyle’s place, later. I think you should see what’s happening there too. “


“Fine. “


Not that he could probably explain why, but as if anticipating a reaction, he held her hands along with the gun firmly, pressing it downwards. It meant that she should hide the gun, yes. But she was avoiding his gaze. For whatever reason, he saw that and felt pleased.


Peculiar thought, isn’t it?


Not that he got anytime to consider it. The next thing he did was to part and run towards the hospital Olympia was there. The scene suggested that it was serious. There were already constables stationed all around, and they all looked concerned towards him. What happened? What might have happened? It was even worse that he had to step upstairs, remembering the passages he read in the newspaper. More and more he felt it was concerning his own mother. Since the incident he had never visited, nor did he learn the room number Olympia resided. He just gulped, and prayed with every step that it wasn’t something with his mother. White pale walls offered no hindrance. His heart sank, when the name tag on the door was indeed “Olympia Carlyle”, with two burly guards standing by upright and silently.


He pushed in.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



There were few times Dollie could say she had kept a similar clear mind. When she arranged for the shopping trip and arrangement for it, her head hadn’t been ever clearer, visions never brighter. Visiting the Threads of Frija for the costume, where she purchased a new dress for 20 pounds; or when she sat in front of her mirror, curling her hair thread by thread by iron meditationally; or when she sat on a bench, just sighing into the air as people walk on by. The sky was blue like clear glass, the air crisp and light danced across her metallic wears, like an enchant whisper.


She took it as a sign. A religious sign that she was doing what was right, as she walked into the Cassiopia General. No one had look at her for long enough, when it was the peak hours of drop-in, and people push in and out the medical hall with their family members, each holding their circles of bubbles. That made plenty of space that the bubbles and their member stay oblivious to. The stiff heels’ voices were drowned by the rolling beds and all its different kinds, only she could hear them urging on. Klok, klik, klok.


Go ahead, you are near. You are there.


White walls, unlocked door. Silver tray, emptied eyes. Long curtains, drawn to depress.


Giving the weak old man an icy gaze, Dollie ignored him and the tag with a familiar last name. It was another destination that she needed to go to. The Nightingale’s room. It was all so easy. She looked little different from the nurses rushing by, in the new dress she brought and observation for days. The motion her knees took to hurry across the busy hall, or the way her brow furrowed at every passerby ready to question, all impeccable for a Cassiopia nurse. The Nightingale’s door wasn’t even hidden. The guards in their black suits and muscularly arms were relaxed, nodding to let her and her food tray enter. The repetitive beats of the other patients must have tired their senses out. The door clicked behind Dollie, her heels and her silver tray.


“I’m here for your meal, Mrs Carlyle. “


The glistening blade, the pool of blood, his twisted smile.


No, that’s not right. That’s not here, that’s not now.


But she is almost there. Dollie looked at the fabled woman she had heard so often about. The fire of hatred and wonder and jealousy all directed into the centre of the room, set up like a stage play. Like a stage. Light bright like spotlights, but all on Dollie. On her! She smiled. If the songstress would only know. How she heard the clapping of her heart.


Olympia Carlyle now leaned against a white pillow, resting with lids closed and hands folded. It took her breath away. How the daylight made a halo in the smooth curve of her hair, how her skin was white as snow and her eyes dark as the night. How beautiful she is, truly! If Dollie had doubt about it before, she was sure of it now. This, this woman could rob a soul, and would get away with it! Dollie could beg for her, right now, to take the blade which sits near her chest, and insert in the hide for a sacrifice to the devil! How she would go crazy, if she could earn a kiss!


A kiss! Sealed by her lover. The skin of her lover flashed before her eyes, sickening and yellow. The curse of her lover, bestow upon this enchantress of the night. Yes! By her blade! How he would be mad, madly free! He will embrace her, freely, like her without the old husband!


Klok. The stiff heels approach closer.


Oh the white lily neck which peeked out from the green patient robe like white blossom on a stalk, how delicate!


A sharpened blade would have easily cut it through, right?


Looking at the silver spoon dipped into the clear vegetable soup, and rising close to the songstress’s vampire lips, Dollie stood behind the pillow, hiding the shadow where her hand slip into the dress. Without looking she knew the paper-thin blade would glisten even there. The time she hummed the tune and sharpen it, oh how joyful. If she could dye it red, one more time. Trouble will all go away. Like before.


She lunged for it, straight for the blossom. She gasped, as the vines tangle her arms, like burying into a soft leave pile.




---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Olympia, still in the hospital bed, leaned on her pillow and dark with the light streaming from the windows behind her. Andy sat beside her, silent and stiff as a statue. Two other officers were on the side, both pressing down on a nurse. She resisted, in vain.


“Norberto, come in. “


It was his mother’s voice. With much relief, he stepped closer, with cautious yet curious eyes pressed on the woman on the side, seized by the two officers twice her size. “Who is this?”


“She came in pretending to be a nurse. “ One of the officers said to him, but with wide eye and tone of admiration. “You mother stopped her in time, then they call us. “


Olympia only smiled. Already she looked healthy, smiling as if comforting her startled son. She said it only to the officers, however. “A class of self-defence definitely helped. “


He then looked to the woman. She was a Klokklsby resident, for sure. Undoubtedly curled hairstyle, with nurse hats pinned firmly through her updo. Her powder was heavy too, like Lorretta, but it couldn’t hide her slightly ageing skin, nor did it carry the same scent. But she must have been beautiful, and still is. Only if the certain bitter look could leave her eyes or her pursing lips.


“We’ve asked her questions, but she wouldn’t answer. No name, either. We got the knife in our bag.”


“What’s your name? Why have you come to attack my mother?” Norberto asked.


She still struggled. But then she laughed. “Son. Son and daughter. But you know what she had done to get to where she is? A man.”


She then yelled, with more clarity. “She had a man! Left him, tossed him, made him a madman that couldn’t love anyone else. And you put guards around her as if she is holier, just because she is pretty and can sing a few tunes. What! She is a serpent! Wicked woman, like the rest of us! “


Her wild ravings were heard anywhere else in the hospital, to anyone who had a curious ear. Andy didn’t move, but as Norberto turned to check his reaction, he saw that the Smith was confused. His father had a … Certain blink he couldn’t name. It was Olympia, who slid down her sheets and walked towards Norberto, hand leaning on one of his shoulders.


“Who is he?”The actress asked, in a quiet and cruelly calm voice. “What’s his name?”


The woman spit on her robe. “Do you forget so many men you can’t remember his name? But I’m not telling you anything! You can go and shove…”


An officer grabbed her jaw and pulled it backwards, stopping her voice then and there with pain purposefully inflicted. Norberto too was ready to bounce, until his mother pulled him back. Her gaze quiet, patient, attentive, almost sympathetic to the woman.


“I have Andy and only Andy. You’ve been tricked. “ She said, in a saddened voice, as if she was sorry for the woman who came to harm her. She looked beautiful too, breathtakingly beautiful when she spoke like a wise elf, pleading to a cursed heroine. “The man you spoke of doesn’t exist. Tell us the man who lied to you. “


The woman couldn’t respond words anymore, not with the officer’s hand on her mouth, but the aggressive muffled voice made it clear she couldn’t agree. Nodding, Norberto instructed the men to take her back to the station. The door swing on a face of a curious bypasser. The son turned to his parents, now for the first time, alone by the three. The mother looked at him, with a slight smile. Andy said nothing.


He shifted uncomfortably in his uniform, now he noticed wasn’t in the best state. “How did it happen?”


“She had dressed as a nurse and pretended to bring food. Not very good, the dress was of stage costume fabric that has too much sheen. Her perfume was also telling, no nurse would carry scent by regulation. Hospitals also have set time to deliver meals and she was early by five minutes, and the menu was different with each patient. “ Olympia explained, taking his hands and examined them. “Knowing that, it was easy to predict and block her hands. She isn’t strong but definitely came with a mission, a risky gamble. Jealousy. Love. Those things can power a full city, or drive a woman wild, to believe in things she shouldn’t have believed in. “


It was a concept that sounded distanced to Norberto. He could only accept the words as they were. An emotion and sentiment unknown, other than it was the cause of many murders. Before he considered it further, Andy turned towards Norberto, stopping his thoughts, and the father and son looked at each other grimly and tensely.


“You mother and I were engaged as children, and she had business they don’t know about. There was not a minute spent on other matter. The woman must be misguided. “


“I kno…”


“She will be framed as the hitman, and the newspaper will then agree. The police will want to prove they have cracked the case. Troubles brewing there within the forces and the two cities too. We will be on our own. “


The son was in such a state of shock and exhaustion the thought have only just hit his mind. How the father knew, again, was mysterious but not surprising. This meant that even his station won’t be happy if he kept investigating. Worse, they might stop him. Be it the police or the criminal he set out to look for.


“Find the man. But before that, sleep.” Olympia caressed Norberto’s face and brushed his suit gently. “You can’t do anything like this, dear. Leave this business later. ”


Too tired to think, and knowing he would have to obey, he tipped his hat and gesture before leaving the room. After that, Andy turned his chair back towards the bed, leaving some room so Olympia could return. He avoided the topic of Norberto, of course, just asked his wife “why are you smirking” while looking out the window, to the garden and the other men in blue suits.


She didn’t answer, only waved her fingers in front of her nose. Powder, gun, floral. A special blend. Her lips twirled like new leaf on spring branches.


“Love, Andy. “ The Siren looked out the window, but saw a different view. She repeated the word again, with tone eluding even the Smith. “Love. “

No one to talk with, all by myself.

No one to walk with, but I’m happy on the shelf…


She stopped the record player, lifting the dainty tonearm and take out the vinyl plate gently. Carefully placing it inside a case, her green eyes habitually turn to the clock next to the goldfish. Needles points to eight. The theatre must have something right now, and now being conscious of that Collette could catch the faint echoes from that direction outside. Still, it was quiet in her office, drearily so. So much that the music playing no longer help her hopelessness.


Because no one would come to visit.


Not like no one actually dropped by. The girls would come to gossip, the manager always comes checking. Even though the film is in editing process, they always send someone to report on the progress and discuss it. But her other life and anyone involved with it never came. Not Olympia, she was still in the hospital, possibly remaining for the protection. Not… Any other person. They are all busy. And her, she is unimportant. Forgotten.


That’s silly, of course. It was easy to feel forgotten by the world inside the boundary of these walls. She sighed slowly, picking up her coat. The hall way’s emptiness and the solid walls dimness were giving her some sort of pressure, and even the outside world provided no remedy. Clouds are gathering.


Like usual, before she walks to her car, she went to gather the newspaper first. There was a stall at the corner of the street standing like a toadstool in a forest. Seeing the actress approaching, the stall owner Jason greeted her. He himself was smoking on a chair, lazily reading a paper himself. Ashes fell carelessly about his lap. “Come to get your newspaper, Miss Collette Holst? Juicy news today. “


“What happened today?”


“What happened years ago? I was going to ask you. “ He closed the paper he was reading, lifting the front page so she could see it clearly. The picture was still Olympia, against a hanging light, expression as if she was about to cry. The title, in a font of tangling vines, wrote “Unknown Past Romance of the Nightingale?! Exposed!”


Collette could feel the heat steaming to her head, and yet the blood couldn’t sustain her standing. With whiten lips and knuckles, she angrily stared at Jason. “This is pure slander!” She told him, but knowing he was not actually responsible for the title or the article she silenced the rest of her thoughts.


“Alright, but you’ll want to read the other bits. “ He nudged his head downwards. “Keep reading. “


She did. Then, she realised why the article was important. Another murder attempt was made, this time in Cassiopia General itself. A woman disguised as a nurse was seized in the room the Nightingale was residing. The article focused on the words the woman yelled after her arrest, claiming the Nightingale had once abandoned a lover. The focus of the article then was on who this mysterious man could be instead of the murder attempt. It took a tone as if the entire event had come to an end, as if the tries on the Nightingale had already come to a conclusion. Collette didn’t know what was more worrying. In a silence rage and concern, she handed the paper back to Jason, who patted the place where the actress held in an attempt to smooth the wrinkles.


“Please give me a copy of all the newspapers. “


“On it. “


He quickly gathered all the papers, tied it in a bundle and handed it over. On the way as she drove home, newspaper on her passenger seat, there was no telling what exactly was on her mind. She couldn’t reach a conclusion, until she placed the bundle on her table in her own study desk, started to take the prints one by one, and read them word by words. All of the journalists tried their best to gather what they can. Olympia had never given them enough materials to gossip about in her entire career, so they have utilised all of their creative brains. Some had listed all her male connections and discuss them, some other had hypothesized times she could have had another lover (which her close friends would know was impossible), some other had talked about her family and speculate what possible reason could have led her to an affair, and some even guessed what she might have done to abandon a man. That journalist was a waste not being a romance novel writer.


Then she touched the bare wood on the table.


Looking at the void where the stack of papers was, Collette leaned back into her chair, then felt too restless that she had to go downstairs and straight into her garden. A pack of cigarette was grabbed on the way, which she pulled one out, lit it up in the cool night’s air. There was nothing but wooden arches with vines that intrude her sight of the sky, which aided her mind. The mind was clearing up in the smell of blossoms and moistened mud. A rain had happened when she was reading, so she didn’t stop at the bench. The polished stone path led her round and round about the fountain, where blue glass shimmered under streams.


The woman’s name was Dollie Hobbs. A name that Collette actually recognised, just can’t remember from where. She was seen shopping earlier, and around the hospital the day before, but no one had any suspicion since her father was emitted in the same hospital. Disguised as a nurse, Dollie took the food tray from her father’s bed then to the Nightingale’s room, and was then subdued before her attack. No officer’s name was mentioned, but Collette knew Olympia could take care of the woman herself. As for motive, Dollie shouted that Olympia had left a man and thus she came for his sake, and many people presented in Cassiopia General heard it. No one had cast a doubt on the woman’s sincerity, and only one or two mentioned the doubts of the man’s existence. “The Nightingale had denied the existence of the man” was written in Caper’s only.


She blew the last bit of smoke into the air, then let the bud down into the bin hidden beneath the garden wall. With the attention media now give Olympia, there was no way they could send any messenger discreetly. There will be no communication from the Siren even though the Siren needs help. Or perhaps Collette was waiting for her word. Perhaps that means Collette had to decide herself what to do, and that stressed her to no end. Never was there a point in their life when it was this difficult to communicate between them. Not as children, not after Olympia was married, not after Norberto and Ruth came to be. For the first time, Collette realised she was on her own.


Her footsteps echoed in the house, without the lights on the hall was increasing hallowed.


The thought of what she could do still lingered in her mind, even when she changed into a nightgown and slipped into her duvet. Thoughts about what Olympia might need, what the Editors might need. Faces, of the Carlyle’s, of Bernadette’s, even of Hieronymus’s. Then, Dollie’s face came into her mind. Not the one in the newspaper, where it was unclear because the police had blocked it. It was clear to her, with vivid features, under street light with music behind them. Casual conversation. Tired eyes. Another laughter beside them.


She remembered. Jumping down her bed, she quickly changed and ran outside, grabbing only the essentials.


She knew exactly what to do now.


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



The door swung open. The bell that rang on it was largely ignored because the constant flow of the people, but this girl that came in strode towards the tallest woman in the room with a floral hat, calling her. “Madam Peone!”


Madam turned around to examine the girls in front of her, and recognised the brunette who called her immediately. “Genie, why are you here? Aren’t your place opened?”


“Of course, it’s only just one in the morning. It’s just I have this friend. “ Genie pushed the other girl forward, smiling brightly as she presented her with open palms, drawing circles in the air. “She was looking for a job here. “


“Let me see. “


Madam Peone had a stereotypical schoolmaster’s scrutinising gaze, as she scanned the other girl from the black hair set in an up-do, the purple ruffled dress with shorter fit in front, the trim of bustle linings and the material of the veiled hat. With two fingers Madam pinched the girl’s chin and moved it from left to right. The girl’s breath quickened, as if nervous, but still maintained a smile as she stared back.


“Why are you coming here to work?”


“I saw on the news that Dollie was arrested. I have met her before, so I thought…”


“Ah yes, Dollie. That troublesome woman. That’s not what I’m asking. “ Madam held her face against the lighting. “I’m asking what’s a girl with your pretty face doing here. Where you were is not working for you anymore?”


“They don’t pay me fair, Madam. I was already in a job like this before. I work honest, Madam, and I’m only looking for a living. “


“Hmph. “ After a long hard and harsh stare, the chin was finally let down. “Get to work then. Learn how to work a fan if you haven’t. Genie you can scurry off, I’m not getting a lecture by your sister again. “


“Roger, Madam. “ Genie blinked and waved when Collette mouthed a silent thank you. The room was heavily perfumed, with girls all in ruffled dresses and tall boots and powdered face and lipsticks. A few of them ran with trays of bottles and glass, then the others mingled with the crowd of ladies and gentlemen on the long and rounded sofas. Madam had not led her to them, however, but to the left end side of the room, where the lighting was dimmer and the air thickened.


“What’s your name?”


“Iris, Madam. “


“Iris. “ Madam led her in front of two velvet curtains, and lifted one of them up. Behind it was a compartment, like a cave dug out and cushioned with even more cotton and velvet. A man in an expensive suit sat in the middle of the sofa, behind a table covered with bottles and candles, while another girl was pouring champagne to the tall glass in his hand. Seeing their entrance, however, the girl darted between and through them, eager to leave her position. “Since you know Dollie personally, go see that her husband is taken care of. “ She added with a whisper in her ear, “He is our important patron. Keep him. “


The man stretched out his arm and waved for her to join beside him. “Fill it. “ He said, and he downed all the drink as she filled up, telling her to fill it again.


Like Dollie, he looked like he once was handsome too. But now, wrinkles had climbed over his face, and his chestnut hair had started to bald. His suit was tailored to fit his bulging stomach. “Fill it, fill it. “ He kept saying, and bottles were opened to fill his wish. Collette was beginning to feel concerned, when he finally stopped to gasp for air. Tears streamed down his face as he sighed and breathed through his open mouth.


“Mr Hobbs…”


“That’s not my last name. Hobbs is her own name. I’m a Jennings. You new? “ He said, slurring as he looked at her squinting. “... You are new. But you knew Dollie?”


“I have talked to her once, when she was working in another place. “


“Ah, so you mustn’t have known her then. I have met her for... God, must have been for a decade now, I still don’t know her. “


Collette said nothing, and poured slowly in the glass he held in front of her. He had swallowed it again, motioned as if he had swallowed with difficulty.


“I have been with her in the same bed for a decade now, and I have never thought she’d gone and find another man in between the times. She’d say she is working, gone to meet a friend, and she will dress up nicely like a doll. But she will always be there in the morning, give a kiss…” He gestured to his cheek. “Right there, and tell me she loves me. She’d tug my arm and say she didn’t want me to leave. Every, morning. Then, suddenly everyone knows she loves some other guy, some other man who doesn’t even love her. Someone she can kill an actress for! All this time fooling me with an innocent look. “


He glanced at her, up to down. “You look innocent too. But are you innocent?”


“Would you say I am?”


“I say you are a devilish one. “


“Then I am, Mr Jennings. I am whatever you want me to be.”


A pause. It wasn’t an answer he was anticipating, and he came close to smiling. “ Well, I did want her to love me, I'd beg her to. Still, unlike you who are here just for the night, she was there with me every day, and yet I didn’t see the signs… How can I miss so much? Why are you smiling?”


It wasn’t until he pointed it out that Collette realised the corner of her lips had lifted. Carefully examining Mr Jenning’s expression, however, showed that he wasn’t very mad. She flattened the lips, then answered to him with slight bashfulness. “Much apologies, Mr Jennings. It is just that I remembered someone who asked me the same question. “


“Is it? His missus cheated on him too?”


“No… But he prides himself in knowing, and yet he was ignorant to some things happening right in front of his eyes. So he asked me how he had missed them. “


“What did you say to him?”


“I said it was easy to miss something that was there to begin with… But these are different circumstances. She may have been different before. She may have loved you once. “


“...... No, actually. Now that I think about it. Now that I do... She told me she needed someone after her ex-husband died. Said she couldn’t cope with the police hounding her about it. But she couldn’t have loved the man like she said she did. Not me, not him. “


“The police?”


“She was a suspect, and I defended her. I said ‘You can’t harass an innocent woman who needs some time alone!’ to the coppers, I did, and I defended her like the hero in a suit. That was stupid. Stupid of me. ”


“Now, please don’t say that, Mr Jennings. “


“Then, what did your man say? Did he feel stupid like me too?”


She smiled. “Neither of you are stupid, Mr Jennings. He… Well, he asked me what to do. “


“He asked you?”


“He asked if I know what he can do. “


“Well then, what’s your name?”


“Iris. “


“Alright, Iris… What do you think I can do?”


Looking at the man who now genuinely asked her, Iris thought for a moment, and took his hands tenderly. Taking the glass in his fingers, she placed it on the table. “I think you should keep the glass…”


“If Madam Peone hears …”


“And save the drink for day after. Then after, and then after…”


“... That sounds devilish, now. “


They both laughed at his statement. Iris continued, “You can drink, of course, but perhaps not in the way that you do. I think, Mr Jenning, since Dollie is out of your life now and you have to cope with it. It’s going to be hard getting over it, but you can. It is your decision when you raise the glass, to continue to torture yourself for the woman you can’t control, or to make it be… more enjoyable. We are here to make it enjoyable, of course, Madam Peone and the girls. “


“My job and my craft are to make belief. I am here to satisfy fantasies, to make affections and love believable. To make stories believable. It is what people want to see and want to believe. But it is one’s choice to immerse in it, to look away, or to acknowledge its possible falseness and regard it. For some love, it is similar. You have learned and now have the choice to now regard the possible falseness, Mr Jenning, but what to do is entirely up to you. If it is any comfort, not everyone knows its true nature. It is in us to look away. Always. “


She talked with the knowledge of places beyond a mere saloon girl. He didn’t respond for a very long time. They sat together with the background of the clanging glasses and laughter, motionless but each filled with their own thoughts.


Then he turned to her, “Your advice is too vague to be any use, and you talk like a palm reader… But I can’t help to think there is some knowledge in it. If anything, that did convince me that I should stay here, in Peone’s. Make-believe love… I must have been wanting something like that. That’s why I got Dollie here. That’s why they all come here, isn’t it?”


“I’m not saying there can’t be any truth in it…”


“I know. But you can’t be sure of it. Here, you can almost be sure that there isn’t. You leave and wake up like a dream, and that is reassuring. I never thought I'd find it so reassuring. “


He gestured for her to help him in his coat. She had helped him to adjust his bow tie as well, fill his glass one last time when he drank it like water. “Tell Madam Peone that she won’t have to worry. She had taken care of me when… When Dollie isn’t here for either of us. “ He then smiled at her. “You’ll do well here. “


He had stopped in his way to nod at Madam Peone, besides that he headed straight for the door. Thinking that the Madam would have been worried about his swift leaving, Collette was surprised to be welcomed warmly by the Madam, before she was seated with a group of girls on the sofas. It wasn’t sure that she was welcomed by the others, yet. But one way or another, she had been acknowledged.

Inge didn't believe in God, so he didn't take the Siren's latest life attempt as a miracle. With no context to what happened, he existed in a state of deep thought. Reports from his people who were watching the Siren had told him what happened. One had asked if Inge was involved, to which Inge had not given a straight answer.

He had thought through the problem to several smouldering fields of suspicion beyond. But he always came back to one thought: what now?

The Siren had been almost killed for a second time. That meant that his hitman could potentially be pulled off the hook. However, that was too simple. Too straightforward. Too clean. As for who tried to kill the Siren, Inge did not know. As for why, lots of flags were rising in his head to suggest that the answer to that could be purposeful.

That Capers article had been published days after the shooting and days before the stabbing.

Was it chess? Was it a purposeful move of the pieces or had something momentarily disrupted the chess board?

It didn't matter what it was - Inge had to act. Idleness got him nowhere.

Inge had considered this from his home. The attic had been converted into his office, and he sat staring into the skylight at the lightening sky. The weather looked rotten, or promised to be soon. What was the chess game here? Who was playing? He closed his eyes.

The Siren had been shot. The Siren had been moved to the General. A number of people had come to see the Siren since then, including a number of other Editors. The Naiad, the Czech. The Smith obviously. No surprise there. But the nest had been shaken - the Naiad and her paper. That article. He couldn't go to see the Siren - it would be too clean. Too obvious. Of course, he read the paper, and was as active as he was quiet. The paper had continued to shake the nest. The Czech had been roused, for one thing. He had made clear whose side he stood on.

Although that wasn't a surprise.

So after this consideration of events and knowledge of this new chessboard, Inge stood up.

He had a hitman at his disposal. But he wasn't about to make the mistake Skullface made before. He had to trust that the Crook & Shot were correct in his rating. A good hitman, a very good hitman... according to theory. The issue was, murder wasn't something that could be practiced.

He contacted Skullface after that. A text at 9am, promising Inge would be at the door for 10.

There was a discussion that hung above Inge's head. He had to sort that.



The discussion was rehearsed in Inge's head over and over again. From his limited knowledge of Skullface's mannerisms, Inge knew how he suspected the hitman might react to certain stimuli. The man was easy to manipulate because he was so emotional. He rode waves of emotion, and Inge saw that. The first moment Skullface opened the door, he had been acting off his emotions. His anger, then his irritability, then panic.

Inge guessed at what Skullface's emotion would be when the man opened the door today.

The guess of Suspicion was correct.

Silence greeted Inge as Skullface wordlessly let the man in. Just the stare, the eyes, the mouth, all made a mask of certain suspicion. Inge took up his place in the middle of the apartment's dismal excuse of a living room, while Skullface stood in front of the door.

"You're armed," Inge said without blinking.

Skullface showed no surprise. But he withdrew a short pistol from a holster against the forearm, and a suppressor from his pocket. He stared at Inge as he joined them.

"I'll tell you I'm not armed. Nor am I afraid of you."

"So?"

Inge lowered his head slightly. "Olympia Carlyle was attacked, almost assassinated in the General. Now, I considered telling you to keep as quiet as you have been, to get the police off both our backs. With this latest attempt, the pressure will certainly be taken off the previous suspect. You understand, I know. However, I have decided to tell you to take a contract that comes your way. Return to your normal state. Take a contract, live your life taking the lives of others."

"Get off your moral soapbox," Skullface said flatly.

"Return to your normality. Where is your sister?"

Just as anticipated, Skullface reacted. He reacted stronger than Inge thought he would though. In his mind, he assumed Skullface would be impossibly subtle with his expressions. But no: Skullface let his countenance become a twisted, insulted snarl.

"The fuck's it matter?! Who cares if she's anywhere? Who cares if she's dead in the bathtub, or wandering Klokklsby, or drowining in Lake Park?! I'll answer that - it matters to me and only me. You start caring about that, I'll find you."

"I believe you. She is useless to me though."

"Useless to everyone."

Inge took this with nothing but a slight head tilt. The irony was invisible to Skullface, as was his lie.

"Notify me when you have a regular contract. Do not go far from Cassiopia, or Oriyon. Notify me, and that will be all. I'll be monitoring you."

"Can I put out a contract on you, please."

Inge chuckled. That enraged Skullface, whose snarl grew into a bulldog baring of the teeth. "No stopping you. But don't waste your time."

"Get out of my house, would you?"

"Should I check if your sister is dead in your bathtub?"

"Fuck off. I left it empty in case I had to dispose of you."

Inge felt the laugh inside him die as it rose when he realised Skullface wasn't being ironic or sardonic with that sentence. I left it empty in case I had to dispose of you. He was prepared, utterly, to kill Inge and dispose of him. Inge scrutinised Skullface slowly, taking into account the hands and eyes. Those hands - how many corpses had they touched? Had he dismembered someone? Was there any telling? And the eyes - did they have the pockmarked histories of messy murder in them?

Inge could not tell and wagered even the Czech would have distinct difficulty reading Skullface's eyes if he had the chance.

So Inge did not laugh. He took a step towards Skullface, gesturing to the door.

"I hope your sister isn't behind the door. What might she do if she saw you with a firearm?"

"Who cares."

Inge raised his eyebrows and opened the door, keeping an eye on where Skullface held the pistol. He had not seen it up Skullface's sleeve, nor had he seen its outline against the fabric of the sweater. But that was the proof. Skullface did know what he was doing. The pistol now, held in Skullface's right hand, with its nose pointed downwards and his finger off the trigger, was held as mundanely as if it might be a book.

"Who cares indeed."

"Get the fuck," Skullface said, leaning towards Inge's face. His voice was low, a threat in itself, and his breath was practically deadly on its own, "off my floor."

He closed the door. Inge looked down at the slight shadow beneath it, and knew Skullface was still there. He stood for a few seconds, not taking the chance that Skullface might shoot him through the door but, when no shot came, Inge made his way down the stairs. He hadn't predicted Skullface would shoot him and for good reason: if he did, he'd know his own life would be as good as over.

Hieronymus didn't even knock on the frosted glass door when he entered. He simply lay his palm against it and made his presence known as he stepped in. Francisco Infante stared up at him from his position at the desk. The eyes were scrutinising even before he realised who it was. However, as he saw it was the Head Journalist, he stood up.

"Did you need something?"

"Send me everything you get today, please."

Infante scowled. He had a particular way of scowling: it was like a confused scornful look with a hint of condescension. "Alright. You could have emailed me to tell me that instead of barging in here. And you could knock maybe. Because that's polite."

Hieronymus waved a hand, "Email doesn't have the same... oomph! Come on, don't be so unhappy. Just get to it, if you please. And when I say everything, I mean everything: if one of your guys sends you anything, be it an image, interview or even a spam email, cc it to me. I won't let the Capers' integrity be questioned because one day we sent out an article praising the Nightingale and the next is an article about the Nightingale's hypothetical affair."

"Are you meant to be on that story?"

Hieronymus looked at Infante. "I can be on whatever I like. Right now, I'm abandoning a much more intensive piece of work for this. I'm not letting anyone question our integrity. So, to make that happen, you will not question me. Can I rely on you for this, Francisco? That is - can I trust you to carry the Capers' integrity with me?"

Infante sighed. In his expression was a betrayal of his real emotions: he was one of the few chiefs who didn't like the Head Journalist. He had often remarked that it was Hieronymus' tone he had an issue with, but often times it was some particular sentence Hieronymus had said that had got under his skin. During performance reviews, if Hieronymus had said anything to Infante in the preceding weeks, it was sure that Infante would have a strong comment on Hieronymus' character in the review. Hieronymus had learned to avoid Infante during periods of uncertainty and disagreement, but had not learned to be nice to him. As far as Hieronymus knew, Infante was of a different sort. He didn't need to lean over Infante's desk to make him feel special, important or empowered. He had to leave Infante alone for the man to feel that.

"I'll send you everything. What is it specifically you're worried about being published?"

"Okay. Imagine the other papers. The First, the tabloids, you know, even the news stations. But imagine the tabloids: they'll grapple onto the Nightingale's hypothetical affair. Her relationship with a man that no one's heard of. Do we know if it's true? Do we know if she had a relationship?"

"No, well, not yet."

"We won't know by the end of the day will we?"

"Probably not."

"So. That's the point. We are not going to make assumptions whether it is true or not. Anything pertaining to that relationship, we say 'alleged' or 'suggested' and the like. We also put in that the Nightingale denied it. We're putting that in because that's what we were told, that's what one of your sneaky lot got from her, somehow. I won't ask how, I don't care. I trust you'll take care of that inappropriate behaviour," he paused, collected himself and continued. "If we start turning on the Nightingale after praising her, if we start listening to whispered hints rather than the solid facts presented in the article from a few days ago, our integrity is ruined. I want you to focus on the event rather than the reason. Only the truth."

Infante had crossed his arms. "I'm not stupid you know. Everyone knows Mrs Horowitz and the Nightingale have a thing going on. That's why you're here pestering me isn't it?"

Hieronymus was prepared for this. Infante wasn't stupid. Nor was Infante easy to cope with. From his clash with Infante regarding his last interaction, Hieronymus knew Infante would not miss a chance to lay into him. And if laying in meant attacking Bernadette, then the man was going to do it.



"Hieronymus."

Just as it had done upon leaving Collette's office, Hieronymus felt his spine grow rigid as Bernadette addressed him with his forename. He looked up to see her entering his office and closing the door quietly behind her. He wordlessly stood up and met her, his eyes offering the question. Her own were solid and blue, a glacial comfort.

"You'll hear me out. You know about the Nightingale?"

"Yes, I... heard."

"We have to be careful. Here especially. Your article... it couldn't have come at a worse time... of course, I am the one who suggested it, so it cannot be down to you. But I had a hand in pointing the spotlight at her in an effort to set things right, and all I have done is make her more obvious to her adversaries."

"Sit down, Mrs Horowitz, please."

His hand took her arm and led her to the chairs before his desk. He took up one, and she the other. He watched her quietly as she rested her eyes on his desk. It was almost as if he could see her gathering her thoughts, gathering her attempts to speak.

"Mr. Hartley, the Capers integrity is something I care about immensely. You'll forgive the slight emotional outburst just there I hope. Understand I am here as a Capers journalist first, and the Nightingale's friend second. If I was one without the other, I would not be here. In this case, the two tie in. I can speak my voice to you, and you can assist me in my pleas. The Capers cannot publish anything about this relationship that was brought up."

Hieronymus didn't let his expression change, but he asked, "You mean to bury it? You know we can't do that."

"No, you're right. Not bury it. But we cannot do anything that the other papers are already doing. Have you seen the online articles? They're already circulating. It's not even the end of the day. They are so slanderous, and I will not allow the Capers to become this. Anything published on the matter will be big news of course, especially coming from the Capers, considering your article. We have to turn this situation around. I would police the situation myself, but there is already suspicion on me as it is for simply being connected to the woman. I thank God this is your side of the Capers and not mine, or my reputation would be on the line. So Mr. Hartley, I entreat you to do whatever you must to ensure the articles on this contain no suggestion, no slander and only the truth."

"The truth..."

"The truth."

Hieronymus closed his eyes for a moment. He felt the world slow around him, cease spinning on its axis for a second, as he recalled all Collette had told him mere days ago. The facts ticked past in his head, clashing against Bernadette's call for the truth, and fell short. He had plenty of reason for an anger to begin bubbling inside him, but it wasn't the time to allow it. As Collette had said, he had to be careful.

Bernadette had to be careful too.

"I'll do all that I can. It's in my hands."

Bernadette nodded. The glacial look had not melted even though her words suggested a discomfort, and when she stood up she was as well-groomed as ever. Perfectly upright. "I know you will, Mr. Hartley."

She said nothing more, and left Hieronymus sitting quietly and unobtrusively in his office.



It was ten minutes before he stood up and left his office, greeting his PA with a small grin, heading for Infante's office. And now, stood in it, faced with Infante's confirmation that Bernadette's fears about her reputation being called into question were right, he only smiled.

"If you want to engage in this talk of hypotheticals, you're not the right person to write the article. Write the truth, Fransisco. Discover the truth, write the truth. But send me what you have, everything you have. I need to ensure you're handling it as I expect you to."

“One more time!”

“Must we do this?”

“Just shut up and do it. “

Talon gulped, and pulled the ear muff down so it covered his ears securely. Then and only then, did he take the thing on the station in front of him, and aimed towards the target. His legs were softening and he was losing his ground. Then, in the most disastrous way possible, he panicked and slipped on the trigger, which made the bullet flew towards the ceiling. He jumped.

“Enough!” Ruth took the gun from him, and pulled down both her and Talon’s earmuffs. Only she was a bit too strong with the pull, that the boy felt it tugged on his already strained throat. He held the earmuffs and where it hit him, and gasped after the pain.

That startled Ruth since she wasn’t intending to do that. In an attempt to ease him, she looked over the ceiling, and then at him again. She wasn’t very good at contemplating words, but she would try. “That’s slightly better than yesterday. “

It took Talon another breath to finally answer “thanks”. He had learned that she had paid effort for this, especially after she grew impatient. It must have been natural for her to handle a gun, and she was to teach an amateur how to do it. No matter how many times she demonstrate, Talon still panic. His mind couldn’t overlook the fact that this thing in his hand was something that can end a person’s life. It scared him, even, to know that she and other Klokklsby residents had lived with machineries like this.

And Editors. The society. All its members. In and possibly outside of Cassiopia.

“I think I heard something. Go up. I’ll quickly clean up here. “

There was a sign of hesitation. Normally Talon would have say something like he would help clean up, but he looked at the guns Ruth had laid out for him and gulped. Without a word he ascended the stairs, and listened after he came up. No, he couldn’t hear anything. There was no signs that anyone could hear anything from down, and it was curious how Ruth managed to hear anything upstairs. Was there something she heard?

He carefully creeped to the door, avoiding the windows.

It would only take a few more feet for him to see Bernadette, standing poised outside the back entrance. She was poised in a collected manner, her heeled shoes together, her hands in front of her holding the straps of her bag loosely between manicured fingers. Her hair, a tight bun as usual, allowed her to feel the confidence of professionalism as she waited.

“Coming!”

Ruth practically yelled through the hall, and waved Talon away like one would with a stray cat. He jumped again, but didn’t go too far, hiding behind his room door and found himself conscious about her corset, her skirt, her jacket, everywhere that he knew some weaponry was hiding. He listened, as Ruth opened the front door.

“Hi. Is there something I can help you with? “ She said, in the tone of a shopkeeper.

Bernadette smiled softly, her perfect eyebrows raising, “Hello, my dear. Bernadette Horowitz, I’m a colleague. I hope you’ll accept my invitation to speak to you about matters best kept away from the public presence.”

Invitation? Ruth frowned. “Is there a prove that you are who you said you are? No offense, but I’d like to be safe before I invite you in the room.“

“I would offer to show you my driver’s license, but that would be pointless, wouldn’t it?”

“Something is better than nothing.“ She waited, arms crossed.

“I have nothing to show you,” Bernadette said, “that would allow you to be convinced. Your mother speaks highly of you, Ruth, and so I won’t try to insult you with argument. Instead, I can tell you right here that I’m sorry for what happened to her earlier.”

“Earlier?” She frowned further, and it was obvious that her tension spiked in reaction. “What happened earlier?”

Bernadette’s smile diminished slightly as her eyes softened at the young woman’s actions. “Oh, my dear, I’m sorry if it has to be me delivering the news to you. I had assumed you would have known. Another attempt on her life was made. I feel my past actions have had an influence in allowing this to happen.” Her smile had gone now. “For that--”

“Come in, please.“ Swing the door wide open for Bernadette, Ruth felt light-headed. Or rather, all the blood had gone to her head and numbed all her thoughts. She gestured the woman in, locking the door behind them, and then shouted for the boy to come out. All manner was forgotten, it seemed, and the girl was in a state of confusion and panic.

It was Talon --- who meekly responded and guided them to the parlour --- who sat them down and boiled tea. He looked at Bernadette curiously.

“He is a house guest, a confidant.“ Ruth didn’t explain further, and didn’t look at anyone. Her dark eyes seemed to be just staring at a distance. “So, what happened? Tell us now.“

Bernadette’s soul wanted to open and express her apology again, but she kept that part of her zipped up and away from her mind. After collecting herself through the closing of her delicate, blue-tinted eyelids, she spoke. “A woman infiltrated her room at the General though a disguise, and made an attack on her with a knife. The woman was apprehended, and your mother has survived. She’s stable and conscious. However, more than bodily harm was done to her.” Her eyes opened and she fixed them on Ruth. “It has come out through the attack accusations that your mother had relations in the past, for which this woman was jealous. Hence the attack. I haven’t an idea at all about this, and I am so sorry to you I have to be the one to deliver this to you, but I promise you, you will be glad to hear it from me, and not a damnable tabloid later.”

The apologetic side had forced itself through into her discourse, this time aggressive. It was not aggressive towards the poor young woman, the poor daughter, but towards the ugly side of Cassiopia’s society. The rivals. Once rivals in quality, audience and content, now detested purveyors of the untruth, Bernadette felt she could spit on the next tabloid she saw.

It was a blessing that Bernadette’s wording was more subtle, that Talon understood the meaning of “relations” before Ruth stood up and almost acted up. Not that he could do anything much, he just instinctively pulled her hand as she stood and was about to yell, and she almost did. She stood up, face red but was timely distracted that she lost all her words. She stood, mouth opened, but then just looked between Talon and Bernadette.

“Sorry. “ It was Talon who spoke first, “She is a bit...She has a temper.“

“I hope you wasn’t about to say ‘rude’ just now.“

He shrugged, and the Nightingale’s daughter sat down, still flushed but now trying to think of a response. “Sorry. ‘Naiad’, right? I am a bit rude, if you’ll excuse me. But first, there is no such thing as ‘relations’, and …”

Her mind couldn’t comprehend what she was about to say, yet.

“But then it must come from somewhere, right? If it isn’t true, then... Who?” Talon said it for her.

“For those questions, I am not at liberty to say. Fortunately, I know you have connections to the police force. Of course, your brother must be aching inside at the news… if he is aware, that is. I would advise you to pursue that information when your head is clear, and when you feel comfortable to act. I don’t know if this attack was connected to the shooting, my dear. If it is, then the police may have apprehended the culprit. If not - like I suspect - then her life is at bigger risk than I thought. As I said, I fear my hand in the article that was published from the Capers may have moved the spotlight onto your mother, and she received this negative attention. I am doing everything I can to rectify this at the Capers now, of course, but it is a small action I can take in righting this wrong I feel I have done your mother.”

“It is not your fault, Naiad. Either ways we know there is someone who would like us to disappear. I know you and Auntie Collette would be in the spotlight too. This attack won’t change the fact at all. That the bastard is still sitting there. He’ll do something alright.“

“My intention with the article on the Nightingale was to find out who our friends are, who our foes are. Unfortunately, there were foes I was too short-sighted to predict,” she wanted to smile at Ruth’s admission of Collette as ‘Auntie’ but there was no mirth in the room.

“So is there someone else, then. “ Ruth frowned further. “And has everyone pledged their grounds?”

“I’ve seen a shift in some of those we know. Of course, our Librarian we can trust. But I know also that the Czech has been personally involved. Behind them, there are others, but I know that there are even people outside of the Editors who wish only the best for our Siren. Soso, her fans, her supporters. They can do nothing during our internal struggles, but we know we have something to fight for.”

“Yes, Liar Hartley had visited.“ Ruth thought, holding her forehead. The blood was only starting to calm. “And others…“

She looked at Talon, who was trying hard to figure out the names in vain. Seeing her gaze, he seemed a little startled that she might give his identity away. “What about the people against … Ruth’s mother? Who do we know?”

Bernadette was glad Ruth and the boy were both distracted with these thoughts, because it meant they were less likely to see the tug in her facial expression when they mentioned Mr. Hartley. There was a group that did like to refer to him in that particular way. She tried to return her face to its calm demeanour, and answer the boy’s question.

“From what I know,” she spoke slowly, measuring each word as she said it, “and from what I know other Editors suspect, high on our list of suspects - and, in fact, the only suspects I can think of - is Antolij. Miss Johie I’d also cast a doubt across, as she has taken control of what Antolij suggested we all do in the last meeting. The rest of us, as far as I know, have been… distracted with more important affairs. Your opinions? And I’m afraid I don’t know your name, would you be kind as to tell it to me? I know you are not the Nightingale’s son.”

He stunned, and then he leaned forward. He was always crouching, but now he was curling his back like a shrimp, and he spoke slowly to the woman. “Can you tell me, what important affairs?”

Bernadette paused to consider his reaction to her question. She gathered, by his change of subject and lack of answer, that his identity was guarded. She decided not to press the matter. “The crime wave of New Neptune. Antolij was curious as to why it died out, and if a pattern like that might fire up in Cassiopia… with the recent attack on Klokklsby, although it was not major, I would say he has made… a most apt observation.”

He took every word of Bernadette’s into his head, to add to the pool of what he had researched on the computer. No, nothing had linked yet, they all remained like unconnected points, too messy to make any predictions or assumptions. He looked to Ruth, who was oblivious to his intention of the stare, and he looked back to Bernadette. There his eyes stayed, as if in an internal assessment. “Will this affect any personnel in Oriyon?”

“In Oriyon, my dear? I assume it will. There is crime everywhere. In fact, I don’t know if you read what I am in charge of in the Capers, but there was brought to my attention a killing very similar to how your mother was attacked the first time, if I may be so indelicate. A shooting. It was printed and I thought not too much of it until one of my staff made a connection. Whether that means anything to you, I don’t know. But, what sort of personnel were you meaning specifically? A wave did begin to form months ago as a result of happenings in the capital, but the events are too numerous to list.”

“Ah.“ Talon remembered that he did read capers back then, only not too frequently. Although… He remembered that they didn’t touch on the topic of the Messenger. Not enough. He looked at her, long enough that the conversation was halted in silence for a good few seconds. Then, he decided. After glancing at his inner pool of unconnected dots.

“Any affected person that is related to… You and Ruth?” He said, carefully, acknowledging the stare from the girl behind him.

“Well, excluding of course the Siren, as we know she has been affected, there are a few anomalies. The Czech being active is odd, for one thing. I have… involved who you called Liar Hartley in this issue but only surface level… as for my personal life, thus far it has been uneventful, for which I am more than grateful.”

Then comes a hard sigh. Ruth at the back leaning on the chair had finally figured out what her companion was getting at. The way he was getting at it gave her a bit of annoyance, even though it was necessary. “He was thinking if he can trust you, Naiad. He was thinking of the Messenger. Can he be related to all of this?”

Bernadette’s smile returned. She switched the way her legs were crossed, and rolled her shoulders. She addressed herself to the boy. “If this is true, I would much rather you be upfront with me in the future, if you please. The Messenger… well, he was at the centre of those waves I mentioned. Undeniably, somewhere at the centre. I had tremendous trouble reigning the Cassiopia-centric part of the Capers in when the news came. But of course that was nothing in comparison to the ripple that went through the Editors. I’m not so foolish as to believe his death was the beginning, but it was when the waves became stronger… when patterns started forming. So, in short, yes, the Messenger is most certainly connected. I assume this is why you are here. And why you don’t wish to tell me your name.”

“Talon Marlow.“ He addressed himself. “I hope you don’t recognise the name.“

“Not immediately, my dear. I shall refrain from complicating matters and not mention you outside of this building.”

“Good, I supposed. “ He said, gloomily. “I was worried if everyone knows the name. I got the idea that someone was always watching. And the will… Well. I didn’t get everything I am supposed to, and I’m too nameless to meddle with. If he is related to all of this… Who would want that to happen? Who would come after me? Or is the people he told on too numerous to tell.“

“I wish I had a solid answer for you, but I do not. However, I now feel this issue extends farther than Cassiopia. This is more than just Antolij. As far as I know he has no immediate dealings in the capital. However… my priority is your mother, Ruth. And for her, and to right the wrongs, my energy is on the proof and removal of Antolij. Talon, if this is the safest place for you, continue working out of it. Otherwise, do not be afraid: there are many Editors you can seek the help of. I promised your mother and father Ruth that I would be a shelter for both you and your brother. Talon, to assist you, I recommend letting me know what you need, and I can use my influence at the Capers to delve into Oriyon for you. How does that sound?”

“But how are you going to remove him? The regulations of Editoes aside, since he made a likely move first… “ Ruth said, her crossed leg kicked mindlessly as she spoke. “Do you have an idea of how to start?”

“Knowing who we can trust, explicitly, I have a few ideas,” Bernadette said. She smiled again. This time, the smile was genuine, and warm. Promising, perhaps even optimistic. It reached to her eyes. “The Librarian, your mother and myself, we created a small camaraderie called Lady May. I think it’s time to expand that somewhat.”

Strangely it was Talon who reacted first. Not action, not words, but he suddenly blushed at Bernadette’s comment. Ruth on the other hand simply nodded. “Okay, but what can Lady May do?”

“It was Lady May who ensured your mother survived when she was shot. Expanding it, we can create a team of people we can trust, and use our organised power together to remove Antolij. To remove the scourge within the Editors. I hate to view the Editors as a dark place, but it is unavoidable. It has a shadow, and a long one. It is going to be, if you will,” Bernadette gave the smallest of chuckles before quoting the Lady May brand slogan: “A fresh start with Lady May.”

Ruth frowned, even further if it was possible. Her house teaching was always to put the Editors first, so the thought of even being in another group and another name was appalling to think of. But then, if what harmed her mother was, indisputably, from within Editors. No doubt she worried that the small group would further separate Editors, but… Would she have a choice?

Talon only blushed further when the slogan was mentioned, and gave Naiad a meek look of protest. “So this means I don’t have to rank my name with you officially but be a part of this… Lady May?” He blushed further, slurring on the name. “And the others? Is Mr Hartley in this too?”

“M… Mr. Hartley? He is not part of the Editors so I see no reason for him to know Lady May. He does not know they exist. As for yourself, I would hate to put you in danger. You needn’t do anything, my dear. I simply am offering this solution so we may rid the castle of the rat. We will not abandon the castle.”

“He is very close to getting to Editors, Naiad. “ Ruth spoke up. “Perhaps more close than some of us would like.“

“I am partly responsible for this, when I consulted him for the matter of my father.. I’ve only learn about Ruth and Editors after I met with him. If anything, it was pure luck that I am here.“

“So, it is up to your decision, of course, Naiad, to include him or not. To me his loyalty seemed to be closer to us than others, at least. And I will see if there is anyone else close to us… Ah. Lorretta. “ Ruth remembered. “And my idiot brother who hasn’t report anything if he was at the scene. Who knows if he betrayed us already.“

“Norberto is… Busy. But he is good.“ Said Talon, in Norberto’s defense.

Bernadette was quiet. So he had known. Despite her trying to keep him away, he had known. Talon had gone to him, and his words had allowed Talon to discover the Editors. Talon said part of it came from luck, but there was no denying the source of his arrival had been Hartley. “I will… address Mr. Hartley myself about this. I only hope I am not too late. I fear he would be nothing but a hindrance. As for your relations, Miss Carlyle, I would hope they would be as eager and willing to stand on behalf of your mother as I am.”

To that Ruth smiled for once. “Though she is not a fighter, I can vouch for Lorretta with my own life that she is loyal to us. You may find her around Soso, she trades powder. Lorretta Hanshaw.“

“I shall ensure my contact with her in that case, after I have confirmed who she is. I trust you. I would just hate for there to another incident. A second rat.”

Another incident. This caused Ruth to tense up. After all, she had long felt not only her mother was targeted. Perhaps someone dare thought that Olympia was easier to target, or perhaps they thought she was weakened, or they had weakened them….

“Someone had weakened the Siren first, too…”

Bernadette stood up and crossed the room to Ruth. She put a hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “I promised your parents I would be your safety net. You are a strong woman who I do not have to protect, but I maintain this promise with pride. As soon as Lady May is established, we shall tip the tables on our adversary. Until then, my love, do whatever you must to protect yourself, your family. And help each other. Your brother is doing only what he sees as right. The Editors will be clean eventually. And when that day comes, you will be more than prepared to stand alongside us.”

To that, Ruth nodded in acknowledgement. Talon didn’t know what to do but silently observed, and felt how strange the world he had delve into. To the world where one would sworn loyalty to another, or turn the table against another, like the days of old when they would war. Then he realised, it was a war. He was standing now in the centre of it.

Braithe broke his bread in his office.

Volkovoi, who had set out the man's first food of the morning at his usual place, the glass table that overlooked Cassiopia through the penthouse's windowed walls, noticed it was gone when he stood up from emptying the dishwasher. The machine had been churning all night, creating a susurrus throughout the marbled surfaces. After closing its maw, Volkovoi had straightened and closed the cupboard, then turned to where he assumed the black-suited man would be. The jacket, which Volkovoi had left supported by the chair that would have bore Braithe's weight was gone, as was the plate.

Volkovoi always left Braithe after doing up the man's tie. Underclothes, trousers, and his shirt were all set to be put on Braithe's pale body by Volkovoi. When that was done, he would leave, the suit jacket in hand, and prepare Braithe's breakfast. While the Czech ate, with a methodical air as though he were tackling a mathematics question, Volkovoi put on his housecleaner's hat. With a damp cloth, he worked every surface and cranny in the main room, freeing the place of as much dust as possible. From there, he took care of other chores in Braithe's high-ceilinged bedroom. He straightened the bedcovers, changing them every week for the Czech, rearranged the pillows and spiffed the en-suite. On completion, he returned once again to Braithe. If he had not finished eating, he would wait, giving the Czech the odd comment or two, to which the Czech would either respond or keep mute.

After that, Braithe would get up and retreat into his office, where he would occupy himself for three-hour posts at a time before emerging to be recovered by Volkovoi with rest and food.

However, today, when Volkovoi turned, there was no trace of Braithe. Such a thing surprised him, as Braithe normally had a certain amount of noise when moving around. His height and physical difficulties meant he leaned on surfaces when in informal situations, plus if he had taken his jacket, the fabric's hush would have made it to Volkovoi's ear.

But Braithe had managed to elude Volkovoi, and had shut himself in his office. Volkovoi, upon discovering this through a tell-tale chair creak, padded back into the main room and busied himself with the chores, putting the thought of the Czech's isolation out of his mind.

So Braithe ate in quiet. It was minutes before his brain was able to absorb with its usual speed, but once he was able to, he held his pen in one hand and his bread in the other, slowly chewing as he wrote, on any white square paper that was in front of him, various seemingly disconnected words. It was thought. Thought made reality, which would be cleaned up later in a proper document.



"Could you get me the newspapers."

Volkovoi, who was at that moment reading the First, emerged from his paper reverie to his feet. He smoothed the First before Braithe before fetching the remainder of the Cassiopia papers in the dropbox outside Braithe's door. The Cassio-Capers Daily, along with a few others weighed his arms down, but he did the same and spread them before Braithe, who was positioned at the glass table in the main room. Braithe, who was once again eating, repeated what he had done three hours ago, letting his mouth work on the food as his eye scanned every word, as his hand span with notation.

Several times he indicated Volkovoi to turn to certain pages. Once Volkovoi worked out what he wanted though, he flipped to every page that held the story: the second assassination attempt on the Nightingale.

Volkovoi sat a distance away so as not to disturb the Czech and watched until his hand had stopped twisting, until the nib of the pen was no longer biting at the paper. Eventually, he commented. "You're taking great interest in the papers."

Braithe's only movement was to flip the pen around in his hand. It danced between his fingers in the dexterous movement, fascinating Volkovoi for a second as the metal sheen of its grip reflected in shallow arcs the light from above.

He did this only once. "I did not see this..."

"It's unconnected to the first attack then? There is a brief word from the officer about the culprit. You think they're two different people."

"Unless I'm mistaken, yes."

"Your theory was sound on that one. You must be right." He watched as Braithe's head did not lower to the paper but instead was fixed in place, his unseen eyes staring out through the windows.

It was now that Braithe moved. His head turned from the window to Volkovoi while his body kept completely still. He was soundless. Volkovoi looked back into the black lenses of Braithe's dark glasses and let his head tilt downwards a fraction. He looked away after this, to the window, but was aware of the black suited man's eyes still on him. Searching him. Volkovoi allowed himself to be searched.

Braithe broke the silence by moving his plate. Its ceramic foot tapped the glass tabletop as the thin, ghostly-steady hand repositioned it.

"Jane Clay must fulfil her promise," the Czech said. "She must hide the Siren from me. If she is hidden from me, she is hidden from the hitman and from the apprehended lover."

Some of what Braithe said was unheard before by Volkovoi: Jane Clay must hide the Siren from me and hide her from the hitman.

Volkovoi did not react though. He took the information as it was, said by Braithe, and swallowed it. Jane Clay, the fateful woman who had separated Volkovoi from Braithe, the choice to hide the Siren from Braithe himself, and the Siren's hitman Braithe clearly knew about.

He had only one question regarding it all, one he posed without fear of the answer. "Did you meet with her?"

"Yes."

Volkovoi returned to looking out the window, and Braithe returned to scribbling. Braithe commanded silence: it was not that he could bring it, it was that he knew exactly what to say to break it.

The fence was always on time. As usual, Alessandro handled the discussion, despite the little English he spoke, leaving Chauntecleer to fend off his opponent from kicking the can - which constituted a football - between a doorstep and the garbage can - which constituted the goal. His opponent was a man called Chuck, a big guy of 30. Chauntecleer was not intimidated though: Chuck had the size, but Chauntecleer had the dexterity. He flipped the can over Chuck’s knee, then wove past the man to reach it, slamming it home with a striker’s kick. It flew in a delicate arc, clattering onto the road and disturbing the dust.

“Ye-es! See, you don’t leave you goal unattended,” the boy said, crossing his arms as he faced Chuck.

“Says you moving away from yours.”

“I had a reason to. I won.”

“Hey hey, rules is rules as written, Chaunté.”

“Show me where they’re written and I’ll cross them out.”

Chuck shrugged and rounded the corner into the daylight, joining two others of Alessandro’s gang. Chauntecleer scrutinised Chuck with narrowed eyes as the man took a cigarette from the other Ferdinand Chauntecleer knew: called Fez for short, he was unambitious and had a short fuse. He smoked with desperate lips and eyed Chauntecleer as the boy put his hands in his pockets.

“You want one, posh boy?”

“A smoke? No.”

“One day you’ll give in.”

Fez drew again, breathing like a whale, while Chuck took his more slowly. To occupy himself, Chauntecleer retrieved the can in the street and reacquainted himself with the footwork of a footballer. He looked around for someone else to play with, but Raymond, the other one Fez called a ‘posh boy’ was on lookout. At least, Chauntecleer considered, he allowed his own name to be shortened. Chauntecleer was Chaunte, Ferdinand L. was Fez, Charlie was Chuck, Yuuri’s name was short anyway, but Raymond? Raymond was Raymond. The argument against that was Alessandro: no one complained about Alessandro’s name though.

Just as Chauntecleer was thinking about Raymond, he gave a signal. When Chauntecleer looked up, followed by Chuck and Fez’s eyes, he gestured to the boy.

“It’s your boy, it’s your Ferdo. He just came round the corner, he’s kind of hanging around,” Raymond said upon drawing closer.

“Oh. I’ll deal with it.”

“Run to your boyfriend, ay, Chaunte,” Fez said. “Run run run.”

Deciding to ignore the short man, Chauntecleer hopped past Raymond and made himself known out on the street.

“Ferdo!”

Ferdo saw him instantly, and his eyes widened. He seemed to dither, clearly panicking, before turning on his heel and walking away. Instinctively, Chauntecleer looked over his shoulder, expecting a threat, or a police officer to be there.

He realised there was nothing, and looked back to Raymond.

“What was he doing?” he asked to which Raymond shrugged. “I can’t really go after him can I?”

“Chuck, go with him,” Raymond said, grabbing Chuck’s oversized shoulder and pushing him towards Chauntecleer. This caused a problem with Fez, but Chuck didn’t notice. He just lolloped towards Chauntecleer and waited.

“Yeah come with me, I don’t know where Ferdo’s going.”

“Awright.”

Chauntecleer set off in pursuit, quietly while Chuck took up his place on the other side of the road, adopting a casual air. For all his academic flaws, the big guy was somewhat good at acting. Chauntecleer reckoned it was because he could fool himself into the role of another person.

Ferdo, however, was running.

“Shit,” Chauntecleer hissed, and took up the pace. Chuck did too, and Chauntecleer saw the big man streak past in his peripheral vision, his big legs carrying him at a pace Chauntecleer could never hope to achieve.

“Hoi there!” Chauntecleer heard Chuck yell as he ran to cut Ferdo off. It was as Chauntecleer got nearer that he saw Ferdo’s cheek was not its usual off-pale. He changed his angle, craning his head to see more of the boy’s skin: it was bruised.

Chuck’s hand grabbed Ferdo’s shoulder.

Ferdo tumbled down. Not because of Chuck’s shove but he went off balance in the scare, and his knee gave way. In a undignified yell he fell face-front, but still, after he had accepted the fall, he raised his hand to his cheek where the stitches were on his forehead, and the bruises on his cheek. The stitches on his hand, however, nearly mimics the cut. His eyes were swollen too, so he is more recognisable from the back than from the front. He was about the level of tatterness of a poor Frankenstein.

“Hi guys.” He said with struggle. He almost bite his cheek.

“Yow, Chaunte, he looks pretty bad.”

Chauntecleer swore again softly as he slowed down, half catching his breath and half breathless from the state of his friend. His dark eyes moved in disbelief to Chuck who made a move to help the boy to his feet. The big man seemed surprised himself, but stepped away when Chauntecleer got closer, eager to be apart from the situation.

“What the hell happened? It wasn’t your dad was it? I swear to God if it was, I’m going round--”

“No, Chaunte, it’s not that. I…” He still cover his face, his eyes, and his voice was hesitant. “Look, can I talk to you alone for a sec? It’s…” He looked to Chuck to add an explanation. “It’s just something personal. Private.”

“Oh right.”

“Well I can’t very well go back to ‘em without you so,” Chuck said with a shrug. “But I’m not gonna listen. I’ll wait for Chaunte though. Like, here.”

He leaned against a lamppost for emphasis. Chauntecleer eyed him with slight interest: Chuck was always a little strange, but he had the loyalty of a dog.

“I’ll… we’ll go over here. Ferdo,” Chauntecleer tapped his friend’s arm and moved away, getting out of Chuck’s eyeline by walking a little way down a domestic street. Cars clogged the pavements, along with the occasional puddle of glass. When he was sure they weren’t in coherent earshot, even if Ferdo was to shriek, Chauntecleer leaned on the wall of a house and raised his eyebrows.

Ferdo tried, he really had to try to walk normally in front of them. But he was never a good actor and they could all see he was resisting a pain in his legs too, poorly. He was breathing, harshly.

“Look, Chaunte… I should say. No, I must say.” He swore, holding his forehead. Never had Chaunte witness Ferdo in this state. To him, Ferdi had been starved, had been in distress, but never… Never ashamed. “Look, I… Damn it. I got you into trouble. Remember the guy? Talon? That stupid Talon dude?”

“Uh. Yeah…? Where’s this going?”

“Someone else is looking for him. Someone with hired guards. I stupidly mentioned it to Marianne and he heard it.” He swore again, still haven’t looked in Chaunte’s eyes since.

Chauntecleer let his own eyes close as his head fell back against the wall. It had been a risk entrusting Ferdo with the information, and he knew it. It was a risk with no reward, no reward but infinite tunnels leading to awful results. Chauntecleer just didn’t know what those results were. He opened his eyes and let them take in the sky and clouds, as peaceful as ever. Inside him, brushed to life by the comparatively calm breeze, the germination of a seed of anxiety.

“So… you’re in trouble? That guy’s in trouble? Talon? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I… Who cares the hell about that! They heard you, Chaunte! Marianne was hoping to see you instead and they heard you! Didn’t you say your pa was finding this guy too? Who is he??? Who is this guy??? I was sent four lackeys to pound me just so I can snitch info on this guy. What kind of big shot is he?!”

He reached out, almost was about to shake him, but the image of his own father doing that had flashes across his eyes, and he blinked, look again in the eyes of his friend. He loosen, limped, collapsed on the other side of the wall, on the verge of weeping.

“They said they will find you Chaunte. I’m sorry, I’m such an idiot…”

“Keep your fucking voice down, seriously!” Chauntecleer seized him by the shoulder upon stooping to his level. “Don’t ask me anything, I don’t know anything, and anything you do know you’ll tell them. I can’t believe this, I’m being hunted am I? For… for tracing back and doing what I was told for my dad, was that it? I don’t know what he’s doing. But - shit - no. Right no, we need to get to my dad right now, because I don’t know what to do and I don’t know what’s going on.”

He looked at Ferdo’s face, with a chill in his skin. All the two had was the ability to run. They weren’t strong enough to fight and, although Chauntecleer could kick alright, against a squad he was helpless. And Ferdo was scared. It was impossible to shift the sympathy that ran in droves through his veins.

“Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll go to the Capers, we’ll get a taxi into the city and we’ll walk to the Capers from somewhere. We’ll stay in crowds, we can’t get attacked in crowds.”

“I got attacked outside Marianne’s workplace, but… alright. We’ll… Talk to your dad. I need to talk to your dad. I’m so sorry Chaunte…”

“Just… just… shut up, wait, we’ll go back to Chuck and I’ll call a taxi. Safety in numbers,” he muttered, standing. Unlike Chuck though, he couldn’t bring himself to get Ferdo to his feet. The boy followed though, as if trying not to cry, and trying to walk straight at the same time. Chauntecleer practically ran to Chuck, then pulled out his phone.

“What’s the gist then?” Chuck said, seeing Ferdo following. “Did you mug him or something?”

It was a joke, but Chauntecleer looked up coldly. “I’m getting him help, just wait here with us while the taxi gets here. Then you’ll go back to those guys. I’m getting him proper help before something gets infected.”

“Was a fight or something?”

“An unfair one,” Chauntecleer said dryly.

“You know Fez won’t be happy. Probably not Alessandro either. What if we have a gig?”

“You can do it without me, you have before. You’ll be fine.”

“Alright then.”

“Fez can chew me out later if he wants, I don’t give a shit,” he finished inputting the details for the taxi and confirmed to Ferdo it was coming. He then put his face in his hands to hide his expression.

Ferdo, on the side, watched Chaunte and was quiet, shameful, like a puppy dog. Usually people begged him and tried all methods and just couldn’t get Ferdinand von Potter to shut up. But today, he was muted. Sometime he opened his mouth, was about to say something, only then to close them again. Even to Chuck — whom he frankly never felt for before, he stole glimpses at him. Was it gratitude? Was it even possible? But Ferdo was wordless, still. He climbed in the taxi, quietly. To his friend he darted his gaze on him and away from him, worried of Chauntecleer’s reaction and avoiding, if any, of a returning gaze.

Chauntecleer did not look at Ferdo, but rather stared out the window. He was struggling with the mental question of whether to think, or whether to hide and avoid it. Ferdo’s face was enough to strike fear into him, and it was a fear he knew not how to handle. Why he thought going to the Capers was a good idea was beyond him: what could his father do? Chauntecleer was on the mental path to trying to persuade him to flee the city, if not the country. Whatever Talon Marlow was about, and whatever his father wanted him for, it was not worth getting killed over.

Killed?

Why had he assumed death would be involved?

He swallowed the question with a chill down his spine, and kept his mouth closed until they arrived in the city. The Capers building was fifteen minutes’ walk, a walk he would have to do with Ferdo in tow through crowds and crowds.

A crowd, usually the perfect place where the two hung their hands in strangers’ pockets and stole their wallets, the Hartley boy looked for them for shelter, for protection. When he walked through, his head was ducked, despite the drive he had to look feverishly for any eye pointed right at him.

But he led Ferdo through, neglecting his instinct to cut through alleys and streets, instead sticking to dusty roads and crossings, all the while his heart and head heaping increasing unease and anxiety into his soul and when his soul was almost overflowing he thought of the future and almost wept, but kept it in with a raising of his wrist to catch the only tear, then turned his head and told Ferdo quietly to keep up, it’s this way, not long now, we’ll see my dad and everything will be fine.

He wasn’t sure if he was lying to Ferdo more than himself.



“Can we see Mr. Hartley please?”

“Do you have an appointment? If not I will have to make an enquiry and see if he is is free and willing to meet you.”

Chauntecleer felt something snap inside him. “Or you could let me just see him, because I’m his son.”

“Oh, so you are of course. No problem then, give me your name?”

“He won’t need my name, I’m his only son. Just… look if you let go I won’t bother you. I’m not gonna rob the place. Neither’s he.”

“Well… I’ll tell him you’re coming up at the very least, but it’s up to him if he can see you or not.”

Chauntecleer did not thank the woman, but turned, tapping Ferdo on the shoulder and leading him wordlessly to the elevator. Once the two were in, he let out a breath, cursed again, then looked up at the ceiling of the elevator. Ferdo said nothing and did nothing, which only deepened Chauntecleer’s worries.

On the floor they were aiming for, Chauntecleer was finally recognised. They stepped into the open again, under the crisp lights of the newspaper headquarters, and Chauntecleer paused for only a moment to gather his bearings.

“I think… this way. I think. Yeah, look.” Chauntecleer remembered too late that Ferdo was probably having tremendous trouble seeing anything with his eye injuries. “Just follow me.”

His father’s PA soon came into view. This man recognised Chauntecleer and greeted him with his name, then asked the ultimate question of his presence here.

“I… yeah, need to speak with my dad, like, now. Really now.”

The PA was not a fool. He saw Ferdo’s injuries, his pain and the stitches. His eyes changed, his eyebrows creased slightly but he got up and knocked on the door.

“Sorry to disturb you, but it’s quite vital. Your son’s here and… he’s with someone who really doesn’t look great. Do you want to come and see him?”

His father’s words were muffled but the PA ducked his head out and held the door for Chauntecleer and Ferdo, “He says, just come in.”

Hieronymus was up from his desk already, coming closer to the door as Chauntecleer stole his way inside, with Ferdo still on his heel. The journalist’s eyes widened upon seeing Ferdinand, and he looked across at his company, an upright woman with eyes blue as sea ice. She spoke first, jumping in before Hieronymus could, standing to see to Ferdo.

“Oh, my dear, what happened to you?” she said, her gentle fingers directing him to the two-seater sofa on which she had previously been perched. “And, Chauntecleer, I’d say it is nice to see you again, though I doubt this is the time for it.”

“Oh, Chaunte,” Hieronymus said, laying a hand on his son’s back, “you sit down too.”

The woman’s presence had confused all the plans Ferdinand made on the entire journey of traveling in Capers Quarters. He was about to have a speech. A planned speech. But now all the parts were forgotten and he looked at the woman with gaped mouth and startled eye. There was something about the woman’s word, however, and he did, before he realised, walked to the sofa and let his sore body lean on the cushions. Days of barely living on the brim of human’s shelter made him appreciate the luxury of a cushioned seat, but at the same time, he looked towards Chauntecleer’s father, now uncertain. The voice that had scolded him on the matter before had rose again, and he could barely look at the father’s face.

“It’s been seen to,” Bernadette said, referring to Ferdo’s injuries. “Stitching… I can’t say there is anything we can do about it now. But you at least came to the right people, Chauntecleer. I take it you didn’t do this to him.”

“N… no of course not,” Chauntecleer sat on the chair, his sanctuary uncertain. “I was going to tell my… my dad. What happened to him.”

“Don’t be shy on my account,” Bernadette said with a smile, putting her hand briefly on Chauntecleer’s knee before examining again Ferdo’s swollen and bruised countenance.

“Please tell me, Chaunte, did you get into a fight, did he? When did it happen?”

“So… it… happened… I wasn’t with him but I found him. And… right so basically, I told him about the thing you had me do. And he… mentioned it to the wrong person. And then this. And he wanted to tell me to be careful too.”

Chauntecleer watched his father’s face as he revealed the story. He was doing it carefully, because of the presence of the stranger. His colleague was someone Chauntecleer barely knew, and so wasn’t about to be specific.

“The… oh… please don’t tell me… oh God Chaunte!”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have had me do it then!”

Hieronymus’ eyes fixed suddenly on his son. “You have no idea the importance of this. No clue, Chaunte. And before you say, no I did trust you not to say anything.”

“You didn’t tell me what it was for, you just told me--”

“I didn’t tell you what is was for, because I didn’t want you to… you proved me right for not telling you anything about this. I didn’t want you to trouble yourself with it, I just needed you to help me.”

“Well, doesn’t fucking matter, I’m in danger, he’s in danger, you’re in danger.”

Hieronymus was stunned. He stared at his son and Chauntecleer couldn’t tell what emotion was present beneath the mask. He only saw the golden eyes. And the eyes didn’t seem panicked… they didn’t seem calculating, they just seemed shocked. Chauntecleer sat, his hands trembling with the trepidation, unable to look at Bernadette. He didn’t want to see her looking at him.

But Bernadette addressed his father, rather than Chauntecleer.

“Keeping secrets will lead to another scandal, Mr. Hartley. I am prepared to give you an amnesty right here, right now, given the apparent danger Chauntecleer has suggested the three of you are in. I will not seek discipline, not unless you decide to tell me nothing.”

She spoke a tone of impossible calmness, her voice open and honest, the only eye in this storm Chauntecleer could see.

All Chauntecleer could do was look to his father.

Those golden eyes were fixed on his colleague as he looked sideways at her, unable, for some reason or other, to look her in the face. He breathed and with each breath Chauntecleer almost could feel his mind moving. Just as his had done in the taxi, his father’s seemed to be churning. Their facial expressions were identical: stoic but the crease of the eyebrows gave it away.

“I… can’t… sacrifice my entire career for a secret. I’m not stupid, Bernadette.” He paused, he sighed, he went to speak, he sighed again, collected himself, and continued. “You remember… you remember when Dr. Ashley came to me, telling me not to run a particular story? That lawyer’s death, from Oriyon. A story I wasn’t about to run anyway, because it was out of my journalistic jurisdiction, technically, but I heeded her warning and didn’t go near it. I didn’t have to care. I wouldn’t have thought twice.”

Chauntecleer frowned, his anger fizzling, changing to confusion. He couldn’t remember a story like that being mentioned by his father, nor could he see the connection. Bernadette, however, folded her hands on her knee and watched him, her face expressionless, waiting.

“But when you came to me, when you told me not to go near the story… I got… I got intrigued. I didn’t at all think to publish anything, because, again, it isn’t my story to run. But it was published in Mr. Arizona’s section, and not even in yours, which only interested me more. I found a man, in the capital, and he collated a lot of information on that lawyer, information I never knew what to do with. Sensitive information too.”

“Orell.”

Hieronymus faltered at the word of the ice-eyed journalist. “Uh… uh… y- yes, you remember.”

“Of course.”

“But… right, where was I? Um…” he sighed. “So… I bought information from this man in the capital, on the lawyer, but I never did a thing with it. For all the times I have lied to you, I understand if you think I lie now, but I do not. I have never done anything with the information. It’s sat in its folder for years. But… then his son Talon came into the city, and he came asking for me. He told me he was looking for why his father died. That was a few weeks ago. It was only recently that I did find him, and I had to get Chaunte to help--”

Upon the mention of the name, Ferdinand started. He was just whimpering at his nervous stomach and the scene of the father and son’s argument. A scene he would never want to witness, believing in his friend’s much… much better family. Then the vague conversation had almost elude his simple mind. But Talon… Talon. That name. He pushed himself up from the cushion, in a sickly and trembling voice questioned the two adults. They knew, they knew all along. “Who is this Talon? Who is this… father? Why is everyone looking for him?!”

It seemed to have taken all his breath, as he gasped after the question.

Bernadette touched Ferdinand’s elbow, silently bidding he sit down again, before raising her eyes back to Hieronymus. “Yes, your son’s friend raises a great question. I do hope you can answer it.”

“I… Talon… well, he’s the son… If what Talon said was right and someone did… want his father dead then surely they want him dead too.”

Chauntecleer looked from his father, whose words at least made a modicum of sense, to Bernadette. Her eyes had lost their ice, and now were simply beautiful ornaments. She was not seeing the journalist through her eyes, but following his words into his mind. Her mouth, when she did finally speak, let out one short sentence of confirmation.

“You don’t know, do you?” she paused, but not long enough for Hieronymus to gather an answer - or an excuse - and continued. “You don’t know, and yet you meddle in affairs which are not your own. As a result, your son’s friend has been beaten, and you now have a target on your back. You assume you are the answer to a problem that never called your name. You think life is a game. But this game can only be played if you put up your life as collateral. But you didn’t know that, and you’ve not only unwittingly staked your life, but your son’s, your son’s friend’s, and probably many more besides. Admit to me, admit you know nothing. Admit this to me, and look at what you have caused. Admit this to me, and be ashamed of yourself, Hieronymus Hartley, but no matter your emotions you will never be as ashamed of yourself as I am of you.”

The words of Bernadette had caused an unexpected effect. Before Hieronymus Hartley could answer, something else broke the confrontation. Ferdo, because of what she said, had broken into tears. “It’s not Chaunte’s dad’s fault. It’s not him…” He sobbed, rocking and shaken, “Someone else was looking for him, someone else… It wasn’t Chaunte’s dad’s fault that I got beaten, please…”

It may have been too much for him. Perhaps it was because he looked up to the journalist, for better or worse, but somehow, of all people, he was crying into a ball on the sofa.

“I was… Edna, she hired me to find out about him. And, and the man heard me and Marianne talking about Chaunte. It wasn’t him, it wasn’t him…”

For a second, Bernadette’s colour returned, but it vanished again as she put a hand on Ferdo once again. “I hate to upset you, my dear, but given the situation as I understand it, the blame started with him. If he had not got himself involved, you would not worry about who Talon is, nor would you be sat here in the state you are in.”

Chauntecleer didn’t dare move. He wanted to be near Ferdinand, despite his outbursts, but at the same time he couldn’t cross the invisible line Bernadette was drawing.

“You can’t put that all on me, you can’t. And I promise you, I know more than you think I do. You know why I can’t tell you why Talon’s father was killed? Because Talon doesn’t know. Why else do you think I’m… looking into this?”

“You found him, didn’t you? In the Nightingale’s family’s shop. That’s what you used you son to do.”

“I didn’t use him. I needed him.”

Bernadette snorted, the only emotion to have left her in quite some time. “You used him, Hieronymus! I won’t sit here and let you lie right in front of him.”

Hieronymus went to retort, his body physically shifting and his mouth opening with a snarl on his lips, but something stopped him. He looked to the side and walked a small distance away to one of the bookcases around his walls. A thin blue folder was soon in his hands, and he brought it to Bernadette without a word, practically creasing the folder with the strength of his grip.

“Look at what I know, and tell me I know nothing. And I know more than that besides. I know the world you are apart of, Bernadette. You. Miss Holst. The Carlyles. Orell Marlow. I found all that in a matter of days. Say what you like about what I’m risking, I know the cards that are in my hand and I know how to keep them safe. You call my bluff, and I show you I’m holding a full house."

“You choose to speak it in front of two innocent boys who are barely yet adults.”

“I’d rather they know what I’ve put on their backs than they suddenly face it without warning.”

Bernadette did not reply. She got up with the folder in her hand and moved away from the boys, away from Hieronymus and to the light of the windowed balcony doors. She leafed through the dossier, her face never changing, skimming parts of the pages inside, and scrutinising others. In the meantime, Hieronymus let out a breath, a breath that softened his shoulders and deflated his emotions. He sat next to the shivering Ferdinand, his elbows on his knees, and stared at his son, who could not stare back.

“It’s worthless of me to offer you any of my words, Chaunte. All I can tell you… she’s… right, in that, I suppose, I had no idea the extent of danger I would be rousing. I don’t know who Edna is, that Ferdinand mentioned… but yes, it’s mostly down to me that he’s ended up like this.”

“No, please…” Still affected emotionally, Ferdinand took a few second to turn to the man. There weren’t much occasion where he was so close to his friend’s father. He looked nothing like his own father. Nice clothes, nice hair. A mask, too dramatic even in a joke or theatre. But from his ears he could hear care. Care for his son. It’s not something that one can fake Ferdinand. “I walked up to Edna first. I asked her if there is any job, and she told me to find Talon. You couldn’t have been there, it’s the shadiest place. And the man…” He trembled, nearly cried. “He… He said I need to tell him. Tell him about this Talon guy, or he will find Chaunte. He had guards, he had… Nice suits. Oriyon suits. You can’t know him too, Chaunte’s dad? You won’t… It’s my… Stupidity. “

The last word was nearly too smart for him to utter, that his tongue tripped and slurred it when he did.

“What I’m saying is, nah. I shouldn’t have asked Marianne. If I could ask you. I should have just ask you… And it’s not worth risking Chaunte. What do I tell him now?”

Hieronymus was looking at Ferdinand, but when he opened his mouth it was not his voice that was heard.

“You needn’t tell him anything. I’ll deal with this,” Bernadette had come closer, having closed the dossier. She held it by her side. “I have to apologise to you, Mr. Hartley. Perhaps I did heap too much blame on you, but I still hold that you are a fool for your role in this, and that you should realise the dangers you are bringing. However… listen to the poor boy, listen. Edna is not your fault, Mr. Hartley.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name, Mrs Horowitz. Ferdinand, if she wanted you to find Talon, and the threat was harming Chaunte, why not…” he stopped, knowing very well why he couldn’t recommend the police. “Why not… tell someone… at least?”

“Hieronymus, there is nothing to be done in the past. The most we can do is act now. You hid a great many secrets from me, especially in this. If I had known, even just for a second, that you had something this valuable, I would have had you fired to get my hands on it.”

Hieronymus blinked, straightening in his seat.

“However,” she sighed, putting her hand to her forehead. “I did say this was an amnesty and… from what you’ve told me, I couldn’t get you fired even if I wanted to. I told you… days ago… that you were on thin ice with me. I didn’t know you had already… I said that… to keep you from digging. Yet you were already done with your digging.”

Hieronymus, to Chauntecleer’s surprise, let out a chuckle, “That’s what Miss Holst said. And yes, I talked to her. She trusts me. I assume you know what I mean by that.”

“You’ve shown me you know what that means.”

“Could you just stop talking in riddles like this, please,” Chauntecleer eventually said. The exclamation had been building inside him for minutes, and it was finally unleashed, in the susurrus between the discourse of the two.

“Hieronymus? Will you tell them?”

He didn’t hesitate, this time, to answer, “I’ll tell them on my terms. As I said, I’m not leaving them unprepared.”

“Very well. We have much to talk about, you and I. If Miss Holst has been involved with you, however briefly, she must be involved. There is one thing I hate, and it is being kept in the dark. I dislike secrets being kept from me. As such, it is time I reveal one of my own. My dear,” she said, referring to Ferdinand, “if you know enough about Edna, perhaps you have already connected the dots. Her name is Edna Horowitz. And yes, she’s my neice.”

Ferdinand just blanked out at the reveal of the information. It took a bit of the time, but then he looked at her again, blinking. “Edna had a family? The Edna? The Edna???”

Then after he realised what he said, and after another look at her icy blue eyes, he stuttered. “I’m… Sorry. It’s just that, no one would ever thought Edna… I mean, she act like she had no relations. No offence…”

“None taken, dear. She is an estranged relation, one I consider a part of my family of only for the sake of my own security. She, however… likes to play pretend.”

“So, did she ask for Talon because of you then? You were looking for him? Too?”

“Not at all. My attention was only drawn to the matter of Talon very recently. Of course, I do know where he is, as does everyone in this room except you.”

“...I mean, yes.” He looked to Chauntecleer with surprise. “Everyone doe. But… I guess I can’t tell them what I know now. The guy, the man who beat me up. I mean, the one who called the guards to beat me up. He is not good, is it? What…”

He reached to Chauntecleer’s shoulder, holding it and looked in his friend’s eyes. “But you will be protected right? They will trace from me to you if I don’t tell. But you are protected now, right?” He looked to the adults. Something about it still tells that he couldn’t comprehend very well, but one thing he hoped. Chaunte is safe. The adults seems to know what they were talking about. Chaunte is… safe.

“Wh… me protected? Jesus, no, Ferdo, think about yourself, god. What are you supposed to do? I mean I’m… sure I’m… safe sure, but what about you? You can’t just lie down and die can you? Can he?”

“Of course not,” said Hieronymus.

“Well…” After a second of smile of rejoicing Chaunte’s safety, he then drooped his eyes and lips into a sudden worry. “Oh, right. Me. Uh. I mean, nothing’s going to change. “ He forced out a chuckle half-heartedly. Which made his face quite twisted. Not the relaxed face the boy had envisioned at all. “I still get beaten by the boys. Well, good thing Marianne didn’t have a boyfriend huh? She did like you...Heh. “

“No… it… come on, I can’t do anything can I?” he looked to his father. “You better keep him safe too, because she essentially said this is somewhat your fault.”

“I…”

“No, you owe him or, if not, me at least.”

“Oh… Chaunte, please, have more faith in me. I know. I don’t want anyone to get hurt or die. I’ll take responsibility for this. Just believe me. I won’t exit this office without a plan for what I’ll do.”

“I’ll need to talk to you, Hieronymus, sometime. In the meantime, do not - any of you - discuss this with anyone. This is not a matter of keeping secrets anymore. This is about us knowing the ugliness of the world, and trying to keep the innocent side unaware. It’s a responsibility, not a secret.”

Hieronymus nodded, and looked weary. “I promise you, we’ll sort Ferdinand out. As for everything you’ve heard here… I’ll tell you on my terms. There’s no point in me apologising to you, all I can do to show you all my apologies is… change what I’ve started.

Ferdinand, who was wanting to tell Chaunte the usual “No I can’t keep disturbing you”, but never found the moment. Bernadette’s grim words had set into him, after the pain of what he had been through. He nodded, silently, and looked to Chaunte.

“I’ll… do what I can. I can at least get you off… or try to get you off working for that Edna woman right?”

“Don’t do anything, Chaunte. I’ll just not get paid by her. It’s the other one. Just make sure he doesn’t find you. “

“He won’t find him, not if I have anything to say about it.”

Chauntecleer heard his father’s tone and didn’t quite understand - or, he did, but didn’t want to.

“I have a feeling we’ll all be together for a little while. Hieronymus, cancel your upcoming meetings. I will hopefully get us more comfortable. A tea tray is little to offer, but if it will inspire some camaraderie, then I will bring it. Do excuse me.”

She left, as primly as she stood initially upon seeing Chauntecleer and Ferdo enter, with the blue folder under her arm. Hieronymus stood up too, rustling in his desk then heading onto the balcony. Chauntecleer saw him light a cigarette and lean his head on his arms on the balcony railing. Occasionally, he raised his head and took a drag, letting the smoke out into the air, in the silence through the closed doors.

“... Everything’ll be fine, Ferdo…”

Osthavula

“You are not leaving now, are you?” Iris laughed, resting her legs on the gentleman’s lap, dress suggestively slipped back an inch from her knees. The Saloon was bustling as usual, with red-cheeked gentlemen and dressed up girls clinging onto them, charming with their practised joy and attention. Bubbling drink poured from the bottle generously into his glass, and as he too laughed and pulled her closer, she pretended not to see Madam’s eyes burning through her.

It had been days since she worked here as Iris. The girls were warming up to her, and although some had been mean and distanced, she was just able to talk about things beyond the job. For one, she had understood that Julia was considering the attention of the man coming here every Tuesday, and Rose had trouble buying a birthday present for her mother. On the topic of Dollie, at least on the surface, the girls were quite open to talk.

“She always have that look, you see? That look, when someone don’t like you and anything to do with you. So she has no friends here, no. Just men, if they can’t see past anything but the stockings. But she had never sticked with anyone, no. Just the wallets.”

“She sneaks out a lot. Of course, we assume she was getting the… Don’t let Madam hear this. But, we always just thought she was earning some extra fees. Apparently it is not…”

“Poor sir, so doted on her. We know how fake she is beside him, but we never thought she had the heart to fall for someone…”

But the words of the girls held little substances. Iris had been hard working, earnest, even. The cologne has begun to cling on her arms and neck. Iris’s cheeriness was welcomed always with grins and cheers. But the attention she had gathered from Madam Peone was not the one she intended. Any time now, Madam will talk…

“Iris. “

As expected. In the changing room, in the midst of the girls gathering things in the morning to leave, Madam Peone stopped in, peeking through the gap of door to name her. “A word with you.” She said, not offering any explanations and vanished out the door. The one girl that disliked Iris had begun to cackle. With some nervousness Iris closed her locker, went to Madam’s office, after making sure all her disguises were still well set.

Madam’s office was, unlike the rest of the Saloon, a pristine and clean room with white walls. Only the smell of scent had suggested it had any differences from the normal working office. Madam herself was sitting behind her office desk, waiting in an upright posture and reading spectacles. On the desk there were papers, pressed by a glass lion weight. On the walls, photos and presents, hung over the wall and set upon redwood cabinets.

Noticing her gaze, Madam’s strong brow raised, like a scrutinising headmaster. “They are presents from important patrons. Keep us from difficult times. We had only sold off presents twice in our entire history, fortunately. Now, sit down.”

Gesturing to the chair, she made clear that she wasn’t about to stand anymore dawdling. Iris sat down, with a nervous smile.

“What is it you need, Madam?”

“Quit your acting. You are not actually ‘Iris’.”

“... But I am?”

“I’m not here to criticise you, or scold you. I thought Genie had sent you here to play a prank. You know she does that.”

Collette suppressed a smile, whilst internally agreeing.

“What do you want? Spit it out, so we can talk business.”

“Madam-“

“Take off your wig first.”

“Madam. I…”

“Or you are out. I don’t welcome dishonest imposters. ”

Collette observed Madam’s Peone’s expression. It wasn’t a smile, of course, and wouldn’t be sad. But to say it was anger, not quite. It was a made up anger, intentional and mild. With some hesitation, Collette raised her hand to pulled out the pins, with the other hand holding the wig while she unpinned it. Then, slowly, she set the brown wig on the desk beside the pins, feeling her golden curls falling back on her shoulder. Then, again she looked at Madam Peone. This time Madam was smiling.

“My, my. What have we here. What is an actress investigating here?”

Collette doesn’t reply.

“But, you are close with the Nightingale. That’s why you are here, aren’t you? I never knew for sure you two had a friendship, but here you are.” Still amused, Madam Peone had a movement. A sound of the drawer open. “So you are here for Dollie, yes?”

“Correct.”

“Now, I have one condition, for my discretion. You will continue to work here as Iris, until I find a good replacement?”

“That I can manage.”

“No scheduling for films? Good. Then I also ask for your discretion.”

She pulled the drawer completely open, and handed a metallic box to Collette. Still nervous, Collette unlocked the hatches carefully. There wasn’t much in the rectangle tin box. A ledger, of blue leather cover and fastened by a rubber band, lied quietly on the bottom. Some jewellery, with emphasis on the sizes of the stones. Then there was nothing. The box was surprisingly empty and light.

In somewhat of a confusion Collette looked to Madam for an explanation. Madam, with no words, nudged her to read the ledger. Upon opening, Collette found that the content on the pages was… Bizarre. It was a combination of a diary and a collection of… Names. Some she felt familiar with, as if she had heard them before.

“That woman. “ Madam Peone crossed her hand, unashamed of the contempt in her tone. “She made a list. All the men and women she had… Dealings with. Something like this will greatly dirty our names. Like I said, I by no means encourage them to do, yet I can only control them so much beyond these walls. I found this only after she had been arrested. Imagine the shock. “

“So you didn’t hand this off to the police. “

“Of course I didn’t! They don’t care if they have to release any names. But, Miss Holst, I believe you are a smart person. I have no time. This-” She knocked on the desk, “-meeting, is already taking up precious time. I trust you to find whatever you want to find and return it. And of course, remember our deal. Our name is already soiled to the point that I can’t find a proper replacement. “

She finished that, and then left the room, with Collette and her wig and the tin box in her hand. Taking a deep breath, Collette flipped through the book. It will take some time to read it all but… There were better ways.

Flipping the notebook to the back, she traced back carefully.

And soon, she stopped on a page with a smile.

The two boys were sat across the room from the journalists. With Ferdinand still so occupied with panic, the only comfort Chauntecleer could offer was appropriate closeness. Words weren't enough. They wouldn't be enough in general, and sat in the same room as two people to whom words meant everything took even more depth out of his voice. But Chauntecleer didn't have one. He was leaned over and staring at the floor. The stress that had previously driven him to call the taxi, had driven him to shove Ferdinand, had drained. None of it was left, and he was passive. Silent and passive. Silent and passive and reeling with a lightheaded sickness that was spreading from his stomach. Occasionally he glanced at the two at the desk, his father, Mrs Horowitz, but couldn't say anything. He could hardly hear them at times, the sickening stealing away his senses.

There was nothing for him to hear so far though, apart from the dull clink of tea mugs on Hieronymus' desk. He had cleared a space for himself and Bernadette to talk while she fetched tea. It was doing a fine job of calming her emotions, at least from the outside, as she sipped with grace and a straight back. But for her colleague, who had his forehead in his hands, it was nothing but a distraction.

Bernadette sipped and stared out the french doors, beyond the railing of the balcony, and said nothing. Over time, Hieronymus began glancing at her. The frequency at which he did this increased, until he ended up glaring at her for an extended period of time, to which she finally put down her mug and returned his gaze.

"Mr. Hartley, I do hope your expression is not directed at me. I've made my position perfectly clear, and my secrets are out. Edna Horowitz, for example: she is the only event here that could be called a secret, and I've told you my relationship with her. But you... you haven't cleared everything up for me."

Hieronymus straightened, opened his mouth, but Bernadette stopped him from talking, her voice taking the stage and her eyes locking him to his chair.

"You have given me that file, you have told me about Miss Holst, and yet I still know nothing. There are to be no more secrets, Hieronymus. None. We will comb through this from the beginning. All of it. When did you begin picking up on the Editors?"

"Since... I knew Orell Marlow went by a separate title. Well... I knew something was wrong, at least, at that point. Then all this secrecy, plus your friendship not only with the Nightingale but with Miss Holst suddenly. It wasn't normal to me that you would appear with Miss Holst and the Nightingale right when she was shot. And in such an obscure location. So I... kept asking and kept wondering. That's why I got aggressive when interviewing Miss Holst, that's why I tried - in vain - to record the Nightingale's dressing room. Something was in front of me and I was being kept from seeing it," his voice became low at that last sentence. "You may call me a liar - the Liar - just as a lot of people do, but the thing with liars is we can tell when we're being lied to."

"You're certainly no fool, Hieronymus. But yes, a liar you are. If your son was not in the room, I would spell out exactly what I think of you, but I imagine I've already damaged your reputation enough. I wouldn't want him to begin doubting you as a man. I don't think you deserve--"

Her voice, in its reasonable calmness, was interrupted by a hand slamming its owner's weight down on the desk. The sound was such a harsh opponent to her voice that even she started and twisted in her seat. Hieronymus was above her, his expression implacable.

"Don't. Don't! Don't you dare! Don't you try to manipulate me! I've been nothing but honest with you, and you still twist the knife! Everything I did wasn't out of playing a game, wasn't out of fun, wasn't out of trying to get one over on you. This is my city and I knew something was wrong. Will you continue degrading me simply for trying to defend my city?! If you will, don't hold back. Say what you want, and say it in front of him. Say it!"

"Sit down, Hieronymus. I won't rise to you."

Chauntecleer was unable to take his eyes from the scene. Hieronymus' punishment of the desk had drawn his attention initially but his voice had kept it. Just as Bernadette was unable to place his expression, Chauntecleer could not place his voice. It was the voice fire would speak in, a consuming noise, a howl translated into words.

He was on his feet before he knew it, some swelling in his chest needing to be expressed. It had propelled him to his feet, given him the strength in his arms to rearrange his hair and settle his cap, but it could hardly hide the wobble in his own voice. Miss Horowitz was not a woman he knew, but she had commanded the room, commanded his father and commanded himself and Ferdinand through a combination of matriarchal omniscience and maternal softness.

"I think he's right, that is, you should say, because he's told you everything he knows."

Bernadette looked at him. She saw him, just as she saw his father, and she stood. "I understand your point, my dear. Just do not be disappointed by what I say."

"He couldn't be," his father said, the fire struggling to be retained by his teeth. "Say it, say what you want. Tell him. Tell me."

"Hieronymus Hartley, you do not deserve this office. You are many years my junior not only in age but in tact, in honesty, in maturity. I watched you climb the ranks and was sickened when Dr. Ashley put you in authority. You used dishonest tactics, intimidated interviewees, created enemies in your own field. I speak of the past because until recently I thought you had left all that behind. You have been a good Head Journalist for a while, but all your shady tactics recently have proved my suspicions correct. I admire that you felt a shift in 'your' city. I admire also that you took it upon yourself to investigate. But you have learned nothing as a man in all the years I have known you." She stopped, closed her eyes, then opened her eyes to Chauntecleer. "That is what I think of my colleague, my dear. If we could please get back to the matter at hand, Hieronymus, I would be very grateful."

"Are you surprised?"

"Excuse me?"

But Hieronymus was looking to Chauntecleer, who Bernadette saw shrug quite lazily.

"I mean... not really. I mean you didn't do this in the best way you could've done, like, maybe you shouldn't have used me to get to that Talon guy, but... before all this you were doing nothing wrong really," Chauntecleer kicked the carpet and looked at Bernadette. "He told me a lot about what he used do to get interviews and stuff so it's not new to me."

"You are not surprised, perhaps I shouldn't be surprise that he has told you all this."

"I learn, Bernadette, I learn. I'm not afraid to call myself stupid, to label something I've done as unsavoury, and I can tell you I was always self-aware that what I was doing was wrong. Recording you? Yes, I tried to, I knew it was wrong. But I didn't then bring my recorder to interview Miss Holst. I could have done, you know I could have, I could have and I could have been much more careful."

"You made other mistakes in that interview."

"Yes, and I knew it. It was a tactic, it was a risk."

"Did it pay off for you, Hieronymus?"

He paused, then snorted. "Ask her."

"I shall be sure to. I shall also be talking to the Nightingale about all of this."

"Who else is in the Editors?" Hieronymus said, to which Bernadette raised her eyebrows.

"That is not a simple question."

"He answered everything you asked so it's only fair if you answer him," Chauntecleer said. He had not dared drift closer, as Bernadette's tone was an intimidating barrier. He stayed a few feet behind his father with his hands in his pockets, and shrugged. He was hearing a lot, a lot of things he felt he shouldn't be hearing, but if his father wished him to hear them, he would not be afraid to.

"That is not a simple question," Bernadette said again. "That is not about secrets, that is about identity. I will not answer you. If the two of you understand this, you will not ask me that again."

"She has got a point," Chauntecleer said, to which Hieronymus agreed.

Bernadette nodded, "Thank you."

Hieronymus sighed, looking to Chauntecleer then back to his colleague, "Since I know about the Editors, and I guess Chauntecleer and Ferdinand do too now, what happens to us?"

"That... is what I will have to talk about to Miss Holst and the Nightingale. It's clear Miss Holst trusts you... for a reason I cannot see... and it is not as if you have been directly detrimental... There will be a tough question we have to ask ourselves, and that'll be one you can probably guess at. Do we want to make your life a hundred times harder by letting you in? As much as I think the idea of letting you in will be troublesome, the alternative is... well the issue is, we can't just ask you to keep quiet. This is a city with rot at its core, like you've felt. People's lives are in danger, and only a few of them know. People not involved with us will get caught in the crosshairs, and people involved will be hunted. You've made my life very difficult, Mr. Hartley..." she let her blue eye meet his. "If you have any sense, you will pray Miss Holst's opinion of you is strong, and you will pray the Nightingale shares it."

Hieronymus ran his tongue along his dry lips, not wanting to believe what she was implying. What she said was face-value: what she didn't say was precious. Chauntecleer provided the commentary of Hieronymus' mind wonderfully though, as he let out a breath along with the word, "Shit."

"Oh, Chaunté, language."

"Ugh, sorry."

"Although you are... right. 'Shit' is the descriptor... how... Bernadette, how far does the Editors go? Is it in Oriyon too? Just... that's got to be something you can answer."

"No, it is Cassiopia. Cassiopia's safety net. The centre of the seesaw. The Editors keep things balanced. We're not completely on the side of good, but we're on the side of the city. The capital doesn't come into it. If you're thinking of... Orell Marlow, his life wasn't purely in the capital. And it wasn't completely tied to the capital. He was an Editor for a reason."

"I actually wasn't thinking of him, no. I mean you make an interesting point, one I'll remember but... I was thinking of someone else."

"Who?" her tone was polite, but it held claws behind it.

"Oh, my God, Chaunté, stop me from talking next time. I just realised what I said was... well he couldn't have been an Editor unless... anyway, so... when you came to me asking me not to write on Orell Marlow's death, as I said, that made me suspicious. So I looked into it, and the result was that document which, as I also said, I bought."

Bernadette's eyes widened slightly and a sigh escaped her as she began to put the pieces of what her colleague had said together. Hieronymus watched her, scanning her reaction and trying to read it, for it was her body that would tell him how much impact that dossier's existence would have. Her lips formed a lipsticked pout, as her eyes wandered in the direction of her own office, so she was staring at the bookcase on the wall. "Who sold you it?" she said, her voice a ghost.

"Ah, oh, Xylem."

"I don't recognise the name..."

"He's... well I... he called himself that."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"Y... yes. Chaunté, do you remember when I was really... really stingy with money? That month or so."

Chauntecleer, not prepared to be called upon, blinked and tried to remember. "Kind of? I guess."

"That's because a lot of what I saved up I paid for that document. Thousands. Thousands for a shred of curiosity... which ultimately became a document I couldn't use, a document that stayed on my shelf until now."

"Oh, Hieronymus. I looked through it, what if someone had seen it? It was just on your shelf? And you paid someone to look into an Editor?"

"No, I promise I didn't do that, I... expressed interest in a particular person and he immediately had the information ready to give me."

"What... What did he look like? Tell me, anything you can remember. Everything."

Hieronymus nodded, buying himself time as he recalled the man. He was digesting Bernadette's reaction also. There was equal parts hesitation and desperation in her voice, in her posture: her dialect had lost its usual grace and her shoulders were tense, although she was still straight-backed on the chair with one leg crossed over the other. He cleared his throat and began to tell her. "He was quite short. Neat brown hair - at least this is what he looked like back then. But he had this... you know a magician? The typical magician? You know the spiky beard and little moustache?" he mimed on himself where the two features would be. "Yeah, he had those."

"I don't... know him. Oh, Hieronymus, you've complicated things so much. But don't misunderstand me, it's much better I know this than don't know it. You will allow me to keep the file?"

"Ah... yes... take it."

"How much did you pay for it?"

"I won't say. I'd like to keep that to myself. A private memorial of my... cat-killing curiosity."

"I shouldn't be sitting around if this is the case. You were able to get information on not only Orell Marlow but his involvement with the Editors months ago from someone who had it on tap. There is too much at risk here. Everyone here... Mr. Hartley, they're in your custody. I have not been kind to you today, but make sure everything discussed here is kept entirely to yourselves. Should any more talk be spilled, it will be on your head."

"You don't need to threaten me, I understand the situation."

"How did you find this Xylem? I need to know so I can act on it." She was standing now, and smoothing her skirt down.

"I... I didn't. Believe me. He found me."

"I must go, and quickly. Thank you for revealing this all to me."

"Are... is there nothing I can help with?"

She smiled at him, and it was at least semi-genuine. The other half was interlaced with both pity and doubt. "Keep your secrets, and keep theirs. For once in your life... if you're asked, asked about anything, I permit you to lie."

"I won't lie. I'll equivocate."

Lonely bar.


What does one usually think when they heard of this word? Perhaps a bar opening in a secluded place? Or, perhaps a bar opened for the lonely individuals? When the person explained the location to her, he had chosen the word. “Lonely bar. “ He said. “You’ll feel that. “


Tightening the grip on her purse, Lorretta squinted eyes at the neon sign. Strange choice of banner. Normally Cassiopia citizens avoided things with a glowy aesthetic, yet somehow the light fitted into the night like a ring on finger. It wasn’t exactly in a corner no one could find, as people still passed by her back, through the shadow of a bridge, conversing lowly and hurriedly. Blinking again, Lorretta located the door, pushing in. The dancing notes of piano welcomed her in.


It wasn’t, empty, no. Couples and individuals scattered around the places, and only two three tables were left empty. Choosing a seat, she began to look around the place. It was popular enough that it wasn’t run down. But the music bounced back the worn walls in the form of echo, and the darkened and faded light the lights gave, made the atmosphere more lonely than it was supposed to. It was the exact air that left you exhausted after finishing your drink, put on your coat, and return your feeble body into the Klokklsby night air. Most likely then, everyone sitting here were addicted to that… Melancholy.


But she came here for more than the blues and drinks. She did get herself a drink, a murky navy drink in a martini glass. It smelled of citrus, but she couldn’t identify the aftertaste. Something… Lingering. She frowned at it, tongue restless because of it.


Then she waited. Not exactly waiting for something specifically. She had an idea what she was looking for. Or she had some hints. “Chestnut hair, charming man. Always have a nice suit. When he talks, you’d not stop listening to him. “


More than anyone, Lorretta knew not to just look at hair and suit.


Still, with more inkling than logic, she thought she spotted him. In fewer disguises than she imagined.


The man, sitting at the bar, occasionally talking to the bartender. The inkling told her that he too, was waiting for something. Someone. But not specifically. He did have that chestnut wood colour of hair beneath his hat. And without actually crossing eyes with him, she felt his attention. A lighthouse to a boat.


The man who comes to Cassiopia, making his appearance known, yearly.


It was a thin thread, leading her to this point. But if the thread wasn’t thin, Norberto could have seen it clearly. Norberto… She clutches her purse again, tightly. The lace glove brushed on the jewel, almost tangling the threads. The face of the young police appeared behind her lids, as she mused over his emotion. A fitting echo to the bar’s atmosphere.


Then she stood, without hesitation. She turned to the man, ready to walk up, to confront him. At least her powder would hide all her possible expression. Like a detective before raising the finger, a judge before he dropping his hammer.


“Don’t.”


A hand shoved her back into her chair. It wasn’t a strong shove. Lorretta was only pushed to sit in the chair, confused by the sudden hindrance. It didn’t have a hint, and it took a long moment before she made out who did it. A stranger. A girl, with tall brown hair and gorgeous ruffled dress. Heels tapped on the floor, as the girl made her way to the man, and took the seat beside. Only in Klokklsby that outfit was considered normal. And indeed, the girl looked innocent and cheery. Lorretta was half doubting her judgement that the girl was indeed who shoved her. And the voice, something about the voice. It answered to something nostalgic, like a ring of a telephone.


The man started talking to the girl, like he had expected her. At first, they were friendly. All smiles and giggles. Then the girl started to tap the bar table, as if she was impatient. A quick frown, like flicker on a screen. Then, he kissed her.


As if in waiting, there was a flash. Camera. Girl jumped away, shaken.


The man took off his hat. A handsome face, one would put on the prince’s head in fairytales books. But he held his face, like he was slapped. “I see how it is. Is this how you would like it? After all that I had done for you!”


It all happened in an instant. Like a movie scene.


The girl leaned back on the bar, confused and startled. An alarmed look. Then the man reached for her hair. Violently pulling it down. In a painful cry, her hair comes off. Then golden curls were revealed to cover its place.


“I have told that woman exactly what you told me! Said I was with Nightingale and got close to her! Nearly got someone killed! And this is how you repay me?!” The man shouted, angrily. “Well let them see who you really are then! Collette Holst! See who was really the culprit of it all!”


Camera flashes. Lorretta stunned in her seat, looking at the “girl”. He was right. That was the one and only Collette Holst. The actress didn’t seem to react at first, her distinctly beautiful features frozen by the development. The brows arched and her lips pulled back into a snarl, she yelled back at him.


“How dare you!”


“You want to explain to them why you are here? Why you sat down beside me? You knew I would be here! I was waiting here for days, after you said you will elope with me. What about now? Tell them! Why are you in disguise? Tell them!”


“I was…”


“Save your excuse for the police, woman. Tell it down at the station and see if they believe you!”


Upon hearing that, Collette’s expression changed. It was hard to describe, for Lorretta. But, at the last shift of her expression, with solidified resolute, the actress raised her arm. The pistol gleamed. Then gunshot.


Bam!


Everyone scrambled down. Lorretta couldn’t collect the pieces. Only that after screams and sound of heels and shoes, she lifted her head again. Collette Holst was not there anymore. Neither was the man. Only the few people with the camera stayed. They, as with the rest of the witnesses, they have begun a heated discussion under the tables.

The First, Monday, Cassiopia’s Gazette, What’s In, Daily Letter, Harding’s Post ...


One by one, he collected the prints he had laid out on the table, mouthing the names and putting it in a bundle. Once he had placed the last copy, he crossed the rope on it and tightened it, cutting it after a firm knot. It snapped cleanly at the closing of the scissors. With a slow look, he looked at them, like holding the entirety of the bundle as a thought, chewed and digested. He took much longer, that day, to get ready. And when he did, he silently looked over to the stairs, where Ruth was descending with a curious inquisition. Andy gave his usual slow nod, before wrapping the bundle and placing it in his bag. Not wanting her to spot the cover, yet well aware that she would know, the father set out with an unsounded worry.


Cassiopia is roaring today.


He struggled more as the familiar smell of freshly cut grass and cleaning agents came into presence, and the white walls of Cassiopia General loomed overhead. The noises of others had escaped his mind today. Straight to the corridor and his wife’s room he went, blinded and following only habits. This had caused him ignoring the other presence besides the guards following closely behind. Only when he placed his hand on the handle, that he heard the guards talking.


“Mrs Horowitz. “


The Naiad, usually so collected, usually so subtle yet forceful in her soft smile, looked up with the wet lashes of a child. A hand was at her mouth, with the perfect ovular fingernails washed with pale blue resting on her skin. Her expression was naked, and she let it be in front of the Smith. The only emotion he could not see was her relief, her relief for a sturdy individual to look on, the Siren’s husband, a trustworthy fellow and more than that: a friend.


“It is good to see you, Mr. Carlyle. I hope you’ll excuse my state.” Returning almost immediately to her stately gaze, the Naiad withdrew a delicate handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. When she tucked it away again, she had returned to herself, taking back her position as a peg of the city, an intelligent Cassio-Capers head journalist, and an Editor for Cassiopia.


Andy looked at her, unresponsive like a statue with eyes considering her gloomily. It was after she recovered, that he said, slowly. “She didn’t know. Perhaps you can help calm her.” Then, like it took another consideration, he added just as slowly a phrase of gratitude. Not that it was not genuine, but it seemed like he was putting all his strength in considering, like a machine that struggled to churn the opposite way, or a car with very stiff steering.


“She… didn’t know… what?”


With that, he didn’t say more, but signalled for the guards to let him and Mrs Horowitz in. Olympia was in the bed, looking outside the window. She seemed to be faintly smiling at the bright weather behind the combed dark hair, and seemed… relaxed. The wounds she had left no trace on her emotion and health. That was before she heard them coming in and turned to look at Andy, then she blinked. “What’s wrong?” She asked, looking at Bernadette who came in after. Alarmed by all the indications, she sat up straight, shaken off the drowsiness upon her. “What happened?”


Andy didn’t answer at first, but pulled two chairs to the bed, sat down, and open the heavy bag he was carrying along. His hand searched, for some considerable time, then he pulled out a bottle of liquor, then some whiskey glasses, putting it on the tray where usually a meal was placed. Seeing this, Olympia was only more nervous, looking between the two visitors.


“It’s nothing I cannot handle, my dear. That is, I, we, us. I’ve simply made some discoveries today, discoveries… I wish I could avoid bringing up with you. You are in no state to endure them, and yet I must ask you to.” Bernadette perched herself on the spare chair after kissing the Nightingale delicately on her forehead. Her skin was warm, reassuring, telling Bernadette she was safe, sound, looked after. No one would be getting into this room to attack the Nightingale, not again. “I won’t interrupt Andy though, if he wishes to speak with you first. I can’t say my revelations can wait, but it matters not if I speak them now or later.”


Whilst Bernadette was speaking, Andy had already poured them three glasses of the drink. As soon as the liquid reaches the air, an aroma filled the air around it, like honey but with a powerful mix of alcohol. He then placed the glasses where they could each reach. Whatever he was planning, he wasn’t in a hurry.


Olympia looked at Bernadette, tenderly. “I see. Thank you for visiting, Mrs Horowitz. Let’s hear what you have to say, then.”


Andy took out a parcel. A well wrapped, tightly roped parcel. “You will prefer to hear it from me first. “ He said, slowly. “They had put the blame of your shooting on Collette. She is in hiding.”


The songstress started. Her expression changed, from a restrained calm to a horrible realisation to fully understanding and … and a mixture of horror, worry and guilt. She covered up his face. “No… I shouldn’t have left her alone. What happened?” Her voice shaken up, “Explain now.”


He put the parcel on her lap. “I have read through all the articles on it. But she didn’t tell any of us what was happening on her side.”


“She couldn’t. I didn’t left her a way to contact me. Andy, I have never left her alone…Not like this. Not in anyway like this. ”


“Fortunately… we might have a way to bring her back. The world is questioning of her, but we are not. I would imagine she knows we feel this way about it all. What I am thinking is a way none of us has to get involved. That we can bring her back discreetly. Do tell me what you think, if this is a mad suggestion. But you, me and Collette have been a trio as of late, and it has not gone unnoticed. If Mr. Hartley can see it, I reckon he is not the only one. And speaking of him, I had more news… of him and our Collette. She has decided to trust him. And by that I mean… everything that sentence implies. As… confused and angry I am at his knowledge of us… It was him who brought me to the attention of yet another problem. But first… I suggest we put Mr. Hartley to be our go-between for Miss Holst. It’ll take the spotlight off the three of us as a trio. The Capers have already published our own story on Miss Holst, not because we want to but because we have to. So if we let Mr. Hartley be her shadow, we’ll keep both him in check, and keep our ties with her. We won’t lose her, Olympia.”


Bernadette’s word had, indeed as Andy predicted, softened the effect of the grim news. But it wasn’t exactly calm --- Olympia was confused as to what face she should put on. A certain word had hit her and, utterly surprised her. Surprised her so much that, she almost had put on a smile. Not sure whether it was shock or worry or amusement on her face, she covered it with her hands. “She has trusted… Mr Hartley, you say? With everything?”


“With enough. We spoke about it quite heavily. He asked questions of me, many of which I did not answer. But Collette has told him about the Editors recently. But he knew… he knew much more before. Marlow’s title, he knew that. His son, too, he’s intelligent. He knows, I would say, just about as much as his father does. But Mr. Hartley doesn’t know everything… but he knows enough. Too much to be ignored. So that’s why I suggest we use him.”


Bernadette had no idea the significance of the words she had just spoken. But Olympia could no longer suppress her grin and the amusement. At the idea that Collette put trust in someone. If only the person growing up with the girl would understand the significance. “Oh Mrs Horowitz, you have no idea… I’m so sorry. “ She coughed, trying to maintain her composure. “This happens once in a blue moon, Mrs Horowitz, what you just told me. But…” She grew more sombre, “I don’t think she intends to leave him in our sight, but it was the trail she had left behind. She must have intended to pull him to our side, then. Your plan sounds good. If they have achieved a bond we didn’t manage with Mr Hartley, it will be beneficial to us. If you wish to keep him in check, or use him, that is. I hope she wasn’t just about to entrust someone with what she has and… No, can’t be...”


A solemn, grim and soundless suggestion. Pulling the rope which her attention now dropped to, Olympia peeled the wrappings open and looked at the stack of papers and magazines laid on her lap. Collette’s picture, one that was her in the movie with a gun, became the background of the front page cover. Her amusement receded. But she didn’t say anything, just turned the pages to the article and began reading.


“I don’t trust him myself, not an inch. But it’s all we have. These are the cards we’re dealt and we have to make them work. And trust is… difficult to win and easy to lose.”


Andy silently waited, and there it came. Olympia, as her eyes peruse the words of the magazine, brew a fury in her chest. She had, at times, reached her glass of stiff drink and doused it down her throat. He just silently filled it up again and waited.


“Innocent viewers… The wording is bold. As saloon girl… Fleeing the scene upon questioning… Of course they mention the rivalry. Of course. They always do ... Why would they let that bastard Trent have a say! Not surprised?!” Andy patted her, after which she lowered her volume. “I swear his spitefulness had far exceeded his charm. And for them to even ask his opinion. Right. And they mention jealousy… Yes, that… That is, well, undeniable. ” She closed the magazine after she read through it, with a big sigh, downed another glass and looked at the other two, and for a good while couldn’t speak.


“Do you think there is something beneath the surface?” Bernadette asked her slowly, putting a hand on Olympia’s.


“Ott… That’s the one she mentioned after the meeting wasn’t it?” She fingered the picture of the man kissing Collette. “Too timely. He invited the journalist beforehand so it must be a set up. What a … Tasteless act. But I must admit, he is convincing. Whatever he suggested to the journalist he acted the part, brilliantly so. And I should have thought about it. Collette was known to be close to me, so… She was left to be rid of. For an actress, such rumours don’t go away. But she, I’m speculating, thought she had to run. Because there was no good reason why she was in disguises, and the reasons were related to… Us. Not to mention Ott was part of us, too. What do we know about him?”


Andy answered that question, “Marius Ott. We didn’t know too much under that name. He had helped several members and was thus joined, but little witnessed his work. Might be a travelling member. “


“Traveling… Well, he had admitted he played a part with Dollie, so I am guessing… No, the shooting wasn’t him. I would say he was taking advantage of it. Taint our names and made it so that we would be restrained against acting. The rumours against me were hard to stand because the lack of evidence. But for Collette, the motive of jealousy and the lack of understanding of people with her is very suggestive. Convincing, even. People will believe it now that the lie has a second layer to it. “


It would seem like she was praising the man and his act, if not for the frown she had on.


“He’s made his presence too obvious. We can go after him,” Bernadette said. “But he isn’t the only rat in our group, not by my reasoning.”


“We still don’t know his purpose. Or anyone that had been… I have made too many enemies, I’m afraid. We don’t know just how many are against us yet. What do you propose? Other than the matter of Mr Hartley, I mean. “


“I spoke to your daughter and her guest regarding our situation, and I proposed to them that we step away from the Editors and view it from another angle. I proposed we set about building up our team of trustworthy individuals, bringing them into our little Lady May. Unfortunately, Miss Holst his an outlier at the moment, and the next person I was going to see may be out of the question… I have to admit,” Bernadette smiled weakly. “Not much is going right today.”


“Who is the next person?”


“The Czech. Mr. Hartley revealed something very worrying to me. He showed me a file he had obtained months ago, a file on our poor Messenger. The person who contacted Mr. Hartley was able to sell him the file immediately. In other words… this person had intel on Orell before Mr. Hartley had ever thought of him, before anything ever happened. According to Mr. Hartley, this man’s name is Xylem, and he resides - or did at the time - in Oriyon. However… there is only one person who sounds like he would have the skills to do that, and he is within our number. I can’t make assumptions but neither can I blindly trust. I don’t trust the Czech anymore.”


“I doubt we can evade him. It is the Czech. Plus, I think the picture spread much more than just us now. We have fewer friends than enemies. The Czech had paid a visit to me. I’d call that an effort.”


“In that case… I will speak with him. His reach might extend past Cassiopia. He did make an effort for you, I will admit to that. I suppose…” Bernadette looked away, wistful. “... It’s a strange coincidence…”


“It is hard to predict him. If he is on our side, then all is well. If he is not, I can’t tell what impact it will have. But currently, there is more that we lack than what we have. I understand that he had told my confidant to hide me. To hide me in a way that would escape his watch. A curious proposition. Of course, I need to know your opinion too. ”


“This is curious then. Yet more suspicious of him. However… if he wishes you escape his watch then I imagine he is doing it for your safety… Oh, Olympia, I am, I admit, out of my depth again…”


“He is interested in knowing who is loyal too… Now we just try to see clear. Where everyone’s loyalty lies.” Olympia covered Bernadette’s hand. “And the thing is, as a parent and friend, I will feel bad for being hiding and taking less action. Still, Bernadette, I feel this is the time where I have to rest. Recover. Figure out what is happening to us. It won’t be predictable from now on but I feel we will gain something from it. And we can’t be too far from our enemies now. We will see their identity soon. See if it is as I think…”


She lowered her voice, even though no one who could hear would ever speak a word about it again.


“I think someone wishes to make changes to the state of Cassiopia. At the very least the state of Klokklsby. Ensuring the removal of me, Bernadette… Meaning more people will appear to replace the network I had. More, like Mr Ott. They are doormen to whoever was behind. I hope it is only a theory. I dearly hope it would be just a personal enemy. But with…With the messenger and his son, it was hard to not link them together. Over speculation is dangerous. So like I said, we need to see clearer. Too dangerous to stay ignorant like this now. “


“Of course. I won’t take a chance, but I may have to take risks. I don’t want to put you into any position where you will fall, my dear, nor a position where we are unable to recover. I promised you that responsibility of your young ones would come to me if need be, and I will use that as motivation. Moreso, I can’t afford to have this city fall. Or its pillars collapse. If Mr. Ott is a mole in our proceedings, then if we follow him we might find evidence to secure the source of this rot.”


“Ott… Collette was tracing him, wasn’t she?” With a melancholic smile, Olympia look at her childhood friend’s picture on the magazine. “I have a feeling that we will meet Collette too, tracing him. I will try to think of the Czech’s proposition, and I might take action to hide. But I will try my best to contact you. Send my regards to Mr Hartley, Mrs Horowitz. And do please stay safe.”


Bernadette nodded, grateful in her smile, and gave the untouched drink a bit of attention as she prepared to leave. She didn’t want to cause the actress any more hurt, not with her news and not with her worries. She was an Editor, and a decent woman: she had contacts and it was up to her to do her part.


“I will leave you then. I’ll let you two have some privacy, of course. Thank you for seeing me, my Siren, and thank you for being so patient with me, my Smith,” Bernadette smoothed her skirt as she talked, before turning on her heel and making her quiet way from the room. There was nothing more to be said: her thanks ran deeper than the age lines on her face, but both of them were just as old as each other. As she left, a nurse stepped out of her way. Thanking her with as much sincerity as she had thanked the Siren, Bernadette passed her, allowing herself to descend into a quiet moment of solitude. Just as she had done before Andy met with her, just as she had done when tears sparkled on her lower lashes, she raised her hand to her mouth and emitted the smallest of sighs.


Andy looked at his wife, who had already opened another magazine to read, had been grateful that the Naiad was present when he broke the news. The nurse came in to put down a tray of food. Not hearing a complaint about the liquor, they both turned towards the nurse, and recognised the powdered face.


“I see you have seen the news. …”

Just another afternoon. Just another Afternoon…


Talon so muttered to himself. With the corner of his eyes he eyed his companion of the room --- Ruth Carlyle sitting restless on the sofa, charting away. Their restlessness resonated, like how the house resonated with the machineries. Feeling uneasy, he looked around. There wasn’t much for him to do.


“Anything you need?” He asked, at last, carefully at the irritable girl.


“Clear out my room. “ She said.


He looked at her, or really the part of her hair as she bowed over the paper sheets, a cute little golden hair clip in the shape of a bird pinning the curls on top. Ruth had no intention of explaining more. But he knew where to go, after a while living together. At first he would took note at her lack of care with a stranger in her bedroom, but now he would just casually go upstairs, arranging the papers and stationery that she tend to toss around. Picking up the wrinkled paper balls on the floor, and brooming the little bits of scraps she managed to have left there, Talon placed them all in the metallic bin she had at the corner. Then with some difficulty, tie the bag and hoisted it up his shoulder. As usual he grumbled quietly about the ridiculous height of a mere bedroom rubbish bin and carried it outside, slipping it into another large bin. Just when he was relieved of the bag…


“Hello. “


He turned around with a skipping of heart beat. A man stood in front of him, handsome and bowing, smiling apologetically. “I don’t mean to startle you. “ He took off his hat, bowing again.


“Who are you? “ Talon, on the other hand, was startled out of his own shoes. “I’m… Wait, I’ve seen you. “


The man was the exact same one he saw on the newspaper. The one Ruth kept reading. The one where a photo of a man kissing a woman. That’s the exact same man, only a different hat and suit. Talon stood back, stumbled on the stone steps and sat on them, and could only turned to the man, mouthing and eyeing him to not come close.


“I am not dangerous. “ He spoke again, gently and apologetically. “My name is Marius Ott. If you have read the newspaper, I am the man who revealed the plot against Olympia Carlyle. “


“... Did you?” Said Talon, still tensed but now with hesitation. “I haven’t read. “


“I’ve come to warn. This is the Carlyle’s address, yes? I wanted to say that Collette Holst will soon come and talk to you. And she will lie. “


“Lie? About what?”


“Well, don’t you know their relation? Olympia Carlyle and Collette Holst is close as sister and she herself won’t believe me. “ He paused, with a half shrug. “I’m hoping her daughter will have more sense. “


“Explain. “


“Can I have your name?”


“......”


He chuckled lightly. “I understand. Well, Collette Holst is a brilliant actress. She had tricked me into thinking that Dollie, the assassin for Olympia, was some woman with odd fantasy. I was used, you see, to push that woman over the edge. So Dollie will commit murder again. Then she was ready to push the blame on me. “


“Stop right there. “


That wasn’t either of their voices. Talon was in the shadow so he couldn’t see where the voice came from at first. What he saw next however, sent chill down his bones. Marius Ott looked at him, his eyes meaningful and widened, as if trying to convey a message. He lifted both of his hands and turned sideway, allowing Talon to view the scene. In the courtyard just a few steps away, a woman with golden curls stood, a pistol clearly at hand and pointed directly at him. Her expression of anger stunned him at the spot.


“Collette Holst. “ Ott spoke. “Why are you hunting me? What did I do?”


“You know what you did. Step away from that house!”


“I just want to talk. “


“Your talk is more dangerous than anything. Step away!” She raised her gun, again, aiming at Ott.


“Wait, please!” Talon spoke. It was a strange feeling, talking in that moment, hearing his voice becoming so fearful that he couldn’t recognise it. He couldn’t think straight. The other two people’s stare was the indication that he realised, after quite long, to turn to check who was behind him. Striped socks, leather corset and ruffled skirt, he looked up to see Ruth Carlyle standing behind and above him. Her arms extend into the gun she made, holding firmly and tightly.


“What is happening. “ She growled.


Collette and Ott started, then arguing.


“You can’t listen to him, Ruth…”


“She is just trying to fool you!”


“I won’t ever do that!”


“You can say you have never been jealous of the Nightingale? You dare to swear???”


“That… This and that is irrelevant!”


“Do you wish to trick them even further? You cynical liar! “


“That’s enough! Step away, or I’ll…”


“Stop!” Talon yelled. “Why must there be shooting!”


“He is right. “ Ruth said, but didn’t put her gun away. The long gun barrel jolted, and tilted. It pointed to the lady with golden hair. Collette, in disbelief, looked at the daughter of Olympia with gaped mouth and a face of betrayal. Ruth felt a jabbed of guilt behind her confused mind, but the gun remained targeted on the actress. “I’m sorry, Auntie Collette. He is unarmed, and I think we can do with less attention in front of our house. “


“But, but Ruth. “ Collette pleaded. “You can’t listen to him. He is…”


Ruth took a shoot to the ceiling of sky above them, then looked at her again.


“Ruth… “


Collette looked at her, then glared at Marius Ott. Out of the field of sights of the children he had hooked up the corner of his lips into a victorious smirk. She would have done much more. Anything to get him away from the children. But she had stumbled and, unknowingly, just a strong desire to get away from this situation. Her feet took her out of the court and once again, into the network of houses.


Then the gun took a sharp turn, into the waiting face of Ott’s. He had anticipated, and looked at her with hands raised and an expression of relief. “Please, I just want to talk…”


“You have said enough. “ Ruth snarled, “I can make my own decision. If you wonder that I will stay my hand…”


“No, no. “ He said with perfect pretended-confidence. “You know not to trust that woman. I will take my leave.”


“Don’t linger. “


He took his hat and bowed, before walking to the other direction that Collette had walked.


Talon, before the man even turned out of his sight, felt a pull on his arm that made him stand upright. Then a hit on the shoulder that sent him leaning his back on the railing. It was Ruth’s head, resting on his feeble shoulder. He couldn’t see her face, but he had an inkling what it was like.


“What do I do… What have I done?”


She growled, but so quietly. The cat’s meow on the roof had covered her voice to the world.

There was a calendar in both Braithe's bedroom and his office. Usually, each page remained blank: perhaps Braithe would have but a handful of appointments to fulfil over an entire year. Yet for September, there were two pencilled in. One was added retrospectively in Braithe's small script, and the other one was added yesterday by Volkovoi. A week or so ago: Jane Clay. Today: Bernadette Horowitz.

Braithe emerged from his bedroom, his wig grasping tightly to his otherwise-barren scalp, and showed his back to Volkovoi, allowing the Russian to gently lift up the silken threads and cover his shoulders with his jacket. Braithe secured the buttons as Volkovoi laid his hair smooth along his back.

"She'll be here at ten," Volkovoi said, drawing a quiet sound from Braithe as conformation. "Do you have an idea of what she wishes to speak about?"

"I do. I will explain if I have the energy in a moment."

Braithe moved away to collect his second meal of the day - his first being at 5 am - and Volkovoi saw him off with a gentle pat to the shoulder. The Russian then busied himself with the chores of the morning. The usual things, the sweeping of a cloth across every surface, the dusting. It wouldn't take him long, but he went slowly, allowing Braithe the silence. Likely the Czech would think until minutes before 10 o'clock. Volkovoi would be present in their meeting: Braithe had bade it.

In the chair facing the city, with his back to the black-and-white apartment, Braithe's jaw worked on the carbohydrates while his mind confirmed what she would talk about. He went over the facts of the situation as he knew them, all of them, from the start.

The Messenger's murder.
The movement of the Messenger's son.
The Editors' rot, courtesy of Inge Antolij.
The attempted assassination of the Siren, courtesy of hired hitman 'Skullface,' - guessed at. Hired by Antolij.
The response of the media outlets, the movement of further Editors, most notably Inge Antolij, the Naiad, the Librarian.
The involvement of other parties unconnected to the Editors, journalists and more journalists.
The camaraderie he offered to the Siren on her hospital bed.
The movement of the Siren's son in the case against the culprit.
The personal doubt of Yulian Volkovoi, now resolved.
The incessant personality of Schoe Sharma discovered by Yulian Volkovoi.
The meeting of Jane Clay, the awareness of Schoe Sharma.
The second assassination attempt of the Siren by a jealous woman - unseen until it had happened.
The arrest of the woman, recovery of the Siren.
The further movement by the Editors, including the Naiad.
The movement of non-Editors.
The discovery of the Librarian as an undercover operative and her subsequent fleeing.
The meeting of the future with the Naiad.

His tongue was growing weary already, the muscle struggling to continue its crusade against the bread. His mind was pumping harder than ever. If Bernadette was coming to see him, he could guess very well as to her intentions. Never one to sit still, now that the Siren was out of action, the Naiad was standing up to take the helm. The Naiad would either ask him for information, or she would ensure his intentions.

Braithe's intentions, however, had not changed.

He would sit and sit and sit, and work and think and collate and collect.

It was necessary weeks ago to visit the Siren in person. As the owner of the theatre she played at, it would be more curious to the papers if he showed no concern. And Braithe was glad he did. Jane Clay would be a wonderful addition to his future if he could assist the Siren in honing her. Unassuming, and unassumed by all, she was the invisible girl... but one person was keeping a close eye on the invisible girl. Although she had made no movements, Schoe Sharma was likely to strike. He was guessing at her behaviour, but she was the opposite to the Naiad: the Naiad had a presence in Cassiopia, one that had grown in the eyes of any Editor, to step up and take command should she be needed. But Schoe Sharma was waiting and watching. Schoe Sharma was more like Inge Antolij than Braithe liked.

His stepping in would be necessary when Schoe Sharma finally moved. Braithe wanted a leash on her. He just had to wait for her to poke her head above water to harpoon it. Or, to be more realistic, to have Volkovoi harpoon it. There was no need for another antagonist.

But Braithe was not blind to the fact another antagonist had risen.

Marius Ott, similarly unassumed as Jane Clay, yet apparently more slippery than the Editors had been ready for. Ott was in the papers, another move that concerned Braithe greatly. Antolij stayed out of the public eye: Ott threw himself into it.

The plate was empty when Braithe finally let out a sigh. From his chest, it was almost as if his body was forcing the air out as he slumped forward. He recalled the analogy of his talent with watching people from his talk with Jane Clay: the marbles in the box. And so many were moving, Braithe was almost losing track.

But not quite.

He stood, his knees straining, but then suddenly there was Volkovoi with a hand on Braithe's lower back to support him, and the other on Braithe's plate. Volkovoi mumbled a repeated encouragement in Russian, something Braithe didn't need to translate to understand, and he breathed a little easier.

"What is the time, Yulian Volkovoi?"

Volkovoi, who was straightening up from adding one more plate to the dishwasher, gave a small chuckle at the Russian colloquialism of formality before answering. "9:40, or thereabouts."

"Well, I will sit and wait for her in that case."

"I rearranged the sofa and chairs for your meeting. I also brought up some of my tea and coffee in case she wants any."

Braithe soundlessly nodded, then moved to the only cosy area of the penthouse. He lowered himself into his armchair. It was high-class, and hid the bodily supports fairly well. The other seats were firm but comfortable, decorated sparsely with underloved cushions. Volkovoi settled on it, having ferried over a newspaper. He flipped to its puzzles section and, pulling a pen from his jacket, scrutinised the puzzles while tapping the pen on his lip.

Braithe breathed quietly, feeling progressively stronger either through the sustenance or through a simple placebo effect.

Two things were missing and hadn't acted in a while. Two threats. One was the population. The other was the hitman.



Volkovoi met Bernadette at the elevator doors at 10:05, and walked her the short distance to the door of Braithe's penthouse, "Good morning. I hope the traffic has been kind to you."

"Somewhat. I arrived precisely when I wanted to, though. I often forget what a ride it is up here."

"Yes, well he likes the view." Volkovoi smiled and opened the door, revealing to her the Czech's open-plan and perfectly-spotless penthouse. Beyond it, through the slightly tinted windows that let in a comfortable amount of light even at the pinnacle of the day, the city pulsed and breathed. The Czech sat against the backdrop, and raised his face to her, the dark glasses unreadable.

"Good morning, my dear."

Volkovoi led her to the sofa where she slid her bag from her shoulder and removed her jacket, laying them carefully on the seat beside her. Volkovoi pulled up a dining chair and joined the pair. The Naiad was looking at the Czech while the Czech rolled his shoulders and positioned himself upright.

"I trust you want something from me, Naiad."

"I do. Let me ask you a question. Who is Xylem?"

Braithe's brain juddered and stopped. Her words, her tone, her decisiveness. It was not what he had come to expect from the Naiad: the times he had heard her use this tone, in Editors meetings or on television appearances, she did not ask questions with it. She commanded. Let me ask you a question, that was the command he had expected. But to follow it with a question... she didn't want information, not in the usual sense. It was a confession she wanted.

Braithe could not give it to her though.

He didn't know who Xylem was.

"I don't recognise that as a name."

"Really? Then I'll tell you why I do not trust that answer to be right. Yesterday afternoon, I had the intention of meeting you to discuss the Editors and the potential solution I have to it. That is, the trustworthy Editors band together in a new group so we can, as a unit, take down the rat in our ranks. However, something else came to light yesterday that made me doubt your intentions, Braithe Tomasek. Perhaps I ought to hide the information of this new group from you, but you will find ways to discover it anyway. It is called Lady May, and I plan on expanding it for the sake of the city," she closed her eyes to gather herself. In the meantime, Volkovoi folded one leg over the other and kept his eyes on her, his eyebrows raised. He even smoothed a crease in his trousers. "Yesterday I unfortunately had to bear all to my colleague Mr. Hartley, because he knew more than I anticipated, and that is all because of someone called Xylem. However, cutting Mr. Hartley out of the picture, as he is someone I believe I can deal with, this Xylem is not."

She paused, but Braithe did not move or respond. His gaze was clearly on her. His man to her right was similarly silent. Silent as a wolf.

"Mr. Hartley revealed to me that he was looking for information regarding the Messenger, following his own suspicion, and was approached by this man, who ended up selling him information. It sold to him almost immediately. This Xylem needed no run up: he had the Messenger's information on tap. Just as you have information on almost everyone I can think of. I chose to come with this doubt to you directly because the Siren still very much trusts you, and told me also to trust you. However, I do not like putting my trust in those I am beginning to doubt."

"I have no affiliation with Xylem, nor have I heard of a person under that name in this city. My reach extends entirely around Cassiopia, Naiad, and hardly beyond. I follow the movements of select people in the city, in New Neptune, and beyond Cassiopia in general, but my information wells are shallow. Cassiopia is the only information I have. It would be superhuman of me to follow the entire capital."

Volkovoi felt his heart quicken as Braithe's soft voice rose to collide with hers. Unlike hers though, he never left his soft timbre. instead, it was the length of his sentences, and the amount that he spoke that roused Volkovoi's emotions.

"Permit me to say," Bernadette said, not yet changing her tone, "but if you do have such information on the people of Cassio--"

"I would never sell information. I would never sell information. I would never sell information."

Volkovoi adjusted his glasses with a slow hand while he observed the situation. The black-suited man had leaped into a short, sudden reverie of truth, truth Volkovoi knew to be such. As for his opponent, she was stopped in her tracks and she looked at Braithe with an unreadable expression. Her face was blank.

Braithe spoke again. "I suggest, Naiad... that you assume I am part of Lady May. If you doubt my position, and if you believe I am lying, I will no longer offer my services to you, as you will be forfeiting them. I will protect myself and Yulian Volkovoi before all else. If you confirm my position in Lady May, I will discover Xylem. Declare now, Naiad, and please leave after you do."

Braithe leaned forward, his white hands gripping the arms of the chair, but he did not have to put the effort in: Volkovoi slipped his shoulder under Braithe's, hoisting the tall Czech to his feet, and stood back while Braithe moved away from the Naiad and over to the wall of windows that looked east. East, towards Oriyon.

"Braithe," Bernadette stood up also, her hands at her sides. "I won't--"

Volkovoi took his turn to interrupt her, but he was more gentle. He raise his hand and gestured with it, a nonverbal request of silence. "Declare it, please, Mrs Horowitz."

She did, but took a few seconds to decide. The thought was evident in her mind, and her eyes, the lids tinted with blue to accentuate the frigid temperature of her irises, were flaring as she declared her answer to the Czech. When she finished, Volkovoi spread his arm, bidding her leave as the Czech had asked, and she did. After donning her coat, she walked out with a straight back, her heels stabbing the silence with pinpricks.

Volkovoi breathed in the silence and stretched after the door closed, then put the dining chair back to its position.

"Braithe," he said. "You mustn't blame her. It is unwise to trust those you doubt."

He turned to go, but Braithe spoke immediately, calling his attention back. "If she understood who I am, she would not have come here to begin with."

Antolij had sent two messages. One had been sent via one of his team, the other through his own thumb. The first was sent from his team member's number, not redacted, to Marius Ott. The individual, the Editor, had not been quiet. Causing ripples in Cassiopia, opening windows and doors from afar: people were forming opinions based on his reveals and his actions. Scapegoating the Librarian, getting her tucked out the way. Because of Ott, she ran in fear. The media was not kind. Antolij had watched a broadcast where the newsreader outlined the tracks where Collette Holst was when she was discovered.

He had smirked inside his head, but on the outside he merely sat forward and watched in the comfort of his own company. It was his efforts that had secured the wedge between Cassiopia proper and Klokklsby. Now, Klokklsby's Nightingale was out for the count, and their second-loved actress had fled. Ott had pushed the wedge in further, he was striking from the Nightingale's second attack.

It was after this broadcast that Antolij had sat back and got the two messages ready. Ott received his, and Antolij didn't need confirmation that the other had been read.

In the darkness of that night, he could merely imagine the next day.

Antolij didn't gamble. He didn't play. He watched and ensured and struck.




The bloodshot eyes of Lull read Antolij's message with difficulty. First, his head, invaded continuously by soft fuzz that threatened to comfort him, had a difficult time discerning where the message tone had sounded from in his room. It took him an hour to find it, although the time flew past as the large man breathed with dull lips and duller senses. As he searched, he forgot what had sounded, and he forgot to listen to his music. Only when the same song landed in his consciousness did he remember what he was doing. Tears Dry On Their Own, sung the prestigious tragedy of a woman, and Lull remembered.

He read the message when he discovered his second phone, the fug in his mind not cleared. Something to do, at least, than sit here and burst into flames. To sit here and vanish to smoke something occasionally, to walk, to return in worry for Lois, then to hate as he sees her watching that damn comedy channel, then to collapse and quietly doze in half-sleep until he dreams, realises he's dreaming, wakes up, it's midnight---- - - - - - - - - - -

Lull pushed himself upright, his mass heavy on his ankles, heavier than ever, and escaped his room which was much warmer than the rest of the apartment, and there was Lois in the gloom. She swung round in panic as he emerged, then scrabbled for the remote.

"I was just--"

"I don't care, just watch, just watch. Just enjoy yourself."

"I... well it's not like I have anything else to do."

Lull leaned on the doorframe, freeing his ankles from a fraction of his weight. "Did you find a picture to put in the thing? The whatever. Whatever it is."

"The... watch? I didn't look." She turned back to the television, dropping the remote beside her. Lull didn't recognise the comedian. A guy who was into the last half of his life, up on stage, aggressively screaming about "tits!" for his set. Tits. That was it. The punchline was "tits." The brother looked again at the sister and she was giggling and the brother felt confused as to why but realised that when he was clear-headed again he'd realise he'd lost her.

But for now that thought buried itself and he soon forgot about it as he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, his features splashed with water. It did the minimum to clear his head but it brought him back to the moment. The heavy features of his face seemed as if they weighed down the tattoo, and his eyes were, for once, shallow.

They weren't the eyes of a killer. They didn't hold the life story of every victim. They didn't even hold the name. And the memory was as inconsequential as last week's breakfast. They were eyes that didn't stay in the past, nor looked to the future. But they didn't belong in the present either. Such as why they were bloodshot. The world was not meant for him, so why would he not try to escape it? Over and over again, but now he was trying to escape more than ever.

That bearded man was dragging him into the world, was forcing his hand, was going to ruin him.

And Lois belonged. She had friends that gave her memories, that rooted her in the past. She made plans, securing her future. And in the present, she laughed and she laughed and she laughed.

Lull didn't know what it meant. He couldn't get anything from his reflection other than a deepening craving for more, more, more of whatever it is that'll take me out of here, more of it, more, and where did I put my lighter? But he forgot to smoke more when he went into his room to find it. He saw his bed and took to it, behind the locked door, and lost himself, lost himself in a sleep that was plagued with dreams he would never remember, dreams that might answer his questions, dreams that might hold the names of his victims and of himself, answers to the past and keys to the future but he fell through them with shallow eyes and empty hands and closed himself to all that was awaiting him, all the answers, and made excuses as to why he ignored them but it was because he couldn't look upon them without falling faster. He burst into flames that night, and the flames dried his mouth and his tears so when he woke up the next day he sweated and he sighed and he coughed but he didn't remember, he didn't remember, he didn't remember.

He didn't remember a thing.




He woke at some point, but didn't remember dressing, preparing, or even brushing his teeth but all those actions had been performed like... what was the phrase... didn't matter. He supped the eager mint freshness from his mouth as he walked through Cassiopia. The old part of the city, some pub, something. His legs knew where to go, a firearm strapped as usual to his thigh. He had a knife on him too, quite a thick switchblade, and he wasn't sure why he'd brought it with him, but it was tucked, for some reason, in his bra. Like where some women put their phones, instead he was packing a knife. Stupid place to put it, what if the mechanism switched?

He walked and stuck his hand down his collar to retrieve it, the thought of stabbing his own flesh sobering him slightly. He concealed it in a side pocket of his trousers. With his lighter.

He began to recall what the message had said. His heart flared, the fire rose in his throat and he hissed a curse directed at the bearded man, a bitter and spiteful string of words that would make a priest's eyes water. At least he wouldn't see the man until later:

Make yourself comfortable in the pub an hour or so before 10 am. You are my protection. You will see who I will speak to when I sit down. If he makes any move to threaten me, or to threaten the citizens, you fire. And you shoot to kill this time.

"This time." The man had to twist the knife in Lull's back further. But still, the hitman maintained the bearded man's hand on the rudder concerning the Nightingale's attempted murder to be the reason he had failed. You should never hold your hitmen down. You hire them for a reason, and you don't become their logistics officers.

Bile rose in Lull's throat as he entered the pub. The rising stink of ethanol was stinging his eyes, turning his stomach and fuelling his hatred. He ordered nothing but ice water which went a small way to quenching the fire, but mostly disgusted him. The icy effect of the toothpaste was still in full swing. Lull lowered his arm to the table, and rested his head upon it, so no one else was subjected to the contorting grimace he pulled.




Alone on the barstool Marius Ott was swirling a glass of whiskey in a black striped suit and fedora, his hair dyed dark and a false glasses hung on his ears, a moustaches sat above his smiling lips. He had nothing to do immediately, just waiting for the eventual visitor. Of course, one has to do something during a long wait, something to occupy the attention when boredom visits over the span of days. But Ott had defeated more than just boredom. He chose a glass of liquor, and closed his eyes to remember a certain woman with golden hair and red lips. He had the time to solidify the details of the memory, like the rising of her voice, the depths of her smile, the intensity of her frown and her wonderful dancing silhouette when she exited into the shadows. Bliss creeped on his lips and lingered there, whilst he swirl his glass to listened the ice clang with each other. A subtle clap, congratulating his grand personal success. A deed that reached his peak of performance, Ott remarked. What a pity he can’t boast about his victory to the people next to him.

Despite the moment of joy he was savouring, he knew he could not relax. As all waiting implies, he was expecting. A visitor. He had showed his face and name on purpose like a billiard board, so sooner or later someone would show up. He wouldn’t expect visitors from the Carlyles, not so soon. The blonde woman, perhaps, if she insist to be that clingy. But the other possibility kept him on his stool. Someone far more dangerous than a disguised dame. Word games is unnecessary and dangerous in the coming situation, and what a pity. Just when the game was becoming fun. He was to sit here and wait for someone to walk up to him, and do talking. Serious talking. To convey a message, precisely and… Well, in a style that is never quite his style. But he must do what he must do. He shook his glass again, drank whatever it had that was not ice water, and let his mind wander back to the dame. At least that was something that he can smile to.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ott, do you mind if I join you?” The voice was soft, and low, and accented. The light from outside had been blocked as the man had entered. He was tall, so it was not unusual for him to block out the light: the same had happened about an hour earlier, the shimmering glasses behind the bar silenced for a moment. And it happened again: but to Ott, the glasses did not regain their shimmer this time, as the man stood very close to him when asking the question. In his peripheral, the shimmering did not return.

So he came. Ott let his bliss linger on his face for a while longer --- sudden changes of expression would be unnatural. Of course, he needn’t ask the name. They have met, already. He had asked of his attention once, already. “Of course not. “ He said, gesture to the seat beside him. A seat he had reserved from others for a long period of time. Nor did he raised the question. He just raised his clear glass to notify the bartender. The ice in it were only melting shards.

Inge Antolij took the stool and leaned on the bar, raising his hand to the bartender - nothing now, thank you. Instead, he looked at Ott in the manner of an equal: the two were sat, at the same level, in public. There was nothing Inge felt he should hide. “Let’s discuss your recent movements, shall we? I’ve brought a paper,” Inge indicated the bag over his shoulder. “We can do it here, if you don’t mind the eyes. Or do you know somewhere you might be more comfortable?”

“Eyes can be bribe for silence. And as I have learned, the most secretive place is never an empty room. “ He smiled, the same face that let many people’s guards down. He didn’t expect it to have any effect on Antolij, however. “I know what I did, and I have read. What I want to know is, of course, your opinion on it. It’s not just me who wishes to know. “ He gave a subtle blink, just enough for a hint. The bartender slided over for the drink, but didn’t make a single eye contact before moving quickly to the other sides, pulling a bottle down the shelf.

Inge smoothed the page down, clasping his hands together loosely as he digested Ott’s decision. It was a fine one, and wouldn’t interfere with what he had to say. If anything, it was useful. Isolation would have made this more upfront, but in public there was protection.

“Before I give you my verdict on your swift movement, confirm to me who else wants to know. They work alongside you, and I can find out if I must.”

“Alongside, no. That would be careless. “ He chuckled lightheartedly, as pleasant as his narrowed eyes and fine pressed suit. “Well, I can’t give out all the details, yet. They aren’t the gentlemen who can be here and not attract attention. They want you to know, for the most time your path don’t really cross. Or, no territorial arguments, as the one with me likes to put it. He is watching though, and I am the face and name they like to, ah, present. Would that be sufficient?”

“The bigger your organisation is, the easier to find a hole. Mr. Ott, if somebody is watching, I hope you don’t expect me to be afraid. Would you shoot me if I make a false move?” Inge raised his hand to the bartender, asked for lager.

“Oh no, far from it. It’s not the violent game that we plan to play here. Look at it as a business. We offer you an opportunity, and we look for a chance of working together. The start of it, to be more precise. If you refuse, there is no casualty between us, only those that may have… already caused. “

“The casualties are beyond my reach, and always have been. Will you perhaps allow me to consider your offer, as your… business’ spokesperson?” Inge received his lager and nodded politely as thanks, then riffled through his wallet for immediate payment. “Seeing as I know nothing about it, I would be quite idiotic to simply… agree.”

Know nothing? Marius doubts it. If he indeed knew nothing, he wouldn’t come here following the prepared crumbs trails and his big reveal. “Let’s say that the gentleman had long hope to have dealings within Cassiopia, but had troubles initiating them. I’m not representing any group that is strictly government, rest assured. That would have never work, seeing Cassiopia thrives on the differences there are. But we sought communication, understanding, collaborations. “

Those words worked strange on his tongue, as those were not his words, but sentences from another brain. He drank the cup before continuing. “Which had been difficult. There are people in Cassiopia that are stubborn. We thought, it may be on the cause of some misunderstanding. Age long bias. Which is most unfortunate. Don’t you think, sir?”

“Could be. Might not be. I don’t deal in vagueness.”

“If you need a more straightforward words, how should I put it… Do you remember the history? Of Cassiopia’s writers, I mean. Do you remember that they once were close with others, as a community of sorts? I know, must be like eons ago now. Before our time. Some of us still remembers it of course. A pity that at one point they just decide to cut off that relation. For now, whatever happens here and there does not connect. Does not commute. It takes traveling to even hear about each other. Call it nostalgic but some of us wish to change that. “

“A conjoining of our separate efforts. You have a kind plan, Mr. Ott.” Inge’s glass was half-empty, and he raised his finger to his lip in thought, looking into the remaining pool. “I know why you have made yourself public then. I also can guess as to why you want access to Cassiopia. However, why do you assume I will join you, why would I want to, why would I want to at all? You have made yourself public, whereas I have been a circumstantial victim.”

“Joining? Not quite. Not unless you want to. Someone can be in the know of the sides without tagging a name. Also, if I may so suggest without any offending you…” Ott shakes the glass, showing it to him. “... If you may listen to a man after several glasses. You are no victim, sir. We have paid effort to change that if it would be. You hold more than you would show, and we don’t peek at each other’s cards on the poker table. That’s not how this work. All it takes is an ear to listen and mouth that speaks across, and we are willing to offer a hand under the table. In times of need, that is. It’s not a risky deal, is it?”

“It is a risk to agree now, and so I shall not.”

“Offer still stands. Of course, this is strictly offered for you. I’m sure you know that much. “ Ott twirl his glass and drank it, again. Whatever he said, alcohol did not affect him even slightly. “You know how to find me, and I will continue to be around to be found. I’m sure you will know we are around just by watching the circle we share. “

“Await my answer. You’ll know what I mean when you see it.” Inge folded the paper up, dropping it into his bag, and necked the last portion of his lager. “Don’t over-exert yourself, nor your business. I would hate for you to fall in such a way as this city is,” this last sentence was said in Inge’s same quiet voice.

Didn’t reply to that last words, Marius Ott just raised his hand in a lazy wave like he was casually waving goodbye to a friend. It was the same smile, but no way to tell what he was thinking.

Inge left his glass, rearranged his bag, and strolled from the pub. As he did, someone else went to leave, thumbing furiously at their mobile phone. Inge, beyond them, sighed, the noise lost to the outside air as the other person pushed past him, hood up and head down.

“Go home,” Inge said, walking his own way. He didn’t have to look round to know Skullface would do exactly as he said.

Osthavula

“It’s here, Madam. “

She raised her head to the view of the tilted mirror. A portion of the driver’s eyes were looking at her, worriedly. “Are you sure you want to get down here?”

Outside the windows, there was no house waiting, only a lone lamplight standing against the dimming sky. She nodded, with a raspy voice as if washed by a million cries. “Yes. Here is fine. “ Even though he would most likely not noticed, the tear welling up behind her birdcage veil, or the grasping hands in velvet gloves, all were convincing to depict a mourning woman in need of a walk. He let her down, drove away without any more questions. She waited until the tail light of the taxi vanished behind the trees.

Collette Holst looked at the shadowy canopy of trees and branches nearby. She resolutely walked towards them, joined them, as they welcomed her. Unlike her churning mind, her heels left no weight on the soft ground. An arm of the ash tree was tempted to lift her hat, to reveal the golden waves tugged inside, but only brushed its fabric smooth before letting her go. None could stay her. She passed through them, like a spirit of the dusk through the leaves. There were purpose in her emerald eyes. There were less, underneath her chest.

Eventually, at about the count of fifty, the canopy opened again. Hartley’s residence stood in front of her, as she gazed from the shadow to its solid presence. It has only one level, with surrounding hedges and windows. Windows that were too high. The woman frowned at the level of windows, something she didn’t predict to be a problem. They hung at a level she couldn’t reach, nor was there a back door present. She would like to avoid its owner’s attention, at least until she was ready. But she still need some entry, some entry that she could subtly assess.

Slipping the letter out of the opening of her collar, she glided through the grass stealthily. To the side, she spotted the only ones within her reach. She dipped so no one inside the room could spy her. Of a wordless wish, her hand gently nudge the window frame, but it didn’t give way. Locked. Of course. Collette then, carefully, peeked into the room.

No one was there. It looked to be a study, with bookshelves and a table and a collection of things. The door, opened slightly. A globe, a lounge chair. A simpler table where a typewriter sat. Then a nicer study table with shelves takes the centre of the attention of the room. An ashtray, a lighter lying idle beside it. Then, the sight of the familiar dictaphone lying on the table brought a smile to her face. It was fortunate, however, that the owner wasn’t in the room. She wouldn’t know what to do, him having the keen ears to spot her disguised voice. Him having the keen eyes with unbounded curiosity. If he should be there, turn around, and found her with those golden eyes…

She shrunk back, feeling the warmth radiated through the glass.

She placed the envelope gently on top of the hedges.

She knocked on the window.

She ran.


Hieronymus thought, at first, that the tapping was the kettle. Stood in front of it with his hands in his pockets, his tired brain had a moment of peace while he made tea. It was a welcome relief. A headache was threatening his temples. So he closed his eyes. When he heard the tapping, and he opened them again, scowling slightly as his head turned instinctively towards the sound. He didn’t go towards it, and looked back at the kettle, but when it wasn’t repeated he ruled out that it was a bird. It could be a bird: it was too strong, too regular, and the raps happened only once.

He poured out steaming water into his mug, dropped in the teabag, and abandoned the tea after that point. The study had his attention. Unlike the living room and kitchen, the study was blocked off from the rest of the house. A sturdy, heavy door with a thick doorframe kept the two rooms separate in tone. But it was warm in there, welcoming, with the deep browns and various disorganised places. The bookcase had gaps where Chauntecleer or himself had taken books, or made space. Some stood at skewed angles, leaning against their neighbours. In a few instances, books were stacked horizontal on the tops of others. It was one of the first pieces of furniture Hieronymus found himself looking at - that and the sofa. And the tap had come from the window above the latter.

He crossed the room, flicking on the light, and it wasn’t long before spotted the anomaly: something white against the green of the bush outside the window. His scowl deepened, curiosity and concern working together to define his expression. Kneeling on the sofa, he leaned nearer to the window, and it was what he thought it was.

He didn’t say anything, although his mind began clunking into place, unleashing a thousand paranoias. But curiosity knitted them together: which paranoia was right? He would never know if he didn’t find out. He unlocked the window, pushed it open and teased the envelope nearer to him before delicately raising it in his hand, leaning away from it. It had weight to it… weight that shifted as he raised it.

After closing the window, he took a closer look at it, taking it between his fingers gently. His mind told him it was bad, but the other part of his mind asked why it would be left in such a fashion if it was of malicious intent.

On it, in small but neat handwriting… Let this letter be in your presence in my place.

Hieronymus’ heartbeat sped up, and he left, going back to his kitchen and laying the envelope on the side next to his steaming mug. He tore it in his haste to open it, but told himself to slow down. When he reached into the envelope, it was with all the gentleness of a kitten.


I apologise for the briefness of this letter. I have once ask where doth your loyalty lies. Should you trust that my loyalty remains the same to you and my companions, carry this pen with you. Speak to it and I will listen. The buttons and screen lies underneath the barrel, and should be quite similar to your device I have once picked up. I will, eventually, speak in return.

But should you doubt my loyalty and my intention, discard this pen and note. Let no one finds it. Regardless of your decisions, let this remain a secret between us. You have my most sincere gratitude.

Stay safe.


The pen in question was present in the envelope. That’s what gave it weight. He could think of several people this letter could have come from: the secrecy and oddity of its appearance confirmed to him that it was Editors business. However, of the people he knew to be Editors, only one would do this. The Nightingale was certainly not a woman to be so odd in her delivery, not to mention she was out of the question. And Bernadette, considering her mood with him, would never have done this.

The question became whether he trusted the note’s writer. Should you doubt my loyalty and my intention, dis-- Hieronymus turned over the letter so its words faced nothing but the table, and put the pen on top before he sat down. He couldn’t convince himself he doubted her. Even when he tried to lay everything out away from his own subjectiveness, the facts that might have inspired doubt in others only lent him truth. The truth of a victim.

The pen was in his hand before he realised, and he was unscrewing the barrel. The top half was indeed a dictaphone, a subtle one. A tricksy one. One fit for a cheat, a sneak, a liar. One button had on it a red record circle. Beneath that, fast forward and rewind buttons. The play/pause button was slightly larger than the rest. On the other side of the small digital screen was a button with a wifi symbol on it. The recorder was on. On and waiting for him. Expectant.

Before he even considered speaking, he fiddled with the buttons. Nothing was recorded onto it. It was plain and blank. He played with it, and his mind wandered to its model. He had considered a dictaphone in this style, but it was too sleazy of an idea.

When he was confident in how it worked, including how the wifi button would function, he pressed record.

A white light lit up. The microphone was on the side, and would be hidden by the pen clip once the barrel was screwed back on. So he raised in his hand and said, “I trust you.”

He pressed the record button again. The light went out. The screen showed the file name: rcrd_001.wav was five seconds long.

Hieronymus was satisfied with that. So he got up, went to his internet router and pressed one thumb to its button, and his other to the pen’s wifi button. After a few seconds, the white light lit up green and went out. He had to trust that was the correct thing to do.

He returned to the kitchen, put the pen back together after turning the recorder off, and drew out his phone, selecting Bernadette’s number and putting it to his ear. The low-toned ringing was soothing in its repetitiveness. It unlocked something in his mind, a tiredness akin to collapsing in bed. He supposed it was relief.

“Hiya, Mr. Hartley is it?”

“Hm? Hello? Yes,” his confused scowl cleared moments later when he realised who it was. “Hobby?”

“Yeah, yeah, you do remember me. Do you want Bernie? I suppose you do. That’s why you called her phone right? She’s in the shower.”

“Oh. I do want to talk to her yes, but I can call back.”

“No no. Let’s have a talk, it’s been a while.”

Hieronymus smiled on his end and agreed. He moved to the living room as he spoke with Hobby, her optimism breaking down more of his uncertainty until he was lounged quite comfortably on the settee. He even managed to laugh a few times.

“Hang on, Hiero, I think Bernie’s out the shower.” Hobby’s voice became muffled as she called for Bernadette, although if Bernadette responded he didn’t hear it. “Yeah, she said-- oh, I thought you were going to put something on? … Yeah, I’ll grab it.”

“Mr. Hartley?”

“Yeah, I’m here, good evening.”

“What are you calling about? You can be brief.”

Hieronymus frowned. “You said to find--”

“Oh, yes. Have you done it?”

“Sort of? I--”

“Thank you, Hobby. Sorry, Mr. Hartley, grant me a moment. I’m not quite decent.”

“Oh… certainly.” Hieronymus was sat up again. What was Bernadette doing?

“Hiya, she’s just putting her nightie on. Ever had a woman on the phone in a towel, Hiero?”

“Yes.”

Hobby laughed uproariously from the other end.

“Oh, Hobby, let me keep my dignity, please. Could you put my towel back in the bathroom for me? This is quite important. Now, Mr. Hartley, I’m sorry for my tone. But I need you to be careful with what you say. Vague and careful. So go on.”

“Um… right, okay. Well… she left a letter for me. Here. I didn’t see her. I don’t know where she is. But I know she’s fine. I can show you everything.” He paused. “It… said she wanted it to be a secret between me and her. But… I’m not going to keep it from you. Oh… um I should have asked you this before I told you. Do you… trust her?”

Bernadette was quiet for a second after the question. But she laughed. A high, light laugh. “Bless her, is that what she is concerned about? Of course I do. Bring everything in tomorrow, please. We’ll discuss it then.”

“Yeah… okay.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing.”

“How is Chauntecleer?”

“I’m going to have a talk with him away from Ferdinand. Currently he’s in his room.”

“Do tell him he’s in good hands. Your hands. You’re finally thinking.”

Hieronymus felt he should be insulted, but with Bernadette’s tone it was impossible to be angry: she had a smile in her voice.

“I’ll have to go, Mr. Hartley. Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night… Mrs Horowitz.”

Before he was making the call, or recorded the message, the woman he mentioned was treading her way back into the centre of the city. It would be a long way, and without treading on the main roads it could prove difficult. But then having spend most money on a taxi fare, and avoiding attention, it was the only sensible choice—slowly going back on foot. More than once did she doubted and checked her dress and heels, if they have suffered some injuries from the nature. They didn’t, saved for the possibility of little splashes of mud.

If he had done anything she hasn’t expected, then the journey wouldn’t worth it.

“Expected”?

She frowned at the word which momentarily floated to the surface. Yet, before she could decipher her own thoughts further, the earset hidden underneath her veil gave a ring of a bell. A message. She pressed the button on it, quickly. A little too quickly, that she hadn’t prepared herself when the recording started playing, a short distance into her left ear.

“I trust you.”

That was all she needed.

She found her way to the nearest tree and leaned on it, then to find a dense patch of grass to sit on. Underneath its shadow, away from the paths and houses, where no one had any reason to walk by, she gathered her skirt with her own leg and sat, resting her head on her knee. She trembled, and soon she was crying into her own knee and dress, in the privacy of herself. The days of escaping, worn by everything heard and everything seen, of accusations and lies and only bits of truth that had turned against her after the years. The voice disarmed them, relieved them into her dress, into the soil, into her voice that evaporated into the air.

It was too much work and way too hard to gain such a short statement.

Was this what she expected? Was this what she wanted, rather? Because he could be the person that offer it to her, that she made the long travel… Just for that?

She had to, of course, gather herself again. Wipe away the tears and cleared her voice, that she pulled out her pen and pressed the replay button. The voice — low masculine, clear, and in that phrase as serious as he was when he took his mask off — rang close inside her ear as she raised her own pen to her lips.

“Thank you. ”

When she press sent, her strength had departed her like a phantom. But she had time, and it will be a long night. The message was replayed, several time. To check if there were suspicious background noises, to check if there was insincerity in his voice, to check if he sounded troubled or… Well, quite hard to hear from three words. But only after she knew the recording enough to dissect it, she moved on. She had somewhere to find, some people to talk to, other than pressing a button like an infant who just learned how to.

Yet she smiled, under the shadow of the trees. The chastising self reflection couldn’t stop her honest soul to be gleeful of the second word. Or the first. Or the third. Her fingers fumbled with the pen’s metallic barrel unconsciously as the cityscape returned slowly, her veil drooped as the dryads released her.

The days were getting shorter. Bernadette remembered walking out of the Capers, purse over her shoulder, breathing in the evening, not the navy skies of the night. And breathing back then was easier too. Comparatively, she had nothing to fear. Just her journalists to work, team editors to vet, and on the other side of her life, other Editors to watch over.

Now she was babysitting.

Bernadette decided to break the rule of taxis-in-business-hours, and got into one, letting it fall into the Capers’ expenses. It would look less suspicious that way.

“Klokklsby boroughs,” she said. “Capers business.”

“Yeah, ma’am.”

Bernadette looked out the window. Back at the Capers building. She wondered where Mr. Hartley was. He left her room with the envelope he brought, and seemed more concerned than when they had talked with his son and the friend. She had stopped him at the door, getting up and saying his name, and said to him, “You’re doing the right thing. You’re right. To do this yourself would be idiotic.”

“I didn’t say idiotic…” he had said.

“No, but I have. Hieronymus.”

“Mm, yes?”

“You call this one. Call me when you know what should be done. She requested your help. Therefore, you must be the one to help her. It’s in your hands.”

He had not replied. A shallow nod came from him and he left. She had not seen him for the rest of the day. Once she thought he caught his laugh somewhere in the corridor. But he was nowhere there. Thinking about him was getting to her, she considered. But then, that is what people did when they worried. If she was unlucky enough, it would seep into her dreams.

But she had worse things to dream about.


Klokklsby’s gas lamps cast warmer glows on the streets than the lamps in the city proper did. Instead of the sodium-yellow stains, everything was reflecting the orange glimmers. The cab stuck to the outside roads, and got as close to the boroughs as it could. The taxi driver shrugged when he reached the end of his path and told Bernadette this was as close as he could get, unless she wanted to be responsible for his driving through Klokklsby.

“No, thank you for taking me this far,” she said, and climbed out. She took a moment to get her bearings, putting her hands into her coat pockets to fight the chill off. Her destination was not a pretty one. With a fifteen minute walk into Klokklsby’s bowels, her hand perpetually resting on her purse, prepared to grasp her torch at a moment’s notice if a stranger would approach her, she felt the dust beneath her shoes get grittier. Bernadette was not dressed entirely appropriately. Her shoes, black velvet heels, were at least inconspicuous, and her tights were mostly hidden by her large coat. Bernadette did not have the time to dress in stockings, and she owned very little that Klokklsby residents would find agreeable. However, she never considered this a problem: it was Mr. Hartley who stayed in the city more than she, although recently she had not left its borders.

She was glad for the blackness of the streets. Anyone who might look would see a woman, grey hair up in a steady bun, swaddled in dark material. Too dark to make out what it was, and whether it was appropriate.

Her destination was a series of rundown houses. As per her quarry’s desire, Bernadette had arrived at a certain place, in a certain borough of Klokklsby. Her heels tapped as she walked, her hand hovered over the mouth of her purse, and her phone slept on silent.

She stepped into the fifth one in the row, through a doorway without a door, over the fallen doorway, and saw the stars through the caved-in roof on one side. Her nose caught the dust, her throat suffered the consequences and she coughed as softly as she could as she pulled herself out of sight.

There were movements. A large shape moved from the shadow and appeared in front of the woman like a golem newly summoned. “Mrs Horowitz?” He asked, however, free of accents and tone of the area. “She is waiting upstairs.”

He said, tilting to give her a cleaned pathway through the rubbles. He had remained beside the door, hidden well in the shadows of pillars and frames.

Edna Horowitz waited, in a lounger chair that she dusted. Not all of her men had come, and the one two stood guard in the rooms nearby. Opposite her was a wooden chair that they prepared for Bernadette. Not that they intend to give her uncomfortable chair, but in fact it was the only chair that could be called clean after surviving whatever wrecked this building.

Bernadette did her best to remain calm, at least on the outside. As far as she was concerned, she should have nothing to fear. She was here to talk to her niece. Failing that, her prediction of events was uncertain: would Edna retaliate, lash out, or would she have the heart to listen? Bernadette’s own heart was pumping adrenaline through her system. The older woman could feel it in her calves as she went upstairs.

In an effort to remain calm, and appear collected, Bernadette unbuttoned her coat and rearranged her purse.

“Edna,” she said, with no shred of coldness. Her tone was warm, and even her blue eyes, should Edna see them clearly beneath Bernadette’s lashes, held a calmness. She took the seat without a second look, nor a complaint. “You’re looking into something you ought not look into, my girl. This is not your part of the city, nor will it ever become your part.” Bernadette spoke without fear, but retained the measured, calm tone.

That tone. Edna frowned, as the tone would have thrown her into the anger already built up from the recent event. “First of all, what are you talking about? Second of all, who are you to decide what part of the city is mine and what is not?”

Bernadette didn’t let her tone waver in the face of the unhappy woman. “The boy. Talon. That’s what you’re interested in. As for your second question, no one owns the city. The city is the people’s, and the people’s only. Listen to me when I say this, and don’t be rash. Don’t get involved any more than you already are. Or there won’t be any city left for you to fight me in.”

Edna listened. She did. She calmed down, with a poker face that rest on her fist, as the elbow rest on the arm of the chair. “Spoken like a politician. And why is that?” She asked, “Why would that be? There must be a reason?”

“I won’t insult your intelligence by being vague. The Editors are in a bad position, and certain persons can’t be trusted. Those who can be, though, will rise stronger than ever. None of us are letting go of our respective reins during this time. We are working harder than ever. It is all we can do, or else Cassiopia is bound to fall to chaos. Maybe, Edna, maybe chaos is something you find useful. But get involved and you will not prosper. You are under my spotlight, and I won’t hesitate to pin you down. This is my warning to you. Not as an aunt, nor a friend, but as an opponent.”

“Now I don’t know where you are placing me, opponent. But this is not you being not vague. Explaining takes steps and you are jumping. How about you start with what you think I am doing, who is this Talon boy, and why exactly is that you think we are all falling into chaos? Why is it making us anything but stranger? Auntie?”

“I’m not interested in spending more time here. I know you enough to know that your motive is your greed, that it is your determination. As for the boy, the fact you wanted information about him from a poor young man is enough to tell me you don’t deserve to know anything about him. That young man knew nothing. As for why I think we are falling into chaos… it isn’t an assumption,” Bernadette paused. She allowed herself to sigh. “It is chaos. Already. You cannot pretend you didn’t know about the attack on Klokklsby, my dear. It humiliated and saddened us, all of us, and although we can’t be vocal, we mourn. We mourn Cassiopia.”

Edna stood up, and she started walking back and forth, pacing, ignoring the aunt for a moment and just crossed her arms to think. She had disregard anything Bernadette did during the pacing, and when it finally came to a halt, she talked louder than she did before.

“Greed, you said? Greed? You don’t know a lick about me, Auntie. Oh, you can’t understand anyone down here. You speak a different language. I don’t care about the boy, and if you are speaking of Ferdinand I merely gave him a reason to go away. Greed indeed. “

She walked a step closer.

“Already in chaos are we? No city to fight you in, will we? Well, only people like you have the concern for the city. City or not we will live. We will crawl in the gutters while people like you are concerned about names. Orders. High moral grounds. Nobody mourns here. We fight for our lives, and if anyone falls, it is just another day.”

She came in front of her, over her. “I played no part in the so call attack on Cassiopia. But I have a feeling that you know. Which is interesting.”

“I should have expected you to be one of them though.”

Bernadette arranged a strand of hair that had fallen loose. “If I am wrong about you, then so be it,” she said quietly. “I merely ask not for your cooperation, but for your… neutrality. I offer you nothing, but the city’s future should offer you the collateral you seek.”

“That means nothing, like the rest of your talk. “Her attention lifted from her, and floated about the room. “I should have expected you to be those people who thinks that a person can change the fate of the city. Did you had fun with it?”

“One person can change the fate of a city, Edna. The Nightingale - when she underwent her first attack, every heart in this city responded. I dislike the power of one person - when you are on your own, you are corruptible. When you stand as a group, you are functional,” Bernadette stood up to face Edna, her hands loosely together in front of her. Her back was straight, held rigid by the pride she had for the right side of the city. “If you think my talk means nothing, then you will not heed my warning.”

“She will take the warning.”

Bernadette’s heart pumped adrenaline again. She let her eyes close for a second or two while she adjusted her hair again. Then, with the sudden burst of emotion under control, turned to the door.

“Are you expecting a guest, Edna?”

“No.” She smirked. “But then someone is like that. Doesn’t need invitation, do you?”

Antolij entered, his hands behind his back. Those eyes twinkled at Edna, then turned to Bernadette, “Mrs Horowitz, I’d wait my turn to speak with your niece, but I have something I need to say to you. But first, Edna Horowitz, no, but then invitations are not very interesting.” He let the sentence end easily, and his head turned slightly. “I’m happy to see you took your necessary precautions as I did. You have to admit we are alike.”

Behind him, and not far off his height, entered another person who took up position a little behind Inge, and within clear sight of the two women. The features of his face were disjointed by the darkness of his tattoo.

“I decided to take up a bodyguard,” Antolij said, passively. “Now, I hope I wasn’t interrupting.”

“Inge,” Bernadette greeted the man with a nod. She became glad of her naturally-pale complexion, for if her face was normally any pinker, her sudden absence of colour would have been notable. “I am ready to hear you, if Edna is.”

“Now, Inge, you bastard. I was going to ask you why you have done things you’ve done. I heard.” Edna backed into her lounge chair and leaned back lazily. “But look, I don’t even have to ask. What do you have to say about the sudden crimes I was accused of, Inge? Apparently by asking a info I was bringing a city down.”

“Now, Edna, I never accused you,” Bernadette said. “It is not proper to point a finger without evidence in your hand.”

“Correct, Mrs Horowitz. Miss Horowitz, why do you think I’ve done the things you’ve heard about?” Inge stepped further into the room. As he did so, the person behind him stepped back wordlessly.

Edna threw her hands up in the air. “Oh, I’ve heard wrong then I’m sure. Go on. Talk. You two speak the same language. To your question though, Auntie. It is not like you came for a friendly neighbourhood walk and dropped in, did you? But don’t mind me.” She laid further back, and looked towards the man behind Inge. Would that be the hitman Inge mentioned?

Bernadette kept her mouth shut this time. It had been too long since she had dealt with someone of this manner. At the Capers, if she even put an edge into her voice, the team editors would shudder. But not Edna - Edna didn’t respond at all.

“The first thing I want to say,” Antolij said, “is a warning. Mrs Horowitz, you know all about Ott, I am sure. And given your area of occupation, you know of Eon. Take him, from this moment on, on my word, to be connected, and view Eon as a vulture, watching us. Waiting for us to fall. I knew you would be here tonight, and chose this moment to reveal myself to you, in order to bring you this information. You don’t trust anyone among us. And nor do I.”

“Thank you, Inge,” Bernadette spoke without a pause. “I will consider it. Leave it with me.”

“No, don’t use your script with me, Mrs Horowitz. Speak to me like a person, and a colleague. Not a journalist beneath you.”

Bernadette kept her eyes on him. She didn’t want to blink. “What would you have me reply, Inge?”

“In all honesty, I would have assumed you knew about this already. As you don’t, I’m glad I brought it to you before Mr. Ott makes another move against any of us.”

“That would not be preferable,” Bernadette said. Her lips were thin, and her voice was struggling to burst free of her placidity.

“How touching. Now, is Ott another one like you? Don’t tell me, actually. Hmm. Anything more, Auntie?”

Bernadette looked at her. She was a wolf and he was a viper. She was just a Naiad, and couldn’t fight back.

“I simply ask, Edna, that you consider your place in the city. Whether you love it, whether you fight for it, or against it. I am more than prepared for your negative. If that is all, I will take my leave.”

“Before you do, Mrs Horowitz… Edna. Why do you spread this defamation of me? I am nothing like Ott.”

“Oh I was going to say he is different. From you. From her. Guess I didn’t say it out loud.” Edna answered in a lazy voice. “And Auntie… Or Mrs Horowitz, if you prefer? You and my father always like to measure where people take sides. Perhaps you do it right sometimes. Perhaps you know where you stand. But don’t even think you can estimate mine. Whatever you think and decide about the “negatives” and throw I welcome and will fight. That had never changed, never will. Now take your leave. Don’t linger. You don’t like this part of town anyways. We can tell.”

The last few sentences had bites to it, like a beast with clenched jaw. As if in response to it, one of her men appeared at the door and loomed over its frame. He looked at Bernadette, expectantly.

In response, Bernadette looked the man up and down. It was indeed time to exit. The wolf would be howling her amusement, and the viper hissing his, as she left, but the quieter she left, the less she would lose. Before she did though, she turned a smile upon her niece. “I love this city,” she said. “That’s all. Good night, to both of you.”

She approached the man, moving past him passively. Antolij’s eyes were on her for a few seconds before they moved to his bodyguard. “I’m sure she meant to say good night to you, also,” he said, amused. “But no matter. Edna. You’ve heard a lot from my mouth, as you have heard from hers. You have given me your verdict the last time we met, and so I shall not try to bother you again. I just ask that you don’t play by her rules.”

The bodyguard shifted around the room again. It seemed to be a tactical movement: now that one threat was out the way, he had to move to the optimal position. Still remaining primarily behind Antolij, he held the shadows. His eyes had not moved off Antolij’s head for more than a second in the past few minutes of the impromptu meeting: they were glazed, sturdy, dry with hatred.

The bodyguard heard all Antolij said and knew what it meant. Not the words, but their technique. The eyes blinked hard.

“Like my Aunt, you really struggle to understand where I stand. “

Edna greeted the hitman, in a manner now much more casual than with her aunt. She knew what he was doing. That’s why she liked him better than the others. Her eyes greeted Inge once again too, but her smile now rid of the politeness. Her air of sharpness had returned, like a sleeping gown she adorn.

“Now, can we speak more openly? I’m tired of these social tones that you put on. I’ve no doubt what you’ve done, Antolij, so spare me the talk. What are you planning to do? Sit. Unless you want my chair, then we’ll switch. “

Antolij took the chair without a word, relenting to her tone. He wiped the smile from his countenance as he glanced round at his bodyguard. In response, he received a stare, followed by incoherent muttering as the man kept his ground. Antolij believed some of the muttering might have been directed at Enda, as the grey eyes flashed up at her only once. He was tense as a spring, and, his blackmailer trusted, quick to the draw when necessary. His eyes were directed forwards. On the two of them. Antolij looked back to Edna.

“I warned Mrs Horowitz of the Eon movement, because it is true. The capital seems to want to be involved in Cassiopia. So I will lay low and observe for a while. I’ll discover what I can. That’s all I am planning to do at the moment. Investigate, wait and decide whose side to be on. Cassiopia’s… the capital’s… or my own,” that smile returned momentarily. He thought of the Czech: how like the Czech would he be! Sitting and researching, learning. Perhaps he would change his opinion of the Czech in due time thanks to his occupation, but Antolij doubted that: the Czech liked to claim he acted during meetings. But in reality, he held only one title, and that title was ‘idle.’

“And hiring those people to make havoc in Cassiopia. What is that for?”

“What better way to distract people? I am regretful that newscaster died, though. A tragic accident, but a useful zenith for the evening.”

“Turning individual thugs into one big movement of trouble. Is what we are just a trivial matter to you? No, don’t answer that. I see what you do now, and actions spoke first. It’s another thing I wish to talk about.”

She sat up, with the cold face of negotiation.

“You are making movements in the slums. No matter how I dislike it, I want to know the movement first hand. But because it is you, it comes with a price. Name it.”

“You prefer to get to the point, do you. That is fine. You are correct: I have interest in the divide between Klokklsby and modern Cassiopia. To have access to people who know this area, say, your people, would be welcome. Unquestioned access. And yes. Since we’re talking business now, everything has a price tag. That is my price.”

Inge opened his hands to signify his price was on the table and sat back. Behind him, the bodyguard had not stopped staring. But this time, his eyes were not trained on Inge’s head, but onto Edna’s countenance. The colouration of his irises, in the gloomy half-light, was shown in its true strain. With the glare parting his eyelids, they were tinged blue.

To his price Edna suddenly let out a laugh. Her eyes answered to the bodyguard’s attention, as she wave towards Inge and spoke to the guard. “Do you hear him? Hah, he is talking as if we are some company. My people. My people. Say, you can tell what’s wrong with that right? “

A fury took the guard’s body and for a second he trembled as his muscles demanded action. It was an internal fury, one he couldn’t voice or answer to, but Antolij could make a guess as to its origin.

“I bought his services,” Antolij said.

“You bought.” Edna repeated. “Has that Ott cheat rub off on you? And maybe, maybe that will work on one person. I hope you don’t think there is a lot of people you can get hold of just through me. Because my men? I don’t own them. I don’t buy them. That’s the loyalty you will get ‘buying’ services. “

With a nod to the guard she seemed to resonate with him more than Inge Antolij, who she was speaking to. That brief showcase fury she had taken to it like acknowledges one of her own. She could almost, almost envision the look of her men behind the walls. As long as Inge was physically dealing with them, he was still alienated by his own understanding. He couldn’t understand. Maybe that’s the problem.

“I’m not bargaining with you, Antolij. But I’m not going to wrap it like a present to you either. The things you might want us to do? Me and two others might do it. Part of the deal, you can say. Unquestioned? Access? We might help you along but… That’s next to impossible. You say, deal or no deal. “

She was about to search in her jacket for cigarettes, but took a glance at the guard and changed her mind. Hands in view. She placed them on the arms of chair. ” Got a smoke?” She asked.

“My hands aren’t clean in this situation. I did buy his services from a company, so what you say has very little meaning to him,” Antolij explained. “And if your people are of no use to me, or if their loyalty can’t be guaranteed then… let’s go with what you just suggested. You join me. Just like I offered before. But then, you had more to lose.”

But she was looking at the bodyguard. He flexed his fists, and sunk his hand into a pocket. First he removed, quite nonchalantly, a 10 mm pistol which he held in his spare hand, and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. The carton was rather battered, but he threw it over the room at Edna. “Lighter’s in there,” he said, revealing his voice. Low, growling, as if the fury was sitting at the back of his throat. But the anger didn’t bite at her. It just sat there, like the gun rested in the bodyguard’s hand.

“Thank you.” She wasn’t in a hurry, as she lit up the cigarette and bit it between her lips, watched the spark as if fascinated, and threw the pack back at the guard. That small interaction, along the taste and smell of nicotine had calmed her. Her dark eyes turned to Inge, and her lips curled. “More to lose? I hope you don’t mean you will hold back, Inge Antolij, I am expensive for a reason. And his company, as much as it is a company, still hold its individuality. But I shan’t waste my breath explaining. You are at the end who enjoy to have others to fight for you, and as usual, it shouldn’t matter to you. You just need to know where ro find us, right?”

Antolij let her speak, sitting quietly in front of her. He opened his hands again to agree when she said something correct. Behind him, the bodyguard dropped the packet into his pocket again. But the gun stayed in his palm, down by his thigh.

“I’m no fighter myself, Miss Horowitz. I wouldn’t know where to start. But my expertises see my choices matter in this world, in this city, as you’ve seen. Make it as easy to find you as it was tonight, and I won’t be wasting his time,” Antolij smiled slightly, indicating his bodyguard. “Don’t be so difficult, Edna. That’s my first request.”

“Then don’t call me by Horowitz. You really are asking for it sometimes. I will know when you are looking for me. But fair, you want a contact. This spot, fine? If you haven’t called attention to the other house. “

The bodyguard kept up his facade of professional rage for a while, but at Edna’s second sentence the hand around the butt of the pistol tightened. It was fortunate his finger was off the trigger, or he would have fired into the floor. His mouth moved minutely as his teeth caught his tongue, biting down upon it to keep from speaking.

“You take your own moves to be defensive, and I take mine. You cannot complain about how we defend ourselves. But, as I said earlier… I was glad to see you brought backup. This spot is fine. I trust you to keep this place clear. If you don’t, that’ll be the downfall of both of us.”

“May have to punch some big guy’s head but we can do that. Clear the place. Can do. “ Her attention, however, was long gone before he finished the sentence. She nodded to the guard behind him, with a hint of amusement leaked in her eyes. “Hey. I know I’m not supposed to ask your name. What’s your opinion? This guy won’t let you take breaks when he comes so, well, refresh my ears. How’s the spot and how is this idio… Ah, this.” She waved a circle in Inge’s direction.

“Common courtesy not to ask a hitman’s name,” Antolij said with a smile. He took the insult she cut off, and ignored it. “Well noted.”

Then he turned and raised his eyes at Skullface, but didn’t get to blink before the hitman spat and spoke. “I don’t care. About any of it. I don’t care. I don’t care!”

“You do care,” Antolij corrected him. “You do. Or you’d have killed her.”

Skullface’s hands shook again but he couldn’t speak against what Antolij said.

“Do you?” She asked Antolij.

“Enough to come to you twice. Enough to show myself to Mrs Horowitz. Enough to sink to the level of standing alongside a criminal.”

“I was surprised at your timing. “

“I did want to surprise you.”

“Well considered me surprised. Inge Antolij. Though I suspect my Aunt has your attention too. Just remember that none of us have the loyalty to bear your consequences if you do something horrible. They will know it is you, by the looks of it. If you say I am difficult, please, Antolij, be a little more pleasant to work with. “

“My resources are your resources,” Antolij said. “But pleasant isn’t quite in the frame when one is doing unpleasant things. Look behind me, and see that this is true. Unpleasant work in the hands of an unpleasant man. Thus… professional, and cautious, is what I embody, Edna. If I must be assertive, that is something you will have to bear. If you mean be more friendly, then I would gladly accept your company at my favourite restaurant. Perhaps we could drink to our union.”

“That I have to see how horrible the things you will make me do and how unpleasant my place is after everything. Be more friendly to who you work with and for god sake learn to fight or something. I’m not sure who looks stronger, you or my aunt. Ah, one more thing. “

A thought had made her voice turned cold, either that or the nicotine was quickly drying her throat.

“Be mindful of what you do to the people in the slums, Antolij. Take the mass hiring, for example. If you turn the so-call city on them… They will turn on you in no time. “

“I might be a foreigner here,” Antolij said, “but I know how community works. Every group of people will react similarly, no matter who they are. I saw a lot in Norway. Nothing here is any different.”

Skullface was staring directly at Edna again, but the intention in his eyes was different. Instead of the flint-like glare, his eyes begged her for something. The hand with the pistol trembled again.

Edna smiled and stood up, so Skullface has a clear way over Inge’s shoulder. She left the chair in the spot, which seems worn and broken in the dim light. Whatever the plan was, she jumped out of the way to clear herself of it.

Skullface saw that Antolij’s attention was on her and strode forward. He grabbed the taller man’s shoulder where he sat, rooting him in place with his strong fingers in the man’s nerves, and thrust his pistol over the man’s body, bringing the barrel to the top of Antolij’s knee. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t hesitate, as he pulled the trigger, sending the shot deep into the Editor’s knee.

Antolij barely had time to gasp before the pain pushed the shriek from his throat. The bullet was perfectly-placed, the work of a killer who’d not only earned his hitman grade, but was born to stand beneath it. Skullface kept the pistol in his hand, but had Antolij’s shoulder still in his grip. The Scandinavian’s scream ate through his skin and made him lightheaded, but he compensated for it by snarling until his teeth hurt.

When Antolij gasped for breath, Skullface swore and spoke, “How’s that for turning on you--” and then he was cut off again. The blood was soaking Antolij’s trouserleg, and a few drops were on the barrel of the pistol in Skullface’s hand - not that the hitman noticed.

Edna leaned on the wall as the painful gasp of Antolij filled the room, her arms crossed but unfazed by the sudden burst of Skullface. It was bound to happen. One day, she thought. He had luck that it didn’t happen in a lonely alleyway somewhere. “Once again, Antolij. Be nice to people you work with. Don’t assume. Learn to fight. Don’t, don’t assume…” A hiss leaked between her teeth. “Don’t assume you can get away with things every time. Reactions can change. People can change. You got too much gut to wave around being the man who ask for others to fight for them.”

She then smiled at the hitman. “Better?”

“Listen to her,” Skullface’s words were audible only to Antolij, on account of his parted lips being millimetres away from the man’s ear. “Listen to her, listen to me, listen to this,” and he shot again. This time, he didn’t shoot into Antolij’s body, although the man jerked in reflex, causing agony to shoot through him again. The hitman had shot directly upwards. In reality, it was no fear tactic, nor a threat: it was, it felt to the hitman, a necessity to his mental state. With the explosion of sound - with no care to who heard or where - he felt the tension leave him.

He stepped away from Antolij, who had begun to support his knee as he gurgled and gasped with the pain. The hitman looked away from him like he was a stray cat, and into Edna’s eyes again.

He offered her his hand, “My name’s Lull,” he said. “And yes, I needed that. By the sounds of it, so did you.”

“Always thought he needed something. I’ve been too soft it seems.” She scoffed, and took his hand. “You would know my name by now. But I’m Edna, Edna Horowitz. I don’t envy your position or the things you have to put up with. I can imagine. I knew him since… too long.”

It might have sounded like Antolij swore, swore and swore again but his fast breathing was too loud to decipher the syllables. Either way, Skullface didn’t flinch.

“Doesn’t matter what I put up with or what I didn’t. What are you going to do with him now, because I don’t want to get arrested because of this. Do something or I kill him. And I will fucking kill him!” Skullface had the pistol at the back of Antolij’s head, pressing into the base of his skull. His expression was wild, his mouth was open and his voice was a clear, threatening tenor.

“Now now, don’t be rash. I’ll take care of him. He is a person that can’t go to the police, and he has a mess to take care of. You should go rest, if you wish. You have a surface life, don’t you?”

Skullface didn’t move the gun, but he did waver slightly at her question. Everything else went ignored. “No,” was all he said, his eyes burrowing right into hers.

“Well, then do what you may. Hey, get him to my place.” She said the later sentence to two three men appearing at the door. They came into the door with their sizes threatening the door frames.

Then she turned to Lull again. “I won’t let him tell anyone that you did this. Put the blame on me if anyone mention this. Hell, come back and finish the job. “ She said it loud enough to get through Inge’s groaning. “But he is no trouble to you anymore. “

Skullface finally let the pistol fall from Antolij’s head, but he didn’t let his gaze waver from Edna: his voice had lost its edge when he spoke. “I can’t let this go. Let me do something. Or I’ll go home and I won’t sleep, and I won’t dream, and I’ll go mad. I’m coming with you. And you,” Skullface wasn’t intimidated by the men in the doorway. “I’ll make this easier for you.”

He flipped the pistol around in his hand and sliced his arm sideways: the pistol but hit into the back of the muttering Antolij’s head, eliciting a gasp before silence. Skullface caught him by the shoulder before the man fell forwards, and slammed him back into the chair.

“Unconscious. You can’t ask for more.”

“By the gods he is almost normal for once.” Edna smiled. The man hoist him up. One of them scowled at the blood dripping and wringed a cloth on him, almost destroying that knee a second time. It did decreased the blood flow, and Inge’s body was effortlessly carried out. Wrapped in a cloth. Like Cleopatra. “Something to do. Hmm… Ah, do you take request that doesn’t involving killing? “

“It depends. I’m 150 a night, and I don’t do anal.” It was a joke, but Skullface’s deadly glare did not lift.

Edna laughed regardless, a hearty laugh no less. It greatly changed the mood of the bloody room. “I’d pay you as much as a regular job. But hey, if you can, give my Aunt a scare, will you? Not giving her a wound, that is, but welcome to destroy something near her. Walls, ground, things, maybe a Ming vase… of course, only if you’d like to.”

“Who is she, where does she live? And if you want to pay me that much I won’t argue. Does she have an animal, a pet?”

“No, no pet. She has a home but, hmm. You know Capers? Or is it too crowded there?”

“The workplace? Don’t be stupid. Firstly, that’s not personal, is it. Secondly, you will not get me to walk into danger like he did. He told me the time and place he wanted me to kill that actress, and that’s why she’s still alive, and why I’m stuck in his hands! His ineptitude, his mistake, and I pay for it!” Skullface was not like his employer. Nor was he like Edna’s men. He didn’t care how he talked to Edna. He didn’t need anything from her, and he didn’t know how dangerous she was. Although, even if he did know the latter to an accurate degree, he would not have thought twice about it. “Just… tell me who she is, and where she lives, and it’ll be done. That’s all I need.”

“Alright. Don’t hurt her baby wife either. 2 Blanca Avenue. You’d see the house miles away. It’s as proud as that idiot.” She pointed outside the door. “No guards. Might get nosy neighbours who got nothing to do all day. Anymore you need?”

“Her fucking name, woman,” Skullface said.

“Ah yes. Bernadette Horowitz. Her wife, Hobby… Something. Horowitz? As you can guess, the Horowitz house. Ugh. I hate that name.” She grumbled, annoyed that she had to mention it so many times in one night.

“Fine. I’ll do it. After that I’ll probably go home so contact me if you need me,” Skullface said. He then told her the number of his ‘business’ phone, and told her to ensure her number was redacted when - or if - she contacted. Then he confirmed she had no further business with him, asked not to be shot or kidnapped when he left the building, and walked from the room while tucking the pistol away as if it was as casual as a mobile phone.

Edna had no thought of harming him. It was only her who was left in the mess of a room, besides the draft coming from the leaking walls. Then she looked at the blood pool. Stepped over it. Let the front of her heels dipped in it. A frown occupied her forehead and at last, she cursed.

“I’ve really gone soft, haven’t I?”

No one heard her. Scraping the bottom of boots on the floor, Edna left. The building was left useless now. Broken, lonely, blood stained and purposeless. The man who claim this territory will never knew he dodged some beatings for this building, but he won’t be thrilled to find the place either.

Blanca Avenue was insulting to the hitman's nostrils. The entire thing was blanketed in serenity, as if the airs of spring enjoyed the avenue so much they refused to leave even though it was autumn. It drifted upon him but he wasn't about to lose his temper at the air. He breathed it, and used it. If he was high, it'd have calmed him, but he was the opposite. He had blood on his sleeve, and that annoyed him.

Lull kicked a stone. It skittered away, and doomed itself by falling through a drain covering. He carried on. Nothing to see in these houses. Most of them had their second-storey lights on, probably full of people in their armchairs reading the finance column, Tolstoy or knitting, while discussing with their significant other the weather tomorrow. As Lull watched the houses out of the side of his eye, proceeding down the pavement, someone came approached their window and opened it. On the other side of the frame, a light curtain lifted in the new breeze. The silhouette remained at the window for a moment as Lull passed, passive, beneath them. The angle of his body hid his face, the darkness smothered his clothes, and the light perfumed air disguised the fug of his own odious perfume.

Tobacco was the main ingredient of the accumulated stench that adorned his figure, hanging like a cloak around his shoulders. Tonight, two more ingredients perforated the concoction: sweat, for he had wallowed in his extreme anxiety of anger as he stood behind Antolij; and blood that was scarcely noticeable to a human nose, but the city didn't just belong to its human inhabitants. But Lull walked, unaware of these smells, and only feeling the cold flowery jaunt behind his eyes.

2 Blanca Avenue was at the end of the road. Lull discovered why as he neared it - Blanca Avenue was joined with another road, in a curve, with a different name. As such, Blanca Avenue stood near the bend of the curve. It wasn't anything particularly different in terms of houses, but it was noticeably smaller and more traditionalist than the others. 4 Blanca Avenue, as with 6 and 10, had modern extensions built: conservatories, studies, garages. 2 Blanca Avenue had nothing of the sort. It had a porch with woodworm markings, fresh paint and a new set of steps. That could be easily set fire to. Easily.

Lull had never liked arson. It was so messy. So untidy. What did it lead to, it lead to an orange burst, and a pile of cinders. Efficient? Not really. Human beings had an exceptional way of running from fire. From pain. No. Shoot 'em, and they won't run nowhere, Lull mused, giving his internal voice a sharp lilt.

He would make this quick. There would be no fire, there wouldn't be anything. There was a back door. That's all he needed.

He picked the lock and entered the Horowitzs' house, his hands now enveloped by latex gloves. Edna wanted them scared. That wasn't hard.

The fear came with someone entering your house while you slept. He just had to take it a step up.

Lull had one skill that wasn't very becoming of him: he knew how to sneak. It was all about owning your weight and leading your step, manoeuvring your weight onto your front foot once it was on the ground. And Lull did just that. The heel of his boot met the tile in the kitchen and his step made no noise. He was interested most by the small room on the left. It lead to a thin, carpeted room, headed at the north by a bookcase, and footed by a loveseat. There was a door halfway down which Lull entered. There was a computer, a desktop, and recently used. People were so easy to judge: dust told it all. And there was no dust in the room, and less on the computer keyboard.

He considered destroying the tower. He considered breaking each part, but the idea of making noise turned him away from that. But he knew a better way to terrorise than that. More subtle.

He turned the thing on, spent a few minutes syskeying it, and shut it down again. Then he left that room, and went on to other climes. That would do for the subtle part.

After that, he went through each room in turn, disturbing every object light enough to be disturbed. The police would generally call it a ransacking, turning the house inside out to look for something, a generic, messy burglary. But it missed the hallmarks - nothing would be missing. And as much as Lull wanted to pocket a collection of Edgar Allen Poe he saw in the living room bookcase, he didn't, and instead left it on the floor, upturned and suffering under the weight of itself.

The last action he did before he left was an odd one. He seized the fishbowl from its place on the living room mantelpiece, and generously poured its contents into the opened lid of the piano. He didn't know what compelled him to ruin both the goldfish's life and the instrument, but the two objects were there and they needed to be tampered with.

He watched the goldfish on the dripping strings of the piano, its deathbed doomed to be a mix of air and wire. He left the piano there, put the fishbowl on the mantelpiece, and snuck his way out. It was a graceless, amateur exercise, save for the syskey. That was only something the couple would discover later.

Lull didn't lock the door. He just closed it, and joined the pavement again. Nothing about his exploit had entertained him, but it was subtle enough to worm into the occupants' heads and remain there. If Bernadette Horowitz thought she walked out of that meeting with luck, Lull had shown her it wasn't at all the way it worked.

He left the street by another way, lighting a cigarette as he went, and pocketing the gloves.

Back to the pub.

Edna opened the door, only slightly more careful than she normally would. The door, lacking grease and maintenance, bellowed open with a painful squeak. Again, normally, she would had given it little regard.

She turned her head to the left.

The room was still messy. But behind the mosquito net, a man was half lying on her bed. His back was supported up, because otherwise his feet would be poking out of it. Much thanks to the man, Edna was noticing many things. How small the room was, how untidy it was, and that a musky smell that she glad he was too weak to protest. Some clothes piled up on the other side of the floor in her hurry to accommodate the man, and the chair was pushed near the window, just so she could rest her feet on the drawers when she sleeps there.

Has she been too kind to the man? In a way, Edna doesn’t doubt it. But to leave the man wounded in the building, or to just let him be after knowing he made so many troubles. Even just for the time sake, it seemed to be too cruel. Not that she couldn’t be cruel, but she didn’t want to be unnecessarily cruel. So she explained to herself with annoyance.

He had a movement. She straightened up and tossed the plastic bag in her hand onto the man’s lap.

“Breakfast. You are not allergic to beef I hope.”

Inge Antolij was finally in a state where he could not only recall his own name, but could remember the situation a few days ago. Unfortunately, due to various chemicals in his system, he did not realise it had been a few days. He raised his eyes to Edna as if drunk. Then to the bag, which he batted away with his fingers.

“No,” he slurred. “I don’t think I can…”

“You need to eat. Unless you want to sleep forever.”

Antolij didn’t argue. He pawed at the bag and tried to open it. The smell of the food turned his stomach so he decided to wait until his brain accepted the smell.

“What happened to him?” his voice didn’t come out well, so he coughed and tried again. “And are we still in truce?”

“Truce? I’m not… What do you think?”

She sat beside him awkwardly due to the lack of space. Then she opened the bag for him, and feed it to him. In a manner that can be described as “threateningly stuff it in his face”.

“Just pinch your nose, bite and swallow. It should be fine at about the third bite. “ And she thought for about a second. “Just try to keep it in your stomach. Force it.”

On that third bite, Antolij felt strong enough to push Edna’s hands away and mutter that he could do it himself. The dreariness of his mind was being overwhelmed by the anger of humiliation. He only wished he could be in a place like that bitch of an actress was. A white-walled hospital where he wouldn’t have to worry about his body or his brain. And speaking of his body--

Antolij moved the covers as the throbbing of his knee finally hit his mind. His trouser leg was cut, exposing the leg that had suffered the bullet, but no bullet wound could be seen. In its place, a metallic cap that shaped like a small shield replaces where his knee should be. Metallic parts must have hidden behind it, like an antenna struck inside his leg.

“God… no…” the dreariness returned, fuelled by helplessness. It wasn’t that Antolij was against such a prosthetic, it was that he prefered a more subtle prosthetic - a modern prosthetic. Whatever was in front of him wasn’t modern: it was Klokklsby. Yet it was something he wagered he would be stuck with forever. He couldn’t exactly walk into the general without an idea about what happened to his knee, and what was done.

Well, he knew what happened.

But it wasn’t a story he could tell.

“Who did this?” Antolij asked. “Can I walk…?”

“The best I can find without cueing anyone. Yes you can walk, if you recover properly. You can change the parts later. Well, most parts. With these ones you just need to learn how to walk with them. It will never be the same, your knee won’t bear as much weight as it used to, and you will need maintaining in the following years.”

The rage began building in Antolij’s chest again. Yet he couldn’t express it. From what he saw, Edna had rapport with that man. But to what extent?

“What happened after he… he hit me? He isn’t around here is he?”

“I bargained with him. He is gone now. And for your sake I tell you, don’t threaten him again. It’s your luck you ended with just kneecapping. “

“He doesn’t understand who he’s dealing with,” Antolij said. “In the end, my hands are clean. I know what I’m doing-- not that I can do it. I need to leave. For the sake of our agreement, I’ll back off from even considering him. You’re of a much more agreeable nature, and a logical one.”

“Oh no, you are not leaving now. You think you can find someone else willing to guard you at this point? You think they can’t find you? And you are the one who is not thinking. Blackmailing or threatening a hitman without being a killer yourself is the most stupid thing you can do. What’s the point if you die? He explodes and capped your knee. Another more sensible one just wait till you lose guard and aim for your head. You picked someone who won’t hesitate to kill you, me, everyone on the street and then some. Inge Antolij.” She grabbed on his collar and pulled him, staring each syllable into his skull. “You don’t know what you are messing with. If you do, then you are a bigger idiot than I thought you were.”

“You’re kind to give me these warnings,” Antolij muttered. “Maybe I played chess while he played Russian roulette, you’re right. But I’ve had a grip on him for weeks. Is it so unusual that I would use the individual I believed I could control?”

“Well, don’t do it again. You believed wrong. The only kind of people you have leverage against is people like my aunt. Because you don’t mind breaking morals and all, they think you are dangerous. But you are not, Antolij. You don’t have that power. Drill that into your brain. It is a miracle you are still living. Remember that as long as you don’t have that knee. “

“I’m not going to be pushed around by people lesser than me,” Antolij said, growling. “I won’t waste my time on him now, I can’t, there are more important things to do. Like Ott and his play. And your side of things. And then… the rest of them. Your aunt. The Nightingale. The others.”

“I sent him to my Aunt. For a … Child’s play. She’ll be back. “ Edna finally eased him. “You overestimate yourself, Antolij. And Ott, he is at his ends with your last play. You sentenced him, already. And the rest is… the rest.”

It was strangely vague words coming from Edna. She eyed him grimly, and pulled the blanket back up.

“I could punch you right now, and end your fool play in the slums…” She muttered lowly.

But she so responded when she caught his gaze. “But you started the mess. You clean it up or see it through. I’ll hold my end of the deal. You watch your end. I need to know your purpose, of course. Please tell me you do have one.”

Antolij only spoke when he was released from her gaze. “Of course I have one. I don’t like the way things are run in this city. Everything here relies on tourism and entertainment. Both of those are based off fads. Look at the city now. Now the Nightingale is out of the picture from acting for the moment, the volume of people going to the playhouses has decreased. And if this continues, so will the economy. But those who have the ability to change this city… stick with the fads. They are idiots and I do not like who is in control. That’s the short answer. The long one… I can’t tell you at the moment. I am not coherent enough. Forgive me.”

“Okay, so how will you change it? How?”

“I was a financial advisor for the government before I struck out alone,” Antolij said. “I have everything I need to change this city. The obstacles must be moved first. Otherwise I will be trying to change this city while the problems stay. I would rather start afresh.That’s all. Clear?”

“What about us. People here. You’d move us too?”

“I can’t move everyone. But there are certain people with more power than the ordinary person, and they have to be moved. Think about it - who would you get rid of if you wanted to cut the city’s foundations and build new ones?”

“... We’re tied. Can’t you see?”

The impatience showed. In her hissing, in her crossed arms, in her increasingly intense glaring.

“The Carlyles. The Howards. The Silverlake and all the people who were here. Then there are people already removed. The Ricolas, the Guerras. Then the old Reveries. The new Editors. This city didn’t build on fads. It built on secrets and crimes. “

“On us, Antolij.”

She didn’t move. But something, something froze the air. It crept on his neck. It dried his eyes. It pressed his lungs, seaping its air to the atmosphere.

“I will play along. But if I ever discover you try to lay a cut on me. On us. I’ll hack your head off. “

Feeling, finally, that she was reaching the conclusion of eliminating this man once and for all, she relieved the bed of her weight. Instead, she walked to the other side, opening the cap on her drawers, and gulped down the heat in the liquor bottle she stacked behind her door. A bit rougher than usual, that the chipped glass cut her lip, and iron taste joined the bitterness. It was good. It was helping. It tasted awake.

In the expression of a crazed gambler she returned his gaze.

“What’s our next move?”

“The only family I agree is a pillar at this moment is the Carlyles. You’ve failed to see so many others,” Antolij said flatly, as if he wasn’t surprised at all. “In fact, forget families altogether. Where did the Nightingale work, for whom was she employed? What theatre did she frequently perform at?”

“I don’t think she is employed from the sound of it, if what I heard was true. But… Soso? The owner, I can’t remember his name.”

“Well, you got the right idea anyway. And that’s my point - you can’t remember the owner’s name. And yet he has huge sway on this city. Is that not wrong to you?”

“A lot of people don’t know your name.”

“No. But I don’t hide myself away from the city. My name is on any financial governmental file from three years ago and beyond that. I have an honest background. The Nightingale has an honest background. Your aunt has an honest background. He… will say nothing of his background. Do you understand? My point is - he has to go. And quickly.”

“He has to go. Okay. What is his name? And where does he live? Does he go around Soso?”

“Braithe. That’s all I know him as. And he lives in the penthouse of the Pinnacle. And no, he doesn’t go anywhere. So. Any ideas?” He asked this not as a query, but as a test. It was obvious in his eyes: he had ideas, but wanted to see what she had. She didn’t know Braithe, but then again nor did he. “Assume his penthouse is equipped with security measures. And he is rich enough to afford that penthouse, and the one below it. Assume those security measures are expensive also.”

“I doubt he doesn’t go out. If he doesn’t, then there must be helpers. Someone he rely on.”

“One person,” Antolij said. “Yulian Volkovoi. Apart from that, there is his chauffeur. But that is it.”

“Well, does he go around?”

“Sporadically. But a hundred times more often than Braithe.”

“Alright, we’ll scout him out. Anything else I should know?”

“Braithe can outsmart this city. So don’t take chances.”

“To you and my Aunt, smartness may matter a whole lot. But as you can see from the person you hire, not always. I don’t expect I can go undetected. “ With a purpose she walked towards the door. “Finish your sandwich. Oh.”

She came back.

“Take it afterwards.” She dropped one pill on him. “I’m not giving you more than you should have.”

Antolij came to the realisation - once again - that he had no other choice. He didn’t feel strong or confident enough to move, there weren’t crutches or another aid to him around the room, so he fell back onto the bed without a word, scowling at himself. The pill was almost a weakness. But he would have to take it.

He would take it later, when the pain became too great.