Closed.

As a part of her indulging, one evening, Clare went to the Royal Opera House.

She was sitting in the dress circle next to Finch, watching the jewels worn by the nearby ladies sparkle in the gaslight. And if there was ever a time for such an indulgence, this was it. Since the Kingsford Royal Opera House opened for the season, the fashionable world had been utterly enamored of the half-Vlaski half-Gorask soprano who had joined the company temporarily as part of her foreign tour. Hearing Madame Adela Albescu promised to be a once in a lifetime experience.

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Clare could see the Royal Box from where she sat and it appeared as though it would be in use that night. She had heard it said that the Crown Prince attended every one of Madame Albescu's performances and she had been observed on His Royal Highness's arm on numerous occasions.

Woodsworth was in fact somewhat worried about the friendship between the heir and the opera singer.

Just below Clare was a stir in the Royal Box as the young Crown Prince emerged.

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The crowd stood and applauded and His Royal Highness waved a hand before taking his seat.

- You don't like the fact that the singer is from Vlask Empire.
- You don't like Princes's infatuation, but you try to understand it.
- You see nothing wrong with it.
- You think Woodsworth is worrying for no reason.
 
-You think Woodsworth is worrying for no reason

Clare wrapped her arm around him as she walked. Her violet dress making her somewhat stiff as she found herself out of place. Regardless though, she will enjoy this. Mostly because she needed to relax, which Finch was helping accomplish.

"I've never seen the Crown Prince so close before. Although, no one really does." She said to Finch nervously. "I've been surrounded by factory workers that it feels weird to even be here. As well as breathing the same air he is. Are you nervous? I am." She mumbled on until she saw people advert their eyes to the box.

Her eyes shifted up and she felt herself shrink in her chair by looking at him. Woodsworth said he worried about his relationship with this singer. Then again, he was being a hypocrite before. He's worrying about nothing. Though, he looks sort of devilish. She stared at his features. A little longer than necessary.
 
"Relax, Clare." Finch said with a smile, placing his hand over hers as they took their seats. "We are here to enjoy ourselves, you said so, remember?"

The gaslight lowered into darkness. The chatter around them died down to expectant whispers and rustling.

The curtain rose, and Madame Albescu stood in a spotlight in the middle of the stage.

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Her voice was like crystal, she was quite possibly the finest soprano Clare had ever heard.

When the opera crescendoed to its end, the audience leaped to its feet with wild applause. Madame Albescu took bow after bow. A red rose landed at her feet, then another, then a shower of them. Everyone's eyes followed the cascade to the Royal Box. The Crown Prince himself was throwing the flowers. Madame curtsied to him and he actually bowed back.

- Woodsworth was right to be worried.
- It's a bit undignified, but harmless.
- It's not concerning at all.
 
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-It's a bit undignified, but harmless

Clare nodded as she looked down at his hand. "Yeah... You're right." She said gently. She rested her head gently on his shoulder and watched the show with him.

She was suprised at how wonderful the show was. She had enjoyed it a lot and stood up to clap like everyone else. She looked at the flowers and followed her gaze up to the Prince. She laughed nervously as he showered her with affection. That's a bit weird, but I guess he really loves her. She looked at Finch and nudged him. "Maybe you should do that for me." She joked as she nodded to the Prince.
 
"Never figured you were the one for roses." Finch said, though there was no smile on his face. His upper lip twitched with disapproval as he watched the Prince.

The two of them emerged from the opera house into a jostling crowd all struggling toward the same cabs.

Finch eyed the crowd. "We could walk."

It was a pleasant night for it, damp, but not actually raining and the way wasn't overly far. It might be for some of those young gents and ladies in delicate footwear, but not for the two of them. Under the cover of darkness, Finch's hand found Clare's, fingers tracing a delicate design on the inside of her wrist.

--

A few days later, on the morning of Armistice Day, Clare reached her clinic early to find a cluster of men waiting for her outside. Two supported a third, well-wrapped in blankets. The fourth, who kept away from the others, was a patient of hers, the dockside laborer Jed Baker.

His face slackened with relief when he saw he and his companions carried the bundled man up the steps.

"Better take a look at this, Doc," Jed said hoarsely.

The injured man looked ill rather than injured. His skin was pale white, his eyes half-closed, his breathing labored. The torso beneath the blanked was bare - and two large handprints stood out lividly against the skin of the upper arms.

Light eating.

"I did it." Jed suddenly spoke up, swallowing hard.

- Spin around, ready to defend yourself.
- Keep still, stay calm and ask the questions.
- Jed looks terrified, comfort him.
 
-Keep still, stay calm, and ask the questions

Clare frowned when he saw Finch wasn't smiling. She turned to the two couple, confused why he didn't like it...

This thought somewhat plagued her until she came to the clinic. She was quick to tell the men what to do. Her hand shaking for a moment as she saw it was a Lighteater doing. She opened her mouth to ask if anyone saw something until Jeb spoke up. Her eyes widened and she glanced at his hands.

"Jeb? You're..." She took a moment, but calmed down. "May I ask what prompted you to do this? And if you still have the tendency to inflict harm again, I will ask that you leave the room."
 
Jed raised his hands. "I didn't mean to. It just happened! I had no idea I even could..." He exchanged looks with the other two men. "Last night we, um... acquired a couple bottles of wine. Fancy stuff, the sort the rich drink, none of us had ever had the like. We went back to Bill's lodging house to drink it." He shifted his feet, uncomfortable. "And, um, after a bit, Sam over there lost control of his tongue and that's how I found out he'd been spending time with my girl, on the sly. I was that angry, I grabbed his arms and shoved him up against a wall, and then it was like... like being with a woman, or, or a man in your case... Doc, you know what I mean, it was warm and good like that. And then..." He looked at the man on the table, swallowing hard again.

"Is there some kind of sickness turns you into a Lighteater all at once?" Bill asked. "And what's the medicine for it?"

"That's not the worst part." Jed interrupted. "When we were getting Sam wrapped up to come here, I reached past Charlie for something and brushed his arm."

"And it felt like I was bleeding." Charlie confirmed. "Only for a second, but I couldn't pull away, then Jed realized and pulled away himself."

"I wasn't angry that time." Jed whispered. "I wasn't trying to hurt Charlie. And it still happened. I... what have I turned into?"

Clare had no knowledge about this situation. There was nothing she knew about medicine or magic that would explain this.

- Jed is too dangerous for the streets now, give him to Woodsworth.
- Place Jed into quarantine in a local hospital.
- Get advice from Christopher Taggart, he knows light magic.
- Suspect that bottle of wine, turn it and Jed to Woodsworth.
- Turn Jed and the wine to the hospital.
- Take Jed and the wine to Christopher Taggart.
 
-Take Jed and the wine to Christopher Taggart

Clare stared at Jed. Her own fear overcoming her as she gripped the table behind her as she listened. He was normal before. Maybe he had a little light magic, but... I do too. She bit her lip to stop herself from thinking selfishly. Help the man first. "Okay, I trust you didn't do it on purpose. If you are afarid how to deal with your light magic I suggest you go to the Sun Temple nearby. The priest there may help you control it so you don't harm others again. I'll try to help your friend, but light magic isn't my specialty." She told them before looking at their friend. She sucked in a breath. She couldn't help, but imagine Pierce was on this table.
 
Taggart listened to the entire story with a look of concern. "Odd doesn't even begin to describe it. This is not how a healer's nature manifests. One must spend a good long while playing about without a mentor to oversee proper training, in order to get anywhere near the sort of uncontrollable draining you describe. We are dealing with a situation unprecedented in my experience and my experience is considerable."

When Clare pointed out the wine they brought, he frowned.

"A chemical that could turn an ordinary man into a monster? That's closer to magic than anything I can do." After a moment he added. "But I admittedly know nothing of chemistry. I think that's your department, Doctor."

"Am I going to be like this always?" Jed whimpered.

"No." Taggart looked right at Jed. "Either it goes away as mysteriously as it came, or I teach you how to control it. In no case does this end with you at the mercy of your impulses and no one to help you. Understand?"

Jed eyed him uncertainly.

"I wish I could give you answers, but I don't have any." Taggart continued, looking at Clare. "The only thing I can offer is sanctuary. Well, of a sort. If the authorities come for Mr Baker, I have no power to stop them. But other than that, I can provide a safe place for him to stay, out of the way, where he can't accidentally hurt anyone. Until we better understand the nature of this situation."

Jed jumped to his feet. "Doc, you're not going to leave me here with them!"

Taggart looked at Clare. It was up to her to change Jed's mind.

- Coax him into compliance.
- Tell Jed that if he doesn't comply he'll be handed over to the authorities.
- Persuade Jed that the healers are safe, with intellect and logic.
 
-Persuade Jed that the healers are safe with intellect and logic

Clare was disappointed he didn't know anything. She looked at Jeb worriedly before looking back at Taggart. "Right..." She turned to Jeb. "I know this is scary. But I can't think of any better place to let you stay, but here. You should be by light magic users if you need it. It won't be good to be around your friends or you'll hurt them again. If you are having trouble with light magic, you should be able to turn to people who are also light users. Please understand, Jeb. This is honestly the best bet to have." She said sincerely.
 
Slowly the panic faded from Jed's face. "I suppose you would know. You're not just a normal doctor, are you? You know about these things." He turned to Taggart. "Fine, I'll take the bleeding... the bleeding.... what did you call it?"

"Sanctuary." Taggart said with a small smile.

"That. I'll take it. Happy?"

Taggart nodded. "Sanctuary is granted, and I am, I suppose, happy to learn you think you can endure my company after all." Then he looked at Clare. "I'll keep you updated on his condition. And, let me know if you learn anything more, will you? This business is deeply troublesome."

She dealt with Jed's issue for the moment, but she still had to do something with the wine, as the priest would not be able to help her. She needed to be discreet about it though, because if Woodsworth caught whiff of her hiding a potential lighteater without telling him... well, things would not turn out good for her.

- Take the wine to the hospital.
- Examine the wine yourself.
 
-Examine the wine yourself

Clare smiled a little relieved they came to an understanding. She nodded to Christopher. "Yeah. Of course I will. I hope you keep him well and I'll try my best to figure this out." She didn't say much else before quickly leaving and walking back to her clinic.

She circled the wine in her hand as she walked. Maybe it's laced with something. I can imagine drugs being used for people who have light magic. But it worries me about what they want out of it. She was also worried about Woodsworth. She was already in deep water. I've never had such independence in my life. I don't know if it's a good idea...
 
Before Clare could set out on examining the wine, she remembered that every Armistice Day a ceremony at midday in Constance Park was held.

On the first anniversary of the treaty signing, it featured the unveiling of a statue honoring those who lost their lives defending the Empire. Since then, the occasion had mostly been marked with speeches by high-ranking members of the military and low-ranking members of the Royal Family. She had to go in uniform, like every other veteran she knew.

--

About half the crowd was uniformed men and women. Most of the other half were accompanying the veterans, or were there because they lost someone in the conflict. On the first anniversary, the crowd overflowed the park and the streets beyond, but life had moved on. The war undoubtedly seemed longer ago to most people than it did to Clare.

During the ceremony she caught Finch looking at her, wondering what he just read from her face.

- Say that you are fine.
- Say that you are feeling melancholic.
- Say that it's nice to see so many people gathered.
 
-Say that you are fine

She wanted to think more about the wine than the war. Not to say she didn't care about the war. She could say she cared way too much. She walked with her uniform suffocating her and stood presently with everyone else. Like she had every year.

She held Finch's arm and caught his eyes staring at her. She frowned as she turned her head to him. "What's wrong? If you are curious about me I'm fine. I've been here every year and you know how to feel by then." She said with a nod. She didn't understand him sometimes. She didn't look funny, did she?
 
"If you say so." Finch nodded. It was clear he wanted to say more, but he got no chance.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen." Announced the master of ceremonies. "His Royal Highness the Crown Prince!"

The Crown Prince stepped onto the balcony, spread his arms in acknowledgement of the applause, rested his hands on the rail before him and started the fifth and last speech of the afternoon.

It was a very confused speech. It begun well, but a few sentences in, it started to disintegrate. Within moments, it was obvious both that the Prince's speeches were usually written by someone else and that he was improvising this one. Clutching the railing with a death grip, he fumbled on.

He talked at length about the benefits of peace, about enemies who became brothers, about what a blessing it was to have the time and opportunity to learn about one's former adversary. He talked about the art and theater of Vlask, different in many ways from that of Mercia, and he made a reference to Madame Albescu, thanking Vlask for being willing to share their treasure.

The crowd was obviously uncomfortable.

The Prince concluded "Now that the guns are silent, we may have the pleasure of discovering our former enemy to be a worthy teacher. Just as Vlask may learn much from our inventors and our industrialists, Mercia may find that it lost something when it abandoned faith, and that Vlask can teach us to reclaim that part of ourselves. In the coming years, with the help of our friends, I hope to see Mercia become an Empire of artists as well as inventors, of philosophers as well as industrialists, of the sun blessed as well as the skeptics."

- You completely agree.
- You agree, but Vlask in not a good example to follow.
- You are horrified.
- You are now sure that the opera singer is influencing the Prince.
 
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-You agree, but Vlask is not a good example to follow

Clare listened and felt her shoulders lower as he kept talking. Her eyes looked around as more people started to get upset and whisper. She wanted to herself, but found her lips not moving. But when his speech ended, she tugged on Finch's clothes. I agree about wanting peace. But becoming like the Vlaski. They are the ones who wanted our country to perish. Killed so many of us before the war begun. I don't want to believe that all Vlaski are bad, but relationships with the country itself should be treated lightly. She turned to Finch and whispered. "Do you think it's the singer?"
 
Most of the veterans they passed on their way out of the park appeared to feel betrayed and insulted. The rest were attempting to excuse and defend the heir of the Kingdom for which they wore the uniform. No one looked happy.

"What the hell was that?" Finch only said, his expression very doubtful.

Woodsworth expressed interest in obtaining an answer to the same question, when Clare and Finch responded to his summons the following afternoon.

He rose from his desk, pacing the office. "You both saw that little display yesterday. We've muzzled the newspapers, but of course we cannot prevent those who heard the speech from telling whomever they choose. Before His Royal Highness stands in front of another crowd, we need to rid him of Madame's influence. The Queen herself has tasked me with detaching the heir from the opera singer. I need you two to find me a sufficiently effective way to do it."

- Say that you don't think it's the Madame's fault.
- Say that she'll return to Vlask soon enough anyway.
- Agree that her influence is to blame, but be skeptical about souring the romance.
- Be shocked about "muzzling the newspaper".
 
-Say that she'll return to Vlask soon enough anyway

Clare looked around and frowned. This can't be good. And she knew it wasn't good when Woodsworth summonded them. The last person I wanted to see. Hopefully he doesn't know about Jeb. She thought. She hadn't told Finch about it too. She just didn't want him to worry about it, or maybe she didn't trust him as much as she said she did.

She sat in the chair and let out a puff of air when he talked about the speech. "Right... Isn't she leaving to Vlask soon? Once she's gone she won't be able to influence him as much." She suggested, looking at Woodsworth and Finch.
 
"Not if he makes her a better offer." Woodsworth responde. "We have excellent reason to believe she is in fact his mistress, and Her Imperial Majesty is quite concerned that the Prince means to invite Madame Albescu to live in this country once the Opera season has ended. We need to separate them."

"We hardly know enough about either of them to recommend a strategy." Finch pointe out.

"Which is why I'm sending you on an information-gathering mission first of all. Madame is giving a salon the day after tomorrow. You will both attend. Under cover, of course, as wealthy industrialist investors. We'll reserve a suite for you at the Sanderson Hotel. Appropriate clothing will be delivered by the morning of the event, and I'll arrange for a carriage."

--

On the day of the salon, a heavy fog blanketed the city. Clare and Finch descended from the carriage focused on getting inside out of the chill.

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The salon was as elegant inside as out. Women in elaborate hats perched on the edges of chairs, holding teacups, while men stood talking in small groups. And then the smell hit Clare like a blow to the back of the head - a heavy, spicy incense she hadn't encountered since her days freeing captured cities from Vlaski occupation.

The tea was served from an ornate samovar. The men held tiny glasses of vodka. It was like a Mercian painting come to life, with a thousand tiny deliberate errors. The fog pushed against the windowpanes,and for a moment it seemed as though they have entered another world, a different Mercia where Vlaski influence was seeping through the cracks like incense under a door and everything was just a little wrong.

- Watch the Vlaskesaris with suspicion.
- Do your best to stay calm.
- You are no longer shaken by the Vlaski presence.
 
-Do your best to stay calm

Clare was slightly nervous about the idea. She was used to living in the low end of the city, that making the transition to high life made her cringe. She felt like her dress with choking her as her feet slice into her skin.

It didn't help when they made it to the saloon. She was tempted to lift her hand up to cover her nose, but she knew it'll mess up her makeup. Her eyes scanned the area and she tried to not stare. She wanted to. All the faces reminded her of people she has killed and people who tried to kill her. She didn't want to hold prejudice towards these people, but she found herself stiffing next to Finch. But, she made herself calm down. It's okay. Just do the mission.
 
Finch grasped her hand for a brief moment in comfort.

"Remember our covers. We are investors. I'm Mr Hawthorne and you are Miss Keelie. We should mingle around the salon first." He reminded her.

Mingling was always a good idea in order to assess the situation and this time, Clare had many opportune targets. Madame Albescu was sitting among the ladies around a table, drinking and tea and talking, occasionally laughing in her ringing voice. Her servants were all around, bleding into the scene, not drawing much attention. Perhaps talking to one of them would be difficult, but if one succeeded in persuading them, they would possibly know a great deal of the whole affair.

The musicians were preparing to start a waltz.

- Talk with Madame Albescu.
- Try to find a servant to talk to.
 
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-Try to find a servant to talk to

Clare looked up at Finch and smiled a little. "I know... Thank you." She said gently before slowly letting go of his hand. She nodded her head and soared off into the crowd trying to decide her next course of action.

There's the Prince, the madam herself, and the servants. She puzzled over her three options until her mind decided to talk to a servant. She has found people's lips are loose when talking about others rather then themselves. She saw this in her office plenty of times. This should be no exception.

She slowly approached the servent.
 
The closest of the serving staff was a footman standing close to the doors leading out of the salon. He was a man in his thirties, with short brown hair and light eyes, his features not very distinctive. A perfect person to blend into background. His arms were folded behind his back as he stood scanning the room in case someone called on him. When Clare approaching him he gave her a polite nod, the one he must have used so many times in his life, it was, after all, his job.

"How may I help you, madam?" He asked, inclining his head.

- Ask about Madame Albescu.
- Ask about the Prince and their relationship.
- Compliment the party.
 
-Ask about Madame Albescu

She approached the servent and smiled at him gently. "Good day. This is a lovely party. I'm quite glad I was able to attend. Although, my greatest desire," she leaned in as if she were going to tell him a secret, "is to talk to Madam Albescu. However, I don't know much about her. I only know the basic things you see in newspapers and of course her concerts. I want to be able to actually talk to her. I hope I'm correct in my assumption that servant like yourself may know. What was she like at home?"
 
"Madame?" The servant answered. "I do not know. I am from Mercia, miss." It was true, she did not hear any accent from the man.

Suddenly, the conversation of a group at the far end of the room turned passionate, then heated, drawing everyone else's eye. Madame Albescu, right in the middle of it, threw back her head and lauged. "Here." She said. "I shall show you."

As though out of nowhere, a trio of musicians arranged themselves behind her, one at the cimbalom, the second with a violin, and the third with a flute. Madame's voice blended with the music of the flute and it was a moment before Clare realize she was singing in Mercian. The servant, as everyone else in the room, seemed very drawn by it. It was a Vlaski song, yet translated, a song that song of sheep and shepards, of a hearth and home and family. Of simpler times.

"Madame sings wonderfully, that is all I know." The footman answered, a small smile on his face. "I think you will find her most approachable if you simply try speaking to her."

Clare would not get answers from him.

"You see?" Madame spoke when the applause died away. "That is the purpose of music, to open the door of the heart, to insinuate the ideas that cannot be spoken bluntly. I do still think it so sad that I may not speak of my faith without offending, but at least I may sing of it and perhaps that teaches those who hear me more about its sweet power than mere words could do."

Her tone rang with simple sincerity and the little hesitating accent that marred her otherwise perfect Mercian somehow only made her seem more genuine.

But her eyes were clear and hard, carefully watching the assembled company for its reaction

- Agree with her, posing as an ally.
- Agree with her about music, starting a civil conversation.
- Challenge her opinion about sun worship.
- Rebuke her for using music to manipulate people.
 
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