Vivienne was not surprised that Lise had won. She, Vivienne, could never deserve someone like Blaze. Not that Lise deserved him, but Lise was her friend and her partner. Even if Vivienne had been the first to approach him, the first to touch his hand, she could never have won him. She was lucky he knew she existed. Besides, it would be wrong to stand in the way of her partner’s happiness.

  —This sort of noble sacrifice was exactly in line with Vivienne’s way of thinking, and her heart thudded with the romanticism of it. Which, really, was almost as good as a heart thudding with joy.

  Vivienne exchanged an embrace with Lise, and nearly fainted when Blaze touched her cheek, thanking her sincerely and promising eternal grat-itude. In a dream, Vivienne floated back to the wooden door. It had changed in her absence, gaining details a wise agent would have examined.

  Vivienne let her eyes slide off. It was time to be not an agent, but a friend. She stepped through the door and pulled it closed behind her. From this side, it looked like a chalk outline on the wall, which was precisely what it was. Vivienne erased the outline and dusted chalk off, so no one would know exactly where she had drawn. Then she cleaned the whole area again, this time with a handkerchief. She wrapped up eraser and handkerchief and carried them deeper into the Path, not letting a single particle of chalk escape. Wooden floor gave way to cobbles, and she stopped at the fountain at the end of the Path. Its water bubbled and shimmered with rainbows.

  Before anyone could stop her, if there was anyone to stop her, Vivienne gave her ring to the fountain. It was the only thing she had inherited from her mother, and she valued it more than anything else—which was the least such a fountain could demand. She told it, “No one from the Agency must find Lise Fawcett, soon to be Lise Fireblink. I give you the chalk to her world, to do with as you will.” She dropped the hand-kerchief and eraser in the fountain and watched as they floated, bobbed, dipped, and finally disappeared beneath the rainbow surface. She stood there a while longer, feeling melancholy and tragically heroic, before returning to the Path Room.

  The techs exclaimed in shock when Vivienne emerged alone. Shakily, she tried to tell them it was all right, but she suspected that her fumbling explanation only made things worse. Giving up, she submitted to decontamination and let one of the techs walk her home.

  An agent’s report was due within twenty-four hours. Vivienne lay on her bed, not wanting to start, staring at the ceiling. She got up to pace. She sat by her computer and typed frenetically, tears streaming down her face. She left nothing out; there was no need to lie. Nothing she could say would hurt Lise, and nothing she had done deserved shame.

  “I do not know what Lise and Blaze will do to seal the scenario from the inside,” she wrote; “we thought it best not to discuss the matter. I only hope Management can understand that, given the irregular circumstances, the actions we took were the only possible ones to promote the safety and happiness of those involved.”

  Not stopping to reread what she’d written, Vivienne hurried the report to her superior and sat, fidgeting, as he reviewed it.

  The Subdirector of Fantasy, Verner Peake, had greeted her somberly and consoled her over the loss of her partner. His attitude changed rapidly as he began to read: he blanched, flushed, and purpled. His breath snorted out in bullish billows. He glared at her over the edge of the report. He read it over a second time, in even higher color, without comment.

  Vivienne waited sadly. She knew he wasn’t happy. “Would you like some time to digest it before replying?” she asked generously.

  “Go back to your suite and stay there before I lose my temper!” Peake barked.

  Since it was clear to Vivienne that his temper was, in fact, already lost, she scampered. He’d need a solid day to cool down, by her estimate. He’d probably also punish her in some way, but she was willing to accept that. Steampunk sewers and farting comedy goblins, probably. Unpleas-ant, but worth it for her partner’s happiness. For Blaze’s life.

  Vivienne’s assignments typically came every five to eight days, but it was early the next morning that Peake summoned her back to his office. She brushed her hair and reminded herself to stay calm. Peake had been known to shout to relieve his feelings. She told her reflection it was all right to cry, if she had to, though it was better to retain a calm dignity.

  Ten minutes later, Vivienne arrived at Peake’s office. She settled her shoulders and knocked. When Peake snapped at her to enter, she pushed the door open.

  And lost her breath. Because Peake wasn’t alone in the office. Next to him, deathly still and watching her, was the Director of Speculative, the punisher of agents. The Skeleton.

  Cold sweat bloomed between Vivienne’s shoulder blades, and the small hairs on her neck and arms pricked. She had only seen the Skeleton in person once before, and that from a distance. They said he practically never emerged from his office nowadays. They whispered about the horrible things he did, about how he punished diso-bedient agents. About what it meant to be expulsed.

  Impossible. The Agency was a good place, a nice place, a place that helped people. You mustn’t judge others by how they looked, and it was wrong to listen to gossip! She dismissed those rumors utterly and stood strong before her superiors.

  (There was also a fourth person in that room, but Vivienne did not notice her, because she did not wish to be noticed.)

  “Sit down, Ms. Ship,” Subdirector Peake said.

  Vivienne moved to obey . . . and then processed what he’d called her: Ms. Ms. Ship, not Agent Ship.

  What . . . was this? The room spun. She hardly knew how she made it to the turquoise-padded office chair without falling over, to the broad mahogany desk separating her from the directors.

  “You are here today,” said Peake, highly flushed again, meaty fist clenched against the orange suede of his bulging vest, “because you aban-doned your part-ner, betrayed the Agency, and condemned countless inno-cents to a Fantasy.”

  Vivienne could feel herself going as red as Peake. Abandoned? Betrayed? Condemned? How could Peake possibly have interpreted her report that way? “You—misunderstand,” she protested, fumbling her words. “I know our solution was unusual—”

  “There is no question as to your guilt,” Peake said. He looked so angry. How had she not realized how angry he was? She had never seen anyone this angry. “You admit everything in your report and are a fool to expect any other response. You are a disgrace to the Agency. I hereby strip you of your title, your position, and your rights. You will be expulsed immediately and without hear-ing.”

  “But—I didn’t—”

  “If you had left any other option, we might have been able to save you from the worst. But you didn’t. The scenario will continue to grow, and we will have no way to reach it unless and until it encroaches on another genre. Agents may die defeating it in the end, especially given that you have strengthened our enemy. Expulsion is too good for you.”

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  “But—that’s not—”

  He’s so angry. Anger beyond comprehension; anger beyond reason-ing. Anger that stunned her to see, that tore her words away. Nothing she could say could breach such anger, but it was wrong. Everything was wrong. This was a nightmare. Just sitting here, waiting for expulsion.

  Why am I sitting here?

  If she was to be expulsed without hearing, why had they bothered drag-ging her in? She couldn’t believe they’d make her suffer unnec-essarily, and agents didn’t get expulsed from inside offices. Did they? How could they? Where would they? It wasn’t an enormous office. There was a set of gray stairs in the corner, but they only led up to a row of books and files. Behind the directors was another bookcase, staggered and mostly holding trophies and reference guides. A window to the right, blue silk curtains to the left. Behind the curtains?

  Inevitably, her eyes dragged back to the directors: apoplectic Peake and—

  The Skeleton. What powers did he have? He looked so ordinary and so wrong, sitting there in a black pinstripe suit that clung to his frame, laced gold metal mask under a black trilby. Why was he here?

  There were a lot of logic puzzles and illogic puzzles in Fantasy. The trick was to start from the right premise. For example: on the premise that people were nice deep down and that the Agency was a good place, what should she do? What were they waiting for? Did they want her to apologize?

  When you do something wrong, it’s not enough to apologize. You have to promise not to do it again, and you have to make it better.

  She hadn’t done anything wrong, but what mattered here was what they thought. Her pride was irrelevant. Vivienne stood and bowed formally to them both, in true Fantasy style. “I acted as I believed best, but I see now I acted in error. I cannot undo my actions, but I can make amends. As no one was hurt by my mistake, I ask that you forgive me and let me try again.”

  Peake made a disbelieving noise, but Peake didn’t matter anymore; and the Skeleton remained silent.

  “Sir,” she said, “my error was severe, but it follows two years’ faithful service. Please allow me to prove myself and regain your trust.”

  “You have a lot of gall—” Peake began, and went on full force. Vivienne kept her eyes on the Skeleton, letting Peake’s words flow past. She could feel the Skeleton’s gaze on her, the weight of his decision.

  No one ever gossiped about what the Skeleton did to you, if you said you were sorry.

  The Skeleton pronounced, “Your actions and judgment deserve expul-sion.” It was the first time Vivienne had heard him speak, and she recoiled as much from the echoing crackle that characterized his voice as from his words. “Do you truly wish to expiate your sins?”

  She’d known it! The rumors about the Skeleton were wrong! He was decent, beneath that mask. She nodded vigorously. “I do.”

  “Horror is in dire need of agents,” the Skeleton said. “If you wish to be redeemed, work there for five years.”

  “H-Horror?” Vivienne echoed. That was almost worse than expulsion.

  “You will be granted your current salary and a partner,” the Skeleton went on. “Horror has many elements in common with Fantasy; your expe-rience has not been forgotten. Choose wisely, Ms. Ship.”

  Ms. There it was again. And what, Vivienne wondered wildly, was she without her Agent? Only the nothing she’d been two years ago, when her high school stupidity had blocked every path forward. If she were expulsed—

  (they said horrible things)

  —what then?

  It’d only be five years, Vivienne told herself. After that, I can go back to Fantasy. Besides, Horror is speculative too, like he said. It’ll have magic! It won’t be so bad. And even if it is . . . isn’t there something wonderfully beautiful about being punished unjustly for protecting those you love?

  Vivienne looked with clear eyes at Peake and saw how unpleasant it must be for him, the way the Skeleton was going over his head, forcing him to eat his punishment. She pitied him, and she forgave him. To the Skeleton, she nodded professionally. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I appreciate your faith in me; I won’t let you down. Who will be training me?”

  The Skeleton folded gloved fingers on the desk, and Vivienne got the uneasy impression she’d amused him. “You mistake the situation, Agent Ship,” he said, and she reveled in the title. “The reason for this leniency is that Horror has acquired a promising new recruit and needs someone to train her.”

  Vivienne shook her head. “I may have worked Speculative, but I don’t have any experience in Horror.”

  Peake shifted, like he was suddenly uncomfortable and wanted to escape his own office. Vivienne frowned at him and was struck by the truth. “You don’t mean she’s completely green!” she exclaimed, aghast. “You’re not going to start a greenie in Horror!”

  “She insisted,” said the Skeleton, “and under the circumstances, we agreed.”

  That didn’t make sense. “But no one—or only a sicko—”

  “Agent Lawrence,” the Skeleton interrupted. “Meet your partner.”

  Vivienne’s head juddered to the left, and her body followed of its own accord. In the corner, watching her, stood some sort of—half-gremlin, maybe? No, as she came into the light, Vivienne could see she was human. A girl, scrawny and ill-looking but not malformed. She met Vivienne’s gaze with old, gray eyes, and Vivienne suddenly became aware of her own gigantic scale, the grotesque fatness of her thighs and hair, the absurd pigmen-ta-tion of her skin, the straightness of her teeth that could only have been the product of gluttonous wealth. Then the feeling vanished, and Vivienne tucked the memory of it into nicer, more appropriate channels.

  “Your first assignment initiates in thirty hours,” the Skeleton said. “Your belongings are currently being transferred to Horror Suite G. You are to have no unnecessary contact with agents in other genres.”

  Vivienne shook her head again. “I don’t understand,” she said. “There’s been a mistake somewhere.”

  “I warned you,” said Peake to the Skeleton. “Worldview.”

  “This,” said the Skeleton, indicating the child, “is Agent Nebekah Lawrence. She is a new recruit and your partner. You will train her in Horror.”

  “But she can’t be an agent,” Vivienne explained patiently. “She doesn’t meet the Agency’s age requirement, let alone the eighteen-year-old mini-mum for Horror.”

  The Skeleton’s gaze remained steady, unperturbed. “Exceptions may be made for exceptional cases. Suitably trained, Agent Lawrence will make a fine addition to Horror. You will see to that.”

  “But—she’s a child!”

  “She’s older than she looks.”

  Vivienne noted he didn’t dispute that Nebekah was underage. She shook her head a third time. “I can’t. It’d be wrong.”

  “Then Agent Lawrence will work Horror solo.”

  He meant it. He really meant it. How could he mean it? This didn’t make sense. Children didn’t become agents, and they definitely didn’t work in Horror. It was unthinkable, monstrous. Vivienne put her face in her hands and, when that wasn’t enough, raised it to try to explain to the direc-tors. They sat back, witnessing her. To his credit, Peake looked more uncomfortable than ever. Guilty, she supposed. But nothing Vivienne said impacted the Skeleton; and little Nebekah remained impassive, even faintly scornful.

  Maybe, Vivienne suspected, the girl didn’t understand. Nebekah hadn’t spoken, despite being spoken about. Intake was supposed to deal with any language issues, but if they hadn’t, it’d explain why she wasn’t protesting.

  Vivienne whipped back to the directors. “It is wrong,” she informed them, “to put a child in danger.”

  “Again, you misunderstand your situation,” the Skeleton said. “Agent Lawrence insisted on working only in Horror—and it was that insistence that saved you.”

  Vivienne’s heart pounded. She fought to understand, to unravel the riddle. This child had insisted on Horror, and the directors had felt obliged to honor her insistence. That meant . . . Vivienne was meant to convince her otherwise? So that’s what was going on.

  Vivienne heaved a breath and turned to Nebekah. The girl stood three strides away, eying her warily. Vivienne had gotten pretty worked up; she must have alarmed her. In unthreatening movements, she approached the girl and knelt. She took one of Nebekah’s hands, and the girl allowed it, only turning her wrist slightly to guide Vivienne’s grasp. Her skin was paper-dry, her brittle nails bitten short. This close, Vivienne could smell the sour tang on her breath, see how lankly her broken hair lay against her scalp.

  “You have been very brave,” Vivienne told her. “I don’t know the details, but I guess it must have been a Horror. It invaded your home, killed people you love. It tried to kill you too, but you were clever and lucky, and you survived until the Agency arrived. That is amazing, and I’m sure you will make a good agent in the future.

  “But you don’t know what you’re getting into, with Horror; and though you can always be brave and clever, you can’t always be lucky. Horror kills even experienced agents. Normally, they”—she indicated the directors—“would never consider sending a new recruit, let alone a child, into Horror. But they’re desperate for help, and so they’re willing to send you to die. You need to tell them to start you some-where safer; they’ll listen to you.”

  Nebekah tilted her head slightly as she listened. Even her eyes looked dried out, like two flakes of ash.

  “Can’t you see?” Vivienne pleaded softly. “They’re taking advantage of you.”

  “Adults always take advantage of me,” Nebekah said, dry as the desert. “This time, I have chosen how.”