>[4] Has he done this to you before???
>[5] Flip out.
You look sideways at the object. You close your eyes and reopen them. You prowl, tigerish, around Richard, hoping that a different perspective will unearth its mysteries. "You can hold it," he says, amused. "It won't make any difference."
You hold it. You turn it over and over in your hand. You watch it catch the light.
"What do you think it is? Guess."
Small, roundish, metal. "A… coin?"
You don't even need to guess: it's obviously a coin. The heraldic snake is stamped on one side. On the other is— well, it's your face, wearing the Crown. Isn't that nice?
>[+1 ID: 4/10]
"Yes, yes, very funny. Give it back." Richard plucks the coin from your hand, and in his palm it's something you can't identify. "It's a key."
"No it isn't," you protest. "I know what a key looks—"
You don't know what a key looks like.
"Right." He smiles, tight-lipped. "You can't know, Charlie. You have no capacity to know. It's just how the world works."
"No, it's not!" You snatch the "key" back. "It's what you did. Are you going to put it back, or will I have to do it?"
"Would you like to try?"
The implied answer is 'no, you moron, you would not,' but you don't back down from a challenge. "Yes! What do I do?"
"Hm." He touches your shoulder. "You're independent. You'll figure it out."
The world goes black. You prod your face anxiously as your eye— the bad eye, the iron eye— grinds against its socket.
"Richard," you say, "don't be a—"
The paper skin of the world has been made transparent to you. There's nothing but filament underneath.
It arcs overhead, impossibly thin and glowing a steady blue-white. It knots and winds in complex patterns underneath. You have no substance except a coruscating knot where your heart should be. It's frayed at the ends.
>[-2 ID: 2/10]
Richard, one long braided strand, glows whiter than the rest.
? STOP GIBBERING, CHARLOTTE. IT'S NOT POLITE. ?
His voice doesn't seem to come from anywhere. You'd feel sick if there were any of you left to feel.
? NO. YOU'RE TOO WEAK. THIS WAS A MISTAKE. ?
There's nothing between the filaments. Not darkness— void. You could fall into it and there'd never be anything of you. If you slipped, for even a second, your heart would unravel and you would fall. If you…
? NOW. ?
You gasp furiously for air with real lungs. Your real face is dripping with real water. You stare into the shallow depths of the real font.
Richard hauls you up by your collar and sets you on the step. You wring your hair out reproachfully.
"So," he says. "How was that?"
You say nothing. Your throat is dry.
"You don't seem to listen, you understand, so it's more efficient to exhibit it. Let's leave the fixing to—"
"Do you see that all the time?"
He's momentarily stymied. "What, does it matter?"
"No, I guess." You rub the water off your face with your sleeve. You wish you had a handkerchief. "I just wanted to know. It's not a crime to ask questions."
"…No, I don't see that 'all the time'."
"You don't?"
"You know some reptiles see the heat of living beings? They don't have a separate 'heat setting,' it's just part of their natural vision. It's like that."
"Is that biology?"
"I suppose so."
You're tired, you realize. And finished. You're finished with being in a place that doesn't exist, seeing things that don't exist, talking to a man who doesn't exist but tells you horrible things nonetheless. You're getting answers you didn't ask for and don't care about and perspectives you didn't ask for, either (okay, you did, but you didn't mean it). You still don't know what a key looks like. You're trapped here forever and are never going back home.
And, God-damn it, more questions are bubbling up on your lips. You massage your temples like a madwoman in the hopes they'll maybe disappear. But if you don't ask them now, when? When Monty is throwing the (rules and procedures) book at you? When Madrigal is— you have no idea what the woman could possibly want from you, but surely nothing good?
You're a slave to convenience. "Have you done the… the key thing before? To me?"
"I don't veto full strings, as a rule. Alterations? Of course. Additions? Yes. Only for our betterment, Charlie."
"Yeah, yeah." This can be discussed later. The unchanging light scalds your eyes. "The man in the— Lucky. Why wouldn't the alligators eat him?"
He waves his hand dismissively. "Wind Court. They've probably been mucking around with their blood, or... you know how they are."
You don't, really, but it doesn't matter. Not now. "What are you?"
He's picking at his fingernails with a cuticle pusher. "A snake, Charlotte."
There's not much more to say than that, you think. The incessant burbling of the font behind you is going to drive you insane if you stay here a minute longer. If you aren't already insane. It's possible. It's possible. You close your eyes, and then open them, and then close them again. "How do I leave?"
He smiles, broadly, but as always it fails to reach the blank blue eyes. "Wake—"
(Back through that tunnel.)
?—up. Oh, good.?
The light is no longer an aggressive shade of pink. Raucous laughter filters through the thin canvas walls of your tent.
You collapse back from an aching sitting position onto your cot.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
>[1] You never want to talk to anybody ever again. Go do… anything else. Whatever. (Regain ID.)
>[2] Monty won't get *mad* at you if you're horribly late. But he will look vaguely disappointed, and that's exactly the same thing. You need to get it over with.
>[3] Madrigal will get mad at you. Which admittedly might be entertaining, but also won't make your life any easier. Go speak with her quick.
>[4] You still don't know what happened, exactly, last evening. Find wherever Ellery's wandered off to.
>[5] Write-in.
The thought of being condescended to or yelled at right now is too much to bear. All you want to do is place the pillow firmly over your eyes and sleep.
?Networking is a valuable skill, Charlie.?
But that's not going to happen. Fine. Fine. You stand up, instead, feint towards the door—
?Wise choice.?
—and instead turn 90 degrees towards your desk, salvaged from the dumping ground. As distasteful as someone else's garbage is, the thing is actual wood and therefore still higher-quality than any paper imitation. (Or that's what you tell yourself.) It's the only cluttered thing in the entire room, littered with the remnants of your last project.
You kick out the stool and, above Richard's protests, sit down. You know he doesn't approve of this. But then, when does he approve of anything?
>[1] It's your anonymous column in the local ragsheet. The owner's been pressuring you to make the leap to real news, but that would make you, God forbid it, a *journalist*. You, a journalist. Ridiculous.
>[2] It's your stargazing. Well, "star"gazing— stars aren't typically so fast or so hungry. But that only makes it more exciting. Your maps from the other night are still lying incomplete on the desk.
>[3] It's your scale miniatures. They stand in neat, tiny rows against the wall of the tent, hand-molded and painted in the best dyes you can afford. It feels like ages since you had the opportunity to make one, but if you can manage to blow off your summoners long enough…
>[4] Write-in [subject to veto— it has to fit].
From what you've heard (he isn't shy about complaining), Richard especially hates that your miniatures, hand-molded and hand-painted, aren't practical for anything. For the most part, they're of buildings and landmarks that caught your eye. You're proudest of a three-inch rendition of your old pillar in clay and bone. You'd caught a dartling just for its delicate ribcage, back— back—
Oh, you can't remember. Years ago, probably. When home was fresh in your mind.
You bite your lip and push the pillar behind a figurine of Richard you're not fond of. It's a good enough likeness, you suppose— not that there's much likeness to speak of— but it lacks something subtle in its expression. Or maybe you can't capture the ripple of the iron properly in crushed charcoal.
You turn that away from you too, just in case, and drag the block of clay out from under the desk. It's the refined stuff, not full of sticks and leaves and whatnot, and consequently hugely expensive. You open the drawer, too, and take your molding tools out. But the little toothpicks and scrapers are too spindly to cut the full block, and so it's with your pocketknife you saw a lump off.
You consider the new clay for a moment, turning it this way and that on the desk. This will be a cutaway, you think, not least because you don't know what the exterior of the (did Richard say what it was? Did you not ask?)—
?Manse.?
—the manse looks like. Or if it has an exterior at all, you suppose. But it doesn't matter when all you have is a rough lump…
You spend the next forty minutes meticulously excising the interior of the clay, leaving three perfect walls and an even floor. How will you do the marble? Bone has the color, but it leaves a polish to be desired. Some sort of coating...
>[+6 ID: 8/10]
The doorflap to your tent scrapes as it's roughly pushed aside. You stand, almost knocking your stool over, and lean protectively over the unfinished miniature. If someone saw—!
"Charlotte!" It's Madrigal. Of course it is. Who else would disrespect your privacy so severely? "So you've been hiding in your tent, huh. Whatcha so busy with that you can't—" She's leaning, trying to see— you hear a miniature topple as you back into the desk. "—spare a minute, huh? Or are you just too prissy to come talk with the commoners?"
You don't like Madrigal, at all. You don't like her gleaming eyes. You don't like her sharkish grin. You don't like her low-cut tank top, either. It's not proper. Downright whorish, even.
"No," you say, "I'm just—" You have to stand on your tiptoes to match her craning neck. "—sorry I have obligations, and can't just loaf around waiting for a summons from the quartermaster— you know that's not a real job, right?"
"It's more authority than you have," she says, but finally relents at trying to look past you. "'Spite whatever you think. Come outside."
"I don't have to go outside," you say with the largest smile you can force on. "You can't make me."
"Oh, right, because the sun hurts your nice porcelain skin. Sorry, we're going outside— your tent gives me the shivers, honestly. It's so empty."
"Minimalist."
"I could give two shits. Out."
She gestures towards the door.
>[1] She does nominally rank higher than you— as in, she has a rank and you don't. And Monty already wants to see you. Exit in as face-saving a way as possible.
>[2] You'll leave, but you're making it clear it's not by any sort of choice. The metaphorical biting and scratching, etc.
>[3] You're actual royalty. You have a crown, for God's sake, even if you're not sure… where. (Damn.) If you must talk, it's happening right here.
>[4] You're actual royalty. She can wait until this miniature is further along, thank you very much.
>[5] Write-in.
"You first!" you say. "I'll… be out in a moment."
Madrigal squints, then, apparently believing this to be a worthy sacrifice, turns heel and strides out. You exhale shakily. It's just a matter of opening the desk drawer and sweeping everything— the clay shavings, the tools, your papers— in. Except for the unfinished model, which you pick up with a careful hand and place on top. You wait another minute before stepping outside. She can't be made to feel important.
As you discover, it's not a beautiful day: the water has a grimy, sulfurous feel to it, and the light from above is dim. Madrigal waits, hands on hips. "Oh, good," she says. "Look, I don't want to talk right here, either. There's, you know, people."
She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. Indeed, Eloise and a man you don't recognize are playing cards on a rickety table. Enough people come in and out that you can't be bothered to know their faces. "Why," you say. "Planning to garrote me in private?"
"What? No. I just— shit, it's personal, Charlotte. Not that you'd know."
It's personal! It's personal? What could Madrigal possibly want from you with a personal matter? Do you care? Absolutely not. A personal matter!
"Oh," you say, disinterestedly. "Isn't that interesting."
She narrows her eyes. "Yeah huh. You're thrilled to get your nasty little paws all over someone else's business. Let's go."
You follow her down the sandy path out of camp. "I never said that," you comment.
"It's all over your face."
?I keep telling you your poker face is terrible, and you claim 'the people here are so stupid they never notice'. If you'd like to reflect on—?
You would not.
Madrigal stops, finally, at the intersection to the larger road. She leans against the beat-up signpost. "So."
"So?"
"So, you were with Ellery last night?"
It's that kind of personal. "No!" you object. "God, no. No. I'm a lady. Eugh! Blegh! He was helping with a personal matter."
Madrigal frowns a little. "He's not so bad if you get to know him..."
You both contemplate this.
"…Uh, but no. No. I meant just, you know, out with him. Did you notice anything weird about him? Did he say anything about me? For example?"
She grins pathetically at your skeptical look. "I'm just concerned."
>[1] Yes, you did notice something weird about him. Beyond the normal. (Write-in: what?)
>[2] No, you didn't notice anything. (Not that you were paying much attention.)
>[3] You're not answering anything without context. What is there to be concerned about? And why *him*?
>[4] This is not worth your time. Get back to your project.
>[5] Write-in.
— avert your eyes, ladies— cutoffs. IMMORAL!! DISGUSTING!! What? It's totally normal? Charlotte has bizarrely uptight standards of moral decency, even compared to the rest of the setting? I don't know what you're talking about.
Rate the SELF-OBVIOUS WHORISHNESS of Madrigal's outfit!
