Marybelle Evercott stepped through the door and strode confidently up to the small group of men, who fell silent at her intrusion. “You must be Mr. Baxter,” she said, easily picking out the one built least like an ape, “Marybelle Evercott, representing the Brightsilver Institute. I’m here to see your employer, Mr. Cleversby? I have an appointment.” Shifting her umbrella to her left hand, she extended her right.

  The other men shifted with a few small “hmphs” and other grunts. Two of them stood impolitely close, looking down on her from their greater height. They were rather rough-looking, with sleeves rolled up to show powerful arms. She took little notice. Mr. Baxter still hadn’t taken her hand, so she let it drop and rest on the handle of her umbrella. “Now it is quite a lovely hat I admit, and I'm rather proud of it, but one would think your associates had never seen one before. I’m afraid I’m simply not all that interesting, gentlemen, though if it pleases you to look at it you could do so more politely a few steps back and have a better view.” She looked firmly at Baxter. “I have an appointment.”

  “Your Institute did request an appointment, Marybelle—”

  “Mrs. Evercott, please, Mr. Baxter, this is business.”

  “—but I’m afraid you’ve come out for nothing, as Mr. Cleversby did not see any benefit to the meeting and did not respond to your organization’s threat nor set an appointment.”

  “He did strike me as rather dull,” answered Mrs. Evercott dismissively, “But as we have come out this way, I’m sure he could spare a moment, nonetheless. It’s much more to his benefit than ours. And personally, I have little interest in the whole affair. This is all much too complicated for me. I do like to keep things simple. But the director thinks we should extend the opportunity, and so I am here to offer it to Mr. Cleversby, should he be intelligent enough to accept.”

  “Clever enough.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Everyone says ‘clever’ when they… Mr. Clevers—never mind.”

  “Does that pass for wit?”

  “To some, apparently.”

  “I see. Regardless, I have an appointment.”

  “You don’t,” he snapped, “now leave.”

  Mrs. Evercott signed. “Oh, I’d like nothing more Mr. Baxter. The chemical odor is getting to me.”

  “This is the office, Mrs. Evercott. The workshop is in an entirely different building across the street.”

  “Well,” she looked up into the eyes of one of the men leering down on her, “whatever that stench is, then.” He scowled and raised a fist threateningly. Suppressing a smile, she looked down at Baxter. “But I’m afraid I’m here on the director’s instructions. He insists that Mr. Cleversby be offered the opportunity to cease all criminal activity voluntarily. He’s very kind. He’s such a generous man that he’s even won me over quite thoroughly, and so on his behalf I must also insist.”

  Baxter glared at her for a moment, then shrugged. He waved a hand at her, and the brutes began to move.

  “Ahem.”

  “Ah, I see you’ve made it in, Mr. Clay.”

  “Do you need assistance, Mrs. Evercott?”

  “Oh, not at all, but if you’re keen to provide some I shan’t refuse, Mr. Clay.”

  Looking back at the men, Mrs. Evercott found she’d lost their focus entirely. It was really no surprise that Mr. Clay could command attention so easily and so profoundly, though she was a little jealous. The real surprise was the way he could seem to disappear from anyone’s awareness, entirely uninteresting and overlooked, until such time as he chose to be noticed.

  The man was almost ten feet tall and nearly as wide. (She knew he must have struggled to get through the door behind her, and yet as long as she’d kept talking their attention had remained entirely on her.) His hat was chosen very particularly so that it cast an obscuring shadow over his face, but he removed it now so they could all clearly see that he had no face at all. Mr. Clay was a man of clay, and entirely featureless from collar to hat.

  One of the men had been about to make a grab for Mrs. Evercott when Mr. Clay had announced himself, and he stood that way still. He stared blankly at the living statue as they both looked back at him, but his arm was still outstretched as though he still intended to grab Mrs. Evercott by her sleeve.

  “This is most impolite,” opined Mr. Clay, his voice rumbling from his head or perhaps somewhere in his chest (Mrs. Evercott was never quite sure, as both were above her head and she thought it rude to ask). “You would not appreciate if I were to take hold of you.” For demonstration purposes he did so, lifting the man off of his feet and setting him down again at a more polite distance, where he promptly fainted.

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  “Please announce us to Mr. Cleversby, Mr. Baxter,” said Mrs. Evercott, drawing a watch from her bag to check the time impatiently, “We do have an appointment, and as of this moment we are late.”

  “You—the two of—you two want to—”

  “Oh dear, I’m afraid I misspoke. No, a private meeting will suffice. I’m sure Mr. Clay would be glad to remain here and entertain you and your associates, Mr. Baxter.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Evercott shortly found herself in a large office. “Please take a seat, Ms… ?”

  “Mrs. Evercott, Mr. Cleversby.” Mrs. Evercott did not take a seat. “Did Mr. Baxter not tell you?”

  “It seems certain details of your discussion drove certain others from his mind.”

  “I can’t imagine. He did not seem terribly well put-together, Mr. Cleversby. Rude, ill-informed, and now a poor memory. Why, he tried to claim that I didn't have an appointment! It is most kind of you to take pity on such an incompetent, but he may not be suited to such a customer-facing role, I must say.”

  “You’re not a customer.”

  “No. All the same, Mr. Cleversby.”

  “Please, Mrs. Evercott, my first name is Anthony. You may call me that. And yours is?”

  “Marybelle, but you may not.”

  “Please take a seat Mary—Mrs. Evercott.”

  “There is no need, Mr. Cleversby. This meeting would be over with if you would simply allow me to get to the point, and then both of us could get some fresh air away from that pervasive chemical odor.”

  Cleversby raised an eyebrow. “The workshop is across the street, Mrs. Evercott.”

  “So Mr. Baxter said. Well, whatever that stench is, anyway.”

  “I was… surprised to hear that you had someone like Mr. Clay with you.”

  “He does stand out. Rather tall.”

  “Quite. I was also surprised that once he was with you, you did not wish to stay together.”

  “Oh, Mr. Clay isn’t much of a talker. He’d be rather bored, I’m afraid.”

  “I would have thought the point of his presence was intimidation, if not violence. You did not wish to threaten me? Your director’s letter was—”

  “I do not need Mr. Clay’s assistance for either of those things, Mr. Cleversby.”

  There was silence for a moment as Mr. Cleversby considered. “That was ambiguous.”

  “Was it?”

  “One could take it as threatening.”

  “I believe you are more familiar with threats than I am, Mr. Cleversby.”

  “Quite.” He looked at something behind her. The tell was almost annoying, as though she needed it. As though she hadn’t already noticed.

  “Allow me to rephrase, then. I do not consider Mr. Clay dangerous, frightening, or otherwise threatening in the least.”

  Mr. Cleversby was not impressed by that response. “Maybe not to his associate, but to your foes?”

  “Why, I’ll have you know that Mr. Clay and I once did have such an altercation. It was how we met, before I was employed at the Institute.”

  “Don’t be dense,” he said curtly, “I mean his capability for physical violence, not a debate.”

  “As do I! I don’t consider him particularly capable of such. In our line of work, we do sometimes contend with ruffians and ne’er-do-wells, and we do prepare for such eventualities. Mr. Clay and I spar regularly.”

  “Really now.”

  “Oh quite! Even the least capable combatants may have need to defend themselves. Why, what if Mr. Clay and I were separated and some ruffian came along? And I’m afraid I’m just not that experienced at this sort of thing. But Mr. Clay works with me diligently, and he insists that I’m more capable than I think I am.”

  Yawning, Mrs. Evercott leaned back. “Though I must admit, I am a little more confident in our ability to defend ourselves independently than I was when we first met.”

  He considered her. Or perhaps he was considering something just behind her. Difficult to say. “His appearance and prodigious size scare off most assailants, but the man really had no idea what he was doing in a fight. Against the sort of foes he runs up against with the Institute, those who aren’t scared off and actually fight back, he was really quite helpless—as one of them, I should know.”

  He definitely hadn’t been paying attention to her, though he did seem to have picked up on something she had said, looking more directly at her with a slightly confused look. “But he insists I’m a capable teacher, and he vows that he’ll best me someday. That remains a lofty, far-off goal.”

  Mrs. Evercott idly rested her umbrella over her shoulder. The tip of it was less than a quarter of an inch from the nose of the man sneaking up behind her. Mr. Cleversby fixed him with a stern gaze. She turned and fixed him with a sterner one. She did not move the umbrella, but it was now half an inch from his nose.

  “Rufus, if you would.” Cleversby’s voice was sharp, his expression irate.

  “Rufus, I suggest you do not.” Evercott’s voice was matter-of-fact, her expression neutral. She did not move the umbrella, but it was now a full inch from his nose.

  Mr. Cleversby stood up behind his desk. “Rufus, who pays your wages?” he snarled.

  Mrs. Evercott did not move at all. “Rufus, would you like to remain in a fit state to collect said wages?” she asked calmly.

  She did not move the umbrella, but it was now two feet from his nose. The distance continued to increase. “Um, boss?” He sounded nervous.

  “Oh for—fine then, you can deliver my answer to your director just as well dead.” Mr. Cleversby reached under his desk.

  “I would have expected a more concise threat, honestly.”

  Mr. Cleversby raised the pistol, but just as it came over the lip of his desk the tip of the umbrella collided forcefully with the end of the barrel, driving the gun back and out his now-broken fingers.

  “Well then, if that’s the game you wish to play.” Mrs. Evercott sighed. “I can’t say I expected any better, but the director insisted. I said, ‘Let’s just keep it simple,’ but no! And yet here we are, doing things the easy way after all.”

  Rufus finally tried to grab her, but she was already across the office, one boot up on Cleversby’s desk, pressing down on his previously good hand and breaking at least one more finger. Picking up her skirt she brought up her other boot, up over the desk and heel-first into his face. She lifted the toe of her boot to release his hand, and he fell back into his chair, which then went over backwards. She hopped down beside him and collected the pistol and the umbrella from the floor.

  She turned and pointed the weapon at Rufus, stowing the gun in her pocket with her other hand.

  “That’s—that’s not a normal umbrella!” Cleversby howled, nursing one of his broken hands, “It’s—it’s heavy!”

  “Oh, it’s more things than that. Now then, Rufus. I believe I requested a private meeting with your employer.

  “I do have an appointment.”