Breath burning in her lungs, Remoulade stopped for a moment. Try as she might, she could see very little through the fog. Thick and billowing, it obscured the higher shelves of the departmental archives.

The urge to call out to Wingyatt was strong, but concern for the attention that might draw crushed the thought.

Stretching her senses out through the layers of reality that surrounded her, Remoulade strained her identity, searching for that point at which it intermingled with that of her assistant’s own.

Finding the connection point at which their souls touched, Remoulade pulled in a sharp breath of the cold air that surrounded her and once more began to run.

Her sense of Wingyatt now acting as a compass, Remoulade navigated her way through the back shelves and aisles of the archive, avoiding the main thoroughfare.

Taking a sharp turn around a corner, Remoulade came out into a narrow intersection of aisles just in time to witness Winnie and Crispin come tumbling out from the mists above, a mess of limbs and feathers.

Thankfully, the mists at this time seemed inclined to deaden the panicked screams of the ghost.

Regaining some of her composure, Remoulade quickly crossed over to where the two had seemingly crash-landed.

Pulling aside the mist that obscured the narrow aisle, as if it were the heavy draped linens of a window curtain, Remoulade took in the tableau before her.

Pinned beneath the obsidian and gold talons of loyal Wingyatt lay the unfortunate soul of Crispin.

Choosing to ignore the troublesome young man for the moment, Remoulade stalked deeper into the aisle.

The light that leaked in from the end of the aisle pierced through the undulating tendrils of mist and stretched Remoulade's shadow.

Ink-black arms began to stretch and rise from the outline of her form cast on the floor. They climbed up the shelves, fingers lazily caressing the silent and sleeping tomes where they lay still.

As her shadowed appendages continued their work, Remoulade came to a halt and placed her hand on the spine of a book deeply ensconced on the shelf.

Hand placed upon the unmarked volume, Remoulade set her will against it, wishing that it were a specific volume.

In her mind, she waded through the shelf before her and still further she went, in hope of finding answers at least partial to her current predicament.

With the weight of her identity backing her hope, Remoulade pulled the book she desired from deep within the archival stack.

The shift was near instantaneous, as the previously unmarked book came free of the shelf with a staggering weight.

Holding the tome to her chest like a swaddled babe as she regained her balance, Remoulade ran a finger down its spine, noting its fresh embossment.

Balancing the weighty volume precariously upon her slender arm, Remoulade began to scan through the arduous and intricate listings of policy and protocol it contained.

Eyes darting across the page, she seemed to snatch up each letter like a jealous magpie. Eventually Remoulade found what she had been searching for: a solution, at least a partial one.

The information she gained provided her with a series of options, not full solutions, but something close enough to suit her, considering the time constraints.

Placing the volume back into the shelf, it was soon reabsorbed into the greater body of the library collection that was currently accessible to her.

At last, as ready as she was likely to be, Remoulade turned to face Wingyatt and Crispin, only to find her loyal friend in casual conversation with the nominal captive.

“Haha,” laughed the accidental ghost. “She didn’t!” “You’re not serious!” “She absolutely did,” replied Wingyatt. “Ten gallons of jackal piss,” “and her barely even a speck of dust,” concluded the bird, as the two began to laugh once more, their voices warm, almost in abjuration of the cold mists.

Unsure of the contents of the current conversation, still, Remoulade had the unnerving sensation that somehow she had been the focus of whatever diabolical tale her assistant had been recounting.

Letting out a sharp cough to call the seemingly friendly duo to attention, Remoulade quickly crossed the distance between them and crouched down to inspect Crispin.

With barely a thought, Remoulade reached out for Winnie and, taking his beak in her hand, silenced him as she slipped her glasses down her nose to peer into Crispin.

As far as she could tell, the recent excitement he had put them all through had not worsened his precarious condition. This was good, if somewhat surprising.

Remoulade had been considering that his erratic behavior, evidenced by his sudden decision to run, may have meant he was too far gone.

Finishing her quick inspection of the soul, Remoulade let her gaze drift up to meet the pinned young man's eyes and couldn't help but frown as he flinched.

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It hardly seemed fair; the forlorn soul before her was acting as if she were some bandit who had waylaid him some dark night as he made his way home.

Looming over him, her shadow billowing and the mists creeping back in now that the momentary imposition of laughter had ended, Remoulade felt near insulted.

Yet, with dedication and a heart of service, Remoulade found her patience and reminded herself, as she stared into Crispin’s fright-wild eyes, that as she had said in their first meeting, he was clearly very, very stupid.

Regaining her feet, Remoulade took a step back from the man so as not to loom over him and drive him any further into fear’s embrace.

Letting out a single, solitary sigh—an early scout of the many likely to be produced before all was said and done—Remoulade gestured for Wingyatt to let the man up. It was time to have an honest conversation.

As Crispin began to untangle his limbs and clamber to his feet, Remoulade felt her professional smile once more spread its wings.

Casual as can be, Remoulade reached up her sleeve and, with absolute ease, withdrew an intricate and obscenely large blunderbuss, which she pressed against the young man's chest.

Words careful, somewhere close to kind, Remoulade spoke, “You’re dead.” Hands trembling Crispin gripped the shelf behind him, what color he had seeming to drain quickly, Crispin tried to speak, yet Remoulade was not done. “Oh, sir, to be clear, not by my hand. But by all practical regards, Crispin, you are dead. Well, at least sort of.”

Words careful, somewhere close to kind, Remoulade spoke, “You’re dead.” Hands trembling, Crispin gripped the shelf behind him, what color he had seeming to drain quickly. He tried to speak, yet Remoulade was not done. “Oh, sir, to be clear, not by my hand, but by all practical regards, Crispin, you are dead. Well, at least sort of.”

“Sort of? What does that even mean?” said Crispin, his tone free of fear, simply seeming anemic, as if the man's terror had bled away in the face of his absurd and liminal state.

“Well, as I was saying before your rude interruption, I am willing to try and help you, but if you make my job any more difficult than you already have, then,” said Remoulade, leaving the rest to Crispin's imagination.

From behind her spectacles, Remoulade tracked the subtle shift in Crispin's features. Taking the slow nod he provided as both comprehension and confirmation of the situation, Remoulade removed the hand cannon from the ghost's chest and let it rest upon her shoulder.

“Well then, Crispin,” struck up Remoulade, continuing the one-sided conversation, her tone brisk and a touch less formal, “It seems we have an accord, so let me try and answer a few of your questions.”

Remoulade considered a moment, thinking how to package the information Crispin seemed to be seeking in a way that would not entangle him deeper into the fabric of the truer world.

The more he knew, understood, and perceived, the realer all this would become for him. His reality, as it stood, was now liminal, undecided, and that was good.

Still, she had to tell the man something. Her disparate thoughts reaching a consensus, Remoulade spoke. “Crispin, some things I can tell you, and some things I won’t or you just don’t need to know. But as simply as I can put it, there’s been an accident, a terrible and awful accident, and you are its unfortunate victim.

“You are, in fact, a disembodied soul, which is fairly close in terms of classification to being a ghost. Your mortal coil, the thing that binds you to your body, has been unceremoniously disconnected, but it was done poorly, so strands still linger.

“If we move quickly, we can stuff you back where you belong, and nature should do the rest. But the clock is ticking. I need you to listen: no more running, screaming, and drawing attention to yourself. If we hadn’t caught you, something else may have, and with no specific claim on your soul, there’s none to advocate for you save for myself.”

“You said that before,” cut in Crispin. “Claim? What do you mean, like in a parcel waiting to be picked up from a post office?” Remoulade felt her smile broaden as the young man showed an unexpected spur of wisdom.

“Yes, exactly. You’re like a brown paper package, all tied up in string. Currently, your postage stamps are scuffed, so we can’t even properly file you. And if some less-than-scrupulous individual were to find you left out in the cold, well, not much could stop them from tucking you under their coat and running off to their home.”

“Wingyatt, by Jove, is that you?” A jaunty voice broke through the mist and put a pause to Remoulade and Crispin’s hushed conversation. Stationed at the far end of the aisle, where he had clearly been keeping watch, ever-faithful Winnie took a series of hopping steps to address the unmistakable voice of Charles, aka Nasty.

“Charles, what are you doing skulking in the mists?” “No such thing,” replied the disembodied voice. “In fact, in a roundabout sense, I was looking for you, old boy.” “Truly?” “Indubitably. Here I was, all on my lonesome on a misty day such as this. So lonesome and weary, but then I thought of the best of remedies: kindness.”

“Oh?” inquired her assistant as he stepped deeper into the mists, wings spread wide, covering Remoulade and the ghost. “Well, I heard you and your mistress got the short end of the stick and were stuck with the graveyard shift.

“And, well, I thought to myself, Nasty, there can’t be more than a couple of ticks left to old Wingyatt and Miss Remoulade’s shift. Why not head over and interrupt it a bit?”

“So you thought to come visiting, then? Perhaps bringing with you a gift?” “Oh, you know me well, bird.” Deep into the mists, there was the slight sloshing sound, unmistakable, clearly a bottle of spirits.

“Well, well, Nasty, my friend, never let it be said you are not a gentleman. That being said, you know how the miss is about regulations. Why don’t you and I sample that fine thing you’re holding while the young miss closes up her station?”

“Oh, you want this all to yourself, then?” asked Charles in a conspiratorial hush as he once more shook whatever he held. “No, not at all, but I would like to share it with you. Besides, I simply can’t let you lead my mistress from the path of dedication and duty.” “Oh, such sacrifice. What a loyal and true friend you are.” “This is true,” replied the bird, as the two voices began to grow faint, swallowed as they were by the mists as they walked away.

Letting out the prophesied long sigh, Remoulade concluded to trust in Winnie to catch up with her as soon as he could and turned her attention back to Crispin.

“Sorry about that, sir. Did you have any other questions before we proceed?” “Ah, no, not really. It’s just, well, Miss Remoulade, I’m sorry. I’m a bit overwhelmed, is all. I don’t mean to make more work for you, truly.”

Though no master of mortal expressions, Remoulade judged Crispin’s words and facial expressions to be genuine.

“The apology is appreciated, Crispin, but this is my job, after all, though maybe a touch outside of usual protocol. I’ll admit I’m a touch surprised; you seem far more trusting all of a sudden.” “Truth is, at this point, this is either a dream or all that’s happened is absolutely real. My heart tells me to trust you, so that’s what I’ll do.”

Honest and seemingly possessing a trusting nature, Remoulade looked Crispin square in the eyes. Though still uncertain, he smiled. It was a silly thing, carrying with it much. Somehow, the man had been able to keep that bright and shiny thing so often found in the possession of children intact: hope.

It was with this realization that Remoulade matched Crispin’s expression as she lowered the gun from her shoulder and shot him, cutting the pleasant discussion short.