Micah stared across his desk, trying desperately to remember what the man sitting across from him just said. It was no use. The Words in his head drowned it out entirely. There was nothing for it but to bite the bullet and ask.

"I'm sorry, Mister Daughtry, but could you say that again? I didn't quite catch that last bit."

That earned him a curious stare, followed by an arch look. Fortunately, Daughtry was a man fond of his own voice, as well as enamored with his own cleverness. Asking him to talk more was never a problem.

"That's quite all right, Mr. Slate. I understand that a man who spends most of his time involved with artists might get a little glazed when someone describes the details of creative financing. The short version is this..."

Protect the Art, Protect the Art, Protect the Art!

The Words screamed through Micah's head, once more drowning out Mr. Daughtry's explanation. The fact that they also gave him a splitting headache and a need to get to the Balcony Gallery was just icing on the cake. He clutched at his phone, looking down more by instinct than by intent.

"I'm sorry, Mister Daughtry. I don't mean to be rude, but it appears one of my security personnel has an urgent situation they need me to resolve. Would you mind waiting here until I've dealt with it?"

The look on Daughtry's face said he minded very much but that he couldn't find a polite way to say so. "No, no, of course not. I'll be here." With that he pulled out his phone and began sorting through his email.

Micah swore under his breath as his Words pulled him out the door of his office. Over the course of centuries, he'd learned to read quite a bit into the pull of his Words. In this case, the start-stop-start pattern indicated someone had decided to do the Art in the museum a mischief, was blocked before they could go through with it, and then found another way to do some harm to the Art.

While it had taken years for Micah to learn to interpret the details of what the pull of his words meant, he had been created knowing where they wanted him. The Balcony Gallery, formerly a restoration room, now housed large installations in some way inappropriate for the Main Hall. At the moment, the Gallery housed a huge kinetic sculpture, one that easily stretched from the basement floor of the Gallery to the domed ceiling three stories above.

Micah strode calmly but purposefully through the halls of the museum. The security guards he passed took one look at him and surreptitiously spoke into their radios. By the time he arrived at the doors to the second floor of the Balcony Gallery, the 'balcony' floor, two guards stood there waiting for him.

"What's up, Mr. Slate?"

Before he could answer, Micah's Words went silent, and a scream echoed from the far side of the doors. The security guards didn't even stop to look at Micah. Instead, they burst through the doors, one turning to each side, scanning for the source of the scream. Micah, in the center, spotted it first. A woman stood near the edge of the balcony; her mouth open as she took a deep breath in preparation for another shriek. She stared at a stick-skinny figure in gray janitor's coveralls. The janitor leaned over the upper rail; one hand clamped to the lower bar in a death grip. As he approached the pair, the woman screamed again, this time with barely comprehensible words mixed into the wailing.

"Please, please don't drop him! I..." the woman collapsed in a shrieking mess when the janitor twitched. Beyond the gray coverall Micah saw the gears of the kinetic artwork meshing, the large ones bigger than his head, the smaller ones so tiny he could barely see them. The whole device did nothing but move some little ball bearings around, but someone who fell into it would wind up mangled by all the grinding, turning metal.

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Micah motioned to the guards to gather up the woman, then approached the janitor. When he got closer, the janitor twitched again, and the movement let him catch a glimpse of the janitor's face. Her shaved scalp dripped sweat into her eyes. Her fine, even features had twisted into a scowl. Micah moved up behind her quickly and quietly until he could see her other arm. A little boy, six or seven years old by the look of him, dangled over the artwork. If the janitor let go her grip on his calf, he would fall nearly ten feet, then land face first into a mass of turning gear work.

Micah edged forward and pitched his voice to soothe. "Tee? Tee, can you hear me?"

At the sound of his voice, the janitor tensed further, and the boy slipped another half-inch toward his doom. "Yes, Micah-sama. I hear you."

"I need you to pull the boy up, Tee."

"I... I cannot, Micah-sama. Forgive me for failing you."

"It's okay, Tee. I just need you to pull the boy up. I'm not going to be mad at you."

At the mention that he wouldn't be mad, the janitor's grip slipped once more, leaving her clutching the boy's ankle. Micah saw the sweat on her scalp and hands. Spots dark with perspiration splotched most of her jumpsuit.

Tears of shame colored Tee’s voice. "I am deeply sorry, Micah-sama, but I am not strong enough."

Micah was nearly within arm's reach when Tee's fingers slipped from their grasp on the railing. Before she could go over the edge, Micah grabbed the back of her jumpsuit. The sturdy gray denim held, and Micah heaved the trembling woman back up to the balcony. When the child came in reach, Micah grabbed him, pulled him back over the edge and gave him a quick shove toward his mother. Once he saw the tearful woman reunited with her son, he turned to his employee.

"Okay, Tee. Tell me, in small words, what happened."

She stared at his feet while she spoke, leaving Micah glaring at the top of her shaved head. "I am sorry, Micah-sama. I have not completed removing the trash from the balcony's rubbish bins yet. If you will permit me to go?"

Micah reined in his temper. Tee was a conscientious worker, but something disrupted her routine too badly, she might wander the museum, inconsolable, for hours. For the hundredth time, he swore about the deal he'd made. He didn't like having her around, but the money he received from her adoptive parents usually meant the difference between making payroll and missing it. He still needed to know what had happened, though.

"Tee, you work the night shift with Tama. It's one in the afternoon. What are you doing here? For that matter, where is he?"

If his revelation that she was up well into her night surprised her, it didn't show. She stood there for a bit before speaking quietly. "I do not know where Tama-sensei is. He entrusted me with cleaning the Balcony Gallery. The Dynamic in the center of the Gallery was unappreciated. I appreciated it. I am sorry I did not complete the cleaning of the Balcony. I will go and complete it now."

Micah rubbed at his temples with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. His guards had the woman and her child handled, but he would need to speak with her before she left. The only reason he couldn’t do so right now? Tee. She was inherently far more dangerous than her quiet, subservient demeanor indicated. She was also moving to clean the rubbish bins.

"Tee, wait." She stopped, frozen in mid step. "Tee, the museum can't afford a lawsuit."

She stood there, halfway through her step. It took her an uncomfortably long pause to realize he was waiting for an answer. "I understand. The museum cannot afford a lawsuit."

Micah wanted to scream, but he settled for a hissed whisper that he hoped didn't carry to the now-weeping mother. "Then what the hell were you doing dangling a kid off the balcony?"

"Because the museum cannot afford a lawsuit."

Despite himself, Micah's voice was rising. "Explain."

"The child attempted to play with the Dynamic. This would likely have damaged the Dynamic. The museum would have had to pay damages to its creator. I prevented the child from interfering with the Dynamic." The entire time she spoke, Tee remained frozen in mid-step. Micah glanced around quickly; people stared at her from all directions.

"The kid climbed over the rail?"

"Yes."

"You caught him?"

"Yes."

"Because he would have damaged the sculpture when he fell in it."

"Yes."

Micah closed his eyes and counted quietly to ten. "Okay, Tee. Thank you. You did good here today."

Cloth rustled as she moved. When he opened his eyes, she knelt before him. "Thank you, Micah-sama!"

He shook his head. "It's okay, Tee. Get back to what you were doing. Be sure you get enough sleep, all right?"

"Yes, Micah-sama. I do not feel tired, but when I do, I will sleep."

With that, she stood, pivoting as she did, and walked toward the nearest waste basket. Micah watched for a few moments, then turned to the weeping woman and her son. The woman already stared greedily at Micah, her eyes darting to the side to take in the varnished wood, the satin on the chairs, and the polished brass fittings.

It was going to be a long day.