A white pane of sunlight shone through the window. Proof that it was well past morning and Chora still hadn’t woken up.

She looked so peaceful snoring on that rug. Such a complete and total counterpoint to me.

I was sitting on the other side of the room, “enjoying” my own little puzzle. In front of me were three things: a chair, a ceramic bowl full of soup, and a pathetically tiny stovetop.

I looked back and forth: chair, soup, stove, chair, soup, stove… Somewhere in here was a way for me, in SP-conserving cat form, to use the chair as a stepladder, set the soup on the stovetop, and twist the knob to power that burner.

Did I have to do any of this? No, but this chickeny-smelling soup would no doubt be more appetizing than the two koi corpses I still had on me, and Chora would appreciate the smell more.

Message from Sierra, the Goddess of Nekomata Getting a little bit too hasty.

Augh! Just when I had the bowl on the burner and was on the cusp of putting the heat on high! I almost flew backward off the chair.

Doesn’t your junkyard of human knowledge tell you that heating ceramics too fast is going to crack them?

I narrowed my eyes. You mean you don’t know what’s in there?

It’s a grab bag. Anyway, lower that heat.

Begrudgingly, I did as she suggested, and a little orange flame began wavering below the soup. Hm…what brought Sierra here anyway? Why did she choose to intervene now when I was cooking, and not earlier, when I was fighting random wilderness monsters?

You can figure this out. Use context clues!

Or you can just tell me the answer! You know, like you just did. Finish the streak!

There’s a Wisdom point in it for ya!

…Okay, I guess I can try it.

Sierra seemed to do a lot of things just because they amused her. She messed with me, gave me incomplete information, and gave every impression of chuckling behind the scenes. And yet she also wanted me to succeed, to make other people happy or something.

She was also an Arkmagus, and while I didn’t really understand what that was, I did know that one thing they did was sit in cloud palaces lording it over the living. Also, once an artisan gave them a golden sword.

But we didn’t exactly use it to fight raccoons.

She was saying that…um…I dunno…that the Arkmagi had never done what I was doing?

Exactly!

Wait, that’s actually it?

As I chatted with Sierra, I kept my eyes trained on the soup as closely as I could, given the boxes in the way. It was beginning to bubble now.

I asked her, If you’re my mentor but you have no experience doing mortal stuff, then why didn’t you ever go get some?

We’re not as boundlessly powerful as you seem to think we are. Hence, we’re gods and goddesses with an asterisk. Really we should be called Arkmagi full-stop, but we add the “god” label to feel more high and mighty.

…This doesn’t seem like something you should be admitting to your creation.

You never revered me anyway. That’s what I like about you!

Also, stir that.

Oh no. First of all, to access the cup full of big spoons, I’d have to reach over the stovetop and hope my cat paws could grab it and not just drop it in the soup. Alternatively, to access the drawer full of small spoons, I’d need to open a cabinet above the stove. A cabinet with no handle: paw-proof.

Second, why would I need to stir something like this? I knew baseline science, I knew this heat would eventually get to every part of the soup!

Culinary science is a different beast, lying in its own realm beyond conventional laws of physics.

Maybe Sierra and I had reached an understanding today: I actually knew when she was prodding me and when she was simply being genuine.

Probably.

You’d be surprised, though, soup will build up on the edges and burn.

Several seconds later, I gave in with a sigh. I changed into a catgirl, reached effortlessly above the soup, grabbed a big wooden spoon, and changed back.

SP 98% (288/293)

Even a negligible dip in SP meant less to use against the magpies today! But I gritted my teeth. This would be worth it.

Holding the spoon fiercely between two paws, standing on the chair, I rose, wobbling atop my hind legs. I held the spoon over my head, like a dagger. Then, slowly, carefully, I reached into the brew and stirred.

This was the toughest workout I’d suffered through in a while.

But it was actually working. I was stirring at an awkward angle—heck, everything about this was awkward—but the soup was indeed moving around. And if not for the pain currently shooting up my hind legs, watching all the meat and vegetables swirl would’ve been downright soothi—

“Maow!” I slipped, the chair slipped with me, and the spoon went flying out of my grip.

HP 97% (341/353)

Down on the ground, the edge of the chair’s seat got my tail! I crawled forward and yanked it out.

Stolen story; please report.

A second later, I heard the spoon clack against the wall. Turning just in time, I saw it nosedive behind the bookshelf.

Hotel management was gonna have to get that one.

I sighed through my nose. Probably I’d need to turn off the stove soon. Good, because I was hungry, and surely Chora would be. Now, set the chair back up and…

The bookcase. Something about it was giving me a sense of déjà vu.

I squinted at it. Had I seen it before? Was Reed’s bookshelf at the end of that upstairs cabin hallway the same kind? Had I seen it on Earth? But no, it just looked ordinary, if old and prestigious.

I hastily hopped onto the back of the chair—the whole thing was sideways, and it jolted under my weight—and turned the stove off. Then I raced toward the bookcase and got a closer look.

Somehow the feeling of déjà vu faded almost to nothing when I came this close.

Wait, wait…there it was. It was just one book.

I pawed it out.

Oh, I should’ve known.

It looked exactly like one of the books Sierra had shown me in my death throes, the one with the cover of gray stitching.

Sigh. She certainly worked in mysterious ways. And some of them not so mysterious, like straight-up giving out cooking advice.

I was beginning to hear Chora shift on the carpet, and beginning to not hear snoring. Good! I didn’t want her to be in a coma. And I would definitely need some help reading this book.

Unless the lavish illustrations were enough? It opened to a gorgeous spread of grasses and cattails that looked like cascades, all enveloping fairies who peeked out with smiles and glimmering eyes. They reminded me a little of that cheeky stone statue I saw outside of the mansion.

…No, that déjà vu feeling wasn’t in this book. It was in one specific page.

Behind me, Chora was standing up. I had the book open to the right page just as she came close enough to stand over me.

“Good morning, spirit,” she said. “I’m sorry about…wait, should I be looming over you right now?”

I didn’t mind. My “personal space” is less a sphere of space around me and more a concept: if you’re more than half an inch away from me and you don’t pick me up, you’re fine.

“I smell some…”

But I immediately distracted her by bashing my paw on the page I’d opened to.

“Oh, you must want me to read this. Sure,” she said, crouching beside me. “It’s a poem called ‘Princesses of the Pond.’”

And beside it was another amazing illustration. This one showed four dancing fairies colored with pencil and pastel, descending in some sort of four-color tornado. Chora read aloud:

A woman in white appeared at waters bleak,

Loved in the west among the fawns and sheep.

When she was born, the world let down its leaves

And made them jewels to rest at royal feet.

A woman in green was born in sable flood

Where northern hawks and lizards she adored,

So when the winter tried to freeze their blood,

They frolicked all, and she became their lord.

A woman in gold walked out from eastern clime

While trees were screaming spring, their blossoms bright,

And where she trod, the petals changed to wine

As she bid every squirrel sing in rhyme.

The final woman clad in blue you’ll meet

Stirring summer krigries from the south,

Her spirit raging with a lightning heat,

Her book unwritten and her future doubt.

Gently she set the book down. I yelped.

“What?” she asked.

I yelped.

“You know this poem?”

“Maow.”

“You like this poem.”

“Maow…”

“You like the people in this poem.”

“Mya-a-ow…”

Chora pointed at the first line. “Which line? Um…you mean this one?”

My eye twitched. What were we even talking about here?!

Okay, so my gut was telling me that this poem had to be about me and everyone else in Reed’s cabin. But that would mean there were lots of details that didn’t make sense. Just going down the list, none of us had so far worn white, none of us were royal, and Bayce was certainly no “lord of hawks and lizards.” Or was that supposed to be Chora? Her wind stuff could probably warm up some animals.

And the last one…that was scary. Either that had to be me, or that couldn’t be me. “Clad in blue” sounded like the Sapphire Queen I’d seen before. Maybe the “krigries” were the insects that she had summoned and I had foolishly stepped on. But unless Sierra literally had my life written out for me (…and okay, maybe she did), wasn’t my own future doubt too?

Ugh, it was making my head hurt for no good reason. This seemed like a sign from Sierra, and yet nothing was practical about this! Why didn’t she at least send me some nonfiction, huh?

Error: Sierra, the Goddess of Nekomata is unavailable. Please try again later when you’re making food again. She misses the smell of home cooking.

Well, okay, forget you too, then. Wait, does Sierra even eat?

D-does she…wish she could eat, and fight rodents, and live the dream vicariously through me?!

I snapped myself out of these pointless thoughts. Chora had been writing in a scratchpad for the last I-didn’t-know-how-long.

She mumbled, “I think this is a book of local legends…DeGalle might wanna hear about this…”

“Meow?”

“No,” she said, “I don’t have any idea if we’ll actually meet her, but if we do, it couldn’t hurt to point her toward people and books that actually have any idea what they’re doing. Just be prepared, I would say.”

I nodded. Then I pointed toward the stove. Lucky for us, the soup was still steaming even after I’d abandoned it for this long. Maybe the bowl held the heat. That’s the power of ceramics.

At that, Chora gave me a deep nod, almost a bow, of thanks.

“Thank you for looking out for me. Now, let’s eat.”

***

Seeing so many humans all at once wasn’t quite scary, but it was bizarre, after all this time. Crowds of humans trekked through the winding roads of Outlast, and on the wider road passing behind the inn, I spotted some pushing carts, others letting magic do the pushing for them, some leading sheep or ducks or chickens or even huge, boulevard-blocking cows down the way Non-farmyard birds darted underfoot, and the sight of sparrows sent my mind running back to that poem from the hour before.

All of that and we hadn’t even left the inn yet. Chora and I were down in the lobby, but the trip to the mansion was getting delayed again. Not that I minded. With the inn nearly empty and drenched in moody shadows aside from the lights of a few windows, it was easy for me to find a dark pocket to slink into, dip my head out of, and observe the world outside. This was better than any aquarium.

As I was marveling at the sheer variety of clothing these Outlasters had on—a literal millennium-span of casual fashion, from rustic to chic—Chora was talking to the innkeeper at the desk. They’d gotten into a conversation that I only found intermittently interesting. I tuned in and out whenever they got back to talking about myths.

Because when Chora had asked this man about “Princesses of the Pond,” the stories had spilled out. Most of them blatantly unrelated, but still.

Tales of humans and animals spirited away, of demons and wraiths who stomped through the forest one awful night and had disappeared to another realm the next. Stories of vast immortal beasts who literally sucked the lives out of their victims. A Shadow King who, in a completely unsubstantiated rumor, had run off with a woman from Outlast long, long ago, and converted her into a seafaring tyrant. This was all mixed up with other riveting topics such as: the weather.

The innkeeper sighed in relaxed thought. “You know, about that poem,” he said, “that woman in gold, with the petals changin’ to wine… Used to be a bubble tree about east of Clantisere Pond, that they say made wine. But all the times people gone to see it since, ain’t a one could find it.”

“That could be related,” said Chora. “But it could also be an excuse people use when they come home drunk.”

The innkeeper burst with a sudden laugh. “Ha! I knew you were funny.”

They continued talking about that “bubble tree” and the golden woman for a few minutes, spilling out a sea of related-or-unrelated legends. Chora said that before the Shadow Kings, there was a “primordial dragon queen,” but the innkeeper was thoroughly convinced that was actually the “primordial god of light.” And this Saianort—or Seyenort—was either strict or merry. Toppling by his or her own debauchery, or overthrown by the heroics of the people and their new, wiser kings.

This was simultaneously impenetrable, fascinating, and—to no end—frustrating.

Why are historical records so crappy?

My old self would have questioned why they needed a historical record in the first place. But my new self had the Human Language Trait…my new self was well aware that human culture was interwoven with human language. And it seemed that humans didn’t just have the power to pass down old knowledge and share old stories. They had a drive, a need to.

And on the whole it was fun to listen to, anyway.

Eventually, Chora capped it off. “Thank you for the info, sir—a-and one last thing. Magpies. How do you feel about them?”

“Magpies? Hm…perfectly fine little birds.”

“But they steal things?”

He paused. “We steal things.” I imagined that in the pause, he’d gestured to the whole room and the natural materials it was made of.

“Okay, but, with all due respect, that’s not the same. We’re exploiting natural resources, not stealing things that animals constructed. Plus, theft kind of throws a wrench into the smooth operation of human society, and you just know the magpies don’t give a crap.”

“Alright, young lady,” the innkeeper said. “Go up to the magpies with that if you want. Tell ‘em all about how the, uh, the net happiness of the human world will be enhanced if they give you back a fiver. But I can tell you this, the magpies are fierce.”

“Oh, I know that.”

“Throwin’ hands?”

I heard Chora pound a fist into her palm. “I didn’t study martial arts for nothing.”

He laughed. “Send me photos!”

“I can’t promise you that, sir, but if you’ve lost anything, I’ll do my best to send it back.”

“If you don’t bring back my fancy wagon, you ain’t welcome here no more.”

I guessed he must not have meant that, because Chora lightly replied, “Absolutely. You take care, sir.” And he gave her a “you as well.”

Time to greet the world again. I trotted past the desk, running right next to it to avoid the innkeeper’s eye, and was on Chora’s heels when she opened the door, itching for the day to begin.