[16] Freedom from Want

By noon, Mayfair—having skipped sleep, although fatigue unwanted now weighed heavy—organized the devil's papers into more logical order.

The first and most fundamental category of pages detailed laws inherent to the underlying structure of Whitecrosse. One page, for instance, specified the world of Whitecrosse as a spheroid with an average diameter of a certain number of miles. A note in the margins indicated this diameter was significantly smaller than that of Earth. Subsequent pages listed equations for gravity, chemical compositions of atmosphere and soil, various fundamental functions of physics, and so forth.

These pages would drive the court astrologers into a frenzy, Mayfair thought. They nearly drove her into one! Knowledge was contained within them about the workings of the universe to upheave all mankind knew of the cosmos, at least in their world—perhaps too in this one. The equations and notation styles were arcane even to Mayfair, who considered herself quite an exemplary student; some she could not even begin to fathom. Thirst for understanding left her lingering far longer on certain pages than merited, and she traced their worn glyphs with a fingertip as she tried to piece together what they signified. It was clear the devil, no virtuoso, copied directly God's handiwork. These equations were not simply the logic underlying an ersatz world, but a partial unveiling of mysteries established by the divine. How could Mayfair not tremble? How could she not bounce until the devil's strangely-wheeled seat squeaked and groaned? Her palpitating heart transported her instantly to late nights in the royal library, guided by candlelight handled with utmost care lest even a spot of hot wax mar the kingdom's collective knowledge (let alone the least tongue of flame! Oh how it lanced her through to see the monastery so consumed!). Little compared to the feeling of quenched curiosity, question asked and question answered; a pursuit that thrilled, for its result was no slain hare but a real, purposeful edification of the spirit.

However, she must govern herself. The responsibility of an entire world rested upon her, and a selfish descent into a hole shaped only for herself would be negligently wasteful of the opportunity she earned. Earned with blood, she reminded herself, seeing the image of her brother's ruined form in the mud. Rather than flinch from the horrible sight, she focused it in her mind's eye so that it might spur her, remind her not to settle for simple mental pleasure.

But it was a sad and a lonely image, and Mayfair's skin felt cold, as cold as Dalton's as he waited patiently in his chair, and for a moment she wished someone alive was there to fill the void.

In the light of this world, she made a simple prayer for Makepeace's soul and sent it to God: Please forgive him his sins, though they be many, and remember him, even if it was not You who made him. Amen. Then she continued.

Her comprehension or not of the "fundamental law" papers turned out to be irrelevant. When she worked up the nerve to make some minor alteration in mere experimentation, she found that when she added ink to a page it seeped straight into the parchment and vanished. Several subsequent attempts, on various other papers from the same pile, yielded identical results. A safeguard was in place. If this safeguard could be undone, Mayfair knew not how.

Changes were possible to pages in the second pile—by far the largest (in fact ten piles, all stacked to the roof)—yet, frustratingly, not all changes. These papers detailed information about things, creatures, places, and people within the world of Whitecrosse. Mayfair found among these a paper for herself: Mayfair Rachel Lyonesse Coke, date of birth, parentage, physical descriptors, and so on. One line described her personality in brief: "Pious; devoted to well-being of world; intelligent," all quite good, until it continued: "Devious; convinced of her own righteousness; willing to sacrifice her morals in pursuit of her goals (although in denial about this fact); generally in denial about her bad qualities even if she hypocritically pontificates to herself about forgiveness for her sins; lacking familial feeling; yearning for and yet failing to achieve meaningful connections with others due to general egoism, coldness, and inflexibility" and various other rude remarks that culminated in a final insult, clearly scribbled in haste at the end: "And let her have romantic feelings toward the hero—just in case he's into little girls."

How—how absurd! She did not—absolutely did not—have any such feelings! In the monastery she gripped him solely as an act, nothing more! She tried to scratch out the offending lines with the quill, indeed all lines detailing her negative attributes.

None of the changes succeeded. Her furious scribbling faded to nothing. Her page remained as it was. No—wait. One change succeeded.

It wasn't one of her personality traits. It was the latest physical descriptor. One that puzzled her. It didn't make sense for the line to exist on this page in the first place, as it did not exist before the events at the monastery, when the devil was captive and unable to access the papers. The line read: "Corrupted by use of animus; scales are growing on her left arm, chest, and back."

This line, when she crossed it out, stayed crossed out. The ink did not fade.

Carefully, she drew up the sleeve of her shirt. There were no scales. She saw only unblemished skin, the familiar skin of her arm, skin she was used to seeing.

Immediately her fingers fumbled for buttons so that she might check the rest of her body, then she realized she was in view of Dalton and looked away sheepishly before directing him to stand up and go outside. Once the door shut behind him, and ensuring she was in view of nobody through the office window, she confirmed what she expected.

After she buttoned everything back up, she sank into the devil's chair and allowed Dalton to reenter. She tapped her forehead, fast to start, faster still as her thoughts intensified, wondering: Why did that change work but no others? Was it simply impossible to change personality traits, while physical descriptors were allowed? She scanned the list for another trait she might change without accidentally maiming herself. There: A birthmark on her shoulder. She already set Dalton rising by the time she leaned over to scratch out the line, but it turned out Dalton did not need to leave because her amendment vanished immediately, exactly like the ones she made to her personality.

How unusual! There must be a logic. Must! Was it only possible to change the most recent item on the list? Then why did her alleged affection for the hero (ugh! So vague. Did Dalton not count as a hero too? But she—he—forget about it!) remain the same? Perhaps it had something to do with how the animus corruption was not something the devil herself added to the page. Perhaps she had a confederate? But who? Where? No, that made little sense.

Then Mayfair remembered something. The devil mentioned it offhand. The verbiage was unorthodox; it stuck in Mayfair's head. "I idiot-proofed the whole deal so I wouldn't contradict something I already did." The phrase "idiot-proof," while unfamiliar to Mayfair, made sense in context.

Changes could only be made if they did not contradict established facts.

That couldn't be the whole story. Were that the case, nothing could be removed from the pages at all; only additions were possible. Then what made her animus corruption different from the other aspects of her page?

After a few seconds' thought, she struck upon it.

Nobody except her knew about her corruption. When it manifested, her clothes covered it entirely. Nobody saw it. Certainly, given the rules of the world, one assumed she must have experienced some sort of corruption, but that was not the same as observably confirming its existence. Being "unestablished," Mayfair could erase it—without contradiction.

By comparison, her other traits had been observed. Even, she realized ruefully, her alleged affection toward the hero. Many people saw her clinging to him; Dalton, when alive, even called her his "girlfriend." Ugh. UGH! She wanted to die. Die, die, die! Sink into a hole and die! They must think she was a whore. And the devil, insinuating even worse... tempting her... Sink into a hole and die!

She couldn't die. Nobody was looking at her now. Dalton was dead, a puppet, she could even disrobe in front of him and it would mean nothing because he was only a lump of flesh and not a thinking mind. She must focus; she already gleaned great insight about what was and was not possible. With that, she turned to the third and final pile of pages.

This was the pile on the devil's desk. It included pages detailing the actions that people in the world were currently taking, and a cursory observation of them explained how details about Mayfair's corruption made it onto her page without the devil's intervention. The pages updated automatically, as though an invisible hand with an invisible quill wrote upon them, words manifesting out of thin air as the personages therein undertook various actions: Jay Waringcrane asleep in the monastery chapel, Shannon Waringcrane speaking (her dialogue depicted as though in a story, with quotation marks) to some nuns, Olliebollen sulking in Shannon's pocket, and so forth.

So there was some sort of automation. Some aspect of free will, at least, if nothing more. Mayfair raised the quill to attempt to write—

Buzz, buzz, buzz. She glanced about the office, her eyeballs strained and dry. An insect? With the office window shattered, one might easily infiltrate. No. The buzzing was so precise, rhythmic instead of constant. And it came from her thrall, Scott Dalton Swaino II.

At her wordless command, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the buzzing object. It appeared to be a small rectangle, with rounded edges, and a shiny front from which light exuded to show a display of words and numbers.

He brought the object closer and she squinted to read. Foremost was written:

FROM: Dad

MESSAGE: Where in hell are you? It's Thanksgiving dammit!

Immediately, a second cluster of text appeared:

FROM: Dad

MESSAGE: Get your ass over here this instant or you're not eating turkey dinner tonight!!!

The word "dinner" caused a rather loud and humiliating sound to emerge from Mayfair's stomach; sudden realization struck her that she had fasted for some time, to compound her exuberant fatigue. Worse yet, she knew not how to acquire food in this world. These thoughts overshadowed her wonder at the device, which appeared to automatically add words the way the devil's pages did, although perhaps via different mechanism.

Forlornly she glanced at the knowledge and opportunity piled around her. None of it mattered if she could not sustain herself within this new world. Although it pained her, she needed to place some priority on her physical wellbeing.

This "turkey dinner" might prove a start. (Although one could only wonder what a "turkey" was.) She regarded the device in Dalton's hand and then looked at Dalton himself. Those resurrected by her staff lacked their human memory, but memory contained within the body rather than the mind remained.

"Do you know how to operate this device?" she asked.

Without a word, Dalton tapped the shining display, and all was revealed.

—

Scott Dalton Swaino I (the First; not, as some documents erroneously labeled him, "Senior") scowled from the panorama window of his second-story drawing room when the silver Porsche pulled into the driveway and his son, Scottie, stepped out. Expensive vehicle there, that Porsche. Scott Dalton understood more than a little about his son's financial situation, and if not for Yolanda's overly generous gift two birthdays prior (oh how Scott Dalton argued against the Land Rover, oh how he tried to convince his wife to give their son only what he deserved—a talking-to), Scottie wouldn't have been able to afford a used Honda. So where did the Porsche come from?

His first thought was that it must belong to that uppity girlfriend of his, that Warner-Crane girl or however it went. But squinted eyes joined his scowl when from the Porsche's passenger door emerged a girl, thirteen or fourteen, carrying a weird cane and wearing a black dress that would've looked at home on a Plymouth Rock Puritan.

Something was rotten in the state of Denmark, that's for sure.

Of course, Scott Dalton had instincts—good ones. He smelled this rottenness far before the Porsche. He smelled it ever since that first reply Scottie sent him:

I thank you most graciously for your invitation, father. May you please inform me where I can locate you?

To which Scott Dalton furiously mashed: The same damn house you grew up in, MORON!!!

I apologize profusely, father. I have gotten turned around and lost my way. May you provide directions? I can describe my current location to you.

There was trickery in those messages. At first Scott Dalton assumed his son was pulling a prank, something too stupid to be comprehended. Then he thought there may be method to the madness. After all, hadn't only a few days earlier Scottie asked to spend Thanksgiving with Warner-Crane and her family instead of his actual family? Scott Dalton stomped that suggestion into the dirt, there would not be a Thanksgiving (or Christmas, or Easter) without every Swaino present in the Swaino household, but Scottie was never one to respect the wishes of his father. Remembering that context, the truth of the matter took shape: Scottie was trying to double-dip on Thanksgiving, spending one turkey dinner with the Warner-Cranes and another with the Swainos. It explained his lateness, it explained this whole "lost my way" horseshit—obvious stalling tactic—and it explained his overly formal, ingratiating tone, the kind of tone not even the most brazen brown-nosers at work would dare employ.

Well, Scott Dalton refused to play the game. He sent Scottie the exact address (city and ZIP code included) and then shut off his phone. Either the boy showed up quickly or he better not show up at all, because no excuse would stop Scott Dalton from chewing his head off.

The Porsche, though, and the girl, Scott Dalton did not expect. Now, he anticipated far worse bullshittery afoot.

"Something the matter dear?" Yolanda hurried past with a handful of fine china from the fancy bureau at the end of the hall they only touched three times per year. "Let's not sour the holiday with bad energy. Positive mentality, okay?" As she disappeared around a bend her voice trailed: "I want to feeeeel the good vibes!"

Good vibes, positive mentality—bah!

Scott Dalton tromped downstairs. He had questions. Many, many questions. Moving quickly, he managed to preempt Scottie and his plus-one reaching the front door and opened it the instant of the first knock.

"Good afternoon, father!" Scottie said immediately, his face and posture impeccable, but his clothes an utter mess, not only inappropriate for the occasion but splattered with dried mud. "You have my utmost gratitude for this invitation."

It was Scottie's voice but Scott Dalton found the words antithetical to what he knew of his son. He narrowed his eyes, leaned his head slowly out the door, and looked one way and the other. Hidden cameras. One of those old-time shows where people played a prank on someone who did not consent to be filmed and then, when the person reacted appropriately, the results were broadcast on television for millions across America to laugh at. Scott Dalton thought they outlawed that horseshit, or introduced regulations that required consent. Maybe on the internet those shows got a second life. The government was too damn slow regulating the internet. People got up to all kinds of nonsense that wouldn't fly two seconds in the real world.

Scott Dalton saw nobody filming, which didn't mean jack, since cameras were so small nowadays. He mulled his words carefully before asking: "Mind explaining what's going on—"

"Oh, Scottie! Welcome home!"

Yolanda glided across the long entryway fluttering her hands first at her sides before slowly raising them until they were the appropriate level (extended nearly straight upward) to wrap around Scottie's broad shoulders for a hug. Which she did, long and exaggerated the way she liked them, filled with twittering glee and little shrieks.

"Ah, you're so cold! It's not that chilly outside is it?" When she finally let go she stepped back, placed her oven mitts on her hips, and looked Scottie up and down, as if trying to discern whether he somehow grew even more than he already had. "Well now, don't be shy. Step on in. Your timing's perfect, dinner's just about ready. Was scared you'd be too late and have to eat your turkey cold, but that's alright. Oh and you brought a guest! What's your name, sweetie?"

"I am Mayfair Rachel Lyonesse Coke," said the little girl. "I am pleased to meet you."

"Well you are just so cute aren't you? You can call me Yolanda or Mrs. S, that's what all my students call me. Now don't be shy. You don't gotta worry Scottie, I did prepare a smidge extra under the assumption you might bring along a guest, although I'll admit I expected Shannon. Will Shannon be coming? I really do like that girl you know although I understand some people prefer to spend Thanksgiving with their own folks."

"Yolanda—"

"And is this grumpy goose here giving you a hard time?" Yolanda placed her oven mitts on Scott Dalton's shoulders—she needed to reach nearly as high as with Scottie—and gave him a playful shake. "Don't you listen to a word he says, got it? He may think he's boss around these parts and that may be true sometimes but this is a holiday and I have spent. All. Day! Preparing just the most excellent Thanksgiving dinner, so today this is my house. I don't wanna hear any arguing or 'talking about the future' at the table today, if I hear a word of it not one of you is getting seconds—except you of course Mayfair, you can eat all you like. Now do you boys understand me?"

All the while she ushered Scottie and Mayfair through the doorway, past Scott Dalton, over the fancy carpet despite the mud being tracked in on their guests' shoes (but what did Yolanda care! Just something for the maid to clean up that weekend—same as all those extra pots in the kitchen), through the first-floor drawing room and into a dining room rendered lavish by an especially fine embroidered tablecloth, china, and shining silverware, all while closer proximity to the kitchen made the scent of the upcoming meal stronger and stronger.

Absolutely absurd behavior from Yolanda of course. Didn't even ask Mayfair who she was despite there being no obvious explanation for why Scottie would be driving around with some child, and of course she must've seen the Porsche in the driveway too but not a question about that either. Not that Scott Dalton could get a word in edgewise over his wife's blather about how long such-and-such side dish took, where she got the turkey, which extended family members called to ask how they were all doing, et cetera.

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Scott Dalton tamped down his annoyances. When it came to it, Yolanda was on his side. Good cop, bad cop. That's how they got on so well together despite the differences. In this house Scott Dalton only ever had one ally.

Yolanda sat them at their seats—Scott Dalton at the head, Scottie directly across Yolanda, Mayfair next to Scottie. Mayfair placed her large cane, which had a weird bulbous component at the end, against the edge of the table. She did not appear to require the cane to walk, which only raised questions, questions Scott Dalton trembled to refrain from asking as Yolanda carted trays and dishes from the kitchen to the table.

All the Thanksgiving classics: Mashed potatoes, gravy, green bean casserole, biscuits with butter, stuffing, lobster, fried okra, horseradish, cranberry sauce, salad, prime rib, steak sauce, corn on the cob, coleslaw, a pitcher of water and a pitcher of fruit punch (Yolanda's own personal concoction, which Scott Dalton simply could not stomach), salt, pepper, paprika, vegetable juice that Scott Dalton also could not stomach but of which his doctor requested he drink a cup daily, kale, some sort of inedible bread formed by a synthesis of seventeen different oats and grains that Yolanda claimed helped her digestion, and last but not least, with dramatic aplomb in its reveal and placement at the exact center of the table, a big fat turkey.

Scott Dalton didn't care for turkey. Once everything was finally set he made a beeline for the prime rib. Of course this was all ten times too much food for the three of them even with any suspicious fourth but Yolanda needed an excuse to justify that outrageously equipped kitchen that kept them house hunting a full five months, didn't she?

As Scott Dalton was hewing and forking a slab of steak, Mayfair asked: "Are we not to say grace first?"

To which of course Yolanda immediately clapped her hands and said, "Oh what a wonderful idea! It is Thanksgiving after all, we ought to give thanks, shouldn't we dear?" Her smilingly cold eye landed on Scott Dalton.

Making him look foolish in his own house—bah! He put down fork and knife and sat back straight in his chair, clearing his throat. Stringent Presbyterianism enforced on him by a thankfully-deceased father injected a lifelong souring of religion into his psyche, but he supposed on such infrequent festive occasions he could pay lip service.

Hands clasped, head bowed, he mumbled: "Thank You Heavenly Father for this meal and the great bounty You have bestowed upon us amen." Rising he caught a condescendingly wide smile on Yolanda's face and—unexpectedly, given she'd composed herself with utmost politeness thus far—sheer disgust on Mayfair's. Before Scott Dalton could shoot back his own look she reclaimed control and put on the same pleasant visage as before. Oh, but Scott Dalton was onto her. Yes he was.

"So Mayfair, what exactly is your relationship to my son?" he asked.

"Oh Scott, come now, let's not pester the poor girl while we're supposed to be eating. Go on everyone, fill your plates, there you go. Take whatever you like, there's more than enough for everyone."

Scott Dalton returned to cutting his prime rib but he kept a close eye on Mayfair. He knew what was what. Yolanda must know too, which was exactly why she cut his question short. Little girl in a starched old timey blouse, who bowed her head and mouthed her own silent prayer to herself—one that lasted a good deal longer than Scott Dalton's—before finally reaching to serve herself with small and uncertain fingers, and them both speaking in such a stilted formal way? Cult. Clearcut and naked. She was in some cult and somehow Scottie'd gotten himself suckered into it too. One of those solicitous wingnut religions where well-dressed men knock door-to-door and hand out pamphlets promising salvation, redemption. It'd be just like Scottie to get mixed up in something brainless like that, and then what? They slapped this little girl on him, made him take care of her? The cult's idea of free childcare? While also keeping an eye on Scottie, making sure he abided whatever absurd behavioral standards the cult inflicted on its members. Oh yes. Scott Dalton had it all figured out. Look at that ridiculous cane she carried. Bone white staff with a glass sphere at the top, cult paraphernalia for sure.

Cult! Yolanda of course wouldn't want any talk of that to ruin her meal and Scott Dalton didn't blame her, just the thought made his stomach churn (not enough to stop him from shredding a slice off his steak, dabbing it in ample steak sauce and horseradish, and taking a bite). Scottie in a cult, a new low. Next he'd be asking for money. Ah yes. Of course. Forget childcare, money was the true reason he brought that little girl along, her clothes respectable in concept but frayed, dirty. He watched her, piling her plate high, operating with semi-respectable table manners but frantic and hungry in the bites she took with quick birdlike motions of her pretty head. The cult needed money and they sent this cuckoo child to eat in their home and beg for it afterward. Yolanda would of course fork it up, "oh it's only a thousand Scott, we can afford it—and look at the poor girl," but for Scott Dalton it was the concept, not the money, that angered him. Obviously that thousand or two thousand or however much wasn't going to that girl's welfare, oh no, it'd go to whomever was in charge, pay for drugs to keep the brainwashed followers in line, or maybe more Porsches, who knew with these cults. Oughtta do the country a favor and follow Jonestown's example, that's what Scott Dalton thought.

Thinking whipped him into a lather as he swallowed bite after bite and washed away the horseradish—too mild, Yolanda always got it too mild—with gulps of water. Yolanda filled the silence with useless questions, oh how's work, oh how's your apartment, questions Scottie answered with long and formal answers that said nothing at all ("My occupation keeps me busy, mother, and I find it quite fulfilling to render myself useful to the world"). Not a single question that might trip a landmine.

Until, that is, she asked:

"And how's Shannon been doing lately?"

Yolanda maybe didn't expect the answer she got, which Scottie delivered as stiffly as the others:

"Dear mother, I have recently broken off my engagement with Lady Shannon."

"Engagement? Broken off?" said Scott Dalton. "How recently are we talking? You were spouting off about her over the phone just a couple days ago."

"Oh, well, we don't need to discuss this now, do we?" said Yolanda. "How are you all enjoying the meal? Is there anything I can get anyone?"

"Come on Yolanda, let us talk about this." Scott Dalton chewed and swallowed. "I should be able to talk about what I want at my own dinner table, shouldn't I?"

"Yes dear," strained smiled plastered on Yolanda's lips, "but last year I let you talk about what you wanted and it was a three-hour screaming match about the election. I—"

"And that was my fault? You were the one who thought it'd be an excellent idea to invite your crazy anarchist sister over—"

"I just don't want this lovely dinner ruined!"

"Jesus," said Scott Dalton. He thought, a mantra: She is your ally. She is your ally.

Mayfair lifted the head she'd basically burrowed into her mound of food—no even token attempt at manners now—and glared through a goatee of gravy. "Please refrain from using the Lord's name as an oath."

"I'll use whoever's name I want as an oath, who are you to tell me otherwise?" He rose partway. "You come to my house, you eat my wife's food, and you tell me how to act?"

"Scott, it's okay, she can eat the food! I like that more people are eating it, I spent effort making it. And since I wasn't allowed to invite my family—"

"I only want to know why she's here. Why's she here, Scottie. Tell me that."

"Scott, please, let's not ruin the meal—"

"She's already ruining the meal Yolanda! She is! Ever think of that? Ever think it destroys my appetite having a stranger I've never met sitting just down the table from me on Thanksgiving day—"

"Scott, she's a little girl. She's hungry! Our son is doing something good, can't you see? Isn't that what Thanksgiving is about? You're doing something good, aren't you Scottie?"

Doing something good! Sure! However you want to phrase it Yolanda. Always too soft, and Scott Dalton too soft too for letting her get away with it. Yolanda, of course, was the only reason their only son was allowed to bash his brains in during college, probably accruing permanent cerebral trauma in the process—Let him follow his dreams, he's young, he won't get another chance! And Scott Dalton caved, should never have caved, now their son was brain damaged and getting suckered into a cult because of it!

But he kept that inside. He understood himself teetering on a precipice, one he could walk away from whenever he wanted. Last year he said certain things that hurt—truly hurt—the people he loved. He knew that. He knew it and yet—and yet it was just so easy, so damn easy to yell and shout, it felt good yelling and shouting, exerting one's will.

The look in Yolanda's eyes begged him to back off.

Just a few deep breaths, just a few seconds to cool down. It was important to Yolanda this meal went smoothly which meant, as her partner, it should be important to him. So spoke the counsellor. He lowered himself back into his chair, pretending he believed the fantasy Yolanda span: A poor hungry girl, Scottie providing some simple charity...

"Mother. Father," Scottie said, once the others finally fell silent. He had hardly touched his food. Maybe hadn't touched it at all—certainly unlike him.

"Yes, Scottie?" Yolanda wore her brightest, most understanding smile.

"I know you have some misgivings about Mayfair. However, I can assure you she is not some stranger I met on the street."

"Yes, of course Scottie. I trust you."

"She is of royal lineage, and I am engaged to wed her."

A quiet descended. A fork leaden with beef slowly descended to Scott Dalton's plate. Yolanda's mouth hung slightly open, her fingertips pressed to her lips.

"What?" Yolanda said. "What? I—I think I misheard you, Scottie. I—what?"

"I said, she is a princess. I am engaged to wed her."

Yolanda started to scream.

—

As the car swerved away, Mayfair curled in the seat beside the driver clutching a bundle of papers to a bleeding forehead wound. Her other hand, upturned, shone with three red droplets to which her attention affixed, although these drops were less perplexing than the situation they fled. She had believed, with absolute certainty, that she made a correct decision. After merely a few minutes in the presence of Dalton's parents and their lavish, sprawling palace—a manor as impressive as those of the finest noble houses in Whitecrosse—Mayfair believed she comprehended their anxieties and knew the exact panacea to calm them. A stranger, they called her, and a pauper too, someone unfit to dine in their presence (she admitted to herself the supreme bounty of their table combined with her powerful hunger may have caused her to act with somewhat less refinement than demanded). What better way to assuage their worries than reveal her status and tie herself to Dalton via the auspices of holy union?

When she puppeteered Dalton to speak while she bit into a leg of that delicious yet unknown fowl called "turkey," she had fully expected to see the frowns of his mother and father shift into broad and welcoming smiles. Nobility only found itself at ease in the presence of either servants or other nobility, and sometimes not even the former; had she not witnessed and manipulated to her ends the aristocratic inclinations of those perpetually-reaching hangers-on who thronged the Whitecrosse court?

Instead Dalton's mother hurled a plate at Mayfair's head.

Why? Why did they reject her? Their home had been so warm. The father stern but not inflexible, the mother joyful and caring...

Had they simply not believed their son? The lie possessed the ounce of truth necessary for a lie to be believable, and as a figure who no longer felt emotion or fear Dalton was able to speak clearly and without wavering. What, then, was the trouble?

That woman, so warm and smiling, so suddenly hurling that plate at her head... Mayfair's hands quivered. Her vision blurred with tears. "Damn it," she said. "Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it...!"

"It's okay," said Dalton. "It's okay. You're stronger than this. That wasn't her. It wasn't your mother."

"Everyone always hates me. I don't know why. Why does everyone always hate me?"

"I don't hate you."

"You're dead!"

She laughed. Had to! Here she was, talking to herself via the conduit of a corpse she puppeteered via necromancy. The ridiculousness snapped her out of the incipient melancholy she felt rising inside her; she continued to laugh, she laughed until her head felt woozy and her vocal chords ached. But she felt better. None of that mattered, none of what anyone thought about her mattered. When she saved them all, they'd love her.

Mayfair wiped her palm free of blood, took up the "turkey" leg she managed to stash away as she and Dalton hastily fled the manor, and tore off a prodigious chunk of flesh with her teeth. In a more rational mindset, she considered what Dalton's father screamed, pink in the face as he struggled to hold his wife back despite her long and painted claws rending the air in front of her: "How old is she? Thirteen, Scottie? Fourteen? What the fuck is wrong with you? Get out, get out, out of my house now!"

And Lady Swaino's addendum, echoing through the halls during the final steps of their retreat: "You little bitch! You'll ruin his life you little whore!"

And something Shannon had said back at the monastery: "Jay, she's too young for you anyway."

Was it her age, and not her personality, that was the issue? But she was fourteen, perfectly marriageable, even if the thought of marriage to some ancient duke made her ill whenever her mother threatened her with the idea (which was often). Mayfair's mother, after all, was not only married at fourteen, but pregnant. Such an age had been considered old enough throughout Whitecrosse's history, and neither the Bible nor John Coke found anything objectionable in it.

Yet Earth now was not at all as John Coke described it. Manors, each fit for a dukedom, sat side-by-side in long rows as Dalton drove past. The car itself was a marvel, a phantom of automatic construction, as were the shining lights and glittering glass towers they encountered on their journey, and the queer device in Dalton's pocket, which not only allowed instantaneous communication with multiple people far away (Dalton kept receiving messages from people labeled as "Mrs. Dub" and "Da-rae;" Mayfair ignored them), but also provided an almost endless array of other benefits—not least of which being a magic map that directed you to a location if you only told it where to go.

For Earth, unlike Whitecrosse, the passage of time prompted change. Prompted progress. Societal as well as technological. Girls her age were no longer forced to marry much older men; indeed, given the violent reaction of Dalton's parents, this idea was as repugnant to them as it was to Mayfair herself. Did this also suggest a world where women were less restrained by subordination to men in general?

Fascinating! She wanted to know more. Needed to. All facets of this world's developments seized her imagination. How many hours might she spend just with Dalton's magic box, tapping its various buttons (with arcane names such as "Google" and "Facebook" and "Twitter") and discovering what each did? Or exploring this unending city through which they could drive an hour without reaching their destination. Already, simply by observing Dalton's motions as he piloted the car, she was learning what each lever and pedal did, and believed with some practice might be able to pilot it herself. But was that the best use of her time, while Dalton still served as an excellent chauffeur? No. She must prioritize, must learn the most important things first and leave as succulent mysteries the rest—for now. Once she brought Whitecrosse into this world and saved her people, then she could fall into a hole of learning from which she never needed to emerge—with others by her side. Her thoughts returned to the devil's papers. She must find out what was and was not possible to change. And if the papers themselves did not allow certain changes, there were other methods. The relics in Whitecrosse's vault, for instance, possessed certain exemplary powers. But how to enter the vault? Journeying there herself was too dangerous—it was the only way she could be usurped as New Master, just as she usurped the devil. Yet only those with royal blood could open the vault's door. And her brother was... Well.

But wasn't something missing in this world? Something she hadn't seen?

And then, as though God placed it into her path in response to her very thoughts, she saw it.

"Stop the car, Sir Dalton!" she suddenly cried out. Dalton stopped as asked, in the middle of the street, only for a blare of klaxons to rise from the cars behind until Dalton maneuvered into a vast patio of pavement that seemed to specifically serve the purpose of allowing cars to rest while deactivated. As soon as the car slowed Mayfair was outside, fervently swallowing the last chunks of "turkey" before tossing the cleaned bone aside, as well as the papers she used to staunch her bleeding, her blood having coagulated. Wiping hands clean on her clothes she, with Dalton trailing, approached the structure that caught her eye.

It was small compared to the Swaino manor and the tower that contained the devil's office, but it was topped with a symbol familiar to Mayfair, one that healed her heart of the final misgiving that plagued her in this world: the symbol of the cross.

A sign beside the steepled building read:

Cuyahoga Baptist Church

1 Chronicles 16:34

"GIVE THANKS TO THE LORD, FOR HE IS GOOD; HIS LOVE ENDURES FOREVER."

The quote was altered from Mayfair's memory ("O give thanks unto the Lord; for he is good; for his mercy endureth for ever"), but other than the substitution of "mercy" for "love" the essence was unchanged.

Finally!

When Dalton's father mumbled the prayer she'd wanted to shriek at him. Elsewhere she'd seen no exaltation of God or Christ in the architecture whatsoever. Even now, the small stature of the church surprised her. In this land of unparalleled progress, why were there not cathedrals whose towers scraped the skies, why were there not statues or art arrayed in the most public spaces so that all, even the poorest and meanest of their brethren, would know who truly ruled this world? She had instead seen, strung from light-poles that lined the streets, banners depicting the "turkey" bird with words such as "Happy Thanksgiving!"—this Thanksgiving being, apparently, a secular feast day, perhaps a harvest festival. If not impious this dereliction of praise was at least idiotic on the part of this kingdom's rulers, who ought well to know the power such art held over the common rabble.

Nonetheless, the church was here. Mayfair could not resist. She made herself more presentable with a few quick adjustments, held her staff, and approached the doors. There was a placard in front of them. In Loving Memory, it read, and then displayed an image of a person so realistic it unsettled Mayfair to think human artists had ascended to such levels of skill. The image was of an absolutely ancient man whose skin hung in pendulous folds. From inside the open door the voice of a priest intoned.

A funeral service. But under the deceased's name and dates of birth and death were words that marred Mayfair's face in consternation. "Thanksgiving service to be held afterward." A secular feast enshrined even here? Or was there perhaps a religious dimension to the festival that was simply unacknowledged in the home of Dalton's father? The name certainly invoked pious feeling. To whom else would thanks be given?

She entered the church, leading Dalton, and saw before her a modest space, clean and orderly but humble. The pulpit was small and white and adorned only with the sign of the cross. Certainly, the fireless lights above and the mathematical precision of all angles were impressive beyond measure of what Whitecrosse could create, but there was no sense of awe, no religious fervor within these walls, only tidiness. The open coffin at the end contained the cold and white dead man wearing clothes of a similar fashion to those Dalton's father wore, and the scattered congregation—numbering only about twenty souls—were similarly attired.

Yet the dead man was certainly wealthy and important enough for an artist of immaculate skill to render a flawless likeness of him. Was this the best he could purchase for himself? Had the Christian faith dwindled to such a degree? The priest—surprisingly dark-skinned, even more than the people of California or that elf her brother bedded—droned on, phlegmatic and bored, in simple vestments.

Bizarre! More than bizarre: unfathomable. How did Earth exceed Whitecrosse in every possible measure except what was arguably most important? How were these people, living within earthly paradise, so limp in their demonstrations of gratitude? Even on this day of Thanksgiving!

Did they not understand?

Did they not know how hollow a feeling it was?

In those drafty castle rooms, surrounded by books and papers, late nights without a spark of light inside. Her mother not there, her brother not there, her only points of human contact faceless servants beaten via rod from a young age to sterile anonymity. Mayfair was always good at learning, at memorizing facts and details, she possessed what her tutor described as a voracious appetite for knowledge, and yet no matter how much she took inside her it never filled that empty feeling.

Only that grand cathedral, looming nearly as high as the castle itself, the spires and the bells, only in that hallowed space. Golden, every surface gleaming, and the figures on the altarpiece rising to a sweeping clouded landscape where God reigned supreme, a vibration in the cold air that sounded like a steady hum—only then did Mayfair feel a presence in that space she lacked. It was not a feeling experienced via any of the five senses, nor a feeling experienced with the mind. It was an embrace, a glowing dream.

It was God.

She knew, of course, that what she felt in that cathedral was mere facsimile. That God did not exist in Whitecrosse, that some clever combination of art and architecture substituted that glory. But here, on Earth, she felt it, had felt it—with only a few interruptions—since the moment she stepped through the Door, the pulse on her skin, the heaving in her heart. Did they not feel it too? Dalton's father, and the meager group arrayed in this church, and the blackamoor priest who seemed to traverse merely the motions. Even Archbishop Astrophicus, dry in his lectures, was motivated by a drive for holy truth that brought him to the terrain of heresy. Why not here? Why not here?

One foot buckled; she swayed. Dalton caught her but, unnoticed even by the priest, she lifted her hands to her face. She realized, with horror, that the feeling that imbued her as she walked through the Door had faded, was barely there, that tremble or echo, that sense of being filled by something magnificent. It couldn't be, though. God couldn't fade. And He was certainly here, this was Earth, this was His world, created by Him, loved by Him.

No. He couldn't fade. Why didn't she feel it then? A fatigue swept her, she had not slept and all at once it hit her. Why? She'd thought—hoped—prayed—after everything she did—after Makepeace—it had all been essential.

The hands that held her, Dalton's hands, were cold. A corpse. When he spoke in so genteel a manner it was farce, puppetry, her own voice in his timbre. Emptiness crept back inside her, the dismal church demanded it, as though it had been constructed in mockery of God rather than the opposite. It was the people, though, the people who struck the deepest wound, such salubrious and moribund types, so cold and unfeeling even at this funeral—not a single woman sobbing, not a single tear being shed!—even at this day of Thanksgiving, the father howling harsh invective, the mother hurling that plate—the mother!

She tore herself away from Dalton's cold hands and in so doing stabilized herself. No. God was still here, in this world, she knew it, she refused to believe otherwise. The people may have lost their faith but not her. And if she wanted that empty hole filled by something other than their coldness, she must reignite that faith inside them. She must make these people realize their unlimited fortune, she must bring them to God, and so doing bring them to her and bring her to God too.

How? A speech? No. As her encounter with Sir Dalton's parents proved, she knew not yet the best way to speak to these people.

She must show them a miracle.

Mayfair slowly approached the front of the church, where the dead body lay as cold as those watching it. In her hand she clutched the Staff of Lazarus; she would show them a miracle.