The Rag Lady.

Hers was a name that inspired, if not fear, then a very wary respect at least. Even Them Above did not involve themselves with the Rag Lady, not if they could help it. She had a power of her own that they could not subvert to their purposes. It is possible that she could have ruled Spire if she so wished. She didn't though. What she did wish for, well, I could not say. I doubt any could.

You had to be desperate to seek out help from her though, for the aid that she gave was not always the aid that you desired. As for payment, you never know what it was going to be, or when the Rag Lady would actually call for it.

I was desperate though, which is why I made my almost reluctant way to the autotrolley stop and caught a ride heading down. Way down.

It was a three-hour ride down to the part of Spire where the Rag Lady lived, far down in its depths, where the fogs and mists grew increasingly thick. As we made our slow way down, it grew darker outside the trolley, a reversal of what should have been happening as the day dawned. The mists into the parts I was venturing blocked out what little light filtered down from above, and the only sources of it were artificial.

About halfway to my destination, the trolley stopped at a major depot. Those of us on it got off and moved across to another trolley. The new one was much bulkier, of a sturdier construction, its windows shuttered. A burly dwarf guard sat at the front of the trolley, a shotgun across his lap. He watched us all closely as we clambered aboard, scowling the whole time.

As far down as we were going, normal people didn't live. It was too dark. Even dwarves, who could handle the dark better than humans, kept away from there as much as they could. The dwellers of the depths were pale things that scurried about, seldom seen further above. The dark was their home and they could see in it, by whatever means it was, as well as we could in the light.

Not all of them were necessarily friendly to interlopers from above. While rare, attacks on the trolley were not unheard of either, hence the need for a more protected trolley car and an armed guard.

Despite all of that, I was not alone on the trolley. There were a number of others on the trolley with me, making the descent. People work where they can in Spire, and down below there is work to be had. Hard work, to be certain, and dirty as well, labouring away in the dark, but it was paying work and many were grateful for that. I'd never reached a stage where I'd needed to do so. I hope I never do.

It wasn't my first descent down below either. Not surprisingly, my line of work had on occasions required me to head down there. Many sought refuge down in the dark, thinking that there they could escape those pursuing them. They tended to stand out from the real residents though, and it seldom worked for long.

The three-hour ride seemed far longer than it was. If I had thought ahead, I would had bought a book along to read. Instead I tried to rest, to at least nap for a little while and catch up on missing sleep. Eventually the trolley car came grinding to a halt. I roused myself and stepped out into near darkness. The mists closed in around me and the only source of light was a flickering street lamp nearby to the stop. Beyond it could be seen little but for a few faint pools of light off in the distance, spread out along the thoroughfare, from other street lamps and shop fronts. Very few vehicles made their way along the thoroughfare, the light of their headlights a welcome sight.

I stepped out from the stop and the swirling rain came at me. It had picked up during the trip on the trolley car, falling heavy now. Soon it dripped from my coat and my hat. I tried to seek out cover as best I could on my walk, darting from shelter to shelter. I was not exactly alone walking the streets. There were a few from further uptown, like myself, down there, but not many. Most were residents of down below, of a mix of types. There were the diminutive, pale ones with large eyes that blinked in the light, that scurried about, akin to rats or moles. Others were tall and gaunt and dark against the shadows, with pools of black luminescence for eyes. Then there were those that were heard and not seen, whispering in the dark as they moved.

Even in the dark I knew the way to the Rag Lady's place. It wasn't exactly my first visit. My course took me down the thoroughfare to where a side street led off from it. Down either side of the new street were shops of some kind. The street was darker still, almost black from the lack of light. I took a torch out of my pocket in my coat and switched it on, sweeping it ahead of me. It did serve to draw attention to myself but there was little for it. It was that or walk blindly into things. And, given the direction that I was headed, there weren't many who would trouble me. The Rag Lady's reputation was well known. You didn’t mess with those going to see her.

As I walked down the rainy street, my torch light touched upon a pile of wooden boxes, stacked high outside one building. A small creature perched atop of them, no more than half a metre in height. It appeared to look like a monkey, though one with white fur and wearing a red vest and a pair of half-moon spectacles. The creature watched me as I walked on by before leaping up onto a drainpipe and climbing it up into the darkness.

A side alleyway loomed up ahead of me in the torchlight and I turned into it, splashing through a growing puddle that formed from water dripping down off of overhanging roofs. At the end of the alleyway was a door. It was open and from out of it flooded a warm light. An awning stretched out over the doorway, sheltering it from the rain. From the underneath of the awning hung many rags of a variety of shades of colours.

As I approached the door, pushing my way through the rags, a voice called out from inside. "Come on in out of the rain and warm yourself." It was a woman's voice, one kindly and old, but strong nonetheless, a voice that knew its own worth and purpose.

I turned off my torch, returning it to my pocket, and entered through the door, into the room beyond. As I did, I came to an instant halt, frozen in place. All around me were candles, dozens of them, hundreds even, filling every last spare part of the room. They were perched on ledges and tables, on stands and shelves and windowsills. White wax ran down them to puddle about them. They burned with a clear, bright flame, suffusing the room with their light. Memories of the previous night came flooding back to me, of the flames that had devoured and the heat that they had given off. I could feel it on my face again, smell the burning, hear the sounds and cries.

"Do the candles trouble you?"

At first, I had not noticed the Rag Lady, so transfixed by the flames was I. She sat in the corner of the room, in a rocking chair, clad in a dress that had been sewn together from many different rags, each part a different garish colour and design, resulting in a riotous display. She wore it with a certain elegance though, a nobility that few others could have pulled off. As she rocked backwards and forwards on her chair, she knitted what appeared to be a scarf that seemed to be made from various off cuts of wool, producing a result akin to that of her dress. Her iron grey hair was pulled back behind her head in a severe bun, while her face was lined and wrinkled, yet there remained behind it the traces of a once great beauty.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"I had not been expecting it," I admitted once I had found my voice.

The Rag Lady smiled and the candles all blinked out together, plunging the room into total dark. It wasn't much of an improvement. It did not stay that way for long as a single illuminance globe in the ceiling blinked to life. "Do sit down," she told me.

I complied. It was hard not to. I pulled out a chair at the table and sat down upon it. There I sat, waiting in silence as the Rag Lady continued on with her knitting. There was no point in pushing her. She would speak when she decided it was time, and not a moment sooner.

A scraping at the door at the back of the room sounded before it swung open. Out through it came one of the diminutive, pale mole-like people that lived in that part of Spire, carrying a tray with a teapot, cups, sugar pot, milk jug and spoons upon it. A multicoloured woollen doily sat upon the top of the teapot. The servant sat the tray down on the table in front of me and slunk away out of the room, closing the door as it left.

"I take mine white. No sugars," the Rag Lady told me, not even looking up from her knitting. The request was that of a sweet old lady, yet it was much more than that, for it carried in it the tones of an order as if it had been given by one of Them Above. There was a difference though. With Them Above, the order was backed by the threats of fear. The Rag Lady had no need to threaten.

I stood up and started to pour the tea into the cups provided. Not surprisingly, the cups and saucers were mismatched, taken from different sets. I added milk to the Rag Lady's and carried it over to her. She set the knitting aside on a small table beside her rocking chair and took the cup from me. I returned to my seat, and my tea.

The Rag Lady took a slow sip of her tea, watching me over the rim of her cup as she did so. He eyes were a particular golden colour. They almost appeared to glow from within, from a source of light that she held in herself, almost like a hidden flame. It was hard to match her eye to eye, for those eyes felt as if they pierced you, seeing your hidden self.

"You almost hit upon an important truth," she told me, "One that would have changed your understanding of many things, of Spire and your place in it."

I blinked. It had been an unusual start to our conversation. "Truth? What truth?"

She smiled serenely and shook her head. "You cannot be led to this truth. It is one that you must discover for yourself, for the discovery of it is as much the destination as the truth itself. Perhaps in time you will discover it before it is too late. Very few have done so but I still hold out hope for you. That is by the by. You are here for other matters."

I responded with a slow nod. As I did, I turned the cup of tea around on the saucer with one finger on the handle. "I require your assistance," I admitted.

"Of course you do. You would not be here otherwise. You wander lost, seeking the lost. The lost man, the lost girl and the lost box, each separate but one leads to the other and on to the other."

I frowned at that. "They are connected?"

The Rag Lady smiled again. Another sip of tea followed, delaying a response. "But of course," she replied when at last she spoke. "Find the one and you find the other. Most things are connected in their own ways, some more obvious than others. You just need to find that connection."

It was my turn to take a sip of tea, picking up the cup and cradling it in my hand. I tried to piece together what I knew of the two cases. Nothing indicated that they in any way had a link between them. They had come to me separate and never had their paths crossed. Yet if the Rag Lady said that they were, then they were. Which only made it more imperative now that I found Nathan Hanes, and quick, least the worm creature should chance upon him first.

"You mentioned a lost girl," I said, picking up on that thread of the Rag Lady's comments. "What do you mean by that?"

"A poor child, lost in the past, seeking meaning in the now. She is the centre, the linchpin of it all."

"I am not certain I follow that."

"In time you will," the Rag Lady assured me. "Don’t let your tea go cold," she added.

I drank again, as all the while she studied me with her warm, golden eyes over the top of her cup of tea.

"Where do I start?" I asked.

"Where do you think that you should start?"

That was half the problem with speaking with the Rag Lady. Questions were often answered with questions and when she did manage to come out with a straight answer, it was often hard to follow. I sat back in my chair, frowning. "I am not certain," I admitted. "Should I be seeking out the man or the box?"

"Yes."

As an answer it was not helpful, but you expect little else from the Rag Lady at times. She could be infuriating in that regards. "You say that they are connected but I fail to see what they have in common with each other. They are from separate worlds with nothing that ties them together."

"It is not as much that they are related, but more that there is an inter-connectivity between them."

"They crossed paths you mean?"

"Precisely."

My eyes narrowed as I considered what she had told me, taking another sip of tea. "The man that I seek, he seldom ventured out. There were limited opportunities for that to have happened."

"Then it is there that you must seek it out."

"You couldn't just tell me, could you?"

That was more out of hope than anything. The Rag Lady favoured me with a smile. She set down her empty teacup and took up her knitting needles again. "You know that is not how this works, Mister Stone. I say what I know, no more, no less. You cannot press it, or the answers."

I sighed but nodded. "I know. It just feels as if I am stumbling around in the dark at times."

"That will not last for long."

"That is good to know at least." I just had to hope that it was a good thing.

"You will see the light, Mister Stone, and be changed for it. A truth will be revealed to you. It may not be the truth that you need or you seek, but it will be there for you."

I didn't - at the time - understand just what the Rag Lady was saying. Maybe if I had pressed her on it, matters would have changed. Probably not though. Or maybe it would just have scared me into paralysis.

"Thank you," I told her. "You have been most helpful."

A soft chuckle came from the Rag Lady. "That is not what you really think, but it is kind of you to say so."

"What do I owe you?"

"Owe me, Mister Stone?"

"For the consultation."

She waved a hand dismissively, as if it mattered not at all. "Do not worry about that for the now. Perhaps, later on, we shall discuss such minor and trivial concerns. Before you go, there is one more thing."

"Yes?"

"I have a gift for you."

That was unusual. I had not heard of the Rag Lady handing out gifts before. Ever. Vague, and at time infuriating, answers, but not gifts. She rummaged around in a bag beside her chair, one that had been sewn together from patches of cloth of numerous colours and styles, much like her dress. From it she pulled out a scarf, similar to the one that she had been working on. "For you," she said and held it out to me.

I took the scarf from her hands, looking at it. It had been knitted from bits and pieces of wool of varying lengths, sizes and colours, so that the whole thing appeared somewhat random and haphazard, almost riotous. Given a choice, it was not a piece of apparel that I would have chosen to wear. It didn't really suit my style. Apart from the Rag Lady, it didn't really suit anyone's style. Plus, it really would rather make me stand out if I wore it. Still, it had come from the Rag Lady, and refusing it was not the wisest of choices to make.

The Rag Lady must have noticed my apprehension. She smiled as she returned to her knitting, a steady click-clack of noise coming from her. "It is for your protection," she told me.

Wrapping the scarf around my neck, tucking the ends in beneath my coat. "Protection from what?" I inquired.

"The cold," she told me. "A change in weather is coming and you spend so much time out in it. It would not do for you to come down with some sickness."

"Thank you," I replied, trying not to sound, or look, too disappointed. I had expected something a little less mundane and more mystical. Still, I couldn't complain. A gift was a gift.

"I will see you again soon," the Rag Lady promised, knitting away as began to take my leave. The sound of the click clack of the knitting needles accompanied me out of the building and back into the dank dark beyond.