“It’s good to see you two again.” the manes of Agnes Little greeted the two manesologists.

Outside, the man reformed, seemingly pulling his bulk from out of the dark air itself. But the man’s immortality no longer bothered the manes of Agnes Little.

She shook her head. “Ah, if only he would stay dead…but it doesn’t matter. Dr. Glass and myself are working on that.”

“We know.” Joseph puffed on his cigar, tipped as before with green fire. “We kept in touch with Dr. Glass telepathically through an Operation--that is to say, we talked to each other with our minds. But good for you deciding to fight him, manes of Agnes Little.”

The manes of Agnes Little looked at Joseph’s cigar. “Sir, I noticed this before, and it seemed rather minor in my panic, but there’s green fire on your cigar, and you’ve burnt the Werewolf twice with that fire. Why is it green and why does it move?”

The fire leapt off the tip of Joseph’s cigar and grew into a ball about the size of a man’s head.

“Because it is actually a he. Manes of Agnes Little, meet one of our employees, Nick.”

“Oh!” the manes of Agnes Little gasped. “Oh, you’re a ghost! You’re all fire, aren’t you?”

“Nick can’t talk.” Joseph explained. “At least not in a way you’d be able to understand. He’s got a very weak bodily impression.”

“Please forgive my surprise, Nck.” the manes of Agnes Little said. “I should know by now that ghosts come in many different forms. I owe you a debt of thanks, Nick. It was very nice seeing you set that horrible gargoyle outside on fire. It doesn’t keep him dead, but it's nice to see him die.”

Nick bobbed up and down in the air, which the manes of Anges Little figured was his way of nodding in agreement.

“Technically speaking, every time he burns away the Werewolf, he’s setting a part of you on fire.” Martin said.

Joseph rolled his eyes. “Dear girl, I’m so sorry you’ve had to talk to him for this long by yourself.”

Another ghost joined the group, walking in through the door--literally through the door.

This new ghost was a woman, and a very pretty one at that. The manes of Agnes Little felt the pains of remembrance when she saw her china-smooth face. She had seen many faces like that, many faces that entered into a brothel vibrant and youthful and left withered and pox-ridden, or worse, scarred.

Unlike the manes of Agnes Little, this ghost was tinted blue from her skin to her clothes. The light shined through her, though she also seemed to have a little radiance of her own. She seemed like a piece of blue glass skillfully carved into the shape of a woman.

“Hello, manes of Agnes Little,” the ghost said. “My name is Esmee Walker. I’m an employee of Ernst, Morton, and Glass, like Nick.”

She turned to the manesologists. “I finished making the arrangements.”

“That’s good.” Matthew said. “Manes of Agnes Little, your previous property was bought and sold shortly after Agnes Little’s death. As the Manes Charter stands, you are penniless.”

“As if I had a penny to my name to begin with, but I know how the law works.”

“We purchased a little apartment for you on Curant Street, in the James District, so you’d have a place to rest.” Matthew said. “It’s in walking distance of Chopin Street, should you feel your object impression call you to walk it.”

“Thank you,” the manes of Agnes Little said. “That’s very kind of you. I honestly gave very little thought to where I’d go from here. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Such a purchase was not beyond our finances.” Matthew said. “Money has only rarely been an obstacle for us. The Ror Raas has always provided for our needs.”

“Friends in high places, eh?” the manes of Agnes Little asked.

“Friends in dark places, more like.” Joseph said. “But you’d be surprised how resourceful the darkness can be. They know where all the buried treasures are.”

The manes of Agnes Little looked at Esmee. “So you’re Esmee Walker--not the manes of Esmee Walker?”

Esmee shook her head. “No. I feel that I’m still that girl.”

“Good for you. Oh, but we ghosts come in so many varieties, don’t we?”

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“They say we’re the children of life, and humans can live very many different kinds of lives.”

“Lord, you are pretty, Esmee. You look like someone created you, like an artist or a sculptor.”

“Oh, I’m not pretty. I’m just simplified. I have no wrinkles or imperfections because my form lacks those details.”

“You’re modest.”

“No, no, it’s the truth. I’m like someone’s drawing of a girl instead of an actual girl.”

The manes of Agnes Little reached out towards Esmee’s face. “May I touch you?”

Esmee nodded.

“Lord!” The manes of Agnes Little recoiled. “You’re cold! Oh, you poor thing!”

Esmee smiled. “I don’t feel it. I don’t feel much of anything.”

“You’re as cold as ice.” the manes of Agnes Little turned to Nick. “And you, you’re so warm I can feel you all the way over here. You two make quite the pair.”

“They’re great employees.” Matthew said. “They’ve helped us out countless times. Esmee will escort you to your home, and if you like, she is prepared to watch over you as you adust to your circumstances.”

“Watch over? Oh, you mean keep me company while the Werewolf stars at me.”

The manes of Agnes Little looked at the man.

“I know he can’t hurt me…but I think I would appreciate someone keeping me company so long as I have to deal with him stalking me--I mean, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s not trouble at all!” Esmee said cheerfully. “Didn’t Dr. Glass tell you? I was the ghost they used to capture the living Werewolf of Blackwall.”

“That was you?” The manes of Agnes Little couldn’t believe it. “But you’re so…you look so delicate, dear!”

“Thank you. But they say the living have no defense against the dead for a reason. No man can stand against me unaided by gaeite--or you, for that matter. And as for that reputational manifestation out there, I have the utmost confidence in my ability to handle him. In fact, I think I’ll give you a demonstration!” Esmee suddenly blew through the wall like a gust of blue tinted air.

“Be careful!” the manes of Agnes Little shouted after her. “Oh please, be careful!”

But her worry was unfounded.

There was a flash of blue next to the Werewolf. The next instant, Esmee stood beside him, and the Werewolf stood cringing before her blue radiance. He shook as if he was afraid, as if he was losing control of his body.

His hand opened. The knife in it fell--and froze in mid-fall.

He was then as still and as lifeless as a statue.

The means of Agnes Little gazed in awe at Esmee Walker. “What did you do to him?” she asked.

“What I did before, and with greater ease..” Esmee waved for the manes of Agnes Little to come over. “Come on! Step outside!”

The manes of Agnes Little walked to the door, but paused. She was about to leave the safety of the olprt radiance. It was one thing to scream at the Werewolf while inside the protective bubble of moon colored light, it was quite another thing to do so outside.

The manes of Agnes Little knew, without a doubt, that she was safe from the Werewolf. But there was still fear inside her, clinging to her heart like a thorn.

Her mind struggled against her emotions.

“Come on! It’s perfectly safe!” Esmee urged. “Just look at him! He’s nothing more than a big statue!”

The manes of Agnes Little regained her courage, opened the door, and walked out.

It was cold outside the olprt radiance and she shivered. She was too thin for tables, she realized, but unfortunately not thin enough for cold, early morning air.

She looked the man up and down and something deep down inside her expected him to move--but he didn’t.

“Come on!” Esmee poked the Werewolf with a blue finger. “Touch him!”

The manes of Agnes Little took in a deep breath through her nose and exhaled slowly out her mouth, just as Dr. Glass had taught her.

She poked the Werewolf.

And saw that her finger went right through him.

In that moment, her courage blazed, and she roared with laughter.

“Ahahahaha! You’re nothing! Absolutely nothing!”

She waved her hand through his face as Dr. Glass had done to her face.

“You’re just black water and fog!”

“He’s not even that.” Esmee said. “He’s just a shadow.”

“I think you’re right, Esmee.” the manes of Agnes Little said.

She turned her back to the Werewolf and sighed. She no longer feared a blade stabbing her from behind.

“Esmee? I have a question.” the manes of Agnes Little said.

“Yes?”

“Would it be possible for me to sleep? Is sleep something I can do? It has been a long night for me--five whole years as a matter of fact. I think I would like to take a nap.”

“We can do something similar to sleep.” Esmee answered. “Scientifically speaking, it has more in common with meditation than sleep, but I assure you that it’s just as healing as sleep.”

“Good. I want to dissolve like a drop of water falling into the ocean.”

“Then let’s get going.” Esmee snapped her fingers at the blue light that held the Werewolf of Blackwall suspended like a bug in amber. The light moved, and as it moved, it carried the Werewolf with it.

“We’ve purchased a very nice bed for you, but I won’t be using one myself.” Esmee said.

“You won’t?” the manes of Agnes Little asked.

“Oh no. I’ve always been a very thin ghost. When I sleep, I fall through things and get carried by the wind.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve found that I enjoy sleeping in rain clouds anyway.”

“We can do that?”

Esmee laughed. “Yes, we can! We can do a lot of things! Some parts of being a ghost are very burdensome, but other parts are very liberating.”

“I can’t see how anyone would want to sleep in a rain cloud. Wouldn’t the thunder keep you awake?”

“Not once you’ve learned how to pick out the ones that thunder from the ones that don’t.” Esmee smiled. “I have a feeling you’ll be a fast learner!”

“Me?”

“Yes of course! I don’t mean right this very night, but you strike me as someone that would be a natural flyer. I think you’re going to love the world above!”

The manes of Agnes Little gazed up at the sky.

Could she really go up there? Up to the stars?

Maybe…

The manes of Agnes Little looked at the three manesologists. “Thank you all for everything you’ve done for me. I’m going to do my best to wash the Werewolf from out of my reputation. There’s just one thing further I want to say before I wish you all a good night: I don’t want to be called the mane of Agnes Little anymore. It’s so bloody awkward to say and even more awkward to hear. I have another name I want to use.”

“What is it?” Martin asked.

“Cora. Please call me Cora.”