Far past the main streets and hidden behind walls of brick and steel built by those who couldn’t see, thrived Society. Driven by an economy of charms and enchantments, if it wasn't magic it wasn’t worth it, Society in many ways hearkened back to a time lost by the Others and they held themselves in high esteem because of it. They did not rely on the things of the so-called modern world, didn’t even understand them, and instead used their own power to accomplish things in better ways.

Using sticks, which they thought was terribly clever.

Wands, they called them. Their function had not changed over the years, but the style had evolved. From knobby kindling to polished and curated, the poorest of the poor still took wands from the woods and if one was that poor, then no one would ever know because such people weren’t welcome in Society beyond the general associations, i.e., the misfortune of beholding such a person mingling with the population while completing errands.

You would see all types in the Market, though depending on which road you walked you were liable to meet one kind over the next. Of course, there was middle ground, the in-between of the Main Circle which brought you around the fountain, purportedly of youth, and then off in whichever direction you could afford to travel. It wasn’t impossible to see some miserable sap window shopping on Lighted Way, but one would never meet with those of high class down Toad Road.

Toad Road was as toady as its name. Squat buildings of brick and wood, often painted green or yellow in hopes of raising the spirits of the downtrodden, stood crowded together, often sharing walls. Sold there were the same items anyone could purchase elsewhere, though of significantly lower quality and therefore cost. Used books came from the Junk Trunk and potions in Colored Liquid were brewed using second-hand equipment and back garden-grown ingredients. Tattered had a plethora of second-hand robes and darning supplies.

Meanwhile, on Lighted Way, books were covered in painted leather and jewels at the BookeShope, no torn or scribbled-upon pages allowed. Articles of clothing were handmade in The Palace, subject to customization involving complex charms and spells to cast light and glitter. All the shop fronts were in an artful disarray to attract the wealthy who cared more for aesthetics than anything else. Plants painted silver and crystal jars.

Other streets existed but did not conjure such strong reactions as Lighted and Toad. Midway was for those not scraping the bottom of the barrel, yet neither of the nobility. Society’s majority resided in this area, office salaries and children attending smaller, localized institutions rather than Nyx and Aether, which was restricted by invitation to keep out the classless.

Social standing was king, though they’d done away with actual kings decades ago and were now run by somewhat elected government and hired office workers of whom there were thousands in the central hub called the Annex, keeping tabs on the population, surrounded by cubicles on all sides no matter their section. From monstrous plant life to black market charms those in the offices were trained watchful eyes and ears. Some went undercover in the Market, some followed up on rumor-based leads, all had mountains of paperwork set before them when seated at the desk.

The typical eight-hour work day for most, a few pulled in overtime depending on the way the day went and their seniority.

As for the somewhat elected officials, they had personal spaces with windows and marble on the upper floors. ‘Somewhat’ because while elections were held, few voted and even those that did were under no illusion that their votes meant much. Money bought positions by and large. The name most often seen was the one to win and anyone who put an ounce of thought into the matter knew that behind-the-scenes deals were made regarding who would run and who would not. Though there was technically no king or court, it still existed and the décor of the Annex, private elevators, and single offices attested to it.

They liked to keep things classy and as such employed more janitors than lawmakers, lawmakers who were too rich and sophisticated to use The Arts for things as lowly as scrubbing floors and washing walls. Instead, they moved papers from one end of the room to the other without having to stand up, which was as much a safety precaution as anything because long cloaks tended to get underfoot and had previously caused accidents. These days most wore them to floor length, barely brushing cobblestones, timber, or whatever the flooring happened to be, but the old goats of legislature refused to bow to such trends and had debated making rules about the matter. In the end, the idea was shelved for a more amiable time. The youth were uppity, especially about fashion.

Today they focused on something far more severe than dress code, however, and it wasn’t often such issues arose. They had a firm grasp on Society and little took place that could not be controlled. If it did, they were not aware of it.

“Resurrection magic? Surely not,” a laughing tone. “It is impossible.”

Another shared the sentiment. “Those sorts of Dark Arts aren’t simply enacted without extensive preparation. It could not have gone unnoticed.”

“More probable,” the first added, “it is a case of mistaken magic. A child?” He held a paper close to his face and adjusted ruby spectacles. “Then it is all the more nonsense.” He raised a hand. “I say we send in a Wiper to deal with memories and watch for a time. If it becomes necessary, we will elect an Advisor.”

This was how meetings went. One or two spoke on a topic, the others agreed, and once all the papers were stamped with appropriate wax and seals the group adjourned to more pleasant pastimes. Cakes and coffee.

Luna saw some of these things in her mind with Donner as he began to explain the world she would enter in the coming years, and she was not impressed.

“It’s good I got over the phone and the television,” she commented.

“Yes,” he said. “They have neither and, I suspect, don’t know they exist.” He didn’t have much respect for Society, either.

“Why do they use sticks?”

“A voluntary limitation they’ve forgotten is unnecessary. For all they cling to, they’ve lost most of the past. The old ways of doing things, far more powerful, are gone and what’s left is superficial and often stupid. Like swinging around lumber and speaking Latin.”

Tonight, they sat in a medieval restaurant. Booths with built-in wooden seats and tables, free-standing spaces, and empty barrels to sit on. The people were dressed for the occasion, but he told her it wasn’t some cosplay event; no, it was like this every day.

“I’ll have to dress like that, too?” She didn’t care much, but she would rather be prepared.

“Yes. There is a certain standard of dress at Nyx and Aether that you will be expected to follow. For boys, a tunic and trousers. For girls the dresses, as you can see. In either case, the more money someone has the more gold and jewel detailing you’ll find on their clothing and you will quickly find that this distinction is important.”

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He was bitter, she could feel it.

“No one here is rich,” she observed. They all wore rather plain garments of single color. Exposed bodices were white, perhaps with a few ruffles, and many wore ruddy green or brown dresses that trailed to the floor. The sleeves were long. “It looks inconvenient.”

“Because it is. Everything about Society is inconvenient and they adhere to those rules. The difficulties are a source of pride. They believe themselves to be overcoming these self-imposed obstacles.”

“So, what’s the school like?”

“A rich kid boarding school,” he said flatly. “There is gossip and drama around every corner and they thrive on it. To be honest, the adult world isn’t much different. Money equals influence equals power and generational cliques are stalking the halls. Unfortunately, they will announce your parentage, such as it is, and the reason for your acceptance. This will immediately brand you a pariah.”

It wasn’t like she’d ever been popular before so it meant nothing to Luna. This sort of talk wasn’t interesting and she looked at the people instead. They appeared normal except for the clothes. She would have thought that magic-practicing people would be more different. Shocking hair colors or something.

Candles floated high in the air and a broom swept around the entrance each time someone new entered. With the door open she could see carriages and open carts carrying passengers without use of horses or other animals.

It was evening.

“Is this a date?”

He stood and left through the open door.

She’d seen dates on her television shows. They tended to end in murder. Women who chose the wrong men to be romantic with found themselves dead in ditches or basements. Chopped into pieces and scattered.

There was one of them now.

The pub fell away because without Donner there was no memory to sustain it. In its place was a shallow grave by the side of a long, dark road. Rain fell in a torrent, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled.

She didn’t need to dig up the body to know it was Pink.

Luna wondered if Pink knew about magic and guessed she didn’t. She wouldn’t have spent her life as a cheap prostitute if she had. No, Pink, or Arizona as Ant called her, was one of those people who used to be normal and somehow got into a bad situation. Pink was never able to get herself back out of it all and died in a whore house fire.

If there was one thing Luna wouldn’t do, it was follow in Pink’s footsteps. She would not be helpless to the tides of fate, strung along like her mother. Because while Pink made her choices, she was also trapped. It was too bad no one was able to help her. Maybe they never tried or maybe they did and she said, “No.” There was no way to know. Dead single-parent prostitutes tell no tales; the life story of Arizona who became Pink would remain a tragic mystery.

What a worthless way to live and it would have been totally useless if not for Luna, so she wouldn’t let all of her mother’s struggles go to waste.

She would live on, at the very least.

The grave didn’t change as she walked away from it and the rain still fell. Nothing she decided or did would alter the past for Pink. What she could affect was her own future.

As far as she knew.

She’d have to look into time travel.

And Donner. She would try to help him, too.

He sat on a bench beside the road. A bus stop, she realized as she got closer; he wasn’t soaked like she was.

When she sat beside him a warm breeze dried her.

“Is that magic?”

“Not really,” he scoffed. “An approximation of it. There is no way for me to cast spells in this place.”

There was no way for him to do much of anything in her mind, nothing real.

“What do you do when I’m not here like this?”

“Stick to the front of your consciousness and even with you here I wouldn’t dare try going far. The unconscious mind is dangerous in the most innocuous of people. There’s no telling what they’ve hidden from themselves. The oldest memories are often the most vicious. Long undealt with and thought discarded, they continue to exert influence unnoticed. As for your subconscious, it shouldn’t be as threatening as it is. Not that any mind is safe, not even that of a newborn child is without peril to interlopers, but yours is…Concerning.”

“It does feel dark back there.” And wide. Like a sinkhole. “I wonder if Ink Pen is hiding there.”

He looked suddenly irritated. “What is Ink Pen?”

“You saw him before, on the train at the end of the universe. He’s the black mass. The Devourer. We’re playing a game with no winners allowed.”

“I don’t even want to know what that means.”

“I feel like you’ve said that before.”

“I'm sure I have, doubtless I’ll say it again. There are a million things in your head that I want nothing to do with.”

They sat quietly for a time, neither thinking of anything in particular. Rather, they watched the rain fall, splashing luminous as droplets hit the ground and pooled to create a lake. The bench transformed into a small rowboat that they both refused to be responsible for powering. The battle was silent staring and rapid glances at the paddles.

The rain fell heavily, plopping and pattering.

“Fine with me,” he said smugly. She’d shoved the paddles and sent them into the water. “I won’t be the one to wet the bed.”

“What?!”

Luna woke with a start, vaulting forward and falling to the floor tangled in the arms of blankets and sheets. It was with a mighty struggle that she was freed and moving to exit, intent on making a run for the bathroom. She was stopped, however, by the sight of a blueish light shining from beneath the door to Georgia’s room and the sound of strange speech. Her own door was barely open and she peeked through the crack.

“A spell,” Donner hissed. “They’ve sent someone because of what happened earlier.”

“You mean when I died?”

“Be quiet! Say nothing aloud!”

But it was too late. The door was opening. Slowly creaking outward.

The stick. She could see the stick! And the hem of a robe. It was one of those magic people, but how did they know about the accident?

“It doesn’t matter how they know, all that matters is getting out of this unscathed.” His words came so fast she could hardly keep up. “You're going to have to disappear. Back to your bed! Imagine it and do it.”

Somehow, she didn’t think it was supposed to be that easy, there was an undertone of resignation even as he ordered it done, then again no one ever could predict what would come naturally to a person and magic must be her talent.

“I still need to pee!” she thought desperately.

“Forget it,” unsympathetic. “You can’t leave this room until morning.”

“You just want me to-”

“I do not want you to wet the bed, Luna, but we can’t risk this. They cannot know we saw them.”

The fact was she needed to pee and didn’t care who knew she was awake.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled, furious.

Dare she did and she didn’t sneak through the hall either. No, she opened her door with a bang and strode to the bathroom without a glance one way or the other. There were no encounters on the way and she heard nothing out of the ordinary as business was completed. Donner was mad as a hornet, but he wasn’t going to get her, at four years-old, to pee her pants because he was scared of a guy with a stick.

“I am not afraid,” he spit.

He clearly was.