E.J.'s brows knit together in concern, probably seeing my frozen wordlessness as a symptom of shock. Taking the pendant from my hands, she clasps the chain gently about my neck. "Get some rest," she repeats before leaving me alone to flounder in the wake of her presence.

~*~

As much as I want to, I can't seem to do as I'm told. Even with the black-out curtains closed, sleep won't come.

I want to explore.

Rolling out of bed once more, I head for one of the room's three doors. I already know which one leads out, thanks to E.J.'s visit. One of the other two opens—as I'd hoped—into a private bathroom. It's appointed with fluffy towels and everything I could need to clean up, including razors. There's even a drawer-full of untouched makeup basics.

Once I'm satisfied with my cleanliness, I make for the other door. A closet, as I expected. Huge and empty. At the far end a tall black screen in a wooden frame takes up most of the wall.

As I approach I see only my own darkened reflection at first. Then its gone as the screen flickers to life, flowing with shades of fuchsia that coalesce into a pulsing winged shape at the center.

"Hello Ms. Fleetwood," a voice that I immediately recognize as Somi's hums from the screen. The shape at the center moves in tandem with the words. Hypnotizing. "What would you like to wear today?"

"Um, what do you have that'll fit me?"

"With your permission I can scan your measurements and produce clothing of your choice to fit you." The screen flickers and shifts, and now there are rows of scrolling images—different designs under various categories. Tops, skirts, pants, jackets, underwear, lingerie. It's overwhelming. Experimentally I touch an image of a dress, and it expands on the screen, bringing up a color wheel and a menu of different patterns to select from.

"How...?"

"This house is fitted with technology which allows me to carry out a number of tasks, including garment production. We have raw materials which can be synthesized into much of what we need—most of it grown ourselves. You'd be surprised the things you can make out of mushroom fibers."

"Oh."

A little concerned about what mushroom clothes might smell and feel like, I make my selections.

"Your garments will be complete in approximately fifteen minutes, at which time you will find them here," Somi informs me, using her melting-shape avatar to indicate a wide slot just beneath the screen. "And if you choose not to keep them, return them here for recycling." With that, she disappears—-leaving me blinking back at myself as the screen becomes a perfect mirror.

A little over fifteen minutes later, I'm dressed and pleasantly surprised.

The sweater-dress is silky soft, the intricate cabling and darts hugging my curves in exactly the right way. The color is a sort of subtly shimmering tan, and it has pockets for my Companion and other things. It smells like lavender and fresh laundry. The black leggings feel like a cool second skin, and the low-heeled boots are indistinguishable from fine nighthorn leather.

"This is all made of mushrooms?"

Semi's voice hums from the screen without disrupting my reflection.

"That's a bit of an oversimplification, but to a large degree, yes."

"I...Wow. It's amazing. Thank you so much."

"It's my pleasure. Enjoy, Ms. Fleetwood."

~*~

Hungry and looking for an excuse to wander, I seek out the kitchen without bothering to ask Somi for directions.

E.J. sure does like her towers.

From what I can tell, this one is jutting out the side of a mountain, with terraced property above and behind it covered in trees, trails, and gardens. Most of the windows I pass on my way look out over the magnificent view of fir covered mountains stretching out below us. I linger at more than one of them, smug that Hex can't say a thing about it. I see absolutely zero reason to wear my voice link today.

When I finally find the kitchen, I'm half-expecting another screen—more automated service. Does the house cook its own food, too? But instead I'm instantly barred from entry by a very human and very annoyed chef. Pale skinned, sharp-nosed, and not in the mood for company.

"What are you doing in my kitchen?"

Anxiety instantly taking hold, I gnaw my lip.

"I just wanted to get some food?"

"You don't need to come all the way down here. Just tell Somi what you want and I'll have it sent up."

"But I don't know what you have."

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He snorts. "Then you ask. Somi knows it all. Butler told you that, I imagine?"

"She...she told me to ask Somi for anything I need. She also told me I could go anywhere in the house I could get into."

"Well, you can't get into here. Tell me what you want and go."

Suddenly I can't think of any foods I like. I can barely think of any foods at all.

"Um...something breakfasty? With crab?"

He rolls his eyes. "I think I can manage that. Now, shoo."

Grateful he didn't press for more specificity, I thank him and turn to scurry back up the stairs.

Instead of going back to my room, I sit in a high-windowed alcove I noticed along the way. Somi assures me there's no need to inform the chef of my location. After thirty or so minutes of quiet contemplation of the view, someone comes up the spiraling stair, covered tray in hand. A young man, somewhere around my age, with reddish hair and a fox-like angle to his eyes.

"Ms. Fleetwood?"

"That's me," I say, standing up.

"Well, then, here's your breakfast—and my condolences. I take it you had a run-in with the chef?"

My cheeks burn a bit. "You heard about that?"

He laughs, setting the tray down on the little coffee table before me and taking away the cover. "More like guessed. I'm Hornsby, by the way. First name James, but no one calls me that. I'm a sort of general assistant around here, mostly an errand boy."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Ashwyn." How often is E.J. here, to have a full staff like this? I'd gotten the impression she lived in the city most of the time. I consider asking Hornsby, but I can tell from the way he fidgets that he has somewhere to be.

"A pleasure," he says, inclining his head to me. "I'll leave you to enjoy your meal."

And with that he's off, and I turn to my food.

Wow.

That chef might not be very personable, but they're an absolute artist.

I don't have an extensive enough culinary vocabulary to describe what they've prepared. It's something like crepes, with a fluffy sort of cream inside, heaps of buttery crab, and fresh herbs. I eat every last bit of it in a state of sensory bliss. When it's done, I ask Somi what to do with the tray.

"Just leave it," she says. "I'll make sure it's taken care of."

Feeling guilty, I do as she says before asking her to guide me out of the house and onto the grounds. The exit is actually halfway up the tower, on the fourth floor.

The main entrance is guarded by twin stag-dog spirit shells that are twice as tall as I am. They're made of iron and glossy black stone veined with opal.

"Be careful outside the house, miss," says the one to my right as I step out.

I thank them and continue on, and another one of Somi's flying bodies slips from a slot to hover behind me watchfully. I don't have to ask the reason for the precaution.

"Please stay within twenty paces of one of the spirit-shells at all times while out," it advices from just over and behind my right shoulder. "They have defensive capabilities that I don't."

I follow a trail lined with mossy stones and more spirit shells through a stand of firs, gasping when it opens into a clearing like a scene out of a dream. A tangled wall of violet roses are parted by a gateway, which leads onto an expanse of pillowy moss. At the center of it all, a spring bubbles up to fill a small pool that reflects the blue, cloud-dappled sky.

Just wow.

I don't know how long I've been laying in the moss, basking in my surroundings, when my Companion begins to chirp furiously. I pull it from my pocket, groaning to see a cascade of notes from my mother.

What's going on with you?

Are you looking for another job?

What are you going to do if you don't find something in time?

Please call me ASAP. Worried about you.

I shove the Companion back into my pocket and rub my temples. Every movement comes with subtle reminders of last night's disaster. How long is it going to be before I can paint again?

Moss-muffled footsteps issue from across the clearing, and I look up to see E.J. approaching. Even with her hair disheveled and dark circles under her eyes, she's a vision.

"You look a little stressed," she says, smiling down at me as I struggle back to my feet.

"You're one to talk," I quip. "Have you gotten any rest at all since it happened?"

She shakes her head, sighing. "Can't say that I have."

"Are you planning on getting some any time soon?"

For a second, she blinks down at me as though confused, then something clicks into place and she chuckles ruefully.

"The closest thing I'll be getting to rest any time soon is several cups of coffee."

"That doesn't count."

"It's going to have to, for me. You, on the other hand..."

"I spent at least a few hours unconscious last night and have been doing nothing but relaxing all day. Don't worry about me."

"Oh, but I do," she says, dropping onto one knee before me. "Since you're so well-rested and relaxed, I suppose you'd be up for some impromptu physical therapy while I have a minute?"

"Um, sure," I say, looking her over for medical equipments and seeing nothing.

"May I?" She asks, gesturing to my injured arm.

I exhale in a quick, disbelieving laugh. "Of course."

Her brows knit together as she takes my arm gently in both her hands. Rolling my sleeve back, she presses her palms and fingers over my skin, careful not to disturb my bandages. I gasp as currents of what feel like subtle electricity pulse through my flesh. Pure Umbral power—-life force.

I startle. "You're—"

"Don't try to guess my type." She sets her jaw, and I know better than to press the matter. "I can't do this for longer than a few minutes, for the sake of your health and mine," she explains as she pulls my sleeve back down. "So it'll take several sessions to get you back to normal."

"Ok," I say. Any excuse to be touched by you. Reaching out, I brush the back of her hand. "Thank you." Leaning forward a bit, I work up the nerve to ask if I can kiss her—but then she stands, taking a step back.

"Please don't thank me. You wouldn't be hurt at all if it weren't for me."

I bite my lip, holding back a hundred arguments.

"I have to get back to it," E.J. sighs. "I'll see you again in a few hours."

I watch her go, wishing I could stop her. Or follow her. Instead I take out my Companion and bring up my mother's sigil.

I try to keep the call as brief as possible. I don't tell my mother about the assassination attempt or where I am. Partially because it's better no one knows, but also because I don't want to deal with her reaction to all of that right now. Just the thought is exhausting. Instead, I tell her about my commissions but leave out the gallery opening, then get her off the phone as quickly as I can.

I don't see E.J. again until well after sunset. I hold off on having dinner, hoping she'll invite me to dine with her. But by the time she finds me curled up in the same alcove where I had breakfast, I can tell she's not much longer for the waking world.

"I'm sorry we couldn't do more healing sessions today," she says as she releases my arm. The tingling sensation left behind by the Umbral transfer lingers for several seconds after her touch has gone.

"No, I understand. Do you have any idea yet who tried to...hurt you?" I pause, feeling sick to my stomach at the thought. "What did the police say?"

"I haven't contacted them. And I have many ideas of who might've tried to have me assassinated. The problem is narrowing it down and finding out how they managed to get through my shielding."

I gape at her. "You haven't contacted the police? Why not?"

E.J. snorts. "They're worse than useless. Besides, I have better resources than they do."

"Oh."

Of course you do.

"I have to get some sleep, and you should too," She says, standing up and wiping her hands on one another. "Goodnight, Ashwyn."

I open my mouth to hold her off, to ask if I can kiss her, but she's already turned her back—and in the next instant her footsteps are echoing down the hall, taking her away from me.

Outside, it begins to snow.