The month speeds by like someone's hidden a time-collapsing sigil somewhere in my apartment. It's the day before my gallery opening, and I feel like some haggard, horrible creature dragged out from under a rock.

The first message I receive is from my mother—more concern about my job prospects. I haven't told her about the show. The second is from Beatrice, asking how I'm doing. The third is from E.J.

"Morning Ashwyn, I hope you're holding up alright.

If you're anything like I am with deadlines you're probably half-dead yourself by now. I got you into this, so I hope you'll let me help ease the burden a bit. Flash this sigil at the counter of the Silvergate Hotel and Spa. Ask for the Royal Treatment, it's all covered.

All the best and see you tomorrow,

E.J.B."

For a moment I just stare at the note. Then a reread it.

I've never been to a spa in my life.

After breakfast I pop in my voice link and ask Hex for directions to the hotel, ignoring its prying questions and admonishments.

The Silvergate Hotel and Spa turns out to be a magnificent structure of creamy stone close to the heart of the Sipara District. Glowing inlays of jade-colored emberstone depict the Greater Spirits in procession over the large arched doors, and winged- stag spirit shells greet me from either side of the entry as I cross the threshold.

About fifteen minutes later, I'm in a dimly lit room, relaxing to the sounds of rain and waves and wearing the softest plush robe ever to bless my skin. A Crimson-type Umbran masseur runs their hands slowly through the air above my body so that I feel only the tingling pressure of their Umbra. It penetrates my skin, flows into my flesh, filling me with a sense of euphoria and vigor.

After that, it's to the salt baths to swim with jelly-eels, whose fluttering fins excrete a substance which locks moisture into my skin. Then there's the emberstone pressure therapy, the oiled rose petal wrap, and the Umbra-activated springwater shower. I'm given treatment after decadent treatment until at last I find myself installed in my own suite on a plush bed, wrapped once more in my robe and feeling beautified and renewed from head-to-toe. As it turns out, the "Royal Treatment" includes a night's stay at the hotel, as well as in-room dinner and breakfast.

I'd feel guilty for accepting such an extravagant gift from E.J...if I weren't enjoying it so much. I dip a chunk of lobster in some melted mango butter, grinning to myself like a maniac.

A few minutes later when Hex pings me with a message from Beatrice, it occurs to me that I have way more food and space than I could ever make use of myself.

"E.J. paid for me to get a spa treatment and a night at this fancy hotel," I message her back. "I have way too much food, though. Wanna come over?"

~*~

"I'm so glad she took my advice," Beatrice says about an hour later as she helps me work my way through a huge slice of guava cheesecake.

"Huh?" I manage from around a mouthful.

"E.J. told me she wanted to do this for you, but she was afraid she shouldn't. Didn't want to seem like she was using her power or money to pressure you into anything or win you over. Said it was an unbalanced power dynamic." I told her to get over herself, that you're obviously already crazy about her anyway, and that you'd love it."

I swallow my cheesecake, trying not to choke on it. "O-obviously?"

"Yes, sweetie, obviously," Beatrice rolls her eyes.

We fall asleep a while later cuddled up next to each other with the wall screen on, playing some melodrama about a girl falling in love with a prince who turns into a monster after sundown.

~*~

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The day of my opening show dawns drizzly and gray. As I'm sitting out on my hotel room balcony with my Lady Royal and a mocha, a pair of pigeon-rats lands on the railing to blink at me.

"Spirits, again with this?"

They startle, ruffling their feathers a bit at my complaint—but don't budge from their spot. I end up throwing them some crumbs from my croissant, grumbling under my breath. Beatrice is gone already, off home to clean up then to the gallery to start the prep-work for my show.

At the thought of the opening, anxiety bubbles up in the pit of my stomach. I try to quash it by stuffing more croissant in my face, but the food does no good.

What if no one shows up? What if they do but they all hate my work? What if I never sell anything?

What if mom finds out about it?

More than a little reluctantly, I get dressed in my clothes from yesterday—which had been laundered for me in the night—and catch a train home. The hours trudge by as I wallow in my own dread and nerves, waiting until it's time to get ready. Beatrice has arranged my ride, not bothering to tell me who to expect.

I'm unsurprised, though, when I step outside to find E.J.'s Moorhound S3 waiting for me.

She steps out herself to help me into the car, grinning at my look of surprise. "Beatrice seemed to think you wouldn't mind sharing a ride to your show with me," she explains as she drops elegantly into the seat next to me. "I hope she was right."

"S-she was," I assure her from between clattering teeth. She gives me a startled look.

"It's j-just something th-that happens when I g-get really anxious," I say, struggling with every word.

"Well, those bare shoulders can't be helping, lovely as you look in that dress," she observes, slipping out of her tailored jacket to drape it over me. When the shaking continues, she wraps an arm about my shoulders. I lean into her, not moving again until we've arrived at Gallery Onyx. When we do, she steps out first to help me from the car.

We arrive just before the opening officially starts, as the sun is going down and the street lanterns glow to life. Inside, Beatrice and Rhaj await us with the entertainment for the evening—a duo of musicians with instruments so high-tech I don't even recognize what they are. I do, however, feel the euphoric wave of Umbral energy thrumming off of them as they warm up.

To one side of the gallery a long table of dark wood hosts rows of glasses, bottles of wine, and sweet meats. Everything in the space has been rearranged to accommodate and center my work.

The sight of my art hanging in the proverbial spotlight in one of the most prestigious galleries in the city does something to my blood. It feels like it's turning into something fizzy and hot. My legs, on the other hand, feel more like jelly. E.J. senses it, immediately putting an arm through mine.

Then she goes rigid behind me, her eyes locked on one of my central pieces.

I remember with a jolt that this is her first time seeing any of my new work. Oh spirits...does she hate it?

She drifts toward that central piece, pulling me in her wake. Her lips work silently as she stares.

"Do...do you like it?" I ask, looking from her to the painting. My legs feel like they might give out on me. This piece—it's my soul. If she doesn't like it, well...

"Beatrice."

I blink twice at her response. "Wha—"

"Beatrice! Mark this one as sold."

Now I'm the one mouthing silently. As she turns from me to talk to Beatrice, I stay where I am—looking up at my painting. One I never expected to sell, but had to create. A huge canvas, a dark forest. A tiny figure glowing at its heart like a beacon—a white rabbit. Coalescing from the darkness of the night around it is the towering silhouette of a beast. The pointed ears of a wolf, the prongs of a stag, long claws, a human form.

Sold.

People start arriving quickly after that. Though the Umbral music fills me with a bubbly sort of joy, it does nothing for my nerves. I drink my wine a little too quickly as people converge around my work and—before long—around me.

E.J. stays at my side throughout the night, mostly because I keep my arm firmly looped through hers. To my delight, she doesn't seem to mind. As we near the end of the evening, someone I recognize from her shock of long copper hair and her impeccable fashion sense approaches me. I realize where I know her from a heartbeat later—The Lock and Key.

"You're the artist, correct? Ms. Fleetwood? I'm Priselle Thornstrap."

"Ashwyn, yes," I reach out to clasp her hands.

"I'm an interior design specialist," she clips, cutting directly to the chase. "And your style is absolutely perfect for one of my current projects. Could we speak for a moment? I'd like to discuss commissioning a series."

"Oh, commissions? I'm not sure. I—"

"She'd love to!" Beatrice trills, swooping in and squeezing my shoulder.

~*~

"I don't know what happened back there," I moan, rubbing my temples in the back of E.J.'s car on the way home that night.

"What happened is you got enough work to pay for your next few months of rent and then some. And you made your first sale."

"I didn't want to take commissions," I grumble. "I wanted to do more self-directed work." But there is a part of me that's pleased. No, not pleased...elated. Then I remember E.J.'s comment about my first sale. "I don't think that sale counts though," I complain. "You didn't have to do that."

"Do I seem like the kind of person who does a single thing I don't want to do?"

I raise my eyebrow at her quizzically.

"Alright, alright," she laughs. "I promise you, I was going to make a point of not buying anything from your first show. I didn't want you to feel, well...exactly how you probably feel now. But I swear to you, the moment I saw it, I had to have it."

"Why is that? Do you think it'll go really well with your decor or something?"

She snorts. "It just speaks to something inside me. Same reason I buy any of the work I buy." There's a a weight to the words, a double meaning hiding in their shadows. I can't be sure what it is. What I do know is that what she's saying is absolutely genuine.

"E.J, thank you. I'm so—"

There's a deafening bang, and my words devolve into a jagged shriek as the world erupts into pain and chaos.