I have to focus all my attention on blending in.  This is a funny concept to me, and it makes me laugh inwardly every time I have to do it. Blending in is something we all do on a daily basis. Perhaps not to ourselves. To ourselves, we are the protagonist of our own story. But to everyone else, we barely even register. Having to focus attention on actively blending in really shouldn’t be as hard as it is.

The people I follow, however, are hiding something, and when you are hiding something, you tend to be paranoid. You are the protagonist of your own story- often the antagonist of someone else’s- and you notice little things, like seeing the same stranger on the street more than once, or someone keeping pace with you. These are the things I actively need to avoid.

The first stage of blending in happens before I even leave the house; choosing my outfit. My impressive and varied wardrobe is one of the many tools that makes me a good Private Investigator. I have clothing for every situation: high society, wrong side of town, good time girls, opium dens, corporate reconnaissance… I even have fantastic men’s disguises, for those times when the best secrets are whispered, as they often are, in men’s only clubs and lodges. Tonight, I was unsure about exactly where my mark would be taking me, so I chose a simple but elegant walking suit and versatile cloak. The night, however, starts in the Aeramire borough of Etherbury, an area filled with large and elegant row homes and streets large enough for grand carriages- though still spotted with horse manure. 

I am, unfortunately, in what I call the ‘Emilia Wilde Investigative Agency Affair Season’, or, Affair Season for short. Affair Season isn’t exactly a specific time of year. It is, to put it simply, a time period in which I haven’t had an interesting case in more than two weeks. Everyone that comes to me with the typical, ‘I think my spouse is cheating on me,’ I tell them I have a backlog of cases andI will put them on a waiting list and get back to them, but they should write down all of the evidence they believe they’ve gathered, and I’ll contact them when I’m available. This is often just not true. I hate the affair cases. They’re a lose-lose.

Firstly, they are boring. Follow the person, write down their movements, try to get a picture of them with their date, order a drink… tedious.

Secondly, no matter what I find, the hiring spouse isn’t happy.

‘They’re not cheating on you, they have a gambling problem/they like to be alone sometimes/they go to a weekly billiards tournament.’

‘You’re wrong! They’re cheating and my intuition is never wrong! Why would they want to be away from me?!’

Or

‘Here is the evidence you wanted, I’m afraid you were right, there is a mistress.’

‘These pictures are awful, I don’t want to see this, it’s a misunderstanding, he would never cheat on me, it must be something else!’

If there’s not yelling and throwing things, there’s crying and hugging. I’m not sure which is worse. I know that I would prefer neither. So when I don’t need to take an affair case, I refer them to a friend and colleague, the approaching retirement Philoman Cooper, who loves affair cases. But if I haven’t gotten an interesting case in two weeks, I’ll start calling on my ‘back log’ of affair cases to see who still wants my services. I could easily work on two or three affair cases at a time and wrap them all up in about a week.

My current client, Letitia Archer, had been on my ‘back log’ list for a little over a month, and still seemed desperate for my help when I called. Mrs. Archer brought by a tidy little leather notebook full of information on her husband, Nehemiah. He is 43 years of age. He works as a banking advisor at Gilbert and Croft. He is a member of the Gentlemen’s Club Lion’s Mane where he enjoys soaking in the baths and smoking cigars in the silent room while reading the newspaper.

According to her ‘evidence’ page, Nehemiah has been doing some very suspicious things. He’s been spending many nights at the Lion’s Mane, whereas he used to only spend Thursday evenings there. Letitia called the Lion’s Mane one evening while he was gone and asked to speak with him. They replied coldly saying that he was not there. Also, some of Letitia’s jewelry has gone missing- the larger, more expensive pieces, that she rarely wears. Nehemiah has suddenly, and without explanation, fired some of their house staff. And, perhaps the most condemnatory piece of evidence (Letitia’s words), one of Letitia’s friends- Permelia Letchford (contact details provided)- saw Nehemiah in a café alone during one of his work days, obviously waiting for someone. She did not wait around to see who it was, as she was sure her delicate sensitivities could not suffer through the shock of it all.

Now, I wait for Nehemiah down the street from the Archer’s town home, just out of reach of the light emanating from a streetlamp. Evaki perches silently atop the town home I’m standing in front of, looking like a gargoyle. Nehemiah leaves the house at almost exactly the time Letitia said he would. The street has very little traffic on it, maybe six or seven walkers and a carriage or two, which will make following Nehemiah difficult. This is what Evaki is for.

I make a pspsps noise to get her attention, and then give her a hand signal- two finger flick- which she knows well. Eva takes off after Nehemiah, bounding across the tops of the townhomes silently. She is black, true black, to the point that I lose her entirely to the night as I try to follow her with my eyes. I drop down a side street and turn left into the alley behind the homes, in the direction Nehemiah was walking. Most likely, at the end of the street, he will turn right, as that is towards the town center, which is full of restaurants and shops. If I’m not careful, I will exit the alleyway and run right into him, and a woman in a hooded cloak leaving an alleyway at the exact time he is crossing would definitely look suspicious. I stick to the shadows and stop before I reach the light of the street. I do not see Nehemiah pass by, and the forced casual gait at which he was strolling should’ve put him crossing the alley at exactly that moment.

There is a soft thump on my shoulder, a familiar feeling. Evaki curls around the back of my neck and tucks her tail into the cloak, her scales feeling cold on my skin. I look to Eva, who looks down the street to the right.

“Really?” I whisper doubtfully. There was no way Nehemiah had gone that direction; I definitely would’ve seen him. But Evaki is never wrong. She narrows her eyes at me and snaps her head to the right. “Sassy tonight, are we?”

I lower my hood and step out into the light of the street. As Eva had said, there was Nehemiah, now walking at a much swifter pace, or a Gentleman’s Run, as I call it.

Late for something, darling?

Now, on the busy street, I don’t have to hide, I just have to blend in. The night is clear and warm, but with a slight chilly breeze, making it an ideal night for tailing someone. I adjust my cloak backwards behind my arms so that the walking suit is visible, making me look like one of the mid to high society patrons of this particular plaza. Nobody looks at me as I pass, which is a good gauge as to how well dressed I am for the job. Eva, her job finished for the time being, folds her wings in tightly and rests her head on my shoulder, never one to miss the opportunity for a nap.

I follow Nehemiah across a street and through a small square. A woman with a large purebred silkwhite dragon tugs on its leash as it drags her towards me. It bounces playfully, using its clipped wings to get as much height as it can, trying to reach Evaki. She opens her gray eyes lazily and lets out an angry spit. I try to sidestep the woman but the silkwhite has complete control of her.

“Dublas! Dublas! Stop it! Heel!” She shrieks, though the silkwhite doesn’t respond.

“Ma’am, please, just let me…” I try to get by the silkwhite as quietly as possible, hoping that the woman’s screeching hasn’t drawn the attention of my mark.

“He just wants to play with yours, can you just let her down?”

Eva let out another spitting hiss, this time towards the woman, to express her displeasure.

“Ma’am, can you please control him? She doesn’t want to…” Finally, I see an opening in the walkway and use societal politeness to my advantage. The woman won’t come after me or continue screeching, and the small crowd that had slowed to see what the fuss was would block the silkwhite from pulling any further. I bob through the pedestrians until I’ve lost the scene, and quicken my pace slightly to catch up to Nehemiah.

By the time I find him, I nearly run into the back of him, so I have to pass him to avoid looking suspicious. But why had he slowed? I stop to look into the window of a… cigar shop? Oh boy.

Nehemiah passes me without notice and stops at a shoe-shine booth. He pays a teenage boy a few pence and steps up onto the bench. I count to ten, fix my gaze on a café just on the other side of the shoe-shine booth, and walk past. There is a seat available on the walk, just fifteen feet or so away from the booth, and I take it, positioning the chair so I have a view of the plaza, and Nehemiah can be in my peripheral.

“Coffee, cream on the side” I say to the waitress before she even has the chance to greet me. I was, perhaps, a bit too short with her. When she returns, I thank her with a bigger smile than is probably necessary and tip her double the amount of the coffee. I’m not really great at doing two things at once.

Some of the cream goes into my coffee, but most of it stays in its little bowl. Evaki slides down into my lap and sits upright so she can quietly lap at the cream. She prefers a little sugar in her cream, but frankly, judging by the bruise on my shoulder from where she usually lands on me, she could stand to lose a pound or two.

I look around, people watching, and occasionally glance towards Nehemiah. I’m able to notice a few things in this time: 1. He looks at his pocket watch nearly every minute, and 2. His shoes are well-worn. The shoeshine isn’t actually helping much, it’s simply covering up scuffs at a glance. Any real study of the shoes would betray their wear. The other men walking around the plaza have barely worn shoes, so shiny they reflect the light from the gas lamps as they pass. They are the shoes of men who sit behind large mahogany desks atop high pile carpet, and buy a new pair with every accidental scuff.

I think a moment. My gut tells me this is not an affair case. Letitia’s evidence was more than circumstantial- unless you walk in on your spouse fully engaged in amorous congress, most evidence of an affair is circumstantial- but it was also not normal affair behavior. Leaving the house every night, sure, that could easily be interpreted as having a mistress. Though usually men who work and have a mistress don’t come home, only to leave the house again later. That provides too many situations in which they would have to explain themselves. No, they have long lunches, or come home late. The missing jewelry could indeed mean he was gifting jewelry to his mistress, but only if he were an absolute imbecile. The jewelry made for these women tends to be custom and recognizable. If a man were to give his mistress jewelry, he usually buys her something new. And firing the house staff? I mean, unless they caught him buttering someone’s bread, that just doesn’t make any sense.

And no man is on his way to see his mistress and decides ‘You know what, let me delay my sexual gratification for a proper shoeshine.’   

My instincts tell me this isn’t an affair, but rather something closer to an unmanaged gambling problem.

I take an absent sip of coffee and the warmth brings me out of my thoughts. I look over to the shoeshine booth and Nehemiah is gone! I look in all directions, across the plaza, down every street, and there is no sign of him. Drattit, I absolutely have to get better at multi-tasking. I push the cream away from Evaki- her tongue stretching as far as possible to get one last lick- and she jumps back up to my shoulder as I stand. I hurry over to the boy running the stand.

“Kid, you just had a customer, older man, gray mustache, which way did he go?”

The kid raises both eyebrows at me, so I sigh and drop a pound into his tin. It makes a small clink as it hits the other coins. He smiles.

“Went down the alley, ma’am. Between the smoke shop and the boutique.” He juts his chin in the direction of the cigar shop I had loitered in front of earlier. I look at the boy incredulously. I had not noticed an alleyway there before, and I am trained in noticing things. “He did ma’am! I noticed because not many people go down that way from ‘ere, it’s the way I go back and forth to me home.”

Still skeptical, I mutter a thanks as I rush off towards this supposed alley.

Mere seconds later, the alley is clear and present. It’s narrow, too narrow for a steamwagen or a carriage, but it definitely exists. Maybe my heart’s just not in this case.

Nehemiah is at the other end of the alley, turning right. He looks back and sees me at the mouth of it. He doesn’t jump or look alarmed, he simply scurries around the corner. As far as he knows, I’m just another patron… of this alley. But I can’t get too close right now.

“Eva,” I whisper, “C’mon, time to go.”

She opens her eyes sleepily and looks at me. I roll my eyes. She stands, barely balancing all of herself on my shoulders, and gives a good stretch.

“In your own time, love,” I sneer.

Off she shoots into the air, using unclipped wings. When I see her fly, the purple flashes of her underwing as she powerfully propels herself, with gigantic wings that seem too big for her slender body, I could never imagine clipping her. She’s at home in the sky, so graceful and muscular. Not clipping her wings lets her know that she could leave at any time, she is not a pet, she’s a companion. In turn, her not just flying away lets me know that she is choosing to stay with me as a friend, not a leashed trophy animal or slave. Also, her being able to fly really helps with work.

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I walk down the alley using my own forced casual gait, in case Nehemiah can still hear the clacking of my boots on the cobblestone. Evaki is gone, black against black sky, an occasional shadow blocking an occasional star. By the time I reach the back alley that Nehemiah turned down, he is gone, and the alley is long. He must’ve reached his destination.

Illegal gambling- poker or mah-jongg, absolutely. Wow you are good at your job, Em.   

Evaki has perched herself on the iron hand-railing of a short set of stairs that leads beneath the alley. She is holding a small mouse in her claw… or at least most of a small mouse. The top half is clearly in her mouth.

“Hey!” I whisper. “How are you supposed to lose any weight if you just eat any rodent you come across?”

She defiantly pops the rest of the mouse into her mouth and chews it slowly. I roll my eyes and begin to examine the stairway.

It is small, only five stairs down, and yet somehow remarkably darker than the alley. There is no doorman, but the door into the building is heavy, presumably iron, with rivets all around it like the door in a submarine. There is an indented panel on the door, about waist height, which most likely slides open. This is common in secret and illegal clubs, where the doorman is on the other side of the door, however the panel is usually higher up so that the doorman can see the person’s face, or hear a password. This would indicate one of two things: They installed the door incorrectly and just haven’t changed it yet, or entry into this establishment isn’t based on a spoken word. Far more likely, the latter.

A person turns the corner towards me, and I raise my hood. Eva hops onto my shoulder and we walk to a nearby door. This door simply looks like the back door of a shop. I cover myself as much as I can with my cloak and take a seat on the ground. I cup my hand and rest it on my knee, hoping the person will think I’m a beggar and ignore me. From my position, with my hood lowered as much as possible, I can just make out the bottom of the stairway. It’s still very dark, but if I focus I can get at least a semblance of an idea of the entry requirements.

The person, a tall but ugly man in a knee length frock coat and top hat, walked straight down the alley with his head held low, as if it were raining and he were bracing his hat against the wet. He didn’t seem to pay me any mind as he neared my position, stepping in and out of the light provided by the windows situated above the alley. He nears the stairs that lead to the club, and I fixate on the door, trying to get my eyes as adjusted as possible. I don’t look at the man anymore, I just listen to the clacking of his boots against the stone. It gets louder and louder… and right around the time that he should be slowing down to turn towards the stairs, it starts to grow quieter. He’s not going to the club at all, he’s just walking on by. I sigh. Of course I wouldn’t get that lucky.

Okay, time for a different approach. I shall have to use my powerful brain.

The man eventually leaves the alley and I stand again. I linger at the stair rail, examining the door. I walk past the door several times at the alley level. Nobody opens the slide. They can’t see me out here. I descend slowly, quietly, on my toes so that the heels of my boots don’t hit the steps.

A masonry stone near the door, but low like the slide, has words etched into it, but they aren’t particularly visible like a sign for a shop would be. I crouch to examine them.

The Magic Four

And then beneath it, in much smaller, finer engraving:

Septorum Septum

Okay, so now to figure out how this can be helpful. As noted before, the stone is not obvious, but neither is the club- or whatever it is. This is most likely the name of the club, and as it is semi-hidden, it is also most likely a clue as to how to get in.

What else is a clue?

Well, probably the height of the doorman’s slide. Unless the patron is expected to crouch, which is unlikely, it is not facial recognition or a spoken password that would grant entry. So what height is it?

I stand at the door and notice that it is just above hip height, or a good place for a hand signal. It could also be a way to slide a membership card in, and if that is the case then my chances of gaining access are at nearly zero, unless I can use my feminine wiles- which, admittedly, is not my strong suit. However, one who belongs to a club like this would most likely not want to carry a card or totem of sorts that they would have to explain, so it’s highly likely I need to figure out a hand signal.

Okay, it’s called The Magic Four. Well, I can make a four with my hands. Septorum Septum is Latin, which means I have to dig deep into the annals of my brain for the long lost Latin that I learned in school. Fortunately, Latin evolved in a fairly straight line so I won’t have to think too hard.

Septic September

Sepsis Setting

Step Seppuku

Sister Separation

Actually, I think separate is right. Separate something. Septum… seven! Separate Seven! The Magic Four, Separate Seven.

Okay, a four on one hand and a three on the other, easy! But which hand has which? Magic Four, that must mean something. Illusionists and magicians, the sleight of hand street buskers, generally do magic with their right hand, so the four should be on the right and the three should be on the left.

No! Wait!

The right hand is the hand you watch. The right hand distracts you. It flows and flits about and holds the scarf while the actual trick is done with… the left hand. Four on the left and three on the right.

This better work. After using my brain this much for a simple affair case, I am going to get paid the full amount.

I knock on the door with confidence; It has to sound like I’ve done this before. The slide opens and I can see the eyes and nose of a man looking out. I flash the numbers on my fingers, the correct hands, and there is a pause while he examines, and it seems to stretch on forever. Finally he closes the slide and I hear the door unlock. It swings open, surprisingly silent for a door of its size.

The doorman is actually short, a dwarf I believe, with his face at nearly the perfect height to look out the slide. He looks decently strong, however, like he could easily deal with any riffraff that could try to get in. He is also handsome and well dressed, or at least would be handsome if it didn’t look like he had taken one too many hits to the face. I smile at him as I pass, but he just grunts and shuts the door. Yes, my feminine wiles.

The inside of The Magic Four is surprisingly cozy. It’s not lush or ornate, but the lighting is soft with candles and fireplaces, and the floor is carpeted warmly. It’s not one large room, like a restaurant or café might be, but rather several smaller rooms joined by large walkways in the walls. The biggest of these rooms has a bar along the back wall, and the rest of the rooms only have 3 or 4 tables in them, perhaps for a modicum of privacy. There is also several riveted doors lining the back wall in each room, with no handles on the outside. I could only guess what these rooms are for.

Fortunately for me, Nehemiah is sitting in the largest room, at a table, looking very nervous. He looks at me as I walk in, and for a second I think I’ve been made, but then he just looks down at his hands. I am not the person he’s waiting for. He also doesn’t look at me suspiciously, meaning this is the first time he’s noticed me tonight.

I take a seat at the bar, hang my cloak on the stool next to me. The bar tender, a smartly dressed woman in a three piece suit, walks up to me with questioning eyes.

“Bourbon,” I say, holding up a hand with my forefinger and thumb spread out wide to indicate a lot of whiskey. “Orange, honey,” I follow up, my fingers pinched substantially tighter together. She smiles at me and gets to work. 

The cocktail I receive is much nicer than I expect. She cuts a large wedge of orange and drops it in a tall glass. She drips honey over it and muddles it all together with a small stick of sugarcane. Then she chills the bourbon in a small machine sitting on her counter. It is metal, silver in color, with copper tubes running around the outside of it that look frosted over. She pours the bourbon into a shiny silver funnel at the top, and a puff of cold smoke emanates from the tubes. The amber liquid falls out of a spout at the bottom of the machine into my glass, which instantly frosts over. She gives the sugarcane one more stir, and slides it across the counter to me. 

“Wow, beautiful thank you.”

She smiles and walks away, and I mourn, for I know this drink will ruin me for every other drink. I must find out what that machine is called before I go.  

I turn my attention back to Nehemiah, discreetly. His back is to me, so I can watch him fairly openly, but I don’t need the club employees getting suspicious. Minutes pass, a few other patrons enter in small groups. Some take up the spaces in the smaller rooms, others gain entry to the back doors for whatever reason.

I still haven’t ruled out gambling. He’s not playing anything at the moment, but he could be waiting for someone that is his entry into a game, perhaps behind one of the doors. Or this could still be the worst affair ever, and the woman is extremely late.

As we both wait, I try to get a gauge on the type of place this is. The doors could be for anything- private business meetings, important people who want to drink in secrecy, illegal activities, sex- but the club itself isn’t especially illicit.

Gentlemen’s clubs and lodges, for various levels of elite men, are open, almost flaunting their privilege. The doors are on street level, the buildings are well kept, and there is always a well-dressed door man standing on the outside, as if to say ‘look at this interesting place that you’re not allowed into’. Only men are allowed in, and there is a hefty fee and application process. They are only there to discuss men things, which I believe means complaining about work and their wives and mistresses, and nothing else. They are allowed to smoke and drink openly, which they are also allowed to do anywhere else they could possibly go.

Ironically, on the other side of town- closer to where I live- opium dens and brothels are similar, though with a wider range of clientele. They don’t hide what they are, and someone is always at the door ready to usher you in to experience your personal few minutes of fantasy.

Places like this, the back door, password holding, card carrying member type places, tend to be for the more obscure alternative activities, such as dragon fighting rings or automaton fetishists. Perhaps, however, The Magic Four is simply a lounge for anyone who happens to chance upon it, for someone who wants a quiet and sophisticated night on the town.

I hear a large smack and a scream from one of the back rooms, and then uproarious laughter.

Perhaps not, then.

An average sized man with an angular, sallow face walks in, and Nehemiah straightens up. He has oily, stringy hair that has fallen over his eyes as he walks in, but he pushes it back. He is wearing a black suit, but it is made of thick wool and looks well worn, like he wears it often, and outdoors. He is thin, almost too thin, but still doesn’t look like someone you would want to come across alone in a dark alley. This is not who I expected to be meeting with Nehemiah tonight.

“Archer?” The man asks, though it sounds more like he’s telling him his name than asking it. “Nehemiah Archer?” He sits across the table from him before he gets an answer.

“Uh, er, yes sir.” He stammers out his affirmative, and the voice is not one that I would expect to hear from a well paid financial advisor. “And you are?” Nehemiah straightens up to ask this, trying to gather some semblance of the dignity he should be holding. I think I’m beginning to understand what’s going on here.

The man just looks at him dryly.

“Amon says you have a financial background.”

“Erm, uh, yes, I spent 20 years at Gilbert and Croft, starting as a teller and then making my way up to Financial Advisor.”

“Well that’s great and all. But there’s no way we’re just going to let you have immediate access to our finances.”

“No, no of course not, Amon said there would be a…um… trial period?”

“We’ll have you start doing menial work, or whatever grunt work you can do old man.”

“I’m stronger than I look. I used to do resistance training at the Lion’s Mane,” he says, puffing up his chest a little bit.

The sallow man smirks. “I’ll bet you did. Once we know we can trust you, then we’ll get your help on our books.”

“Oh, you can definitely trust me. I wouldn’t have held a position at one of the foremost financial institutions in the country if I were not a trustworthy person.”

The sallow man laughs, and it’s a full belly laugh that seemed to start from nothing. Nehemiah laughs nervously, but I doubt he understands what’s so funny.

“You’ll start next week,” he stops laughing as quickly as he had started. “Early. If there’s light in the sky before you get there, don’t bother showing up.”

“Where do I go?”

The sallow man slides a card across the table to Nehemiah. Up until now, I had been doing my best to look away and only listen. But I needed to get a look at that card. I took a big gulp of my drink and used the glass to shield the prolonged glance I gave towards their table.

The card looks soft, more like stiff fabric than paper. The face up side only has one thing printed on it: A swan with a spear stuck through it.

I almost cough into my drink but I hold it together. I turn back towards the bar and wrap my hands around my mostly empty drink, staring into the bottom of it.

Nehemiah and the sallow man are, fortunately, finishing up their conversation. I miss the rest of it, but it is mostly awkward goodbyes until the sallow man just leaves. Nehemiah lingers for about five minutes longer before leaving as well. I order another drink, and close my eyes as I drink it, trying to imprint the image of the card in my mind. The harder I think about it, the more I lose it.

The swan… I can’t remember how it looked exactly. Was it just an ordinary swan? Was it drawn a specific way? Was it looking downward with its wings slightly splayed? Or was it just sitting, the only thing extraordinary about it being the spear?

I can’t remember the card exactly. I didn’t get a long enough look at it, and I have two swans in my head.

Finally, at the end of my second drink, I am brave enough to look. I pull out the pocket watch from my waistcoat, and instinctively flip it open. The inscription on the inside is dangerously close to getting worn out. I’ll have to take it to be touched up again. I run my thumb over the words, as I have many times: Cornelia B. Wilde.

I close it, look at the ornate engravings on the front. These engravings, the watch came with. The inside and the back, my father had made for her.

            My sweet, sad, swan, I can hear my father’s voice in my head. I take a deep breath as I close my eyes. I hold my breath, flip the watch, and finally I look.

            A sweet, sad swan, its graceful neck high, but its face hanging low, eyes closed, its wings, splayed, as if ready for flight. As I look at it, I can imagine the sword piercing through it, into the top of it, out the bottom, monochrome drips of blood sliding down it. The watch doesn’t have the sword, but did the card have this swan? It’s all I can see, and I am almost sure that it was, indeed, this swan. But am I tricking myself? Do I want it to be this swan?

            I leave paper notes on the bar top, and I nearly flee. I fight with my mind the whole way home, trying to work out what I saw, or what I think I saw.

            Aisling- or Ash- my best friend and roommate, will still be up running her pub, which occupies the bottom floor of our home. She will expect me to come in to say hello and grab a drink and gossip to her about all the sordid details I saw on my case, which is exactly what I would normally want to do. But not tonight. I walk a route home that ensures I won’t even walk by the front door of The Sassy Sparrow; I so badly don’t want to talk about my evening that I can’t even risk the off chance of Aisling seeing me through the small, dark windows.

            In our home, Evaki leaps from my shoulder to the kitchen table. She will start going through cupboards to look for snacks and treats. Normally I would fix something healthy for her before bed meal, but tonight I can’t bear to do anything more. She will find something to fill her up.

            In my room, I step out of my skirt and fling my jacket into the corner. I loosen my corset to comfort level and throw myself onto my bed. The lamp dies slowly as I stare at the swan on the back of my watch, and eventually, I suppose, I fall asleep.