One more errand. One long in the making, too.

Provenance tested the reliability of his Geverdian network—which he’d admittedly neglected for far too long—and found that as stiff and rusted as they were, they’d still paid off.

With the privileges Geverdian Wizards and Witches enjoyed, not many ever found a need to turn to him for help. But between the few that did and the foreign hired help, they’d found and placed an address into Provenance’s mailbox the night before.

It was a few words scrawled on a white napkin; he watched the bleached paper curl under his lighter's naked flame.

The address pointed him towards the northern outskirts of the city and to the doorstep of one of the Royal Excalan Hospital’s satellite facilities. Being an intermediary between small clinics and the country’s largest medical site, Burring Road Royal Hospital handled rural cases not severe enough to warrant the attention of the capital, but too pressing to be left to a general practitioner.

And, seeing as it had taken the premises from a weapons factory that rose with the Aether and Diesel war and subsequently died with it, there were a plethora of unused buildings and annexes. Some, as of late, had woken up from their stupor and been given new light.

No official signage, and no locals were being admitted to the newly appointed real estate.

If Trysha hadn’t been so busy, he would’ve asked her to visit the place, but an old benefactor from years past had taken the role instead. From what they could determine, the ward was active, and nurses were moving in and out of the premises handling Aetherological equipment.

Not a solid lead—half-set concrete at best—but enough to warrant an investigation.

Being a satellite hospital, clear roadworks and public transport easily connected it to the city. Shuttle buses ferried passengers between the two facilities: mostly doctors and hospital staff.

Roughly half an hour of watching the Excalan skyline shrink into the ground brought him to the hospital premises, separated from small pockets of residential housing by fields of ripening cereal crops. Relatively quiet for a hospital; several cars, mostly small farming trucks parked outside the front door was the only sign of human habitation he could spot.

Provenance was face-to-face with the main building: several storeys tall, with windows carved into ageing white concrete. Sterile, he was sure, but a place that had seen better days. To his left were a set of annexes, three in total and not much more than what looked to have once been elongated cabins. Wartime measures would’ve required workers to live on-site.

No barbed wire fences or outward security—either a sign of subtlety or that there really was nothing deeper going on. Provenance made for the annexes first, crossing the parking lot and stepping onto the gravel pathway leading away from the main building.

He climbed the small wooden staircase leading up to a fading green door and wrapped his knuckles against it, to which an answer came almost immediately.

“Excuse me, sir,” a guard said, head to toe in army green and fielding a standard-issue wood-stock rifle, “this area isn’t open to the public.”

“I’m allowed to be here,” Provenance insisted the moment the guard’s eyes met with his.

“My apologies sir,” the guard said, stepping out of provenance’s way, but Provenance didn’t take him up on the gesture.

“Would you know where the head of the Mallorine family is?”

“No.”

“Could you ask one of the nurses, please?”

“Yes, sir.”

The guard stormed off, and after a few minutes returned with a nurse.

“I’m sorry sir, we don’t allow members of the public to enter these premises.”

“I have permission. Would you know where Mr Mallorine is being held at the moment?”

“Yes sir, right this way,” the nurse answered, directing him to the cabin furthest from the road. Tucked away under the main building’s shadow, the annexe was smaller than its contemporaries, older too.

The nurse led him up the stairs and through the front door where she paused, and pointed.

“Over there, sir.”

“Thank you. Could you leave us alone?”

“Certainly, sir,” the woman said, bowing at a slight angle before turning around and leaving Provenance as the sole human in the room. Twenty beds in total by a quick estimate; all incapacitated, but their physiological instincts still weakly pulled at the Aether around them. Bags of concentrated Aether flowed through small tubes and into lances speared into their necks, but the measure was likely a preservative nature than anything restorative.

Their masks laid atop each of their bedside tables. Provenance always likened Beaks without masks to humans without heads. It was a human-centric view of the matter—Beaks could differentiate one another just fine without man-made implements, but Provenance struggled to see his surroundings as anything other than a mass of headless cadavers.

Just bodies, like carcasses in an industrial FrostBox.

Mallorine’s was in no better shape. Being so close to the centre of things, Provenance wouldn’t have been shocked if he’d heard the man hadn’t made it out alive.

Not that being in such a state was so far removed.

Provenance approached his bedside table and stood by the dresser. There being no chairs, he felt rather like a harbinger of death, his shoulders casting a long shadow over the faceless patient.

Provenance took a handkerchief from his pocket and, using it to mask his touch, picked up Mallorine’s mask. Ornate and decorated, more an item of jewellery than any tool. Flipping it over, the voice box was still intact, yet he doubted its functionality. Enough Aether to comatose a Beak would destroy fifty such devices.

He looked over to Mallorine, placing the mask back where he found it.

“I’m sorry sir. This isn’t as luxurious as your tastes must call for,” he said, reaching into his jacket and producing a plain mask. There was no voice box attached to the inside as had been the case for centuries, the words instead forming on the mask like ink in water.

He placed it on Mallorine’s head.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“Could you tell me about the day you summoned the Spirit of Spirits?”

Provenance waited, but no answer came.

He couldn’t make someone do what they couldn’t. Seeing Mallorine in that state should’ve told him from the onset to pack his bags and try his luck again somewhere else.

“Did Caynes tell you anything about the Spirit of Destruction?”

Still, no answer came. The mask was left a blank canvas.

“Any feat of magic you couldn’t believe? Anything that felt even greater than the Spirit of Spirits?”

Nothing.

“...Tetrica...the one who manipulates worldly matter and Aether,” he said, reciting verbatim from the Resonances. “The God so used by our hubris it disappeared from our world. The God that condemned us to our own slow rot. The only one who can save us from it.”

The smell of dust clung to the hairs of his nose. Sunlight peered through the window, warming the sleeve of his black suit in a rectangular ray.

Over the minutes, it fell onto Mallorine’s mask, illuminating nothing.

Provenance held in his scowl. By another feat of recklessness, his second, final source of information had been snuffed out. Well and truly snuffed out.

He reached for the mask—

Witch.

Five letters, and a full stop to denote that Mallorine had nothing more to say. Whether that be out of genuine ignorance or not, whether the word itself meant nothing at all. To trust a man robbed of almost all conscience in the first place was dubious but…

“A Witch?”

Mallorine spoke no further.

“You’re—thank…you….”

Provenance’s fingers gently reached for the underside of the mask, when another word appeared in place of the one before.

Daughter.

“...As far as public media knows, she is alive and well,” Provenance said, relaying only what he could. It was sincerely all he knew. “Whether that was what you wanted or not, I do not know.”

He lifted the mask off Mallorine’s face and turned to leave, tucking the instrument away in his jacket.

The smell of black coffee so ingrained in his head came to mind, but considering his mood, tea felt like the safer alternative.

No milk. That experiment hadn’t been to his liking after all.

“Have you found the Provenance yet?” Marie asked, pointing her question away from Evalyn and towards Colte.

“Nothing on him at the moment. Haven’t really at the time to look. I had to sort out Trysha’s entire debacle. Poor girl…at least we could find her husband.”

“Finding the child did feel like a bit of a stretch,” Marie agreed, “but it was worth a shot.”

“Maybe it’s better off we don’t know,” Evalyn said, speaking over the two of them as she put her glass on the table. “Now, no more work talk. Elliot’s probably done with lunch soon.”

She’d managed to fix everyone's refreshments in the meantime; that much her head butler had urged her to learn lest she was married off on short notice. His foresight hadn't been entirely wrong, but he would’ve never suspected she’d be the useless of the pair at housework.

“Say, Evalyn,” Colte asked, leaning over. The old man, his clothes still smelling like ash had plonked himself down on a seat atop the veranda as though it was his own house, barely noticing the congregation grow off him like a salt crystal in water.

He pointed at a trio of children across the table, one carrying a conversation all by herself while the other two looked too dense to realise her service. “When did they get here?”

“Lunch. Crestana’s still home alone until the end of the week, and Alis is technically our new neighbour. You,” she exclaimed, kicking the back of his chair, “are the uninvited one.”

Evalyn smirked as Colte grumbled to himself, and the noise outside followed her into the house through the open glass frames. Elliot had suggested the idea of a fancier lunch than usual himself, but the number of guests to entertain probably hadn’t been accounted for when he’d said it.

“Need any help?” she asked, circling the kitchen counter and catching him from behind.

“No, I kept it simple. Looks more gourmet than it is,” he said, looking at the spread arranged on a mismatched set of plates. “Got some things heating up in the oven, but if you could bring these to the table—”

“Aye aye, captain,” Evalyn sighed into his shoulder, squeezing him tighter. “I missed you.”

“Me too darling.”

Evalyn frowned. He felt the same, the food looked as good as it always did.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “I can hear it in your voice.”

“Nothing important,” Elliot said, pressing his lips together in a half-smile. “It can wait until tonight. I need this to stay as it is right now.”

Evalyn watched her husband’s hands continue to work. She’d had a reconciliation of sorts with Iris, but Elliot hadn’t. An enthusiastic reunion at the train station counted for something, but nothing had been talked through.

Maybe that’s all it was about. She hoped so.

Being his anchor had become a crowning achievement in her life, but Evalyn recognised that it could slip out of the crown’s fitting at any point. She’d become an adult since marrying him, but was still more susceptible to nerves than he was.

Out of her periphery, she caught Marie and Iris making a spectacular pair of 'ew' faces, all while pointing in her direction.

The marking on Evalyn's cheek shone, and they both jumped out of their chairs, scattering like a flock of birds. Evalyn caught both of them with spindly limbs, binding their arms and targeting their weak spots. Marie hated anything touching her flanks, Iris couldn’t stand the back of her neck.

“That’s enough methinks,” Elliot said once Evalyn confirmed tears were rolling down both the offenders’ cheeks. “Bring those back here and carry the plates,” he said, taking two plates himself.

“What about whatever’s in the oven?”

“…yeah. Should be ready.”

Evalyn simply smiled, extending more spindly limbs to carry every item the short distance. She herself didn’t take any steps forward, instead leaning on the counter as one by one, someone by the table took a plate and found a place to put it.

One, two, three, four, five, six, and seven including her.

Certainly seemed like it should’ve been dysfunctional, but it held together.

Bad things had brought good people together. If she could pick and choose, she’d have liked to say ‘good’ twice in that sentence. But pick and choose she couldn’t. Having any of it in the first place was a miracle.

Meeting that woman they called Trysha had reminded her just how lucky she had been to that point. A pleasant breeze, good weather and even better company weren’t going to make her forget.

Each of them was in a different state. The three young ones were putting on brave faces; to the adults, it had become natural. Right now was a time for brave faces, though, in the hopes of not being the one to spoil it for everyone else. Finding the fun amongst that was the challenge.

She sighed, and the golden glow in her marking faded. In her absent-mindedness, Iris had slipped into her blind spot, appearing at her waist like a small ghost.

“Hi honey,” Evalyn said, wrapping her arm around the girl’s shoulders.

“You coming?” she asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, just taking my time.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Thinking.”

“Oh,” her daughter said. It had taken her a few years, but she’d caught onto the fact that ‘thinking’ was usually filler for something not entirely explainable. She was learning, bit by bit.

“You having fun?” Evalyn asked, and Iris nodded.

“It feels wrong to forget, though.”

“Forget what?”

“Forget what I did that night.”

Evalyn squeezed her shoulder. The wind carried the noise from outside in. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but she couldn’t recall it working the other way around.

“We don’t forget,” Evalyn said. “Me, you, Colte, Marie, Alis too. We don’t ‘forget’, but we can’t afford to focus on it forever. Sometimes it might not feel like it, and other times you might not feel like you deserve it, but the world has to keep spinning, and you have to keep going along with it.”

It felt almost cruel how the world kept going even after someone died and how appropriate it felt to do nothing but mourn, yet realise one was still human. Hunger and thirst didn’t wait; bills and work would only handhold you so long, and the moment material urges kicked in once more—whether that be for things or for people—it felt downright horrible.

But the way it kept spinning meant that—for someone in their line of work—someone would be out for their life next.

“Let’s talk about it more later, all right? You’ll make your Dad upset if you don’t eat anything.”

“Okay,” Iris said. “And…you hid them, didn’t you?”

Evalyn pressed her lips together and nodded. “Yes. They’re locked away in my office, I promise.”

The little girl nodded, shuffling off to join the others.

It had been hard to conceal that night; the researchers in the facility had elaborated far beyond the original manila folder’s worth of information. She’d taken them all off the wall, Iris burning the rest with a clap of thunder that had left Evalyn in shock before they’d made their escape.

Now they lived in a box in her archive: the deal was that if word returned to Excala that the original plans had somehow escaped, or convergent evolution saw the technology appear somewhere else in the world, she’d leave the box on a bureaucrat’s desk, and leave the rest up to the Council.

Evalyn had come to an uneasy treaty with her daughter, neither being entirely happy with the conditions.

But the girl had learnt to shoot lightning out of her pet’s mouth. Even as her mother, she wasn’t prepared to challenge that.

Even though for everyone’s sake, that was something that needed rectifying soon.

Who else would put her in her place the next time she skips a class?

“Evalyn! Food’ll get cold!”

“Yeah, yeah!”