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helenaheissner · 1 month

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Love During Robot Fighting Time: Chapter 13

Hello, lovelies! Hope y'all are doing well :)

Don't forget you can read three chapters ahead on this story, twenty chapters ahead on "A Dream of Summer Rain", and two chapters ahead on "Magical Girl Exorcist Squad", by becoming a paid subscriber on my Substack or my Patreon!

***

Kate

“So, you’re going by Kate now, and say that you’re trans?” Dr. Chopra, my general practitioner, said. She was a stout middle-aged with a happy face and black hair threaded with gray and worn in a long braid. I’d called to make an appointment as soon as I’d gotten home from the fight on Friday, and miraculously, an opening was there for Monday morning.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s right,” I said, nodding happily. I wore a short-sleeved light blue blouse and a knee-length red skirt and a face full of makeup, my strappy-sandal clad feet dangling on the side of the patient platform.

“Would you like me to refer you to an endocrinologist, then? We have one here at the clinic who specializes in gender affirming care. Should be covered by your insurance.”

“Yes please!”

“Sounds good! Let’s get your bloodwork done today, make sure everything is on the up and up, and the endocrinologist should be able to prescribe you Estradiol and Spironolactone so long as everything comes back okay. You should also give some thought to freezing some sperm, if you want to have biological kids someday.”

“Hm, alright then,” I said. “Makes sense.”

“Anything else I can do for you today?”

“No, that’s everything. Thank you so much!”

With the easy appointment done, it was time to move onto the hard one: the meeting with my sponsor.

Mr. Gaines did a double-take when I walked into his office an hour later. “What’s, uh, what’s going on here, Calloway?”

“I’m trans,” I said simply.

“Hm.”

“Hm?”

“Hm. You’re trans. So you didn’t lose a bet?”

“... No,” I said, an ugly, icy feeling coating my esophagus.

“This isn’t a bit?”

“No,” I said, redirecting my eyes to the floor as I sat down on the uncomfortable plastic chair.

“You’re trans?”

“I’m trans,” I said, trying to swallow the guilt and shame that was saturating my being.

“Hm.”

“What… What does that mean? In this context, what does ‘hm’ mean?”

“Well, to be blunt, it means I’m ambivalent about all this.”

“Oh?” I said, my voice dropping into a lower octave. I had to stop myself from clamping my hand over my mouth.

“On the one hand, supporting you will be seen as supporting trans rights, which may alienate some of my clientele,” Gaines said flatly.

“Oh.”

“On the other hand,” Gaines continued, “It could open up new markets for me with more socially progressive types. Given I’m hoping to expand into NorCal, that might not be a bad thing.”

“Oh,” I said. Where was he going with this…?

“Hm, well, I suppose the only way out is through,” Gaines said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’ll need your help to sell this.”

“What is ‘this?’”

He gestured at all of me and said, “This. This whole… Gimmick.”

“It’s not a gimmick, it’s my identity,” I said, eyes narrowing.

“Right, yeah,” Gaines said. “How would you feel about becoming our spokesperson, maybe doing a photoshoot for our social media page?”

“Uh… I…,” did not like where this was going.

“I would also need you to write up a mission statement for all this that I can use to promote you as my client, make it clear that I stand with you, that my gym/garage doesn’t tolerate discrimination on the basis of sex, yada yada yada, all that touchy-feely woke bullshit. The hippies in this town will eat it up.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Just something to think about,” he said. “Look, I’m taking a risk by holding onto you as a client. I need you to work with me.”

“That… That makes sense,” I said, ignoring the weird feeling of being treated like an object. Was this gonna be a thing from now on?

“I’m gonna put you in touch with my social media guru, Nadine; she’ll help you with this whole… Image adjustment you’re going through.”

“You know you can just say ‘transition’, right?” I said, groaning internally as it slipped out.

“Yeah, but that’s personal- right now we’re talking business, kid,” Gaines said.

“Right,” I said in monotone.

The meeting wrapped up, and I left the place with an uncomfortable feeling of being used sitting in my gut like a rock. He wasn’t wrong per se, I did have my career to consider, and as a businessman, he had a right to view things that way. And he was my sponsor, not my friend- it made sense for him to think about what our professional relationship would be going forward.

Still. He didn’t have to be so damn blunt about it.

I hopped in my truck and drove myself home for my final appointment of the day. When I pulled into the driveway, Faith was already there leaning against her SUV, an old antique of a car painted red and blue with white stars on the doors. It had a bumper sticker on it labeled ‘Star Rocket Racer.’ She leaned against the hood, wearing a plaid miniskirt, wedge-heeled black boots, and a v-neck light blue t-shirt with the comic book character Stargirl on it. Her long black hair was worn loosely about her shoulders, her makeup immaculate, silver hoop earrings dangling from her ears. A necklace dangled above her cleavage, which… Oh wow, cleavage.

It was, uh…

I’d been so busy fawning over Zeke lately I’d barely noticed how pretty Faith had gotten. And she’d gotten really freaking pretty- the kind of pretty I wished (probably in vain) that I might be after a year on HRT.

“Hey, girl,” she said. It made my heart sing, just hearing that. She was a girl and I was a girl- we were both trans girls and that was lovely. It was like she was telling me personally ‘you’re valid and you’re trans and you’re not a pervert with a fetish.’ Honestly, after that business meeting, I needed it.

“Hey,” I smiled, going in for the hug. She stiffened briefly, but then patted my back and returned the hug.

“How’d the appointment go?” she asked as I led her into the back door and up the stairs to my family’s apartment.

“It was good! I’ll hopefully be able to start on E and Spiro by the end of the week!”

“Fantastic!”

“Did it go this fast for you?”

“Eh, sorta? My parents are in the Army… Kinda, anyway. So I had to go through the government. The waitlist was a couple months but once I actually got in for the appointment they gave me the pills that day.”

“Hm, interesting. I didn’t know that about you,” I said as we walked into the kitchen, a small alcove in the apartment, wooden floors and a round wooden table punctuating the end of the cramped space where the stove and the refrigerator were all bunched together. The fridge was a mass of family photos, or at least it used to be- Mom had taken down the ones with the old me in them after Friday night, and then attached a picture of me en femme with a clip-magnet. ‘The first of many’ as she’d put it. Right now it was just Mom and Dad’s wedding photos and a few baby pictures of me group around the thus-far only physical snapshot of Kate, but given how many selfies I’d taken in the past week, that was sure to change rapidly. “Are you an Army brat then?”

“Like I said, kinda,” Faith answered. “They’re in the Engineering Corps- my dad is enlisted but my mom is technically a civilian contractor- so we moved around a lot when I was growing up. But when I was in high school they both got steady positions teaching at Westpoint, so I wound up mostly just living there. I didn’t come to LA until college- my parents seemed kinda upset I didn’t wanna go to Westpoint, but they were still glad I wanted to be an engineer.”

“I see, I see,” I said, reaching into the fridge and pulling out a pitcher of ice water and putting it on the table. I retrieved two cylindrical glasses from the cupboard and set them down too, then poured us each a tall glass of water. “Clink,” I said, tapping my glass against hers.

She chuckled, then clinked me back and took a long sip. “So you and your folks live and work here? Like in Bob’s Burgers?”

“Lol, I guess,” I said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ears. “My folks started this shop together using the money they got from their wedding. I came around a year later, so this is just all I’ve ever known.”

“Huh, interesting. There’s a lot we don’t know about each other, huh?”

I shrugged, then sipped my water.

“Anyway,” Faith said, “You ready?”

I smiled, then nodded eagerly.

Faith said, “Okay, so the key is to talk using the top of your throat. Start by saying something, draw out the syllables, and concentrate on making it so you’re speaking from your mouth instead of your chest. Don’t try to just pitch up, but focus on where the intonation is coming from. Try to hold it in your mouth and then release the words. If it helps, try speaking as you breathe out. Start slow, get the basics down, then work on speaking at a rate that’s more natural to you.”

I nodded, then drew in a deep breath and hummed a low note. I let it work its way up into my throat, and tried to make it come from my mouth instead of my chest.

“Good,” Faith said, sitting down in her chair. “Now try saying ‘who are you?’ Remember to go slowly.”

“Whoooo… Are… Youuuu?” I said, the words coming out breathy and a bit higher than they had before. I smiled, my eyes going wide as I shimmied in my seat.

Faith chuckled again. “Not bad. So. Who are you?”

“I’m… Katherine… Miranda… Calloway,” I said, liking the way it sounded. “Kate for short.” My words dipped lower again at the last sentence, and I realized I said it too quickly after inhaling, not letting it flow out with my breath like last time. My face scrunched up, and my hands bunched together.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Faith said, putting a hand on my elbow, her palm soft and her fingers delicate and beautifully manicured. “Just keep going, it’s okay.”

I nodded, feeling warmer at her touch, uncurling my fingers and opening my eyes. “Kate for shooorrttt,” I said, drawing out the final word so I could appreciate how it sounded.

“Not Katie?” Faith asked.

“I… Like… Being called Katie… By people who I love, and who love me. Like my… Parents,” I said, slowly and carefully speaking as I exhaled and then giving myself time to draw in a new breath.

“I’ve noticed Zeke call you that too,” Faith said, withdrawing her hand from my arm and breaking off eye contact. “Does that mean you love him?”

I felt myself blush as a mental image of Zeke bridal-carrying me while I wore a white gown echoed through my mind. A dreamy sigh escaped my lips, and I smiled, but I shook my head. Best not to get ahead of myself. “I… Wouldn’t… Go that far.”

“But you do like him, right?” Faith asked.

“I… I do,” I said, my voice going extra high as I said it, the proverbial butterflies in my stomach flapping their wings once again.

“I’m guessing that was what you two were talking about the other night,” Faith said, looking at the floor. “Good for you guys, though. Seriously.”

“What do… You mean?”

“... You’re dating now, right?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” I said hurriedly, waving my hands about, my voice dropping lower again. Faith looked at me again, and gestured for me to keep going. I drew in a deep breath, let it sit in my chest a moment, and focused on keeping my words at the top of my throat. “I… We just cuddled in the back of my truck. I told him I’m starting to crush on him. That’s it.”

“And what did he say?” Faith said, leaning forward expectantly.

“He said… He’s starting to catch feelings too,” I replied. “That’s it. Nothing else has… Has come of it yet. We’re still talking a lot and texting a lot, but yeah.”

“That’s it?” Faith said. “Hold up, hold up, hold up- a handsome, intelligent, charming, thoughtful, gentlemanly guy who likes basically all the same nerdy shit as you told you that he’s crushing on you, and you haven’t locked it down yet?”

I squinted. That was a lot of adjectives she’d used just now. A questionable amount of adjectives for someone to use when describing a platonic friend. “I mean… I wanted to kiss him, but he said it wouldn’t be appropriate because I’d just been having a panic attack.”

“God, that’s just like him,” Faith said, rolling her eyes. “He’s just so freaking… Upstanding and polite about everything.”

“He really is,” I said, smiling. “He’s always thinking about what will make me comfortable and happy- it’s like he never spares a thought for himself.”

“Accommodating to a fault, that’s definitely him,” she said.

“Has he always been like that?”

“Always,” Faith nodded. “He’s always been a gentleman.”

“Has he always been a foxy nerd?”

“Oh, absolutely. Though, uh, that’s definitely been amplified of late. He’s started working out more in the past year- he’s got these sweet abs now, and a really cute butt-”

“Oh, I’ve noticed his butt. And his smile. And the-”

“The gun show?” Faith giggled. “He’s got those big, broad, hunky shoulders now. Makes for a great viewing experience, lemme tell you.”

I tilted my head to the side. I’d already figured out that Zeke was into Faith- it was honestly part of my reluctance to treat what he and I had as anything serious- I didn’t wanna feel like a replacement for the girl he couldn’t have. But that had been me assuming that Faith was a lesbian. If she wasn’t… Then why the hell weren’t they together? What was stopping it? Me?

On the other hand, if I was what was stopping it, did that mean that Zeke didn’t see me as the second-choice? That he actually liked me… For me?

I had to know. What did Zeke actually look for in a partner? And if it was just ‘Faith, or someone like Faith’, and she liked him back, then why was he even bothering with me? And hell, if she liked him back, why was she tolerating any of this in the first place?

“Hey, uh,” I started, “Historically, what kinda girls has Zeke gone for?”

“Oh, uh, back during college it was just any girl who gave him the time of day,” Faith said. “Led to him getting stood up a lot, honestly. And getting into some toxic relationships. He’s into all types of girls- tomboys, girly girls, tall girls, short girls, whatever you can imagine. Nothing ever worked out, though… It was kinda hard to watch, you know? This sweet, intelligent, talented, witty guy-”

“With a hot body,” I said.

“With a very hot body,” Faith purred in agreement. Then she paused, her eyes bulging wider than dinner plates. “Uh… Objectively speaking, as a friend of his. I can say that.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, letting my voice go flat and masculine again for maximum effect. This certainly… Complicated things. “Sure, sure, sure.”

“I… Um…”

I stared at her while taking a long sip of my water.

“It’s not what you think,” Faith said.

“I didn’t say anything,” I said with a wry grin and half-opened eyes.

Faith drew in a deep breath through her nose. “So anyway, back to your lessons-”

I grabbed her hand. I heard her gulp. “You like him.”

Faith opened her mouth. All that came out was a high-pitched squeak.

“Ohhh, wowwww,” I said, turning it into a vocal exercise. “You REALLY like him.”

“I-I-I-”

“I mean… It makes sense. He’s hot, nerdy, polite, funny-”

“He’s a great engineer, too,” Faith finally added.

“Indeed,” I said. “Does he know?”

“No,” Faith answered, drinking a large gulp of water.

“I see,” I said. A sinking feeling went through me. “Well, I should probably back off then.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you two clearly like each other, and I’m just a janie-come-lately,” I said, offering a sad smile.

“No, no, he… I mean-”

“I’ve seen how he looks at you,” I said. “I’m just the silver medal in this competition.” Same as always.

“And I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Faith said. “Trust me, you’re nobody’s second prize. He’s into you. He’s a romantic type- he’s probably gotten really swept up in the whole thing, just like you have. And I… Waited too long. I had a million opportunities to tell him how I felt, and I just didn’t capitalize on any of them because my stupid pride wanted to be on the receiving end of the courtship.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, putting my hands on her shoulders.

She gulped, then blushed. It made her look even cuter, which I didn’t think was possible. “You’re… So close right now.”

“Oh, sorry,” I said, pulling back.

“It’s, uh, it’s fine,” she said, tossing her hair back.

“So… Where does this leave us?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious,” Faith said. “I’m gonna back off. Zeke and I shouldn’t be compromising our professional relationship with romantic feelings anyway. And besides, you went for it, and he likes you back. I won’t get in the way.”

My head was spinning. This was almost too perfect- she was literally giving me everything I wanted out of a conversation I hadn’t even been planning to have. But at the same time… Faith’s slumped shoulders and downtrodden glance and practiced air of contentment told a story, and it was hard not to feel sad about that. “But that’s not fair to you,” I said.

She sighed again. “Kate… We’re already rivals at the tournament. Do you really wanna be romantic rivals, too? Because that feels like it could get ugly real fast.”

“I…,” I trailed off. What did I want? Well, I wanted to date Zeke, or at least go on a date with him and see where it led us. But I also didn’t want to do anything to hurt Faith; she’d been through enough already, and I’d been responsible for some of that. She was accustomed to me being a jerk, and what could be a bigger jerk move then stealing the boy she liked? “I mean, I’d be dating the competition if Zeke and I went out.”

“Yeah. So?” Faith asked. “We aren’t Olympic athletes or anything- the stakes aren’t actually that high. If anything, there’s a greater risk of us getting toxic again if we’re competing over Zeke while competing in the tournament, and I… I like not hating you.”

A swell of emotion, equal parts happy and sad, pulsed through me. “I like not hating you too.”

She smiled again. “Good. So like I said- I’m gonna let whatever happens with you and Zeke happen without my interfering with it. It’s gonna hurt to watch, I’ll be totally honest with you, but… I want to be the bigger woman here. Genuinely, I do. And I want him to be happy. If you make him happy, then that’s… That’s good enough for me.”

I didn’t entirely believe her, but… I found myself nodding along. She was amazing, willing to just… Accept a situation like this while still wanting to be around me, still wanting to help me. Warm affection flowed through me with each beat of my fragile heart as I looked deep into her kind brown eyes. “Thank you. Seriously, thank you. That’s very mature of you, and I really appreciate it a lot.”

“Of course,” Faith said. “Anything for a friend.”

“Friends?” I said, leaning forward and smiling with my teeth.

“Friends,” she smiled back.

“Friends!” I said, fist-pumping. Then I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around her, shimmying more as I hugged her.

She gave a tired laugh as she hugged me back.

“Hey there, girls,” my dad said as he wandered up the stairs and pulled half a pastrami sandwich on a plate out of the fridge. “Whatcha up to?”

“Oh, you know, girl talk,” I said happily. “Boys, robots, that kinda thing.”

“Glad to hear it,” Dad said. “Katie, your mom and I are going out tonight with some friends of ours from college, so I trust you can take care of your own dinner?”

“Not a problem!” I said.

“If you wanna have Zeke over, that’s fine, just no drinking any of my beer- this house believes in bringing your own booze.”

I laughed. “Sure thing, Dad.”

“Good. Glad we could have this talk. You look lovely, by the way,” he said, giving me an affectionate pat on the head.

“Hmmm,” I intoned jovially.

Dad stepped out with his sandwich in hand.

That was when my phone went off, the gleeful twang of Kacey Musgraves emanating from the speakers. “Speak of the devil,” I said as I saw Zeke’s name on the caller ID. I answered the phone and said, “Hey, you.”

“Hey, Katie,” he said. I loved it when he called me that. “You busy tonight?”

“No, no plans at the moment,” I said. Faith watched with fascination, and mouthed, ‘go for it.’ “Why? Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Underhill?”

“That is, in fact, exactly what I’m doing, Ms. Calloway,” he said.

The butterflies flapping their wings in my stomach conjured a tornado. “Oh?”

“Dinner sound good?”

“Yeah, yeah that sounds amazing,” I said, hoping my smile conveyed through the phone, working extra hard to talk in a feminine register.

Faith gave me the thumbs-up.

“7 PM good?” he asked.

“Perfect.”

“Awesome! Would you mind picking me up? Faith has the car today and she never remembers to fill the tank back up on her way home.”

“Heh, yeah, I can do that. I’ll see you at seven.”

“Looking forward to it. See you then, pretty lady.”

I hung up, and I giggled and bounced up and down in my chair. “Eeeeeee!!!!”

Faith stood up and sighed wistfully. “Good for you, Katie.”

“Hey, watch it with the ‘Katie’ or I’ll think you’re in love with me as well,” I poked her cheek.

“Pfft, don’t flatter yourself, you’ll get a swell head,” she said, pushing my finger away. “Come on, let’s pick an outfit for your date.”

“Faith… You don’t have to do that. I appreciate you being chill about all this, but-”

“I want to,” Faith said. “Like I said, I want him to be happy, and that means you need to look as hot as humanly possible for tonight. And besides, I’d prefer you stay like this then go back to being all grumpy and hammy- you’re much cuter this way.”

She extended me a hand up, and I took it, rising and looking this wonderful, mature, helpful, pretty girl in her big brown eyes as she led me into my room to help me coordinate an outfit from the handful of dresses my mom had gifted me, wondering if she noticed I was blushing because of her initiating the physical contact for the first time in our brief friendship.

All of this was a lot, everything that had happened today was a lot, and it still wasn’t over, but… I was okay with that. I could navigate the rest of the day happily knowing I had people in my corner.

#original fiction #serial fiction #web novel #trans woman #trans protagonist #wlw #romcom #romance #enemies to friends to lovers #enemies to lovers #rivals to lovers #bookblr #romance novel

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consumedkings-archive · 3 years

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WITCHING HOUR, a sequel.

chapter four: advent

word count: 8.7k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: naughty language, brief mentions of what could-be prenatal depression. elliot considers the logistics of murder. nothing new.

notes: i am so sorry that this chapter took so long to come around, but i hope it's worth the wait! we're finally getting somewhere with these two dummies, as well as a few little things starting to develop along the way. i'm really pleased with how this chapter finally came out, because it was giving me some trouble to start with, but thankfully i have some wonderful people around to help keep me motivated and not letting me get discouraged!

special thank you to my beta reader, @starcrier, for helping me with the barebones skeleton of this chapter and not letting me get too in my head about it. and a thank you to my loves, @shallow-gravy and @baeogorath, for lending me their eyes as well as i tried to muddle through the parts of this that felt so, so difficult. i adore you all so much!!

Isolde fucking hated Montana.

Maybe “hated” was a bit strong of a term, but all she could feel as she cinched her coat tighter around her and waded through crowds of milling, purposeless passersby in the airport was that she could not wait to leave—and she had only touched down minutes ago.

That she was even here at all was a miracle in and of itself: she didn’t owe John Seed anything. Not a favor, not the time of day, not the firing of her neurons to process her furious disdain for him. If anything, John owed her for up and fucking off for no good reason. If anything, he should be the one doing her a favor. Strapping him to a bed of nails on the hood of a car and watching him suffer while she drove over speed bumps in a mall parking lot during an earthquake would have been a good start.

I need your help, Sol, he’d said, like he didn’t have two fucking hands and eyes and a mediocre brain of his own to get things done.

“Fucker,” Isolde gritted out between her teeth. “Fucking—stupid—fuckface. Fuck I hate him. I hate him.”

But that wasn’t really true, was it? She didn’t hate John, not in the same capacity that she actually hated people, like the ex-husband that so rarely registered in her brain nowadays. For all of his posturing and Napoleon syndrome, John had been her only friend, the only person that she trusted, for a very long time.

Fuck me, she thought, I’m in a bad spot if that’s the case.

It was.

Isolde stepped out of the airport and into the frigid air of the outside pick-up area. Her eyes scanned the area, and while she thought for certain she saw a familiar redhead right away, he was leaned up against a beat-up, mud-splattered truck and surely Jacob Seed did not think he was going to put her in a metal death trap that looked like it wasn’t going to make it five minutes on the highway.

He waved to catch her attention. Isolde stayed firmly put, and she saw—with a little lick of amusement whispering inside of her—Jacob’s teeth flash in a grin.

“Sol,” he called, beginning to saunter over, “I know you can see me.”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” she asked tartly. “I was supposed to be getting picked up by an actual vehicle, not...” She leaned around Jacob’s broad-shouldered figure to peer pointedly at the beater truck, which had not miraculously become better in the last thirty seconds. “...three pieces of metal loosely held together by a shit welding job.”

Jacob’s wolfish smile did not dim. “Good to see you, too.”

“Hello, my darling.” She beckoned him with one hand, giving him a one-armed hug once he was within range. “I suppose you are the transportation John promised, then.”

“None other,” Jacob replied.

“Surely, no expense was spared.”

“Surely.”

Jacob relinquished her of the weight of her suitcase, lifting it with ease and beckoning with a tilt of his head for her to follow. She did, even though her reservations about getting into a fucked up Toyota had not abated; as the eldest Seed brother loaded the suitcase into the back “seat” (being used loosely in this context), Isolde hoisted herself up into the passenger seat.

“Hm,” was what came out of her once she was buckled in, a singular expression of her displeasure, and the redhead settled into the driver’s seat next to her.

He glanced over, his smile having relaxed into something more ambivalent. He said, “I love that you haven’t changed a bit,” and began to pull out of the pick-up lane.

“It is one of my most charming qualities, I think.”

“How did Johnny convince you to come all this way?” he asked, and Isolde stifled a long-suffering sigh that tried to worm its way out of her.

“He told me what helpless idiots you are without him,” she replied. Shrugging out of her jacket, she pushed it into the back seat and turned the heat in the truck down. “Did a whole bit. You would have found it entertaining, I think. It was all Sol, you’re so tall and threatening, please help me. I hate that he knows exactly how I like to be complimented.”

“Well, he’d have to really pull out the stops to get you to come back and help Joseph,” Jacob acquiesced, with the same kind of visceral, gut-punch perception he had always operated and which Soli had expected and still hoped he wouldn’t apply.

Isolde’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Fuck you, she thought, but there was no venom, because he wasn’t wrong. She wouldn’t have come back if John hadn’t really tried, if he hadn’t made it obvious that he was desperate. It did bother her, a little, to see John like that—haphazard and urgent, scrabbling for a foothold wherever he could get one. She just hoped he wasn’t overshooting his shot with the mother of his unborn child.

“Yeah,” Sol said after a moment, “I guess he did.”

Jacob gave her a look. It was a look that said, come on now, Sol, because if there was one unfortunate thing about having dated Joseph Seed and worked with the baby brother for years on end, it was that Jacob—arguably the most perceptive and intelligent of the whole brood—had come to understand her quite well. So annoying.

“I’m glad you’re here,” is what he said after a minute. “Be nice to have a fresh face around, all things considered.”

“You mean all the killing.” Her words came out clipped, but if Jacob felt any particular way about it, it didn’t show on his face.

“Well,” he acquiesced, and that was all that came out of his mouth for at least two heartbeats.

Isolde narrowed her eyes, watching the redhead move methodically as he hit cruise control and settled back against his seat a bit.

She prompted, tightly, “Well?”

“Don’t give me that, Sol,” he cautioned her. “You can use that tone on Johnny and Joseph, but you can’t use it on me. We neither fuck nor run a business together.”

“I remember now why you’re unbearable. How silly of me, to have forgotten.”

“I was going to say,” Jacob continued, as though she had not spoken at all, “that the killing really shouldn’t be a point of contention for you.”

And then, with the kind of spiteful accuracy that she truly detested: “Of all people.”

Shut up. The words sat there, on the tip of her tongue, threatening. Only Jacob would get away speaking to her like this. She supposed that made them hearty exceptions for each other, didn’t it? All the same, the things that she had done—or rather, the things that Joseph had done, for her —were in the past, and long-since buried. Literally and figuratively.

“Here I was, thinking you were my favorite,” she replied primly, and this elicited a laugh out of Jacob, short and barked out but nonetheless genuine. “Tell me you didn’t volunteer to pick me up just so you could start a fight with me. Is it that boring, out there in God’s Country?”

“I never said I volunteered.”

“But you did,” she countered, “didn’t you?”

Jacob glanced at her, then focused his gaze back on the road. “God’s Country is pretty boring, right about now. But there’s been a bit of excitement.”

“Ah, yes,” she replied, foregoing her irritation with his little jab. “Why don’t we compare what John told me with the truth, then?”

“Sounds like a fun game to pass the time.”

Isolde had the feeling they’d at least have a lot to fill the time, at any rate.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Eden’s Gate was not what she had anticipated.

The cult aspect—that was one thing. She could deal with a cult. She could deal with two cults, even, which if what Jacob told her was accurate—and she assumed that it was, because he had no motive to lie to her—sounded like it was actively happening, or had just finished happening.

The compound’s yard looked like a graveyard. As the truck, guided by Jacob’s hands on the steering wheel, rolled in, Isolde took a moment to sweep her eyes over everything as meticulously as possible. Small, meek buildings, the white wiring of a long trellis stretching over the yard, and—blood. Splattered across some of the buildings. Sins in their most classical names, graffitied here and there.

It was dirty. Nothing looked well-insulated. The media would absolutely have had a fucking field day with this. What few people she saw out and about, milling around and regarding the truck’s arrival with quiet, venomous curiosity, might as well have been plucked straight out of the homeless shelter.

When Joseph had told her what his plans were, when he had started dropping tiny scraps of information—because he wanted her to ask for more, wanted to pique her interest—he had never told her it would be...Well.

This.

“This is a fucking joke,” Isolde said, without thinking, turning to look at Jacob. The redhead regarded her with an even-keel gaze, putting the truck in park and tilting his chin, almost defiantly.

“What is?” he asked, and it was sort of there—a tiny, tiny little threat. A demand. What’s funny, Isolde? What do you think is a joke? Surely, the eldest Seed had regarded many defectors and insurgents with the same kind of look. Surely, she knew, he was waiting for her to say something that would make her regret having voiced her opinion.

Purposefully, Isolde replied, “This place.” When Jacob exhaled out of his nose, sharp and impatient, she watched the muscle of his jaw flex, his teeth clenching; before he could open his mouth, she plunged on, “Jacob, you’re not a fucking idiot.”

“Thank you,” Jacob snipped, not sounding very grateful at all.

“The media would lose their fucking shit over this place. It would be a madhouse .”

The redhead sucked his teeth. “You really aren’t getting it, aren’t you?” he asked after a moment of silence had lapsed between them. “There won’t be any fuckin’ media, Isolde. Not if Joseph’s right. And he’s been right about everything else. There won’t be fuck all left to care about beyond your own life.”

“Yeah, except I have to care about them like they’re going to be here!” Isolde snapped. “That’s the whole reason I’m here, you know. In case. John sent me to do damage control because he knows you and Joseph are so tunnel-vision you don’t have any kind of back-up plan.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s funny. A back-up plan, for the collapse of the world as we know it.”

“Finally,” she bit out, “you get my sense of humor.” She grabbed the handle of the door, but before she opened it, she said, “ If Joseph’s right.”

Jacob stilled beside her, head cocked as though he were really listening to her, taking in her words. “What?”

“You said,” Isolde replied tartly, “ if Joseph’s right.”

She turned her head to look at him, trying to discern anything in his expression that might have let her glean some insight on where it was that Jacob really stood. Of all of the Seed children, he had always struck her as the least fanatical—devoted, surely. Structured and disciplined and rigorous and devoted, yes. But not in the way that John had been about Joseph, and maybe was still.

Of course, she saw nothing that indicated Jacob was going to bite the bait.

“Just remember,” Isolde told him, pushing the passenger door open and feeling the bite of winter dig straight into her bones, “ you said that, not me.”

She slid out of the passenger seat, grabbing her suitcase from the back seat and hauling it out. Jacob sighed from the front seat, passing a hand over his face before he climbed out of the driver’s seat and came around the front, stilling her hands over the handle of her suitcase.

“Joseph doesn’t know you’re here,” he told her, glossing over her little barb as though it had never happened. He disengaged her suitcase from the back of the truck with ease, lifting it over her head and keeping it out of the snow. “Just as a heads up.”

“He doesn’t—?” She felt the incredulous spike in her voice. “Bloody fucking hell, did you not tell him?”

“Why would I?” the redhead replied idly, beginning to walk toward the chapel without waiting for her. The implication lay there— why would I, when it’s so much more interesting to have not? —reminding Isolde that in many ways, Jacob Seed was still a Big Brother that did not so often enjoy bending to the will and request of his younger sibling.

She picked her way across the yard, stomping the snow off of her shoes before she stepped into the chapel that Jacob had disappeared into. It was empty, and dark; a heater ran, fruitless and futile, in the far corner. That’s going to change, she thought tiredly. I won’t be losing my fingers for this shithole.

“Look who I found at the airport,” Jacob announced to the figure standing at the front of the church. Isolde felt her insides twist with a strange kind of dreadful anticipation, because the second the figure turned around, she recognized him immediately. Even dimly backlit by the cold winter light filtering through the symbol carved out of the front of the chapel, even after so much time apart. Of course, she thought, she would have recognized him anywhere.

Joseph said, “Isolde,” like he wasn’t at all surprised to find her there.

“Hello, Joseph,” she greeted, managing to keep the anxiety out of her voice. “I’ve only just learned John did not choose to inform you of my impending arrival.” And apparently, neither did God.

“No,” the man agreed. He was bundled up in a dark-colored sweater, high-necked, the hair pulled back from his face. “But I haven’t spoken to John recently. And what did he send you for?”

Isolde blinked at him, brows lifting on her face. “Pardon?”

“What purpose?” he reiterated. “To what end?”

It was so completely and utterly dismissive that Isolde thought she had hallucinated Joseph’s blatant disrespect. The Joseph she had known had, at least, more grace and tact when it came to being a thoughtless bastard.

“To what—?” Fuck you fuck you fuck you, that vicious, still-wounded thing inside of her whispered, furious. Fuck you, you stupid smug fucker, fuck you so fucking hard. To what end? He couldn’t have possibly descended into sheer stupidity as well as delusional grandeur, could he have?

Jacob said, almost in an effort to mediate, “Johnny thought we could use the support.”

“To what end?” Soli demanded, incredulous. “You’ve got half of Montana’s homeless population dragging their emaciated corpses through the snow outside, Joseph. What ‘purpose’ do you think I’m here for?”

Joseph’s eyes narrowed. His expression remained serene otherwise, no flex of irritated muscle that she could see. He’d always been nearly impossible for her to read—plenty of times she’d said things just to push his buttons, just to see him flinch, just to see what he’d do. It had both pleased and infuriated him, then.

Now, she hoped only for the latter.

“You’re here for PR, then,” is what he said, at last. “A fall-back. Because John has doubts.”

“Taking one quick look at your congregation, I can see why.”

“Faith and devotion are not always the easiest routes,” Joseph replied, lifting his chin in a tiny spark of defiance. “And they are. Devoted.”

“They are,” Isolde said tightly, “ filthy, Joseph.”

There was a tiny, almost imperceptible click, and she realized with a sense of satisfaction that it was Joseph’s molars, setting and grinding together. The moment stretched between the two of them like that, drawn tight and tense by her blatant disdain and Joseph’s refusal to acknowledge that they probably needed her, and finally Jacob cleared his throat.

“So glad,” he said lightly, rubbing his hands together. “So glad to have you back around, Sol. Why don’t I show you where you’ll be staying?”

Isolde sucked her teeth. “Fine,” she replied tartly. “And it ought to have a better fucking heater than this.”

“Whatever you want, princess.”

As Jacob swung her suitcase over his shoulder, heading for the door that led out through the back of the chapel, Isolde cinched her coat tight around her waist and followed.

“Soli,” Joseph said, the utterance of a nickname so few had ever been allowed to use for her grinding her movements to a halt. She took in a short, sharp breath through her nose, turning to look at the man over her shoulder.

He was regarding her curiously, his eyes taking a relaxed, leisurely sweep over her despite the unpleasant interaction they had just endured.

“What, Joseph?” she asked, her words coming out short and biting.

“You haven’t changed a bit.” The corner of his mouth ticked upward. “I’m glad you’re here.”

It wasn’t what she had expected or anticipated. Even in a perfect world where they were absolutely cordial with each other, she would haven’t expected this. The whole thing had to be some kind of game: already, the mental chess game had begun, and she had been caught lagging unpleasantly behind on the first move.

So she said, “Good,” and turned back around, marching devoutly after Jacob.

“You should be.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He had been this close.

John hadn’t intended on being as loud as he was, when he got out of his car. But the sight of Elliot wandering out of her front door, barefoot and in nothing but shorts and t-shirt, had inspired quite a bit of concern; he’d still waited, watching her. Watching her walk out to the fence that he knew led out to the pastures and eventually the woods, and then stood there.

Much like the other night, she only stood. He couldn’t see her do anything except be there—standing, watching the woods, her face relaxed and serene.

It filled him with the same kind of dread it had when he’d seen her do it through the windows, standing at the top of the stairs with her face lax and her eyes open. Seeing it again, he was now more certain than ever it was a recent development, and that she had not been sleep-walking back in Hope County; at the very least, not when he had been around her.

And red. Her hair was so red—the same kind of coppery-ginger that he’d seen the man in their family photos sporting, the man who had been entirely absent from any other photos past what seemed to be the age of eight. Her hair was so red, and so long, sprawling down to her shoulder blades and sweeping across the thin white cotton of her sleep shirt.

When ten minutes passed and he saw no change, he thought, that just won’t fucking do, and opened the car door, shutting it behind him with a new sense of urgency. He hadn’t wanted to get her like this when something was so clearly unsettling her, but if that’s what it had to be, then—

But the front door of her house opened, and he heard the woman that he thought had to be Elliot’s mother calling for her, and he’d stopped himself. It would have been worse if he’d been halfway down the drive to her, but this far away he could duck behind the Honda he’d been calling his home and act like he hadn’t gotten out at all.

Somewhere down the street—down in the far end of the widely-spaced row of old money houses—the sound of a car starting and pulling away echoed.

It could have been nothing, he thought. It could have been, but what if it wasn’t?

What if it wasn’t nothing?

John listened to the sound of Elliot muddle through a response to her mother, words slurring tiredly as she stepped through the snow. It wasn’t until he heard the front door of the house close and the voices fade out of existence that he finally allowed himself to climb back into his car, turning the key in the ignition and cranking the heat up.

He had been this close to her. As he sat in his car, listening to the heat tick against the cold metal of the engine, John thought that maybe he would not be able to be as careful as he would have liked with this whole thing. Time was rapidly running out, and things were only going to get worse the longer he spent dallying.

Besides—if memory served him correctly, Elliot had always slept better with him there. Even if it wasn’t the most ideal reunion he could have pictured, he thought it was as close as he was going to get.

It certainly wasn’t how he anticipated meeting his mother-in-law, at any rate.

In the console, the rattling vibration of plastic on plastic broke him out of his thoughts. John fished around absently, eyes burning with exhaustion, until he could pull the cell phone out and regard the unregistered number for a moment. It had to be either Jacob or Joseph, given they were the only ones who had access to this phone number, but that thought was oddly uncomfortable.

He hit the green accept button, clearing his throat. “Hello?”

“John. How are you doing?”

It was Joseph’s voice, familiar but altogether strange, too. They hadn’t spoken before he’d left the compound, and Hope County—in part because Joseph had been deep in his singular loneliness, convening with God, and in part because John had not wanted to think about the conversation they would have had regarding bringing Elliot back. There was too much there to unpack, really; Joseph’s dislike (hatred?) of what she had done was abundantly clear, but his elder brother couldn’t find it in himself to deny, either, the importance of returning her back to the fold.

“I’m alright,” John replied, cautiously. He thought about whether or not to mention Elliot’s sleepwalking, and then decided against it. “How are things at the compound?”

“They’re good.” There was a pause. “You sent Isolde here.”

It was a statement, not a question. John pressed his mouth into a thin line. He wondered if Isolde had been polite—and then reminded himself that it was Isolde, and no amount of bad blood or past history would ever get her to shut up.

So he said, “She’s the next best thing, after me.”

“I see.” Joseph seemed to want to say something else, his voice lingering absently on the other end of their phone call: but if he was going to say what it was, he didn’t make any move to, and John felt that nervous, anxious energy pushing up high in his throat.

“It’s important to me,” John managed out after a minute, “that you and the others are well taken care of while I’m here dealing with…”

“Our wayward lamb.”

The tightness in Joseph’s voice was not lost on John, and he cleared his throat.

“Right. But I’m going to be—touching base with her soon, and we’ll be back on the road in no time.”

Touching base didn’t sound quite right. It didn’t feel quite as momentous as it was going to feel, he thought—but making contact also didn’t hit the same. It was going to be near-disastrous, he was sure, no matter how he went about it.

At first, anyway. And then she would understand, of course, that everything he had done had been for them; everything had been done for her sake, for her future with him, and she would finally, finally be fucking grateful.

“See that you do, and are,” Joseph said after a minute. “We need our brother here, John. You, and our sister and nephew.”

Our sister, Joseph said. Something about that didn’t feel good at all, John thought, but he swallowed back the uneasy bile in his throat.

“Of course,” he replied after a moment. “I understand completely.”

“Goodnight, John.”

The call clicked off before John could even open his mouth to reply, leaving him with only the dead air and the stifling silence of steady snowfall around him.

Good night indeed.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When Elliot awoke that morning, it was to the sound of conversation downstairs and Boomer’s frantic barking.

She struggled out of bed, eyes blurry from exhaustion. Her body ached, dull and faintly reminiscent of her late-night jaunt out into the snow; she pushed the door open, only for Boomer to instantly race down the stairs.

“Elliot,” her mother called, her voice pitching high with frustration, “ please come control your beast.”

Boomer was barking mad. He was barking angry, the kind of vicious alert noise he made when he saw someone he did not like. Elliot barely managed to collect herself to get down the stairs to apologize profusely to whoever it was her hound was currently yelling at when she stopped short at the end of the stairs.

It was John. John, sitting on her couch. John, coming to a stand when she came down the stairs. John, hair tousled out from its normally perfectly-gelled slick-back style, John in street clothes, John John John existing in her space and breathing her air and flashing her a stupid smile that she wanted to immediately punch in.

Her brain fizzed and sputtered to a stop. She had thought, should this moment ever come, that she would feel scared. Panicked. But she didn’t feel any of those things. She only felt—

Furious.

The kind of strange, quiet fury that arrived like death, sudden and violent and crashing over her in waves until all she could think about was getting her hands around John’s throat.

She was vividly, ferociously reminded of the drag of John’s finger along her sternum. Yours must surely be the sin of Wrath.

It felt something close to nirvana, though, in a strange, intoxicating way. All this time she had spent being worried that someone was hunting her, someone like Burke—desperate to Do Right by the law—or maybe even the Seeds themselves, because some kind of cosmic force had been on their side for reasons even she couldn’t formulate. But now?

Now, the man who had been the apex predator, the man who had dragged her through a drug-riddled nightmare, the man who had lied and lied and lied endlessly, ceaselessly, who had

(I love you, Elliot)

pretended to give a shit about the things that she wanted, was here.

Within reach.

It was a different kind of adrenaline rush, one that she hadn’t realized she had missed until her attention had zeroed in directly on John and the imminent threat that he posed. The things he could tell her mother, the things she had worked so hard to keep at bay and far behind her—John was the manifestation of all of those things, and she was fucking mad.

“Elliot,” her mother said, breaking her from the strange, dreamlike haze her fury had plunged her into, “John tells me that he’s your...”

And then Scarlet’s voice trailed off.

“What?” Elliot bit out, crushing the bones of the words between her teeth. “ John says he’s my what, mother?”

John exhaled through his mouth. There was an infuriatingly charming smile planted on his face, but if she looked close enough, she could see lines of tension there, too; she wondered if he’d really thought her mother would be a safer bet than her. “Ell,” he began, the nickname grinding Elliot’s good nature to a halt, “I think it’s important that we—”

But before he could finish his thought, Elliot interjected, “Shut. The. Fuck. Up. ”

Boomer’s barking had dwindled into low, threatening growls, his hackles fully raised like little pin needles along his spine. He was laser-focused on John, with one ear cocked in her direction, waiting. On the couch, John shifted uncomfortably.

“Bunny,” her mother said, her voice tight and her mouth set in a prim line at the expletive she’d just barked out, “tell the hound to be quiet.”

“Sit,” Elliot ordered, which did not equate to quiet, but which Boomer obeyed anyway. She thought maybe she would have been more stressed about it if she were not fully confident in her ability to heel him, should the need arise.

“I only wanted,” John tried again, raising his hands like he was trying not to spook a wild bronco, “for us to have a moment—”

“It’s nice to want things,” she bit out viciously. “There are a lot of things I want, too.”

Her mother came to a stand, clearing her throat and instantly drawing their eyes.

“Mr. Seed,” Scarlet said, her voice mild, “please take a seat. You’re raising my blood pressure, looming in my vision like that.”

John took in a breath and then re-seated himself, planting a smile on his face. “John is fine, Mrs. Honeysett.”

Her mother gave him a scathing once-over before she said, very pointedly, “Mr. Seed tells me he is your husband.”

It might as well have been a slap to the face. Elliot was viciously reminded of their last interaction—the threat of murder, the oh-so-satisfying sting of her palm connecting with his face. The last well-and-true violation John had committed against their wobbly, new-born trust.

Her stomach lurched. The kind of nausea that came with rage welled up inside of her, and she blinked furiously, wishing for once that the adrenaline did not make her so very focused and hyper-aware and instead that she could actively choose to check-out of reality.

“He’s a fucking liar,” was what ended up coming out of her mouth, because it wasn’t incriminating either way. John Seed was a liar. A deceiver. And while they might —maybe, tenuously, questionably—be married in the eyes of the law (something which Elliot could, unfortunately, not prove one way or the other), that didn’t mean fuck all.

“At the very least, you won’t be having a baby out of wedlock,” her mother continued, her voice tight with some unreadable emotion that implied she was not pleased by this development at all. She was eyeing Elliot, studying her, and for once a scolding for her poor language did not ensue. “I imagine you’ll want a moment to discuss in private what our next steps are.”

There are no next steps, Elliot thought viciously, loosening the vice-clench of her hands and feeling the blood come rushing, stinging back into her palms. She watched the corner of John’s mouth tick upward, amused; infuriatingly handsome, per usual, so much so that she wanted to just punch his fucking teeth in. There are no next steps for John Seed, not with me.

“Yeah,” she said finally, eyes narrowing, gritting the words out between her teeth. “I would love to have a moment alone with John.”

The casual smile on John’s face downturned, just a little. It was the kind of uneasy expression that came with getting what he wanted so easily, too easily, that he didn’t know if it was really what he wanted anymore. Good. She wanted him to squirm.

“I’ll be upstairs,” Scarlet replied, sweeping past her. “And you just call if you need me, bunny.”

Elliot made a small noise of agreement. The tense, drawn line of her mother’s shoulders implied a distinct dislike, and she could already feel the judgments welling up—things that John would certainly deserve. Things that her mother would wait to slip into idle, polite conversation, if it ever got to that point. Which she would do her fucking damnedest to make sure that it didn’t.

As soon as her mother had drifted wraithlike up the stairs, a moment of silence stretched between them. John came to a stand, keeping his hands up and in plain view as he took a few steps forward, inspiring in Boomer a few short, vicious barks that reminded him their friendship had been temporary and fleeting.

“Ell,” John began, “I know that you’re—”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

He exhaled, once, out of his nose. “ Elliot,” he tried again, “a lot of things were said—”

Elliot felt the anger spike in her violently. “Oh, were there?”

“My God, are you going to let me finish a sentence?”

“I should rip your fucking tongue out of your mouth, you lying rat,” Elliot snapped viciously. “What are you doing here? Why are you here? How did you fucking—how are the police not—the government —”

John flashed her a half-cocked smile that she was sure had inspired homicidal tendencies before, and would do so again. “Are you really that surprised they weren’t able to keep us?”

“This is not the fucking time,” she hissed, pitching her voice low, “to be playing games with me, John Seed.”

“No game,” he promised as he mimicked her volume. “We found a way out. I’m presuming, not unlike the same strategy with which you found a way out, isn’t that right?”

She felt her teeth clench. Of course he fucking knows, something inside of her whispered viciously. Of course he knows, he’s not stupid about things like that. Just everything else.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said finally. “You have no way of knowing that Burke didn’t send me off to a therapist and let me go.”

“Sure, Elliot,” John murmured, his voice slick, “Cameron Burke, U.S. Federal Marshal, shipped you off to a therapist who found out you were perfectly well-adjusted after caving a man’s face in with a blunt object and now you’re here, living in bumfuck nowhere Georgia. How’s mama Honeysett feel about that, anyway?” He tilted his chin, eyes sly. “About all the killing—”

She swung without thinking. It was a knee-jerk reaction, no thought and no pre-meditation, only pure and unadulterated gut-instinct to impact her fist with his face. Unfortunately, John seemed to have been prepared for it, and stepped back just in time, catching her wrist.

“I’m a quick study,” John murmured, his voice pitching low into a threat, “and I’m not interested in losing any teeth.”

“Brave of you to put your hand so close to my face,” Elliot snapped in a hiss. She jerked her wrist out of his grip like it had burned her, and it might as well have—the contact of skin, not unlike the ways John had touched and grabbed her before, when he’d had a right to.

Regarding her warily, he dropped his hand to his side. “You ran away with our baby.”

“I would hardly call leaving you to your own devices as I made a leisurely departure with government officials ‘running away’.”

“You ran away with our baby,” he repeated, cocking his head to the side. “I think the exact words were ‘you should have considered that before you fucking came inside me, you cunt’.”

Elliot’s mouth twisted. She was trying not to smile, because despite the absolute absurdity of the situation—the punch of those words still felt satisfying, in a strange, twisted way. Even though it was for that exact reason that she found herself in this situation now: pregnant, and struggling to feel like she was really that, like she was anything more than a temporary vessel for the baby who didn’t quite feel real to her yet.

John’s eyes flickered. “Find that amusing?”

“Yeah,” she replied sharply, “I think it’s some of my best work. Short of slapping you in the face. I do wish I’d made it a closed-fist punch, if I’m being honest.”

He seemed pleased at that, as though the reminder of her Wrath was a comforting familiarity, and she wished she hadn’t fallen so easily back into their old cadence. Steeling herself, she said, “You need to leave.”

“I think I’m exactly where I need to be,” John assured her. “With my unborn child, and my wife —”

“Don’t you fucking—”

“—and my mother-in-law,” he finished demurely, “who surely knows everything about what we’ve been up to these last few weeks. Doesn’t she?”

Elliot stared at him. No was the correct and truthful answer. No, her mother did not know what had been happening these last few weeks, was blissfully unaware of the extent of Eden’s Gate and their evil as well as the things that Elliot herself had done. If her mother had known what she’d done—if her mother had known the things John had done—she would have been horrified. Disgusted. Repulsed.

I’m it for you, John had said, and

(maybe that was true, maybe he was the only person who would ever be able to get her, accept her, love her)

fuck him for saying so.

“The irony of you threatening me with pure honesty isn’t lost on me. And I don’t know what you’re hoping to accomplish,” Elliot said sourly, after a moment. “Blackmail isn’t exactly the way to a girl’s heart, and certainly doesn’t convince me of your qualifications as a father.”

“Desperate times,” John allowed, tilting his chin up playfully, “desperate measures. And it isn’t blackmailing, per se. You could have just as easily told your mother everything that had happened and I’d have nothing working in my favor.”

But of course, he had known her better than that. John had seen the way killing Kian had affected her, the way it affected her when she was faced with the mountain of bodies she had left behind her, the shame and disconcertion at finding something wretched and wrathful inside of herself and liking it.

So he hadn’t gambled at all, really, and she supposed that she wasn’t that surprised.

He paused, studying her for a moment, before he added, “Not to mention, you are carrying my baby.”

My baby, something hissed inside of Elliot, wretched and protective, something that had otherwise been dormant inside of her up until now; not your baby, my baby.

“All I want,” he continued as he kept his voice low, sauntering closer, trying to do that thing that he did where he crowded up against her and made her brain go fuzzy, “is a chance.”

“Fuck you,” Elliot snapped. “I should have throttled you the second you walked through my fucking door.”

“But you didn’t,” he pointed out. The arrogance bled through and into his voice, bright and sharp. “And you haven’t. And that’s because you lo—”

This time, Elliot’s swing wasn’t anticipated at all, and she landed a sharp, open-palm slap to the side of John’s face. He reached up, working his jaw, his eyes narrowed as that tell-tale anger colored his expression. Good, she thought venomously, watching the red bloom just under his skin, good, I hope it fucking hurts, you stupid fucker.

“Next time you presume to tell me how I feel about you,” she warned, “it will be closed-fist. And I won’t fucking miss.”

John’s eyes flashed with something dangerous and angry. But he said, “I’m glad I didn’t break that wrathful streak out of you,” with no absence of affection-tipped venom.

“Elliot?”

It was Scarlet’s voice, drifting down from the stairs. Elliot gave John one hard, vicious look before she turned to see her mother standing at the landing where the two stairways converged at the top of the main staircase, regarding them with a critical eye.

“Have you sorted it all out?” she asked after a moment. “All of this…business?”

“I’m going to be in town for a while longer,” John said, before Elliot could formulate a response, inspiring in her yet another bout of homicidal rage that she had to quickly reel in. “I’m determined to make this work, no matter how long it takes.” And then, in what he surely thought was a very charming gesture: “I’m very pleased to get to know my mother-in-law a little better, as well.”

“Ah,” Scarlet replied. She then refused to elaborate.

“I hope,” John continued after a moment, “that’s alright with you, Mrs. Honeysett.”

Her brow arched upward, looking between Elliot and John expectantly, making it clear that was all she had to say on that. It was satisfying, to watch her mother operate as she always did without even knowing the true nature of John Seed. It was the least he deserved

“I really think you should just go,” Elliot said tightly as she turned her attention to him. “Back to Hope County, I mean. Your brothers probably need your help.”

“They’re fine,” John said, feigning sweetness despite the red sting of her slap still fresh on his skin and her mother's very apparent disdain, “and nothing is more important to me than you and the baby, Elliot.”

Saccharine and venomous. Fuck, I hate him.

“I’ll get a room in the motel here,” he continued, brightly. “That way we’ll have plenty of time to spend together. Catch up. Has Elliot told you much about Hope County these last few weeks, Mrs. Honeysett?”

"Fine," Elliot bit out, just as her mother cut in, "That won't do at all," and they looked at each other with the same amount of wounded incredulity.

"He'll stay with us." Her mother's voice was decisive. "Not in that run-down motel."

"Mother," Elliot bit out.

"I won't have a man traipsing in and out of my house at all hours of the night, living like some vagabond," Scarlet asserted. "Especially not the father of my grandchild. And you certainly don’t expect me to explain that to people."

Elliot could feel the headache blistering behind her eyes. She didn't even need to look at John to know he was grinning, ear to ear, like a fucking Cheshire Cat. It was the blatant and unimpressive downside to her mother remaining completely in the dark about what had happened in Hope County—and if John had thought he had leverage over her before, he certainly thought so now. There was no way Scarlet would have insisted he stay if she really knew.

This was bad. Devastatingly, infuriatingly, chop-her-hair-off-and-run-away bad. The kind of bad that only happened in horror comedies. Suddenly, she thought that dyeing her hair had been the most reasonable thing to do, and that her margin for acting out had increased exponentially.

"That's so kind of you," John said pleasantly from behind her. "Thank you."

"It is kind of me," was her mother's clipped agreement. "Make sure you move your…" Scarlet gestured vaguely with one elegant hand. "Vehicle behind the garage, Mr. Seed. I do not need my driveway looking like a scrapyard." Her head tilted, eyes narrowed. "Bunny, help me prepare the guest room."

She resisted the urge to sigh, knowing that if there was one thing her mother would not tolerate, it was an insolent child. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Her mother gave the two of them one more leisurely, scathing sweep-over with her eyes, making a noise that bordered skillfully between discontent and acquiescence before she departed up the stairs to leave them alone once again.

“Do we really need separate rooms?” John mused, as though he had not hunted her down five states away and showed up unannounced at her home after systematically lying to her. “I mean—you are carrying my child.”

There it was, that little spark again, pure defiance: my baby, I’m carrying them, you’ve done nothing, like all of a sudden this baby had become more hers than it had ever felt before the second John tried to stake his claim on it. “I’m going to punch your fucking teeth in,” she hissed, “if you don’t get the fuck out of swinging range.”

“I did so miss our rapport.”

“Final warning.”

He flashed her a grin that was all teeth, and she regretted, in fact, having given him a warning at all; it seemed that even though their time together had been short, old habits did die hard.

The brunette swung around on his heel, pulling the keys out of his pocket and sauntering toward the door. He truly did embody the cat that had caught the canary, more so than Elliot would have liked to admit, turning to look at her through playfully narrowed eyes. “In case you were wondering—”

“I’m not.”

“I like the red,” he finished, voice bleeding with self-satisfaction, “bunny.”

It was good, for his sake, that he had waited until he was out of reach to say so.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“ That one, Elliot?”

“Mama,” she gritted out, her fingers digging viciously into the fabric of the sheets, “please, I do not want to have this conversation.”

“I just think,” her mother amended curtly as she passed a scathing look over the brunette Elliot was currently considering shoving through the stained glass of the front door, “you could have at least picked the tall one.”

Elliot stared at her mother from across the king-sized guest bed, blinking rapidly. “You mean...Jacob?” Ugh, she thought, remembering the way John’s eldest brother had grinned at her when she’d threatened to kill him and said, yeah, you think you can, little girl? Fucker.

“Is that the redhead?”

“Yes.”

Scarlet nodded sagely. “You have to be mindful of who you pick to build a life with,” her mother intoned dutifully. “Genes, and the like. Both your daddy and I are tall, and you’re so short, honey. You want to set the baby up for success, don’t you?”

“I’m not—” Absurd. Absolutely absurd, this conversation she was having, not only that her mother thought she would just have her fucking pick of Seed brothers to be impregnated by, let alone that she would ever fucking want Jacob Seed that close to her. “I’m not discussing whether or not I’d let Jacob Seed into my bed, mother.”

“Well,” Scarlet replied primly, smoothing out the comforter meticulously with her hand, “John’s quite...alternative, anyway. I just never knew you liked...” Her voice trailed off again, and she gestured vaguely.

Elliot arched a brow at her. “Liked?”

“That,” her mother finished after a moment, and then sighed, like it had been excruciating for her to say so. It wasn’t as though they’d had many heart-to-hearts about what kind of boy Elliot liked, anyway. “You know, the—tattoos. And whatnot.”

“They don’t bother me one way or another, mama.”

“I find your taste in men quite eclectic. What happened to that nice young man you went to high school with? And all of those school dances? He was nice. Didn’t you two work together at the sheriff’s office?”

The last person that Elliot wanted to discuss in terms of a romantic relationship was the one man she’d dated in high school. Staci Pratt had been evacuated with the others, and was hopefully living his life with a steadfast therapist somewhere far from Hope County, just like the rest of the Resistance. She cleared her throat.

“I’m not having a baby with Staci Pratt.”

“I know that.”

“Can we please,” she started, “can we please stop talking about this? I really don’t even want John staying here, but you insisted, and—”

Scarlet crossed her arms over her chest, frowning. “Well, why not? Don’t you like him? Enough to marry him and have a baby with him, anyway.”

I don’t, that vicious little voice inside of Elliot hissed, I didn’t say yes, I didn’t want to marry him, I don’t think I even want to marry anyone, stop talking about it, please.

It made her sick to her stomach, to think about John being her husband, to think about the fact that she was having his baby, and maybe that was why she hadn’t been able to feel quite so much like herself as of late; maybe that was why she had been feeling so disconnected from the baby, because she hadn’t quite reconciled how they had come to be in the first place.

She hadn’t reconciled that she had been so, so, incredibly, wretchedly stupid.

“Is there something you aren’t telling me?” Scarlet asked after a moment, watching her from across the bed, her mouth turning into a firmer, more deep-set frown. “You seemed awfully unhappy to have him here.”

“We didn’t leave on good terms,” Elliot muttered, clearing her throat and busying herself with pulling pillowcases onto the pillows. Fuck, she couldn’t believe she was doing this. Making up a bed in her guest room for John fucking Seed.

Her mother moved around to the foot of the bed, stepping carefully over Boomer so as not to disturb him where he lay. She paused at the door, just long enough without saying anything to draw Elliot’s attention back to her, before she exhaled softly.

“It’s Christmas next week,” her mother said after moment, completely ruining the illusion she’d had of her mother actually asking her something meaningful. “The perfect time to practice patience.”

Elliot felt her mouth twist viciously, turning away and dropping the pillows on the bed so that her mother wouldn’t see. The last thing she needed to give John Seed was patience. Least of all Christmas-spirit-induced patience. He deserved far, far less, and much worse, than that.

“Don’t forget about your doctor’s appointment,” her mother called as she departed the room, “and hurry down to eat something before you run your beast.”

It was better this way, anyway. To have John here. If he wasn’t in the custody of Federal agents, the next best place he could be was where she could see him—keep tabs on him, keep aware of what kinds of shit he was up to. And maybe he’d get so tired with her mother’s particular brand of vitriol that he’d fucking leave.

I should be so lucky.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“What is this?”

Kajsa’s voice broke her out of her reverie. She had been watching the snowfall, flecking against the window in crystalline geometrics, methodical and variable all at the same time—but the surprise peaking in her harbinger’s voice was enough to draw her eyes away.

The heater in the car rattled, straining against the cold temperatures. Kajsa’s dark eyes had narrowed, and when Helmi followed her gaze, it was to the front of the mother’s house. Their little interloper was heading up the front steps, having apparently come from behind the two-story shop and garage to head back inside.

And then he let himself in.

“He is moving quickly, this little snake of ours,” Kajsa murmured, her voice flecked with amusement. “I thought he’d be exercising more caution.”

Helmi made a low noise. This was...displeasing, to say the least. They had been counting on John’s interference being minimal, given that he was away from home and all of his little pets. Apparently, it had only made him more bold.

And that just wouldn’t do at all.

“You will go back,” the black-haired woman beside her announced, decisively.

“What?” Helmi asked, brows furrowing together at the center of her forehead. “Back to Hope County? But—I should be here, with you. My place is—I belong with you. What about...”

Kajsa leaned back against her seat, her eyes never once having left the house. As Helmi’s voice trailed off, unused to presenting distress or dislike of a decision made by her superior, the woman’s jaw worked absently, the brush of her dark, sooty lashes caressing the top of her cheekbones. Singularly devastating and beautiful, as always, though in moments like this Helmi wished it weren’t so distracting.

“I can open our mother to the influence on my own,” she said at last, and finally turned her slate-gray gaze to Helmi. “I want you to return to our family back in Montana. Do whatever you would like, but make sure you are making them sweat. ”

She turned in her seat now, so that they were facing each other, taking Hel’s face in her hands. The pads of Kajsa’s thumbs swept across her cheeks, affectionate.

“Strangle them,” Kajsa murmured. “I want you to be my tourniquet. Stop the bleeding where you can. Tighten so ferociously around those apostates that John Seed will have no choice but to abandon our mother and leave her to me.”

I don’t want to leave, Helmi thought, watching the woman’s dark eyes—so dark, so dark, faded and distant while her pupils ate away at her irises. I don’t want to leave you.

“It is best.” Her voice pitched, soft and low, almost lulling. “For the end. For our winter, Helmi. I do not want you to go, and I will grieve, just like you will.” She tilted her head, drawing Helmi’s eyes to the wisps of dark hair spilling like black moonlight against the porcelain of her throat. “And what do we say to our grief?”

“Sorrow shared,” Helmi whispered, “sorrow halved.”

“That is exactly right.” Kajsa leaned back, the curve of her dark mouth, feline and sharp, wrenching right on Helmi’s resolve. “You will go for me, won’t you?”

I don’t want to, she thought again, the idea of leaving Kajsa alone to sit in the dark, to peel apart the mother’s layers one by one, unthread her, a distressing one. They had never been so far apart. I don’t want to be away from you.

“Helmi.”

“I will,” she managed out at last. “For you.” I would do anything, for you.

Kajsa’s smile widened, razor-sharp.

“And that is why," the woman murmured, "you are perfect to me."

#my writing #fic: witching hour #ch: elliot honeysett #ch: john seed #otp: death keep off; i am your enemy #john's impending death is near on the horizon #i can feel it in my bones #far cry 5 fic #fc5 fic #john seed/deputy #fc5 oc #john seed x deputy #poor mans about to get eviscerated by scarlet honeysett #jskjdaskjd

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blackswaneuroparedux · 3 years

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[The British monarchy:] Its mystery is its life. We must not let in daylight upon magic. We must not bring the Queen into the combat of politics, or she will cease to be reverenced by all combatants.

- Walter Bagehot

This was an exhortation made by one of the most venerated Victorians of his era and the founding editor of the Economist magazine, Walter Bagehot, to not drag Queen Victoria into the mudpits of political conflict. In his view, a politically-inactive monarchy served the best interests of the United Kingdom; by abstaining from direct rule, the monarch levitated above the political fray like a dignified David Copperfield, and remained a respected personage to whom all subjects could look to as a guiding light.

There has always been this odd nature of the relationship between hereditary monarchy and a society ambivalent about the institution.

Bagehot’s idea is accurate and unsustainable because we suffer from a national inability to think clearly about monarchy. The Windsors have been turned into a soap opera by a celebrity-obsessed culture — think of the media frenzy surrounding Diana, Charles and Camilla, Prince Andrew and his Epstein-related scandal, the differing opinions over Megxit (Prince Harry and Meghan Markle) etc. This is a culture determined to demand both daylight and magic.

The outcome is a contradictory belief that royalty are semi-sacred creatures who yet deserve censure when they manifest huffy or indecent behaviour. This inconsistency and lack of clarity is the source of the ad hominem arguments that frequently disfigure the republican case (and thank God for their ineptitude!)

At its best, royalty manifests the virtues of noblesse oblige. Elizabeth II embodies all that is greatest in a constitutional monarch. Her devotion to what she believes to be her duty has been unswerving — probably at considerable cost to her personal happiness — and she has refrained from interfering in the workings of our parliamentary democracy. It is open to question whether Charles III will display similar qualities of obligation and restraint.The public knows this, and is beginning to tinker with ideas that undermine the hereditary principle.

Ever alert to the possibilities of turning their readers’ prejudices to profit, the unscrupulous tabloids have played on the heir apparent’s unpopularity to make the case that the crown should skip a generation. (The Daily Mail commissioned a poll from ICM, and published the results on Monday. It said that 53 per cent of those questioned wanted the crown to pass directly to William.) William, good-looking and youthful, has hardly put a foot wrong and Kate Middleton even more so with the fashionistas gushing over every dress she wears daily and her down to earth manners typically bred of a Downe House girl.

A hereditary right to rule, and all the deference that goes with it, is either acceptable or it is not. If the nation decides in favour of monarchy, it must forgo its sentimental and selective attachment to those members and aspects of the institution that it likes. It should accept that the next in line — whatever his appeal to popular taste — is the rightful head of state.

If it believes that to be undesirable, then alternatives must be examined. The current trend is for a tawdry populism that offers a comfortable substitute for the more demanding pursuit of true egalitarianism. We cannot continue with the illusion that majesty can co-exist with a self-congratulatory exaltation of all that has the most facile appeal.

Nor does it make sense to fantasise about a Scandinavian-style bicycling monarchy: we must make up our minds about hereditary privilege and its attendant flummery. Bagehot explained it thus: “There are arguments for not having a Court, and there are arguments for having a splendid Court; but there are no arguments for having a mean Court.”

Aware of the growing aggression of facile populism, the Windsors have nodded to the idea of a leaner and meaner Court, in the hope of preserving their status. But paying income tax and reducing the number of flunkies on the payroll is meaningless: the protocol and elaborate costumes look the same as they did in the early years of the past century. It can be no other way: the tradition is designed to appeal to sentiment and to coerce consensual servility.

The present Queen, now 94 years old, has done a splendid job in her duties and in many ways far exceeded her own father, King George VI in our affections. Her values are very old fashioned rooted as she is in her humble and unassuming Christian faith and it shows. She is both modest, courteous, duitful and has the common touch. She scrupulously doesn’t rock the boat. She takes the institution seriously (but not herself as many can attest). In many ways her character and personality have defined the monarchy. We can’t separate the personal from the political: Elizabeth as a woman and Elizabeth as the HM The Queen. Despite a few mis-steps she is the model of how we think a monarch should behave.

What comes after is more uncertain. The monarchy will survive - regardless of Megxit, Prince Andrew’s scandals, or even if (heaven forbid) Scotland breaks away - in some shape or form. The monarchy represents, for better or for worse, the nation’s love affair with the past. Every time we see the Queen wearing a centuries-old crown, walk through the Houses of Parliament to celebrate the even older deal struck between Commons and Crown, we reach for another digestive biscuit to dunk in our mug of English Breakfast tea.

In recent years the theory has been modified, to acknowledge the changes that have come to the British monarchy. The strength of our royals – so this theory runs – is that they are prepared to change when necessary.

We love tradition, especially when it is softened by a little flexibility. But maybe the real secret to the long success of the British monarchy is its connection, not to the stodgy old ways of the stately home, but to the aggressive, thrusting, young nation that we used to be.

By this theory, the reason we’ve never had a lasting revolution [against the monarchy] is that we got there so early. We executed King Charles I at a time, 1649, when the major states of Europe hardly knew an alternative to monarchy. After that we were immunised against revolution, and the immunity has lasted until the present day.

For this touches another eternal truth about the British and how they cope with the competing pull between preserving tradition and incremental change. The British character tends towards compromise. That is both its strength and its weakness. The present attitude to monarchy displays only the weaknesses of ambiguity.

And perhaps that is the best that can be expected: preserve the mystery through ambiguity. Americans and other Europeans are used to kicking cans down the road but we British prefer to muddle through by smudging and fudging. Perhaps we all need to go back to Bagehot to preserve the mystique of the monarchy and not allowing itself to become the subject of celebrity tittle tattle and drama queens in a TV soap opera.

#monarchy #queen elizabeth II #george VI #bagehot #walter bagehot #quote #britain #queen victoria #institution #society #culture #nation #reform #what comes after elizabeth II

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vake-hunter · 4 years

Text

Acceptance into the House of Chimes results and which Master is playing Chimes in those results

this is fun and cute little details about the Masters

An innocent (Pages)

A fresh face among the jaded horde! No doubt you will achieve great things one day. But watch yourself: in Fallen London, innocence is a commodity like any other.

Mr Chimes glides across the floor and grasps your hand in a spotless white glove. It feels like shaking a branch wound with spider-silk. 'Most optimate friend!' it whispers. 'Welcome to our Chamber of Delicacies!'

An Extraordinary Beauty (Apples/Hearts)

Persuasive 20

That skin! Those eyes! That delightful nose! Nobody can resist you!

Mr Chimes glides across the floor and surveys you up and down. 'My dear, my dear,' it says. 'How very appetising to have you here with us. Will you tilt your head to the right a little? Just so. Just so.'

A Player of Games (Iron)

Watchful 20, the Boatman's Opponent 1

You are an emperor of the chess board. You shuffle tiles and playing cards with dazzling speed. Rumour has it that you have diced with Death itself.

Mr Chimes approaches: the clicking of its boot-heels on the floor is like bone dice thrown on marble. It hands you two mah-jong tiles. Engraved on the back of the Winter tile is the single word 'WELCOME'. On the back of the Plum tile, you read 'LUCK IS THE PREROGATIVE OF VICTORS.'

A noted trainer of Weasels (Apples/Hearts)

1 x Araby Fighting Weasel

The weasel-fanciers of Spite speak highly of your expertise with the genus mustela.

Mr Chimes is suddenly at your elbow. It inhales deeply. 'Oh, toothsome, my dear,' it says. 'Toothsome. Let the little fellows run free, by all means. Someone will manage the results, I assure you.'

A true patriot (Wines)

1 x A Copy of your Patriotic Adventure

Your writings inspire the youth of Fallen London to a frenzy of patriotism!

Mr Chimes takes your arm and guides you into the lobby of the House. Its grasp is like the clutch of a winter tree. 'We respect loyalty to an ideal,' it says. 'One of the more austere forms, perhaps. But a true realisation nevertheless. No?'

A masterful cat-chaser (UH I ACTUALLY DONT KNOW? Veils maybe?)

Shadowy 30

You have honed your skills in pursuit of the city's most evasive felines. They speak your name with respect, if not quite affection.

Mr Chimes steals up on you from behind, but you turn just before its gloved fingers touch your shoulder. It chortles. 'Who can stalk the stalker, eh? Welcome to my House. Ware the Bell!'

Not to be crossed (Iron probably)

Dangerous 20

There is something disquieting about your appearance. It's hard to pin down, exactly. An aura of suppressed violence.

Mr Chimes strides toward you. It holds up a hand in greeting. Or in warning? It nods once; it turns to go. That is all.

A crown in shadows (Wines)

1 Fate

Royal blood? Can it be true? On the wrong side of the blankets, no doubt. But that's what they say.

Mockery or respect?

Mr Chimes steps aside for you and makes the gentlest inclination of its head. 'We will bring you a bottle of something a little special,' it avers. 'We are delighted to add another crownable head to our collection!' Hm.

Allergic to brass? (Spices probably)

1 x Nevercold Brass Sliver

The touch of the stuff hives your skin and blears your eyes. It makes you weep tears of blood. This makes you an object of some fascination at parties.

A bewildered Master

Unthinkable!' the hooded Mr Chimes shrieks. 'Impossible! Unprecedented!' It seems quite cheerful about it, though. It does insist you demonstrate the weeping-blood business, unfortunately.

Exceptionally Talented (Cups/Mirrors. Possibly Hearts/Apples but almost definitely Cups/Mirrors)

10 x Confident Smile, Persuasive 100

Both ladies and gentlemen pause immediately before speaking your name. There is a quality to that pause which is not easily described.

A friendly thing

Mr Chimes' hand spiders along your arm. 'My dear,' it coos. 'If only my tastes ran to... well, perhaps if your blood was a little cooler. No matter, my dear. You will be treasured.'

The Rooftop Dancer (Veils)

Shadowy 60, Route: The Flit 1

You know the ways of the Flit like few others. They say you can reach the summit of All Christs' spire in the space of a single breath. They say you stole a feather from the Topsy King's hat. They call you 'Pussyfoot', but in a good way.

An avuncular approach

Mr Chimes drifts up like a scrap of silk on the wind. 'Good evening! Good evening indeed! You're a swift and circumspect maker of ways, aren't you? You are indeed! How very much to be admired.'

An Unparalelled Grotesque (Maybe Wines because it has blue eyes)

10 x Hard-Earned Lesson

In the decades since the Fall, no-one has ever looked quite like you. Thank God.

A long silence

The bluish glimmer of Mr Chimes' eyes is steady, but you sense an obscure emotion. 'Well,' it says at last, 'why not? Why not indeed.'

A Visionary (Wines. Not Pages due to wording. Royal we makes it Wines)

A Person of Some Importance: A Significant Individual

You have made the Square of Lofty Words your playground. You have cowed the women and men of the University. Your ideas are simple in outline and intricate in implication. They will be remembered, perhaps, when everyone in this room is dead. Except Mr Chimes.

A debatable honour

‘Dear friend,' Mr Chimes murmurs confidentially. 'We have often read the surveillance reports on your speeches. We have commended your texts to the Ministry of Public Decency. We look forward to hearing more of your thoughts.'

A Prisoner of Despair (Fires)

Melancholy 4

Can your misery be so deep and unrelieved that even Mr Chimes has taken pity on you? Or does it simply hope you'll be a diverting mascot?

Mockery, or Hope?

Mr Chimes bears down on you, robe flapping like a tent in a hurricane. Its voice is an alto shriek. 'Come along upstairs! It's warm enough. It'll steam the chill out of your heart. And, here - ' It hands you a candle. 'It'll light you to bed.'

A Speaker of Truth to Power (Iron)

Forceful 3, Subtle 3

You've said the wrong thing to the wrong people once too often. You're going to be a lot of fun.

An ambivalent welcome

Mr Chimes perches on a high carved chair like a black gull on a cliff. A footman approaches with a silver tray bearing a single card. It reads: 'SILENCE'. An announcement? A suggestion? An instruction? Or is Mr Chimes just being difficult for its own inscrutable entertainment?

A Possessor of Impossible Table Habits (Who knows. One who knows table manners I guess)

What are you - no. No! Such things were not to be dreamt of! A fork cannot be put to such uses! Close your mouth! Close his mouth! For the love of all that is holy! DON'T TOUCH THAT SPOON!

Mr Chimes arranges an audition of sorts. You are served a hearty meal of beef-steak and winter vegetables, and provided with all the cutlery you might require. You perform the operations for which you have become notorious. After a suitable time for the onlookers to recover their composure, you are admitted to the House.

Orphaned in a Grisly Accident (I want to say Veils due to what we know of its collections)

Mr Chimes likes tales of blood and terror. It likes tales of butter and whimsy too. Tales of blood, terror, butter and whimsy are like music and water to one dying of thirst in the Desert of Cymbals. The tale of your parents' death at the hands of the Dairy Kings will bring breathless listeners to the fire for a hundred nights.

Not a dry eye

You tell the tale, long and horrible as it is. Mr Chimes convulses with... Mirth? Pity? Fear? Black-liveried footmen watch impassively while its shoulders writhe and roll, and its eyes shimmer like topaz deep in its hood. At last it subsides and you are admitted to the House. 'Step carefully,' Mr Chimes flutes.

An Artist in Ivory (Wines was the Khan of Dreams, but this could be Spices talking. Or Cups/Mirrors.)

a Scholar of the Correspondence 1

You have carved flutes from femurs and trinkets from tibia. Your sigil-circled skull sits in the grandest gallery of Veilgarden. They whisper that when you die for the last time, Mr Cups itself will come for your bones.

A pale horse

‘A little gift,' Mr Chimes informs you. 'Something to recall the Khan of Dreams by. Since you seem so keen to commemorate him.' Do you? Or has Mr Chimes misunderstood the nature of your project?

A wanderer of Parabola (Mirrors)

7 x Memory of Light, A Game of Chess 9, Is Someone There? 10

In your dreams you have seen the Mirror-Marches, the Menagerie of Roses, the Castle of Forests, the nests of the Fingerkings... even though you may forget them when you wake. But there is a light in your eyes.

A light in the darkness

‘Yes,' says the Master quietly. 'The mirrors know your name. The serpents have your scent. The rivers of roses will not drown you. The apples of glass might lie quiet in your hands. If you burn, you burn like a candle. If you die, you die like dawn. You are very delicious.'

A zub-mariner! (Spices from voice but sounds like Fires from excitement about boats)

1 x Zubmarine, An Experienced Zailor 3

You are charting the unknown leagues beneath the zee.

Mr Chimes lopes towards you across the stone floor. 'Marvellous!' it shrills. It pumps your hand excitedly. It's like grabbing a nestful of velvet spiders. 'You'll fit right in here. Grab a seat.'

A killer of renown (Iron)

A Bringer of Death 1, 1 x Ravenglass Knife

Even in Fallen London, where bloodshed is as common as glim-fall, your name is whispered with apprehension.

Mr Chimes approaches in utter silence. It hands you a rostygold knife, hilt-first. Engraved on the blade is the word: MEET. That is all.

A font of devil's tears (Want to say Cups due to smell but could be any)

Connected: Hell 20

Did your masterwork really make a devil weep? It must be true. Mr Chimes has the tears there in a little bottle. Wait. Is it drinking them?

A chuckle in the hood

Mr Chimes drapes a companionable arm across your shoulders. It smells of dust and winter starlight. 'Devils despise that kind of humiliation,' it confides in you. 'I laughed for days. Come on upstairs.'

An Oenologonaut (Spices)

1 x Greyfields 1868 First Sporing, 1 x Greyfields 1879, 1 x Greyfields 1882, 1 x Black Wings Absinthe, 1 x Morelways 1872, 1 x Broken Giant 1844, 1 x Strangling Willow Absinthe, 1 x Fourth City Airag: Year of the Tortoise, 1 x Cellar of Wine

No-one has plumbed the secrets of the grape, the hop and the blood-apple more deeply than you. You can identify the products of vineyards that have no name in any human tongue.

Fond Sighs

Dear one,' says Mr Chimes warmly. 'Pleasure is a wilderness. We are its cartographers. Let us embark, you and I, on the catalogue of delight! Our journey begins here.'

A Liar among Liars (No idea)

1 x Appalling Secret, 1 x Uncanny Incunabula, 1 x Extraordinary Implication, 1 x Searing Enigma, 1 x Whispered Secret, 1 x Cryptic Clue

Who can ever believe your stories? Truth is mingled with falsehood like blood in milk. You are a prince of rumours. Or is it a princess? Who can ever be sure?

An impassive audience

Mr Chimes listens to your stories of star and sea and shadow. It neither nods nor shakes its head when you suggest certain relationships between the Mountain of Light and the troubling thesis of Mr Darwin. It is motionless when you venture a hypothesis as to why only six symbols of the Correspondence can be written together on one paper. When you begin to discuss a matter of wells and candles and the Third City, it raises a finger. 'This is false,' it murmurs. 'Let us ensure it remains that way,'

A Legendary Calumnist (Apples/Hearts)

Scandal 7, Persuasive 100, Watchful 100

Your barbs and insults and the twisting satires you've spawned have been the bane of the lowly and the great alike. All fear the savage edge of your tongue.

A cautious welcome

‘My dear,' Mr Chimes whispers. 'Be kind to the little ones, will you? Not all have your advantages. I admit you only on condition that you choose not to bite.'

‘I know a man.' (Probably Wines)

Connected: the Masters of the Bazaar 5

If it can be called a man. Step aside, peon. I am already welcome here.'

A hearty welcome

Come in, come in! A place by the fire is prepared for you. The table is set. The brandy rises from the cellar like the laughter of friends! Forget the petty troubles without. You have earned this night of peace.'

I will scream until your House rings with the Words of the Thunder! (Probably Wines)

Stormy-Eyed 5, having Recurring Dreams: What the Thunder Said 10

I am the storm, I am the wind, I am the rain! I demand admittance! Defy me and I will blow your House down!

The cloaked thing bows before me!

I fling gusts of squalling rain at its head! Then I race through the dusty corners and crannies of the House of Chimes with a cleansing breeze! I bid lightning spring from its spire in celebration! The Master insists I hang my oilskin on the hatstand before I drip on the carpets!

The Inescapable Arm of the Law (Spices I believe)

investigating the Rubbery Murders 12, ascending the Reliables list of Mr Pages 3, Connected: The Constables 50, Connected: The Great Game 50, Watchful 100, 1 x Antique Constable's Badge

Your eye pursueth the malfeasant as the wrathful eye of God pursued Cain across the desert. You have returned wedding rings to costermongers, cats to dowagers, and stolen hearts to sorrowful tomb-colonists.

A nervous flutter?

We are most pleased to see you here,' Mr Chimes shrills. 'You are an ingeniate of great note! But perhaps you should limit your investigations in this House, eh?'

A Blood-Cousin to Predators (Veils probably)

1 x Ancient Hunting Rifle, a Procurer of Savage Beasts 1, 1 x Fairly Tame Sorrow-Spider, 1 x Bengal Tigress, 1 x Araby Fighting-Weasel, Dangerous 100, Watchful 100, marked by the Eater-of-Chains 3.

You have brought the great beasts low and walked in the footsteps of the fierce. You have turned fang and cunning, spine and venom and brute strength, against the monsters who wield them.

A peculiar passion

Mr Chimes inclines its head to you. 'Beasts. Beasts beasts beasts! So many beasts, such little time. Perhaps you could turn your energies to the pursuit of troublesome humans, hey? Why waste your time hunting those who cannot speak? Or sing? But welcome welcome!'

#fallen london #lore

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