Redemption of Eva

    The Narrow Way led straight through the great city of Vanity.  There was no mistaking it.  Her dress hung in torn, blood-stiffened strips.  Her hair was uneven where she had hacked it short.  Bruises throbbed beneath her skin with every step.  She scanned the path behind her.  The abyss.  The valley.  No way around.  Her path led through.

    She could wait for nightfall.  Slip through the shadows.  Go unseen.  No.  Every moment mattered.  And she didn’t even know if this path would lead to Perry.

   Still… this was Vanity.  Anything went here.  She might pass through without a second glance.  She had heard the stories.  Anything could be bought here—for the right price.  Husbands.  Wives.  Prostitutes.  Slaves.  And if you knew who to ask… kidnapping.  Even murder.

    But that wasn’t what met her.  Beelzebub’s pennants hung from the city gates.  Beyond them stretched the world-famous Vanity Fair—colorful tents and banners glimmering in the sunlight.  She passed a cage—an ape inside, baring its teeth.  A bear lumbered past on a leash, dragged by its handler.  Vendors shouted, hawking wares and haggling, their voices rising above the din.

    A burst of flame from a flame-breather stopped just short of her face.  She nearly collided with a juggler.  He slipped past her, deft and fluid, never missing a beat.

   “Removes all stains.”  A shabby merchant sidled up to her.  “Even blood.”

    Eva’s gaze snapped to him—hard.  He flinched and backed away.

    She caught her breath.  Right in front of her stood… him.   No.  Not now.  She didn’t have time for this.  His eyes met hers—empty.  No recognition.  The breath left her slowly.  She turned and kept walking.

    “Evadne?” he called after her.

    She stopped.  Turned.  

    “Brisk?”

    “My god, Evadne.  Whatever has happened to you?”

    A young woman—five, perhaps ten years younger than Eva—caught at his sleeve.

    “Who is she, Brisk?”

    “A friend I once knew.”

    The girl looked Eva over—and her lip curled.

    A crowd gathered.

    “What happened to you?”

    “Where have you been?”

    “Who did this?”

    “Are you all right?”

    The crowd closed in around her.  Hands took her arms—not restraining, just guiding.  Steering her forward.  They moved her through the streets.  Someone pressed water into her hands.  A cloth.

    A magistrate stood waiting, deputies at his side.  Brisk lifted a hand—pointing.  “She’s not well.”

    Her hands went to her daggers.  No.  Not for this.

    “You won’t need those here,” the magistrate said.  He was young.  Strong.  Handsome.

    The deputies moved in.  One caught her wrist as she shifted.  The other took her arm.  Not violently—but firmly.  Decisively.

   She twisted—tried to pull free.  A blade flashed in her hand—then stilled.  No.  She would not cut flesh.  They tore the daggers from her grip.  Rope bit into her wrists as they dragged her arms behind her back.

    “She’s not well,” the crowd murmured.  “For her own good.”

    The magistrate turned the bloodied daggers over in his hands, frowning.  One of the deputies leered—then stepped in.  His hand plunged into her bodice, dragging out the hidden throwing knife.  

    Eva lunged—spitting in his face.  He drew back to strike her, but the magistrate caught his wrist.   “Stop.”

–

    Eva lay in a cage—hands and feet shackled, chains biting into her skin.  The crowd gathered to stare.  Just another attraction in the Fair.  Just like the ape she had seen not long before.

***

    Tisiphone stood before the throne of Beelzebub, her head bowed.

    “Go to Vanity.  My daughter is in danger.”

    Tisiphone did not move.  Beelzebub knew this was not her office—to rescue, but to acquit.

    “Go.  Wait for me in Vanity.  Try the guilty.  Release the innocent.”

    Tisiphone bowed deeper.  “As you command, Your Majesty.”

–

    Tisiphone returned to her chambers, fastened her cloak, slung her sword over her shoulder, and stepped into the hall.

   Megaera shook her head as she passed.  “Not this time.”

   Alecto fell into step beside her.  No words passed between them.  Alecto knew her office—and would not interfere.

***

    “Evadne.” 

   Eva jerked upright.  The sun had sunk low, and the crowd was gone.  Brisk stood before the cage.

     “I don’t know what happened to you,” he said, shaking his head. “But I didn’t want this.”

     “Brisk?” she said.  “Help me… please.”

    He only looked at her, a pained expression on his face.

    “Brisk,” she pleaded.  “If ever you loved me at all—give me something.  A knife.  A pick.  No one has to know it was you.”

    Then he turned and left.  Gone.  Like always.

***

       “All rise.  The Honorable Judge Hate-Good presides.  Court is now in session.”

       “Good morning, Judge—Your Honor.  I will plainly show that the prisoner who stands before you, was caught red-handed in acts of treason against our Lord.”

     “Call the witnesses.”

    “My lord, I have known this woman a long time, and I will attest upon my oath before this honorable bench that she is—”

    “Hold.  Give him the oath.”

    “I, Envy, do swear…”

    “My lord, despite this woman’s good name—Madame Wanton—she has no regard for our country or our people.”

     “Swear in the next witness.”

    “I, Superstition, do swear…” 

    “I don’t know her—and I don’t want to.  But I heard that she keeps company with satyrs…”

     Gasp!

     “And spills the blood of travelers!”

     “I, Pickthank, do swear…”

     “She—and that rogue with her—have rebelled against our Great Lord Beelzebub and taken up arms against his servant, Apollyon.”

    “What does the accused have to say for herself?”

    “…”

    “There is no need for the jury to retire.”

    “She is clearly guilty.”

    “Away with such a woman from the face of the earth!”

    “I hate the very sight of her.”

    “A sorry wretch.”

     “My heart is set against her.”

    “Hanging is too good for her.”

    “Burn her at the stake!”

***

    The guard dragged Eva to the pyre outside the courthouse.  The wood was stacked high, the ropes already waiting.  He bound her fast, then set the wood alight.  Flames licked upward.  Smoke curled around her.

   She lifted her chin and looked to the sky.

   “Oh King,” she prayed.  “Keep Perry safe.”

    The Bear drifted above her, watching.

***

    A hush had fallen over Vanity.  Only one thing emptied the fair.  Alecto moved on.  Tisiphone inclined her head, then turned toward the courthouse.

    The crowd parted around her.  Lady Evadne stood bound at the stake.  Misapplied judgment.  

    “She does not belong to you,” Tisiphone said to the flames.

    The guards rushed her.  She did not reach for her sword.  Cruelty.  Blood-guilt.  All of it directed at her.  She turned it back.  She did not judge.  She revealed.

   One froze, a look of horror on his face.  Others wept.  Those who could not bear it broke—laughing madly.

    Tisiphone ignored those who lay broken around her.  She made her way to the stands—to the magistrate.  Guilt.  Anguish.  And something else.  Something worth keeping.  She reached into him and brought it to light.

***

    The flames were gone.  The magistrate stood before Eva.  He cut her bonds with her own dagger, then placed it back into her hand.  

    “These are yours.”  He returned the other dagger, the throwing knife, and finally the satyr’s leather pouch.  Then he turned and walked away without a word.

    Eva dropped into a fighting stance.  The satyr stepped back, hooves scraping softly against the stone, watching her warily.  Was he afraid of her?  Curious?  She couldn’t tell.

    His shape was wrong in a way that her mind resisted naming—man and goat stitched together, as if neither had claimed him.  But he didn’t seem hostile.

    The satyr extended an empty hand—long-fingered, rough, a dusting of coarse hair along the wrist.  “You are hurt… little blade.”  He took a step toward her, the curve of his horns shifting with the movement.

    Eva stepped back, daggers raised.  He didn’t move.  She edged away, inch by inch.  Outside, the giant hammered against the cave.

    “The heavy one does not tire,” he said.  “If you go out, it will remember.  But there are other ways… places the ground forgets to close.”  He showed sharp teeth in what Eva guessed was meant to be a smile.   “Not far.”

    Eva’s vision blurred.  Her head pounded.  Her ribs burned.  She staggered.

    “You fall out of yourself,” the satyr said.  “You will not walk the leaning places like that.”  He turned slightly, glanced down—hesitated—then met her eyes.  “There is a quieter place.”  The satyr turned and moved deeper into the cave, hooves finding the stone with an ease she couldn’t match.

    Eva didn’t move.  It could be an ambush.  She might be able to take him—but not more than one.  Not like this.  His footsteps echoed down the tunnel, torchlight flickering against the walls.  She didn’t want to be in the dark.  Alone.  She followed.

    The cave twisted and turned, then began to widen, the ceiling disappearing into the darkness.  Drops of water echoed in the distance, mingling with the faint, steady flow.

    A fire burned low.  The satyr added a few pieces of gnarled wood from a pile along the wall and stirred it with a stick.  It could hardly be called a camp at all.  A dirty blanket lay nearby, along with clay bowls and jars—most chipped, some broken.

    “Rest,” he said.  “Until you are better.”  He turned away from her.  He poured water from a jar into an iron pot, crushed dried herbs between his fingers, and let them fall into the water before setting it on the fire.

    Eva slumped down against a stalagmite, letting her daggers fall at her sides.

    “How can I reach the bottom of the abyss?” she asked.

    The satyr stiffened.  “No.”  He shook his head sharply.  Fear flashed in his eyes.

    “Too many goblins,” she muttered.  “Drakes.  There must be another way.”

    “No,” he repeated.  “No, little blade.”

    He set a bowl before her, filled with roots dug from the ground.  They had been cleaned—after a fashion.  She lifted one to her nose.  Bitter.  She shook her head.  “No.”

    He held out a handful of small, dark berries—popping one into his mouth before dropping the rest into the bowl with the roots.  

    “It has not bitten me,” he said.

    He lifted the iron pot from the fire—it was scalding, but it didn’t seem to trouble him—and poured the liquid into a hollow shard of stone.  He drank it in a single gulp, then filled it again and offered it to her.

    Her lips were dry.  Her throat burned.  She couldn’t risk it.  She shook her head.

    “I will go to the bottom,” she murmured.  “I am Eva the Fearless.”  A faint smile touched her lips.  “The favorite of the Author.”  She was babbling.  She knew it.

    “These,” he said, striding toward her.  He traced the gouges across her chest.  “Teeth.  Claws.  They end you.”  Pain flickered across his face—quick, almost hidden.  “Things go down with their names.  They come back… if they come back… without them.”

    Eva didn’t flinch.  “I don’t care about my name.”

    “You fight those.  There is nothing to fight there.”  He turned away.  “It does not hunt.  It keeps.”

    He returned to the far side of the fire, sat down, and picked up a small flute.  It was a hollow reed, its finger holes uneven.  He raised it to his lips and began to play.  The sound was thin, wavering, sometimes off—but steady.

    He played the same pattern over and over, with slight variations.  It reminded her of the music she had heard before—but something was different.  Not beautiful.  But strangely soothing.

    Eva’s eyes grew heavy.  But she refused to sleep.  She shook her head, then buried her face in her hands.  Just for a moment.

–

    A lightness washed over her.  The sun shone.  Birds sang.  She walked through the Interpreter’s orchard, hand in hand with Perry.  She reached up, picked an apple, took a bite—then held it to his lips.  He drew her into his arms.  Happiness flooded her.  She tilted her face up towards his.

–

    Eva jerked upright.  Her heart pounded.  Sweat drenched her skin.  Her hand flew to her daggers.

    The satyr sat quietly on the far side of the fire, his attention fixed on a ragged piece of cloth.  It was dirty, torn—but unmistakably a woman’s handkerchief.

    His large, uneven hands fumbled with a needle and thread, trying to mend the tear—but making no progress.  They were better suited for tearing than mending.  She stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder.

    “Let me try,” she said, gently taking the needle and thread from his hands.  He watched her for a long moment, then handed her the cloth.

    She sat down beside him and began to sew.  Slowly—each stitch careful, the way her sister had taught her all those years ago. When she finished, she placed it in his hand, closing his fingers around it.  Something glistened in his eye.

    “Maybe she comes back now,” he said.  But something in his expression told her he knew she wouldn’t—whoever she was.

    “Nothing goes there on purpose,” he said.  “You do.  You are not empty.  Why go where empty things are made?”

    “Perry,” she breathed.

    “Let the name go.”  He shook his head.  “It will not follow you back.  You will not come back.”

    “I will go anyway.”

    “Why?” he asked.

    “Perry,” she said.  Her voice faltered.  “I love him.”  The words startled even her.

    Understanding dawned on the satyr’s face.  “Not here.”  He laid a hand on hers.  “The deep opens elsewhere.  Past the bright-noise.  In the high places.  Not safer… but you might pass.”

    “Show me,” she said.

    “I can take you where the dark thins.  I do not go past it.”  He motioned to the blanket.  “Rest.”

    She shook her head.

    “Eat.”

    She shook her head.

    He poured the tea into the broken shard and handed it to her.  She lifted it to her lips and drank.

    He wrapped the roots and berries in the silk handkerchief, tied it in a rough knot, and placed it in her hands.  Then he rummaged through his belongings, pulled out a small leather pouch, and handed it to her.

    Inside were dried, shriveled things—black, with a dull sheen.

    “What is this?” she asked.  When the firelight touched them, it almost seemed as though something lived beneath the surface.

    “Things that do not like the dark.  These keep the edges from falling.  Do not take many.  They make you… less.”

    The satyr led Eva through the tunnels to another exit.  He took her hand and guided her past pits and snares until they reached the edge of the valley.

    Sunlight spilled across the ground before her, but the satyr remained in the shadows, hooves planted at the edge of light, as if he could not—or would not—cross it.  In the distance, the great city of Vanity spread out—unmistakable, with its brightly colored tents and banners.

    “Bright-noise,” he said, pointing toward the Narrow Way.   “Beyond the air is clear.  But not all.”  He closed his eyes and recited:

Leave the hard way, and the ground will take you,
Doubt keeps Despair,
Despair takes the eyes…
Feet walk among the dead.

    Eva took his hand in hers.  “Thank you.”

    As she set out, she almost missed his whisper.

     “Forgive me, little blade.”  

    Eva took his hand in hers.  “Thank you.”

    As she set out, she almost missed his whisper.

     “Forgive me, little blade.”  

    She glanced back.  A tear traced down his cheek, his horns silhouetted against the shadows behind him.

    Eva rose slowly to her feet and scanned the abyss.   It was as deep as the Hill of Difficulty was tall—perhaps deeper still.  The trail of blood ended here.  Firelight flickered below, revealing ledges and outcroppings, but the rock walls were sheer—no handholds.  Perry was down there.  She had no doubt.  And she would find a way down.

    She retraced her steps to where the fight had taken place—if it could even be called that.  The Narrow Way ran along the edge.  She followed it.

    Her progress was slow, each step placed with care.  On the other side lay a bog—but not like the Slough.  Heat rose from its surface, carrying the stench of sulfur.  The mire seemed to boil from some fire far below—the same fire burning in the abyss.  One moment, an unseen force tugged her toward it; the next, it drove her toward the edge.

    Nothing lay ahead but inky darkness.  She imagined the Bear beyond the smoke and clouds.  She imagined Perry’s hand in hers as they walked beneath the moon.  But there was nothing.  She was alone in the darkness, with nothing but the path beneath her feet.

    A faint sound caught her attention.  She strained to make it out.  Was it music?  Singing?  Strangely, it seemed to harmonize with the moans and shrieks rising from the abyss.

    Something whispered in her ear.  She spun—tight, controlled—and drove her dagger forward.  Nothing.  She turned and kept walking.

    “He’s gone, you know.”  She wasn’t sure it was a voice—or her own thoughts.  There was no one there.

    She slipped her daggers back into her sleeves and prayed—not for herself.  Keep him safe.  Somehow, it made her less afraid.

    One foot in front of the other.  It was all she could do.  Ignore the dizziness.  The pain in her ribs.  In the darkness, she lost all sense of time.  There was only the endless now.

    She blinked.  The clouds had parted, and the moon broke through.  It was no longer full, but it still washed the valley in silver light.  Ahead, the way was strewn with bones—snares, traps and pits stretching all the way to the distant mountains.  But that was not her destination.

      She left the certainty of the Narrow Way and moved along the edge of the abyss to the east, searching for a way down.  There should be a way down.  There has to be.

    Movement in the distance caught her eye.  Two shadowy figures hunched over something.  Guttural noises.  Stories her sisters had told to frighten her when she was little—goblins.  She dropped into a crouch.  One faced away from her.  The other had his back completely turned.

    She slowed her breathing, the way she had been taught, and moved forward as quietly as she could.  The goblin lifted his head.  She froze.  He didn’t see her.  He gnawed on a bone.  Her stomach turned.

    She crept closer.  The goblins continued eating, unaware of her in the shadows—now only inches away.  She steadied her trembling hand, then drove the dagger beneath the goblin’s ribs.

    No one had told her about the resistance—how close she had to be to kill with a dagger.  The goblin tensed, a gurgling sound escaping him—almost a whimper.  She pushed with all her strength, held it a moment longer than she wanted, then let him fall.

    The second goblin didn’t react at once.  Her heart thundered.  For a moment, she froze—caught in the hate burning in its beady eyes.  He reached for his weapon.  She slashed at his wrist.  Then she seized him—harder than necessary, more force than she needed—and pressed her dagger to his throat.

   “How do I get down there?”  she demanded, her voice ragged.

    The hatred vanished—replaced by fear.  He began to gibber, harsh guttural sounds spilling from him.

    “How do I—” she began again.  It was no use—there was no comprehension in his eyes.  She pressed the dagger down—then stopped herself and threw him to the ground.

    The goblin lay stunned for a moment, then scrambled to his feet and darted away.

    Eva didn’t hesitate.  This was her chance.  She sprinted after him, ignoring the pain flaring in her side.

    Eva halted abruptly.  The goblin had vanished into the rock face before her.  She stepped closer—there, a narrow scar in the stone.  An opening barely wide enough for one person.  She could have passed it a hundred times and never seen it.

    The stone sloped inward.  Eva lowered her head and paused, testing her footing.  Her hair fell into her face.  She twisted it into a bun and tied it back with her sister’s ribbon.

    She inched forward, squinting into the darkness.  The goblin pounced—almost knocking her off her feet.  She swung, aiming for its eye.  It screamed.

    Pain shot through her head as she was dragged to the ground.  Sharp rocks bit into her back.  She tried to pull free, but something had her by the hair.  Another goblin pounced, claws grazing her chest.  She struggled—swinging wildly.  Some of her strikes connected.

    She scrambled to her feet and spun, swinging both daggers at once.  Her hair whipped into her eyes.  Something struck her.  She drove forward, knocking the goblin to the ground—and stabbed.  Over and over.

    Her panic subsided.  Two goblins lay dead beside her—she was sprawled atop the mangled body of the third.  A sob escaped her lips.  Her blades—and her hands—were slick with blood.  Her hair clung to her face, matted with sweat… and perhaps blood as well.

    She wiped one dagger on her dress and set it on the ground.  Then she reached up, gathered her hair in one hand, and cut it as close as she could with the other.  It fell uneven—loose strands slipping free.  She no longer cared.  She stood, letting it drop at her side.  She didn’t look down.

    It felt strange—she had never worn her hair short before.  But her vision was clear.  And there was little now for an enemy to grasp.  One less thing to work against her.

    The wind stirred.  The stone was sharp, recently broken.  But the wound itself felt ancient.  This was no mere cave, but the beginning of a fall arrested in stages.  The way down was no true stair, but a broken ledge road—part natural shelf, part old cut, part the ruin of a greater work.

    Eva was afraid.  Before her lay shallow shelves, cracks and crawlspaces no one would enter willingly.  A thousand places for goblins to crouch in the shadows, waiting.  Eva the Fearless?  She scoffed.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

    Thoughts flooded her mind—despair, grief, guilt, shame.  From the depths, specters rose:  faces of men, half-formed, flickering in and out of existence.  The same voices that had plagued her before.  Her daggers were no use against them.  She closed her eyes and thought of Perry.  The Prince.  Innocent.  Charity.  And kept walking.

    Fires burned in clusters in the distance.  The incessant chattering of goblins filled the air, rising above the wails and moans below.  Metal rang against metal in the darkness.  Far off, a drake swooped.  A shriek—then angry howls.

    The ledges began to widen—shelves of stone layered one above another, connected by ladders, crude stairs, rope bridges, pegged ruins, and narrow traverses cut into the rock.

    Eva grasped the top of a ladder leading down and began to descend, one step at a time.  At the bottom, movement caught her eye off to the left.  She dropped into a crouch behind a rock.  Several drakes tore at the carcass of a goblin, devouring it.

    She tensed and backed away slowly, then turned.  She wouldn’t be going that way.  Along the shelves stood lean-tos, smoke pits, refuse heaps, hanging racks, and piles of bones.

    Across a wooden bridge, a sentry stood guard, a jagged sword hanging slack at its belt.  She crept forward, careful not to make a sound.  It scanned the sky, searching for drakes.  A board creaked under her weight—the goblin spun, surprise flashing across its face.  Before it could draw its sword, Eva stepped in and slit its throat.  But not before it raised the alarm.

    Three goblins stepped into her path.  She dropped into a fighting stance.  Then four more appeared.  She turned—and ran.

    Eva bounded across the bridge—she could hear them now, almost feel the goblins at her back.  She sprinted toward the ladder.  The drakes lifted from the carcass, rearing up with wings spread wide.

    She climbed the ladder frantically.  Something grabbed at her boot—she kicked free.  At the top, she ran the way she had come.  A wing brushed her.  Can’t slow down.  Goblins sprang from the crevasses she had passed on the way down.

    Blinding pain shot through her head—she had forgotten to duck on the way out of the cave.  She couldn’t stop.  Had to stop.  Pits.  Snares.  She cast a hurried glance over her shoulder.  They had stopped following.  She dropped to the ground, gasping for breath.

    A spiked club slammed down beside her.  Eva rolled just in time—the blow crashing into the ground where she had been.  She scrambled to her feet and ran—straight into a pillar of muscle and flesh.  A leg.  Bigger than any she had ever seen.

    She spun and fled, heedless of pits and snares—and ran straight into a rock wall.  Footsteps thundered behind her, the ground shaking beneath them.

    Not far ahead, a crack split the stone.  If she could just reach it—wide enough to squeeze through, far too small for the giant.  She pushed herself harder than she ever had.  She slipped inside just as the club crashed down.  She stumbled and dropped hard on the stone.  She scrambled away as a massive hand reached for her. 

    Her back hit the wall.  The giant peered in at her, its face twisted with rage.  The fissure veered sharply to the left.  She pivoted and lunged forward just in time.  The giant thrust its club in—it slammed against the stone.

    The crack opened into a small cave.  She was safe—at least from the giant.  It couldn’t reach her here.

    Then she froze.  Eyes glowed in the darkness.  It raised a torch, revealing itself—the body of a goat, the chest, arms, and head of a man.  Sharp teeth.  Curving horns.

    A satyr.

    Eva woke in a chamber called Peace, its great window opening east to the rising sun.  She had stayed out with Perry until the stars appeared—the Bear before them, the Hunter behind.

    After a light breakfast, she and Perry set out, with Prudence, Piety, Discretion, and Charity seeing them to the edge of the plateau of Difficulty.  The way down was hard.  She wasn’t sure it was any easier than the climb up, though it demanded a different kind of effort.

    She slipped on the loose gravel, and Perry reached out before she fell—but she didn’t mind.  She’d already caught him twice in the last hour.

     They both breathed a sigh of relief when the ground leveled out.  The air was sweet, heavy with the fragrance of lilies, and birds sang softly.  They stopped to drink deeply from a brook that crossed the path, then continued over a small footbridge.

    Little by little, the lush grass of the valley gave way to dead reeds, jutting at crooked angles, and broken timbers rising from the mire—splintered posts and collapsed fencing, the remnants of something built long ago, now fallen into ruin.

    The trees stood thin and black, their branches stripped bare—charred fingers reaching upward.  No leaves stirred.  No birds broke the silence.  Even the wind seemed to have forgotten this place.

    The air carried a faint chill that settled into Eva’s bones, dampness clinging to her skin and clothes.  There was a smell, too—wet earth and rot, with something faintly acrid beneath it.  As if the ground had been scorched and never quite recovered.

    The sky was a dim, colorless blue—almost gray.  What little light remained reached the valley thin and diffused, casting no shadows.  As they walked, the mist thickened until the path ahead nearly vanished.

    Eva stepped carefully over fragments of broken iron darts littering the path—large enough that, in her hands, they would have been javelins.  Some had been driven deep into the stone, splitting it apart.

    Perry’s hand tightened around his staff.  Eva held his other hand just as tightly.  Some of the rocks were stained a dull black.

    Flames flashed past her face.  A thud.  Perry’s hand wrenched from hers.  His staff clattered against the rock.  He tried to rise, his hand clutching his shoulder, crimson spreading beneath his fingers.  The color drained from his face, and he collapsed in a heap.  A glowing iron dart lay at his side.

    Her daggers were already in her hands.  She drove forward, putting her full weight behind the strike at the vague shape in the mist.  The blow landed solidly—but glanced off, the impact jarring her wrist.  That much force should have felled anything… human.

    Whatever it was… it towered over her.  Clouds of sulfur billowed around it, choking her.  She ducked as wings swept overhead.  Sparks and flame swirled, blinding her.

    “Eva, run.” Perry’s voice was feeble.  No.  Not like this.

    She thrust her dagger again, but the creature’s tail lashed across her chest like a whip, and she went down, one dagger slipping from her grasp.

    Her free hand caught fur—its foot.  She flipped the dagger in her grip and drove it down as hard as she could.  The angle was wrong—but the blade struck something.

    A massive roar—and a sweeping force that drove the breath from her chest.  She slammed into a rock, her head exploding with pain.  Her vision blurred at the edges.

    She struggled to stay awake—to keep her eyes open.  Then she saw him.  The face of a lion—eyes blazing with pure evil, wings spread wide.  Apollyon.  She had passed his statue a thousand times in the City.  He towered over Perry and lifted his limp body as if he were nothing.  Despair flooded her.

    The world tilted around Eva.  Her ears rang, her vision blurred.  She wheezed, one hand pressed to the pain in her ribs.  What had just happened?  Her thoughts scattered.  Her head throbbed.

    Perry.  Panic surged through her.  She tried to stand but fell back to her knees.  She crawled to where he had been—or where she thought he had been.  Nothing.

    She searched desperately.  Her hand found a wet rock.  She brought it to her nose—the iron scent unmistakable.  Fresh blood.  Perry’s blood.

    A trail of blood led north into the darkness.  She followed it.  She was forgetting something.  Her daggers.

    She found one where she had dropped it, the other ten feet away beside the rock she had slammed into.  She didn’t return them to her sleeves.  No time.  She followed the trail of blood as fast as she could, ready to strike at anything in her way.

    A groaning filled the air—deep, terrible groans of dying men.  Lamentations rose on every side, thick with torment.  She kept walking.

    She stopped short, nearly pitching forward.  The ground dropped away into a bottomless abyss, its sides flickering in the darkness with the fires of Hell.

    She sank to her knees at the edge of the abyss, trembling, tears spilling freely down her cheeks.  There was no bottom—and no way down.

    Eva froze as her foot sank into the giant’s footprint, pressed deep into the earth.  It was far too large to be anything else.  Her body tensed before her mind could catch up—the two lions were already there, waiting, guarding the path.  They wanted to be seen.  For a brief moment, the thought of turning back flickered through her—but she pushed it aside.

    Perry studied the lions closely, as if they were a puzzle.  Then he stepped forward.  Not boldly—deliberately.  Eva moved with him.  Not behind, but at his side.

    As they approached, the lions lowered themselves, growling—muscles tensed and ready to pounce.  Eva felt the daggers hidden in her sleeves, waiting to be in her hands in an instant.

    A voice called out to them from the Palace.  “Keep to the path.”  It was the Porter.

    Perry stepped to the very center of the path and held out his arm.  He meant to go first.  There was no time to argue.  Eva stepped in behind him, every muscle taut, ready to spring into action.

    “The lions are chained,” said the Porter.  He did not raise his voice.  

    The lions lunged—claws swiping just inches away.  The chains were easy to miss, half-hidden in the dust and grass.

    After they passed the lions, Perry glanced back at her.

    “I still have the daggers,” she said.

    Perry laughed.  It was exactly what she needed.

–

    “Welcome to Palace Beautiful,” said the Porter.  “I am Watchful.”

     Something about him felt familiar, though Perry couldn’t say why.  His eyes were sharp.  His hair and beard were streaked in gray—nothing unusual in that.  And yet… he belonged here.  Guarding the threshold.  

   “I will call for the Virgins of this place,” he said, and rang a bell.

–

    Young women of radiant purity appeared at the doorway.  When they saw Eva, they began to whisper among themselves, excitement rising in their voices.  One voice drifted above the rest—“…Daughter of the Moon…”

    “Come in and eat,” said the first.  She was tall, grave, and beautiful.  “I am Discretion,” she said.

    “Stay with us,” said her sister.  Her gaze was measured and even, yet she was no less lovely.  “Prudence,” she said simply, “and my sisters—Piety and Charity.”

    “And rest,” said Piety.  She gave Eva a look of welcome, then lowered her gaze.

    Charity—perhaps the most beautiful of the sisters—stepped forward and held out her hand to Eva and led her inside the Palace.

    As they ate, Perry and Eva recounted all that had happened to them on their journey to Discretion, Prudence, Piety, and Charity.

    The sisters spoke of the King and of the Prince—how He had built Palace Beautiful and charged them to receive all pilgrims who traveled the Narrow Way.  They spoke, too, of the armory, where pilgrims were fitted with weapons and armor against the dangers ahead.

    When they had finished eating, Prudence turned to Perry.  “Follow me.  My sisters and I will instruct you in the way you understand.”  Then she led them up several flights of stairs until they stepped out onto the roof.

    The sky stretched wide above them, the world falling away below.  Music began to play—Perry couldn’t tell from where, but it didn’t matter.   Prudence held out her hand to him.

    Perry stepped, and she followed.  “You are not what you seem… and yet…”  He frowned slightly as she moved in perfect harmony with him.  “You wear no mask.”

    “I dwelt with Wisdom before the foundations of the earth were laid.  She reveals truth.  I determine how it is lived.”

    One step brought clarity, the next confusion.  He could feel the difference.  He was certain he was leading—yet every step felt measured, as though guided by her.

    “Do not ask, ‘What can I do?’ but rather, ‘What is fitting?’” 

    “And the Author,” she said. How did she know about the Author?  “He does not lack perception.  He sees many paths.  He understands meanings.  But he lacks restraint.”

    Perry stumbled at her words, but Prudence did not miss a step.  “I would teach him this:  Not every truth must be spoken.  Not every path must be explored.  Not every power must be used.”

    She smiled.  “He must learn to do the right thing, at the right time, for the right reason.”

    The music ended, and Prudence released his hand, leaving him standing beside Piety.  He blinked.  She had been leading him the whole time.

–

    A new song began, quiet and reverent, and Piety took Perry’s hand.  Prudence’s words had been precise, but Piety’s were still.

    “I am called Piety, but that word has been worn thin.  I am not ritual, or performance, or even the appearance of devotion.  I am orientation.”

    This was a different kind of dance—not heavy, but deep.

    “I don’t think the Author knows you,” he said.

    She smiled, but didn’t respond.

    “At dinner… you spoke of the Prince as though you know Him?”

    “Yes,” she said.  Her eyes met Perry’s—they were filled with deep devotion.  “Of all, I love Him most.”  Her eyes twinkled.  “And I am His favorite.”

    She slowed Perry’s steps.  A calm settled over him.

    “I am the beginning of Wisdom.  My sister orders your actions.”  She glanced toward Prudence.  “I order your allegiance.”

    When Piety spoke again, she no longer spoke to Perry.  “You do not know me well.  You seek clarity.  You seek meaning.  You seek alignment.  All good things.  But…” She let the moment hang in the air.  “You need a different posture.  Less analysis.  More reverence.”

–

    Perry’s mind reeled.  The Author was troubled.  The Virgins spoke truth—of that he had no doubt.  How he had come to be holding Discretion, he did not know.

    “I don’t understand,” Perry said.

    “Good,” Discretion said.  “That is the first step.  Prudence prepares the way—I walk it.  She orders the path—I place the foot.”

    “The Author walks with Prudence—but you are not there for his sake.”

     “No,” she said.  She left space.  Perry tried to fill it—she did not let him.  “If he walked with Prudence, he would find me there as well.  My sisters and I are not as separate as you think.”

    Perry struggled to keep step with her.  She kept shifting her rhythm.

    “The Author loves you,” Perry said, then added, “I love you too—and your sisters.  But we lack will.”

    “No,” she said.  “You do not lack will—you have many.  When you are quiet, at peace, there is space to choose.  Then my sisters will show what is right—the proper orientation, and the path.  And I will order your steps.  This is Wisdom.”

***

    Eva watched as Perry danced with Prudence, Piety, and Discretion.  Not since that night—when she had stood as Madame Wanton on the balcony overlooking the ballroom—had she watched him dance.  She could not make out the words, but she knew they were teaching him.  He adapted to them.  He harmonized with them.  Her heart swelled.

    Charity stood before her, hand outstretched.  Eva placed her hand in hers, and they began to sway slowly.

   Her eyes were gentle.  So pure.  She didn’t say a word, but Eva could feel her heart.  You are accepted.

    The music ended, but Eva didn’t let go.  She rested her head on Charity’s shoulder and let out a quiet breath.  Charity wrapped her arms around her, and they continued to sway in silence.

–

    When Eva finally let go, Charity took her hand in one of hers and Perry’s in the other.  She led them out into the garden below, then up to the highest point of the mountain, where the land stretched wide in every direction.  Beneath the shade of a broad sycamore, she placed Eva’s hand in Perry’s and slipped away without a word.

    Together they stood, watching the sun set at the top of the world.  There was nothing to gain, nothing to lose.  Only I and You.  For a moment, the world was right.

    Eva had taken no more than a dozen steps up the path before her breath came heavy.  They had stopped at the spring at the base of the mountain and drank deeply before beginning the climb.  Her body was fit and strong—but this was something altogether different, far steeper than anything she had ever known.

     Worse than the climb were her thoughts—spinning without rest.  What was she doing?  She glanced at Perry.  He seemed untouched by the climb—and untroubled by what had just passed.  What did she really know of him?

    Her lungs screamed.  She wanted to stop—to lean against one of the ragged trees lining the path.  But she kept pace with him.  If he didn’t rest, neither would she.

    Ahead, a large rock rose in the path—nearly to her chest.  She would have to pull herself up.  She bent over, hands braced on her knees, willing her heart to slow.  She drew a deep breath through her nose, then let it out slowly through her mouth.  Sweat dripped onto the stones below.

    Perry pulled himself up with ease, set his staff behind him, and turned, offering her his hand.  She straightened and glared at it.  When she looked up, his gaze was so tender it nearly undid her.  Eva reached out and placed her hand in his.  He pulled her firmly up beside him.

    “Let’s rest a moment, dearest,” he said gently, swinging his legs over the edge of the rock.  

    She stood there, looking at him for a long moment, then finally sat down beside him—farther away than she’d intended.

   “What was that all about?”  He had to know what that meant.

    He did.  “I was…” He paused, searching for the word.  Then: “warning her.”

    “Why—whatever were you warning her about, dearest?”  The words tasted bitter on her tongue.

    “She almost killed the Author.”

    Eva let out a short laugh.  “Her?”

    Perry nodded slowly.  “Yes.  She isn’t what she seems.”

    There was no deceit in his voice or expression.  It made sense now.  Eva remembered the look on the woman’s face—Perry had startled her.  No doubt of it.

    She rose slowly to her feet and held out her hand—and this time she didn’t let go.  Together they continued.  The top was just ahead.  But when they reached it, another rose beyond it.  And then another.  At least seven times—she’d counted.  Yet her breath had steadied, and a strange euphoria began to rise within her.  She felt as though she could climb forever.

    To their left, a pleasant Arbor came into view.  Perry glanced at her, a question in his eyes.  She shook her head.  They continued their climb.

    “Tell me more about the Author,” she said.  “Is he…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.

    “No,” Perry said without hesitation.  “He is a person like us.  But he is the Seeker of Truth—the Dreamer of the Dream.”

    Eva’s mind drifted back to that strange feeling she’d had when she first met “Lord Peregrine Graycloak.”  She had remembered him.  She stopped.  “Wait,” she said.  “Are you…”

    Perry laughed.  It was… delightful.  She couldn’t remember ever hearing him laugh before.  “No—no more than you are.  We are in his Dream.”

    “No,” Eva said.  “I am not a character in a book—or in a dream.  I am a real person.  With real memories.  Real pain.  Real desires.”

    “Yes,” Perry said.  “You are.  And so am I.  I think the Author first realized that when I danced with Miss Inconsiderate.”  There was a quiet note of admiration in his eyes.  “But even more so… you.”

    “But why you?  Why not himself?” she asked.  A grin spread across her face as she began walking again.  “Fame mentioned Beautiful.  I have a feeling she’s the jealous type.”

    “No,” Perry said.  Then, more quickly, “Yes—but no.  The Author cannot enter the Dream himself.  So, he asked me… and I agreed.”

    “But you called him the Dreamer.”

    “Yes, he is the Dreamer—but not the Dreamer of this Dream.  Seeker is his Dream… and we are the Dream of the Seeker.  He is the Author of this Dream.”

     “You’re talking nonsense,” she said sharply.

    “Imagine a picture of a print gallery.  A young man stands with his hands behind his back, studying a painting.  In the corner of that painting, the same man appears—larger now—looking into a harbor scene.  And in that harbor city… is the gallery itself.  The young man is the Author, the Seeker, and the Dreamer.”

    Eva nodded.  “I’ve never seen it… but I remember it.”

    “Not only is the Author the young man in the picture—he is also the man holding the book, looking at it.  We are the two figures in the street within the picture.  He cannot be us.  In fact… we come before him.  He hasn’t even been born yet.  Not for another three hundred years.”

    Eva shook her head.  “My head hurts,” she said.  “What does the Author want?”

    “To learn to write.  He began reading a book, and the hostess—Anna—reminded him of you.  So, he asked me to go to your party.  To speak with the people there.  He told me I could say—or do—whatever I wished.  That when I returned, no one would remember.  But you… You weren’t supposed to remember.”

    “I didn’t,” Eva said.  “Not at first.  Not until I saw you.  All that day, I had this nagging feeling—I’d done this before.  And then you walked in… and I remembered.”

    “Yes, you did.”  His face colored slightly.

    “The next day, I remembered everything—from the day before, and the day before that—but no one else did.  Everything was exactly the same… until you walked through the door again.  How did you do that?”

    Perry shrugged.  “I don’t know.  But when I kept watch while you slept, the Author told me we could do the same—if we both agreed.  And we would remember.”  He hesitated.  “If the pain becomes too much… we can choose to forget.  But only once.”

    “No,” Eva said.  “I don’t want to forget.  Ever.  I don’t want to forget running away from home at sixteen.  I don’t want to forget the beatings in Carnal Policy—when I wouldn’t give them what they wanted.  Or…” She hadn’t spoken his name in a very long time.  “Mr. Brisk.  And his promises.  And the lies he spread when I left Carnal Policy.”

    They continued their climb in silence.  At last, she spoke again.  “I don’t want to forget the Prince… or the Cross.”  She stopped and took his other hand in hers.  “But most of all, I don’t want to forget you.  Not a single moment.”

    Perry squeezed her hands gently.  “No.  Let’s never forget.”

–

    When they reached the next summit, they were finally at the top.  In the distance rose a palace of red brick, with gleaming white trim and pillars.  Her foot sank into an indent in the soft ground—a footprint.  Her own, but tiny in comparison.  And between them and the palace, two lions paced back and forth.

    Eva had made up her mind.  She no longer carried him.   A rocky mountain rose before them, the climb steep and unyielding.  She would tell Perry more about herself.  It might make the journey easier—or more difficult.  She couldn’t yet say.  She had known him only two days—if she didn’t count the other three—but she no longer doubted she could trust him now.

    Along a side trail, workers streamed in and out of a curious treadwheel, carrying sacks to a nearby grain silo and loading them onto waiting carts.

    Two young women stood nearby.  One had long, wavy hair and wore a crimson dress that clung to her figure, showing every curve.  She drew the attention of all the men, and she knew it—and more than that, she reveled in it.  Eva hated her at once.

    The other was as different as night from day, yet no less striking.  Her dress was black, trimmed in gold, and her hair was drawn back neatly.  She carried herself with a quiet confidence—pride, even—as one accustomed to admiration from both men and women alike, yet so far above it that she scarcely seemed to notice.

   “Greetings, Lady Evadne,” she said, her gaze already fixed on Eva.

    Eva frowned.  “How do you know me?”  She was certain she had never seen her before.  Eva always remembered a face.

    The woman smiled.  “Many know you.  Many more will know you for centuries to come.”  Her gaze seemed to pass through Eva rather than rest on her.  “Or do you prefer Eva the Fearless?  Or perhaps ‘Eva the—’” She paused, studying her.  “No.  Not yet.”

    Eva started to speak, but the words failed her.

    “I am Fame,” the woman said simply, as though it explained everything.  “You are the Author’s favorite.”

    “What do you know of the Author?” Eva demanded.

    Fame ignored the question.  “He’s written many characters.  But you…  you surprise him.”

    “It was brilliant—what you did in Fall of Beelzebub.  It made people angry.  And that’s what caught my attention.”  Fame’s gaze drifted past Eva’s shoulder.  She turned.  No one was there.  A faint smile touched Fame’s lips.  “Ah… but you haven’t written that yet, have you?”

    “In the end, you will be with me.  It is your destiny.”  She cast a brief glance toward the other woman—something like contempt flickering there.  “But you needn’t worry.  Beautiful won’t mind.” She smiled slightly.  “I have both horns… and a halo.”

    Eva followed Fame’s gaze—and froze.  Perry stood with the other woman in his arms.  When he saw Eva, he pushed her away.

***

    The woman in black and gold glided toward Eva.  Something about her unsettled Perry.  Then he saw her—hips swaying as she walked, her hair stirring softly in the breeze.  Her green eyes found his—held him.  He started to turn back to Eva… but he couldn’t look away.

    As she drew near, the scent of clove and orange wrapped around him.  Then flashes.  Running.  Drowning.  Burning.  A cry torn from his throat.  Never forget.  His back ached from lashes he had never borne.

    She traced a finger along the golden embroidery at his neckline.  “Dressed like the King,” she said softly.

    He caught her by the shoulders and pulled her close—her eyes inches from his.  Her breath hitched.  She trembled in his arms.

    “I’m not that type of—” Her lips parted.  Her chin lifted.

    He leaned in, his voice low in her ear.  “I remember you…” Then, quieter still: “Daughter of Adam.”

    She went still—then pulled free from his grasp.  “Who are you?” she gasped.

    Eva strode toward him, lightning in her eyes.  “Come along, dearest,” she said.  Never had Perry heard the word dearest spoken so sharply—like a dagger.

    Eva walked beside Perry in silence—through the wheat fields, back onto the Narrow Way, past meadows and orchards.  The bleating of sheep faded behind them.  They crossed a small bridge over a stream running down from the western mountains.

    At last they came to a stretch of the Way bordered by an old stone wall—tall and solid.  The path rose gently ahead, as if inviting her upward.  Lilies grew wild along the slope.

    At the top of the hill stood an old, rugged Cross.  It was not beautiful.  The wood was rough, splintered in places and stained with blood—almost black now, sunk deep into the grain.  Some of the lilies, white and gold, leaned toward the Cross as if listening.

    Eva stopped halfway up the hill.  Everything she had been carrying—every mask, every wound, every story—suddenly felt small.  She had thought she had ruined herself.  But someone had carried that ruin long before she arrived.

    Perry walked ahead of her and knelt before the Cross.  There was no show in it.  He simply knelt.

    Eva walked the rest of the way up the hill slowly.  This is where my old life ends.  Then she knelt beside Perry.  Neither of them spoke.  A tear welled in her eye.  No—two tears.

    The Prince loves the lilies.   Her hand rose to the silver lily at her throat.  Then she reached behind her neck, unclasped the chain, and laid the necklace at the foot of the Cross.  It seemed the right place for it.

–

    Eva rose and made her way down into a garden of ancient olive trees, their trunks twisted with age.  The air changed as she descended.  It felt… sheltered.  A Tomb had been carved into the rock face of the hill.  The great stone had been rolled away, no longer sealing the entrance.  The Tomb was empty.  Quiet.

    Just beyond the Tomb, a rift split the rock where the earth had been torn in two.  Eva could not see the bottom.  She could barely make out the sides before the light faded.

    Perry’s eyes met hers.  In his hand was the oilskin she had given him.  Don’t give it back to me.  She knew what must be done.  She nodded once, then took it from him.

    She sat on the stone, her feet dangling above the darkness, the pouch resting on her lap.  It felt so heavy.  Then she opened it.

    Perry stood behind Eva—close enough that she could feel he was there, but not close enough to look over her shoulder.  When she glanced up at him, he pretended to study the olive trees.

    The letters lay on top, bound with a blue thread, faintly smelling of smoke from the night she had tried to burn them.  She had burned only half.

    She opened the top letter—the one she had once thought most important.  Her thumb rubbed across the ink.  She didn’t need to read it.  She knew every word by heart.

    When I return, everything will begin.

    She folded it and let it slip from her fingers.  It vanished into the rift.   For a moment the ground trembled—so faint she might have imagined it.  Then she dropped the bundle of letters without looking at them.

    “They all say the same thing,” she muttered.

    Her hand reached deeper into the pouch.  She drew out a ring—wide and gold, with a ruby set deep into the band.  She turned it slowly in her fingers.  The ruby held a small crack.  Funny she had never noticed it before.

    He had slipped it from his hand and said it would look better on hers.  Had he meant it as a joke?

     She flicked it into the rift.  It caught the light once before it disappeared.

    Perry came and sat beside her, swinging his legs over the edge.  Eva looked at him.  His eyes remained fixed on the far side of the garden.

    “Take your time, Eva.”  That was all he said.

    Next was a deed to a small house in Carnal Policy.  It wasn’t large, but it was respectable.  He had never signed the deed.  She smiled wryly when she saw her own signature.  She had wanted to see how her name looked beside the address.  She didn’t even watch it disappear.

    She reached in again and drew out a pale blue ribbon—the one she had stolen from her sister.  It was old and frayed.  She rubbed the cloth between her fingers and looked at it a long time.

   “No,” she said softly.  “This one I keep.”  The ribbon disappeared up her sleeve.

    She reached in, but her hand came out empty.  She turned the pouch inside out.  She started slightly as a small silver button fell free—plain and worn, from his coat.  It must have pulled loose that last time they argued.  She considered it for a moment, then flicked it into the rift.

   Then she tossed the pouch in.  She sat there a while longer, listening.  Nothing.  No echo.  No sound.

    Perry stood first.  Then he offered her his hand.  She took it.  Together they walked back toward the Tomb.  

    “Do you still have your daggers?” he asked.

     She glanced sideways at him, amused, a quiet laugh escaping her.  

    “Yes.”

    Perry examined the clothing laid out on the chair in the corner of the bathing room.  The trousers and boots were a deep shade of black, while the tunic gleamed in contrast—luminous white, embroidered in golden thread.

    The serving man, Great-Heart, had shown him to a small room with a bed and a writing table—not much different from the room Perry had occupied in the City of Destruction.  After leaving his satchel, Eva’s pouch, and his cloak and staff there, Perry followed Great-Heart to the bathing room, where steam rose from a wooden tub already filled with hot water.  Great-Heart had promised to return later to show him a few moves with the staff—and perhaps share a spar or two.

    The hot water eased the chill that had settled deep in his bones after the Slough, and he felt fresh again—invigorated.  The clothing was comfortable, though he couldn’t help wondering how his gray cloak would look over it.  He shrugged.

    He stepped out and closed the door behind him—then caught sight of Eva at the far end of the hallway.  He stared in wonder. For a moment he forgot how to breathe.  She was dressed in white and silver, her face radiant, with a seal set between her eyes.  When she saw him, she ran toward him, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed his cheek.

    She stepped back and giggled, her face coloring slightly.  “You clean up nicely, Peregrine!”

    Perry bowed to her in imitation of Prince Vasily.  “I am your faithful slave.”

    Eva laughed.  “You almost had me convinced this time.”

    Innocent appeared in the doorway.  “Dinner is ready,” she said.

    Perry held out his arm.  Eva slipped her hand around it, and he led her to the dining room.

    The dining room was spectacular.  Light streamed through tall windows, illuminating a long table laid with a feast.  The savory aroma of roasted lamb greeted them, mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread.  A bowl of fruit sat nearby—shapes and colors Perry had never seen.

    Soft music drifted across the room from a group of musicians.  One drew his bow across a violin, setting the melody, while the other joined in harmony on a lute, a viola, and a recorder.

    The Interpreter took his seat at the head of the table.  Perry sat at the Interpreter’s right, while Eva took the seat across from him at the Interpreter’s left.

    Innocent curtsied and began to withdraw.

   “Stay,” Eva said.  “Eat with us.”

    Innocent turned and glanced at the Interpreter.

   “Yes,” the Interpreter said with a smile.  “Eat with us.”

   She smiled shyly, then took the seat beside Eva.

   Perry had expected serious talk—about things like grace and predestination—but instead the meal passed pleasantly, filled with light conversation.  The Author might find that interesting.

    After they finished eating, the music picked up its tempo.  Innocent leaned across the table.

   “Will you teach me to dance?” she asked Perry.

    He nodded and held out his hand.  Together they stepped onto the open floor.  Perry waited—but she didn’t move.  She simply watched him with those piercing blue eyes.

    “Lead,” she said flatly.

    Perry began to lead, and she followed—but slightly out of rhythm with him.  He stopped.

   She laughed softly.  “That’s not how I dance,” she said.  Then she laid her hand against his heart.  “You have to feel my heart.  Then you can lead me.”

    Perry felt her heartbeat through her fingertips.  It matched his own.  For a moment he thought he could feel her—truly feel her.  A deep, terrible ache.

    “Good,” she whispered.

    He took a step, and she followed.  Then another.  He began to see things—things he should not know.  Things that frightened him.

    But he kept dancing.  Warm light enveloped him.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eva dancing with the Interpreter.  

   “This,” Innocent said, “is how you lead Eva.” With practiced ease she spun him around and placed his hand in Eva’s.

    He could feel Eva’s pulse in his hand.  He closed his eyes and simply felt.  She was… afraid?

    “Just dance, dearest,” he said, meeting her gray eyes.  This is how I lead Eva.  In the way she already knows to go.  That same warm light surrounded him.  Together they spun effortlessly—no push, no pull.  Perry leading Eva in the way she wanted to go.

    The music ended.  They stepped apart.  The Interpreter and Innocent stood off to the side.  She leaned close and whispered something in the Interpreter’s ear.  He nodded gravely.

***

    Eva gazed up at the Hunter from the parapet, tracing his belt and bow with a finger.  Then she stepped inside and closed the door gently.  Earlier she had watched Perry and Great-Heart practicing together, though she had kept her daggers hidden.

    She hung her dress on a peg along the wall and slipped into the night rail Innocent had left for her.  After blowing out the candle, she slid beneath the blanket and was soon fast asleep.

***

    The next morning, freshly baked bread and a crock of butter awaited them.  Perry ate together with Eva, and afterward they resolved to continue their journey.

    “Stay a few moments,” said the Interpreter.  “There is one more thing I would show you, and then you may be on your way.”

    He led them into a room where paintings hung along the wall.

    The first painting showed workers in a wheat field, half harvested, the grain already bound in sheaves.  Some rested in the shade of a tree; another carried a jug of water.  Among them stood a distinguished man, his face glistening with sweat.  At his feet, a young woman with a flowing scarf knelt to gather the grain the others had left behind.  Beneath it was written:  The Kinsman Redeemer.

     The next bore the inscription:  Jonathan and David.  It showed a striking young shepherd with blond curls and blue eyes—so much like the woman in the previous painting.  Before him stood a prince in royal robes, his eyes full of devotion, both hands extended as he offered a crown.

    At last they came to a painting of a young woman, heavy with child, riding a donkey through the night.  Her husband walked beside her, leading the animal by the reins.  Overhead a brilliant star blazed in the dark sky.  Her eyes were the same piercing blue as the others.

    “Many pilgrims arrive at my house alone,” said the Interpreter.  “But in the end, they always walk with someone else.  The very essence of God is found in the words: I and You.”

    “But isn’t this the very way of the world?” Eva asked.

    “No.”  The Interpreter shook his head slowly.  “The way of the world is to turn the You into an it—and when that happens, the divine is lost.  Such is the way of Mammon.  Everything can be bought and sold.  But in true love, the You is an end in itself.”  He gestured toward the paintings.  “In loving another, we encounter the very love of God.”

    Perry frowned, studying the painting of Jonathan and David.  The look between them seemed deeper than simple friendship.  “But didn’t Moses command…”

    “Yes,” said the Interpreter.  “Because of the hardness of men’s hearts.  But know this—between I and You, there is no sin.”

    “These paintings are meant to guide you.  If you have eyes to see, there is an apparent transgression in each one—and each carries a cost.  For Jonathan, it was the throne.  Yet he counted it nothing beside the great love he bore for David.”

–

    With that, the Interpreter blessed them, and Perry and Eva set out once more on their journey.

    Up ahead, the path dipped into a valley, flanked on either side by majestic mountains.  Perry noticed the change in Eva—her steps seemed lighter, her fingers barely resting in his, a quiet smile playing at her lips.

    Wheat fields stretched out on either side of the path.  On the right, ripe grain swayed gently behind sturdy fences.  But the left side had long been abandoned.  Thistles tangled through scattered wheat, the fences lay broken, and a wooden shed slumped inward, warped with rot and decay.

    On the far side of the wheat field, a wooded ravine traced the base of the mountains.  In the distance, waterfalls crashed into hidden pools below—their steady roar barely audible.  The water spilled into a stream that wound southward through the trees until it vanished into the forest.  The breeze carried its scent—fresh and clean, laced with damp earth, moss, and the faintest hint of fruit trees.

    Beside the ravine stood a palace—its roofs gleaming in the midday sun, towers rising above the treetops.

    “It’s not what I was expecting,” Eva said, nodding toward the Interpreter’s House.

    Perry nodded.  He hadn’t been sure what to expect either.

    “I imagined something more like a comfortable cottage,” she said.  “The Wicket Gate was so small, and…” She traced a shape in the air with her finger, searching for the word.  At last, “Plain.”  Her tone held no contempt.  “And the Prince was so humble.”

    “Yet you recognized Him at once,” said Perry.  

    “Yes,” she whispered.  “Nothing in His dress suggested royalty—not like the men I knew in the City of Destruction.  Or in Carnal Policy.  But His eyes…” Her voice softened.  “There was something I’d never seen before.  Confidence.”  She paused. “No.  Not confidence.  Authority.  I don’t doubt the wind and rain would obey his voice.”

    Perry felt the truth of it.  He’d looked more like a gardener than a gatekeeper—yet there was something unmistakable about Him.

    “And yet there was kindness in Him,” she said.  “Men rarely rise to such power without turning cruel.  I’ve seen it—again and again.”

    “No, not cruel—sorrowful,” Perry said.  “As if he carried the weight of the whole Valley of Destruction.  Grieving every soul lost in the Slough… or who turned away before reaching the Gate.”

    At last they reached the Interpreter’s House.  A narrow path cut through the wheat fields, leading to the entrance.  Its white walls, perhaps limestone, seemed to glow in the sunlight.  Windows of many colors lined the façade in careful rows, beneath steeply sloped roofs.  Two square towers blended into the ravine’s cliff face, one crowned with parapets.  A third, taller tower rose from the far side, topped with a small room—its pointed roof and windows on every side catching the light.

    Stairs led up to the entrance—a solid wooden door beneath a narrow balcony, supported on either side by statues of Shining Ones.

    On the left side of the House lay a garden filled with lovely trees and a wide variety of flowers—carnations, lilies and tulips—with benches nestled among rose bushes in full bloom.

    They climbed the stairs to the entryway and knocked—first Eva, then Perry.  He hadn’t meant to follow her knock, but he did. As if it mattered that his hand touched the door too.

    A young woman in a gray wool dress and apron opened the door.  Sunlight caught in her silver hair, and when she lifted her gaze, her eyes were a startling, impossible blue.  She looked at them—not past them.  At them.

    “Pray, what name may I give, that I may tell the Lord within?”

    “I am Eva.” She hesitated.  “I was known as Wanton.”  She swallowed.  “This is my companion, Perry.  The Prince bid us knock and inquire within.”

    The girl turned at once and hurried into the House, her voice carrying down the hall.  “Can you imagine who stands at the door?” she called, leaving it ajar.

    Eva’s face flushed, and she drew a sharp breath.  She smoothed her dress yet remained still.  Perry reached for the door—but she shook her head.  She inhaled once more, then lifted her chin.

    Then the door swung open, and the Interpreter stood before them.  His robes were plain, but on Him they seemed finer than any garment Perry had ever seen.  His eyes held the wisdom of ages, tempered by a gentleness unlike anything Perry had known.

    He extended both hands to Eva.  “Come in, dear heart,” He said, his face alight with joy.  “We were just speaking of you.”

    Men and women gathered about the Interpreter, their faces bright.  The young woman who had opened the door smiled serenely.

    The Interpreter turned to Perry.  “Welcome, Perry,” He said warmly.  He led them into a room and bade them sit and rest.  Men and women pressed in about them, smiling.  The men took Perry’s hand and clapped him on the back in good cheer.

    “Tell me, Eva,” the Interpreter said.  “What led you to set out on your journey?  We’ve waited for you many years.”

    Eva drew the invitation from the hidden pocket of her dress.  “I didn’t—couldn’t—believe it was truly for me.”  Her voice caught. “But when Perry came to… my party I decided I didn’t care anymore.  I couldn’t wait any longer.  Not an hour.  Not even a single minute.”

    “When word reached us of the midnight Pilgrims,” said the Interpreter, “there was great joy.  Our cook, Taste-that-which-is-Good has begun preparing a celebration.”

    The Interpreter gestured toward the young woman who had opened the door.  “Innocent will assist you in your preparations.”  

    Innocent curtsied.  “Please follow me, my Lady.”

***

    Perry watched as Innocent led Eva through the doorway and into the hall.  Something stirred in his memory—but when he reached for it, it slipped away.  The more he pressed, the further it retreated.

    He turned back to the Interpreter.

   “Follow me,” said the Interpreter.

    The Interpreter led him into a parlor that had recently been swept—the broom still resting against the wall.  He took his seat in an armchair beside a low table and motioned for Perry to sit opposite him.

    A serving man entered bearing a decanter of amber liquor and two tumblers banded in gold.  With metal tongs, he lifted pieces of ice from a wooden box and set them into each glass.

    Again—that familiar stirring.

    “Perry.”  The Interpreter took a measured sip, then set his glass upon the table.  “Peregrine Graycloak.  I have waited for you.”

    Perry lifted his glass and took a sip.  It was sweet as honey—and it burned as it went down.

    “Who are you?”  The Interpreter’s gaze did not waver.

    Perry exhaled.  “I hoped you would tell me.”

    The Interpreter’s gaze remained steady.  He did not answer.

    “I have been a seeker,” said Perry.  “I have been a dreamer.” He closed his eyes. “I remember things I ought not remember.  I know things I ought not know.  But myself…”  He opened his eyes again.  “That I do not know.”

   The Interpreter inclined his head.  “What do you want?”

   “I want to understand—”

   “No.”  The word was quiet, but final.  “The Author wants to understand.  What do you want?”

    Perry studied the amber in his glass.  Minutes stretched.  They drank in silence.  The Interpreter did not hurry him.

    “I want to be with her.”

    “Yes,” said the Interpreter.  “That was your choice.  Not the Author’s.”

    Perry nodded.

    “But was it your choice—or hers?”  The Interpreter regarded him steadily.  “I can tell you what you are, but only you can tell who you are.”  He lifted his glass, then set it down again.  “You’ve escaped the Law of Accident.  Now you live under the Law of Fate.  But that is not enough.” A pause.  “You must learn Will.”

    “How do I do that?” Perry asked.  He reached into his satchel and drew out the ring encircled in lapis lazuli.  For a moment, he turned it in his fingers.  Then he set it upon the table between them.

    “Do you know what this is?”  The Interpreter lifted the ring and held it to the light.  “It is the signet of the King—and the trust of the Author.”

    “The Author entrusted me with protecting her.”

    “No.”  The Interpreter’s voice was calm.  “He placed it in your hand because it belongs there.”  He turned the ring between his fingers.  “You are the dream the Dreamer dreamt—the answer the Seeker sought.”  A pause.  “She believes you were made to walk beside her.”  His gaze lifted to Perry’s.  “What she does not yet see… is that she was given to walk with you.”

    “And this?” Perry asked touching the ring lightly.  “Is this Will?”

    “Yes,” said the Interpreter.  “No.”  He turned the ring between his fingers.  “Will is born where Yes and No resist one another.”  He looked at Perry.  “The Prince is your pattern.  He possessed all authority—yet chose to lay it down.”

    “I understand,” Perry said quietly.  

    The Interpreter held his gaze.  “Are you willing to lay down everything for her, as the Prince did his Bride?”

    The room seemed very still.

    “Yes.”

    He did not look away.

    The Interpreter drained the last of his drink and rose.  “Come,” he said.  “Your new garments are ready.”

***

    Eva followed Innocent up a narrow spiral staircase that wound through one of the towers.  The steps curved tightly beneath her feet until at last they reached the third floor, where a small hallway stretched ahead, lined with several doors.

    Innocent led her to the last one and pushed it open.

    The room beyond was spacious, the ceilings higher than she expected.  Fine rugs softened the wooden floor.  A couch and a single chair sat near the window.  An oak-framed bed stood against the far wall, covered with a simple wool blanket.  On a small side table rested a hairbrush, and across from it a looking glass hung quietly on the wall.

    “Your room, Lady Evadne,” Innocent said softly.

    Before Eva could answer, a matron appeared in the doorway, hands folded neatly before her.

    “Have the girls fetch hot water,” Innocent said.  The matron curtsied and disappeared down the hall.

    The faintest flicker caught Eva’s eye.  In the corner a cobweb shimmered in the light, a spider poised at its center.  She smiled and lifted her hand, stopping just short of the delicate threads.  “I am in good company.”

    Innocent nodded.  “Yes.  She takes hold with her hands and is in kings’ palaces.”

–

    At the back of the room, a narrow door opened onto the top of the tower she had glimpsed as they approached the house.  Eva stepped out onto the parapet.  The ravine spread beneath her in breathtaking sweep.  Across the stream, in a broad clearing cut from the trees, stood a stately palace.  A great crowd had gathered before its gates.

    “What are they doing?”  Movement rippled through the crowd below.  Steel flashed.  A skirmish had broken out.

    “The Interpreter spares no expense,” Innocent said.  “Orchards.  Wheat fields.  Flowers and sheep.  Actors and musicians.  Rooms.”  A small smile touched her lips.  “And my favorite of them all.”  She pointed at the Stately Palace.  “He built it just to teach one lesson.  That you must fight for what you hold dear.”

   “Tell me, Lady Evadne—did you encounter any opposition on your way here?”

    “No.” Eva shook her head slowly.  The lie lay heavy on her tongue.

–

    When Eva stepped back into the room, she froze.  In the looking glass, Madame Wanton stared back at her.  The mask lowered.  Eyelashes fluttered.  Lips parted in a practiced pout.  A coy glance slipped sideways—an invitation.

    The mirror splintered.  Vee looked back at her.  Young.  Uncertain.  Practicing the expression she ought to have.  Eva squeezed her eyes shut.  When she opened them again, the glass was whole.  Only her own reflection remained.

    When Eva turned, she noticed steam drifting from a doorway on the other side of the room.  A serving girl stood there, kettle in hand.  “The bath is ready,” she told Innocent.  She curtsied and slipped away.

    A white dress lay across the bed, its silver embroidery catching the light.

    Innocent held out a crock in one hand and a bar of soap in the other.  “Choose.”

    Eva lifted the bar first and brought it to her nose.  Roses.  Sweet and familiar.  She closed her eyes for a moment.  She liked it. Then she set it aside and took the crock.  She lifted the lid.  Rosemary.  Clean.  Sharp.  Enduring.  Much better for the road.  “This one,” she said.

    “Let me help you out of your clothes,” Innocent said.

    Eva stepped back instead.  She reached into the hidden pocket of her dress and withdrew the King’s invitation.  Then the silver lily.  She laid them carefully on the bed beside the white gown.

    One by one she drew her dagger from her body—two from her sleeves, one from her boot, the smallest from her bodice.  Steel against linen.  She placed each beside the others.  

    She folded her scarf with deliberate care.  Untied her sash.  Then she turned her back to Innocent.  The buttons loosened.  The dress slipped from her shoulders and fell at her feet—patched cloth, stiff with dried mud from the Slough.  She did not look down at it.

    Innocent waited, eyes lowered, as Eva crossed the adjoining room.  The warmth of rugs gave way to cool slate beneath her bare feet.  Steam drifted upward from a waiting wooden tub.  She shed the last of her garments and stepped into the water.

    Innocent stepped into the steam and dipped a sponge into the rosemary soap.  The sharp scent rose with the heat as she began to wash Eva’s back—firm, steady strokes.

   Then she took Eva’s hand gently in her own and worked a small brush beneath her fingernails, loosening the last traces of the road.

    “I did encounter opposition on the way here.”  Eva swallowed.  “At the castle outside the Narrow Gate.”

    Innocent’s piercing blue eyes lifted to hers.  Under that steady gaze, Eva felt suddenly exposed.

    “I met Tisiphone, and Alecto.”  Vee’s eyes rose in her mind—hungry for approval.  And Mama’s back.  She could not remember Mama’s face.  Only the curve of her shoulders as she stirred the pot.  “I relived the day I left,” Eva said softly.  “The day I ran away from home.”

    Innocent said nothing.  She lifted a dipper and poured warm water over Eva’s head.  It ran down her face, over her shoulders, carrying the scent of rosemary with it.  Gentle fingers worked the lather into her hair.  

    For a long moment, there was only the sound of water.  Then Innocent spoke.  “Why did you choose rosemary?  Don’t you think Perry would have preferred the rose?”

    A sharp pang of regret pierced her.  “What does that have to do with—”

    “You made a choice,” Innocent said evenly.  “It seemed good at the moment.”

    “That’s different.”

    “Not at all.”  Innocent’s hands were steady in her hair.  “Every yes is also a no.  Sometimes to one thing.  Sometimes to a dozen.  There is no life without guilt.”

    She dipped the ladle again and poured the water slowly, rinsing the lather from Eva’s hair.

    “What do you know of guilt?”  The words struck harder than she intended.  Too hard.  Regret flared at once.

    “The Prince has accepted you.”  Innocent paused.  “I accept you.  Guilt cannot live in the presence of the King.”  She held out a towel.  Eva rose from the bath.  Cool air brushed her damp skin as Innocent wrapped the towel around her shoulders.

    The dress was of the finest cloth—dazzling white, silver thread worked in delicate patterns at the neckline, the cuffs, and along the hem.  It settled against her skin as though it had always belonged there.  Soft.  Light.  Perfectly fitted.  As if it had been made for her alone.  

   Her breath caught.  Leather holsters had been sewn into the sleeves.  A slow smile curved her lips.  She slid each dagger into place, feeling their familiar weight return to her arms.  Balanced.  Secure.

    She looked up at Innocent, satisfaction flickering in her eyes.

   “How did…”

    Innocent did not answer.  She took Eva’s hand and led her to the chair by the window.  Eva sat.  Innocent lifted the brush and drew it slowly through her hair.

   “One.”  The bristle tugged lightly at the damp strands.  “Two.”  She counted each stroke.

    “After that, Alecto—”

    “That is not what is troubling you.”  Innocent’s voice was gentle, but firm.  “If you had failed Tisiphone or Alecto, you would not be here now.”  Her hands never stopped their steady rhythm through Eva’s hair.  “Tell me, dear heart—what did Megaera show you?”

    Eva looked up sharply.  A tear slipped free before she could stop it.  “He…” Her throat tightened.  “Perry is going to die.”  The words felt solid in her mouth.  Heavy.  “It wasn’t a vision,” she whispered.  “It was real.”

    Pain flickered in Innocent’s blue eyes.  She did not deny it.  Did not soften it.  She leaned close, her voice barely more than breath.  “Love is stronger than death.”

    Innocent gathered Eva’s hair and tied it back with a narrow ribbon.  Then she picked up the lily pendant and turned it slowly in her fingers.  The silver caught the light.  She stepped behind Eva and fastened the clasp at her neck.  Cool metal settled against her skin.  

    “The Prince has always loved the lilies.”  Innocent stepped back and studied her for a long moment.  Then she smiled.  “There. Fair as the Moon.”

    Innocent slipped her hand into the folds of her dress and drew out a small mirror, its edge bound in worn brass.  She placed it gently in Eva’s palm and closed her fingers around it.

    “It’s my gift,” she said softly.  “To remind you.”

    Eva stared into the mirror.  For a moment, she did not recognize the woman looking back.

   Not Vee.  Not Vadna.  Not Madame Wanton.  Not even Lady Evadne.

   Just Eva—the beloved.