theauthor

    Perry stood at the crossroads, studying the paths.  Behind them lay the Slough.  Ahead the road widened and curved gently left.  To the right, a narrower trail rose toward Sinai—the path Mr. Worldly Wiseman had taken back to Morality.  Perry extended his hand to Eva.

    Eva pointed to a cloud drifting overhead.  “Look,” she said.  “He waited for us.”

    Before them lay a faint trail—barely visible, but there.  This was the way the Bear was leading.  With her free hand, Eva brushed aside a cobweb stretched between two trees, and with the other, gently drew Perry forward.

    A brilliant light shone from a wall that stretched from mountain range to rocky outcropping.  The Bear waited patiently above it.

    “The Wicket Gate,” she said.  “Mr. Wiseman would call it the way of fools.  Tribulation.  Peril.  Persecution.  Hunger.  Nakedness.  The sword.”  She smiled slightly.  “And it’s the way forward.”

    Perry made out a small wooden gate set into the wall—aged timber, washed in the beacon’s glow.  The wall ended at a sheer cliff face, barren but for wind-scoured grass and jagged rock.  Atop it perched a castle of black stone, slick with old rain—and older blood.  Its towers leaned slightly toward the Wicket Gate, as if keeping watch.

    Wooden hoarding jutted from the parapets—temporary, ramshackle platforms lashed to the upper walls.  Perry could feel them before he saw them—the goblin archers crouched in silence, waiting.

    “I was never going to turn back here,” Eva muttered, glancing once at Perry.  Come, if you are coming.

    “And I was never going to leave your side,” he said—more to himself than to her.

    The castle stood in absolute silence.  No creak from the hoardings.  No whisper from the towers.  Only the shadows of drawn bows flickered.

    Mud squelched beneath their boots.  Somewhere in the stillness, a hound growled low.  The air was taut—like the silence itself was waiting for permission to become violence.

    Eva’s gaze lingered on the towers, on the unseen archers, then on the hound crouched in the grass.  Her posture didn’t shift.  Her hands didn’t tremble.  She took a step forward.

     “If I’m going to be shot,” she murmured, “let it be standing tall.”  Each step forward was deliberate.  Measured.  Defiant.

    The Bear watched over them, calm and steady, from above the Wicket Gate.

    “Dread Lord Beelzebub demands your presence, Lady Evadne.”  The voice rang out—cold and merciless.  

    A figure stepped from the shadows, cloaked in deep charcoal.  Her hood shadowed eyes that glinted like molten brass.  Veins of dull gold threaded her robes—cracks in the darkness, like lightning caught and frozen.

    Around her neck hung a heavy key on a cord.  Not decorative.  Not symbolic.  Functional.  At her back, a scabbard, contents unseen.  Her face was as cold as her voice—sharp-angled, with a beauty so terrible it could not be held.  Or even admired.

   Before Perry could blink, Eva dropped into a fighting stance, daggers already in her hands. 

    Perry reached into his satchel and withdrew a ring—gold, thick, and warm to the touch.  It was encircled with a continuous inlay of lapis lazuli, deep blue and veined like a night sky caught in stone.

    The Author had given it to him while Eva slept in the thicket.  He’d said something Perry hadn’t quite understood—about deus ex machina, and someone named Chekhov.  But he’d said Perry would need it.  And that he’d know when.  Perry was sure this was the when.

    His grip on the staff eased—just slightly.  “Lady Evadne,” he said—quiet, steady—as he stepped in front of Eva.  Or so he hoped he sounded.

    Eva stood tall again, her daggers vanished to wherever they’d come from.  Her jaw tightened, her voice low.  “I’ve heard of her,” she said.  “The one who writes the names.  Keeps the debts.  Locks the doors.”  She tilted her head slightly.  “If I refuse, she’ll follow.  If I go, she’ll try to keep me.”

    She exhaled—just once.  Not in fear, but in resolve.  Then she stepped forward and stood next to Perry.  

    “I’ll go,” she said at last.  “But not because Beelzebub”—her voice dropped—“or Alecto demands it.”

    Alecto stepped forward, her cloak whispering over the grass.  The hound at her side didn’t flinch.  Didn’t growl.  From the shadows behind her, Alecto’s sisters emerged.

“The Furies,” Eva whispered. “Alecto. Tisiphone. Megaera.”

    Tisiphone was robed in red so dark it nearly bled into black.  Her eyes were rimmed in ash, her mouth set in perpetual judgement.  She carried an unlit brand that smoked faintly, the scent of scorched justice trailing her like a veil.

    Megaera was the smallest of the three.  Her bare arms were knotted with cords—names once whispered in rage.  She carried a dagger carved from a single ivory tooth.  Her smile was a crack in porcelain.

    They did not speak.  Instead, they walked a slow arc around Perry and Eva.  Not touching or threatening.  Just seeing.

    Alecto raised her voice—flat and precise.  “The Lady Evadne and her companion.  By command of Dread Lord Beelzebub.”

    With that, the three Furies turned and led the way.

 

    Perry felt Eva’s hand tighten in his as they spotted the gentleman standing just off the path beside a weathered milestone.  He carried a modest satchel, and a writing quill was tucked neatly behind his ear.  This had to be Mr. Worldly Wiseman—the one Perry had heard about.

    The man stood tall—too tall, as if posture could substitute for presence.  His boots gleamed, and his spectacles gleamed even more.  He looked like someone who had never sweated, never stumbled, never doubted.  And yet, something in his stance felt brittle, as though he had mastered everything—except how to face someone who no longer sought his approval.

    Perry released her hand and stepped back—just enough for her to breathe, but close enough so she’d feel he was still there.

    Mr. Wiseman’s face lit with pleasure.  “Evadne!” he said warmly, as if greeting a favorite pupil.  “By heaven, you’ve traded silk for sackcloth.  And yet—you’ve never looked more luminous.”

    If he noticed the mud on her, he gave no sign.  He didn’t glance at Perry.  Not even a flicker of acknowledgement.  His attention belonged entirely to her.  Eva didn’t smile.  Didn’t flinch.

    “It’s Eva,” she said simply.    

     Mr. Wiseman laughed—not with mockery, but with a practiced warmth.  “Of course.  Eva.  Forgive me.  Names are slippery things.  I’ve known you through many.”  He stepped closer, eyes watchful.  “You look like someone heading into the unknown.  How fortunate I happened to be passing through.”  He gestured toward a narrow path that veered off to the side.  “There’s a village nearby.  Fresh bread.  A decent bath.  And I still have friends who could help you both…”

    Then, as an afterthought:  “…Unless of course, you are bound for the Wicket Gate.  But surely you know better than that by now.”

    Perry bowed with a quiet flourish.  “Mr. Worldly Wiseman.  Your reputation precedes you.”  He glanced at the man’s coat—purple and green, trimmed in gold.  “Tell me,” he added, “how have you come so far without a speck of dirt on you?”  Then with a touch of mock formality.  “Forgive me, my lord.  I haven’t introduced myself.  I’m Perry.”

    Mr. Wiseman watched the bow with a theatrical smile.  “A pleasure, Mr. Graycloak.”  Mr. Graycloak.  Not Perry.  This wasn’t a chance encounter.

    His eyes drifted in the direction of the Slough.  “Yes… dreadful place, isn’t it?  But no—I didn’t come that way.”  He tapped his satchel.  “I came down the winding road from Morality.  By way of Sinai.”  He smiled, pleasant as ever.  “You must know—if one carries the proper credentials, the descent—or ascent—isn’t so treacherous.  You simply need to present the right papers.”  He lifted a brow.  “Shall I write you a letter of passage?”

    His eyes flicked—just once—to Eva.  He’s not your equal, you know.  But I’ll be kind.  The words weren’t spoken, but they hung in the air all the same.

    “Letter of passage?” Perry blinked.  “I’ve walked the streets of Morality.  Prayed in its cathedral.  But I don’t recall needing a letter.”  He tilted his head slightly.  “It is, as I’m sure you know, far easier to reach Morality by way of the bridge in Carnal Policy.”

    Mr. Wiseman’s expression shifted—something like admiration.  “Ah.  But you were a visitor, not a resident.”  His tone changed—measured, deliberate.  “A pilgrim may wander Morality.  Even kneel in its chapels.  But to influence it… one must have standing.”  He leaned in slightly.  “And standing, Mr. Graycloak… doesn’t come from devotion.”  He let the silence stretch. Then with a half-wink, added, “You wouldn’t believe what they let you carry—provided the paperwork’s in order.”

    He turned to Eva.  The shift in tone was subtle—like music changing key.  “She understands, of course.  She once knew the city well.”  His eyes swept over her patched dress and scarf still flecked from the Slough.  “Though she chose to turn away from it, to walk a harder road.”

    Something darker slipped into his voice—not cruel, but deft.  The old blade, sheathed in concern.  “Tell me, Eva.  When you left Carnal Policy, did you truly believe they would let you back in?  You were a beloved figure—respected, protected.  But a woman who disappears is rarely welcomed home with open arms.”

    Eva’s jaw tightened.  Her eyes narrowed.  “Maybe I don’t want to go back,” she said, cool and controlled.

    “Then why do you carry… that?”  His gaze dropped to the oilskin pouch, knotted at Perry’s belt.

    Eva stood very still.  She didn’t look at him—only the lingering gray of the Slough.  She didn’t notice Mr. Wiseman’s gaze on the oilskin bundle.  Instead, a flicker of confusion crossed her face, and her hand darted to the hidden compartment in her sleeve.

    Then—“Because I don’t know if the King sent the invitation… or if He wants it back.  Because I want it to be real, and I don’t trust myself to know if it is.  Because if I throw it away—and it was meant for me—I’ll have proven them right.”

    She looked up at Mr. Wiseman.  Not defiant, not angry.  Just exposed.  “That I was only ever what they said I was.”  She didn’t blink.  She didn’t cry.  She just stood.  In truth.

    With the faintest curve to her lips: “But I didn’t come back to ask permission.  I’m walking forward now.  Mud and all.”  She stepped closer.  “And when I reach the gates… I’ll give it to the King myself.”  Then she stepped back—and said nothing more.

    Perry spoke.  “Tell me, Mr. Wiseman… is there anything you love without gain?  Is a prayer in Morality’s cathedral worth less because it’s offered by a pilgrim?  This is the path Evadne has chosen.”

    Mr. Wiseman’s smile faded.  He drew a slow, searching breath.  “Ah,” he said quietly.  “That’s the question, isn’t it?  Is there anything I love… without gain?”

    He looked past Perry.  His voice dropped—not bitter, not sly.  Almost tender.  “I once believed I did.”  There was a young man—a student of mine.  Earnest.  Bright.  He came to me with trembling hands and a fire in his eyes.  He wanted to walk to the Gate.”  He paused.  “I told him how hard it would be.  How long.  How uncertain.  But he went anyway.  And I…” He hesitated.  “I marked the day he would return.”

    He looked at Perry—tired now.  “But he never did.  And I wonder… did I love him?  Or did I only love being the one he came to before he left?”  He adjusted his coat.  Straightened it.  The moment passed.

    “So, to answer your question… I try not to love what I cannot influence.  It keeps the heart quieter.”  He glanced between them.  But you, you’ve chosen the noisy road.  Both of you.”  He looked at Eva one last time.  “I do not condemn you.  But I do not envy you either.”  He picked up his satchel.  “I hope you find what you’re looking for.  I truly do.”

    And with that, he turned and walked, calmly, deliberately, back toward the winding road to Morality.

     Perry turned to Eva.  “I almost pity him.  Almost.”

    “Almost,” she echoed, softer still.

    She stood in silence a long while.  Then said, “He taught me how to speak like that.  To answer without answering.  To wound with concern.  To offer a letter while stealing the pen.”

    Her voice wasn’t bitter—just worn, like fabric frayed at the edges.  “I used to think I could keep up.  Now I know… I was just afraid to be simple.”

    She looked down the path ahead and the Bear, waiting.  “I don’t want to be clever anymore.  I want to be understood.”  She turned to Perry.  “Even if I don’t like what it shows me.”

    Eva gazed down the path as it vanished into the pale haze.  She lifted her hand and slowly traced the shape of a cloud—an ear, a shoulder, a paw.  Her movements were deliberate, like she was remembering something the rest of the world had forgotten.

    She felt Perry’s eyes on her—not on the sky, but the movement of her hand.  She didn’t turn.  Didn’t speak.  But part of her wanted to ask what he saw.  It wasn’t just a cloud.  She was tracing a constellation from memory.

    She started with the tail and traced along its back.  The way it curled over the sunlit clouds was strangely familiar.

    “Do you see the Bear?” she asked, eyes still on the sky.

     He followed the motion of her hand until he found it too—and smiled.  “I do,” he said.   “Let’s walk, dearest.”

    They moved together, their steps soft along the path.  She listened to the hush of his footsteps falling in rhythm with hers.  Or maybe hers had fallen into step with his.  It didn’t matter.

   Their sleeves brushed with every stride.

   Footstep.  Sleeve.

   Footstep.  Sleeve.

    The birds sang in the hedges nearby, and above them, the Bear walked too—silent, high, and watchful.

    Eva tilted her head back, letting the sun chase away the chill the Slough had left on her skin.  She brushed at the dirt flaking from her sleeves, but it clung stubbornly.  The scent of the mire still lingered in the folds of her clothes.

    When the wind shifted, it carried the stench back to her.  She shivered.

   Perry offered his arm.  She didn’t hesitate.  She took it.  The closeness felt right.

    Then—there they were.  She saw them first: a scatter of wild irises, blue and gold, nestled beneath the boughs of an old olive tree.

   She laughed.

   Not carefully.  Not for him.  Just laughter—sudden and free, like something inside her had finally remembered how.

    When Perry turned, she was already reaching for him.  Not for support.  Not for comfort.  Just—to share it.  He took her hand.  Said nothing.  Didn’t squeeze.  He simply stood beside her, watching the wind stir the blossoms—like they’d been waiting all morning for someone to notice them.

   I’m not carrying the Slough anymore, she thought.  And for the first time, it was true.

    Perry held out an arm, signaling Eva to stop.  The path ahead narrowed, tapering deceptively into a bog.  In the shifting light, firm ground and false footing looked nearly the same—only the morning sun revealed the truth.

    The ground quivered.  In the deeper hollows, black pools waited in silence—disturbed only by unseen things stirring below.

    Low mists clung to the reeds and curled over the land, veiling the twisted shapes of half-drowned trees.  Their skeletal branches reached skyward like grasping fingers.

    The air was thick with decay—the scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation pressed close, as if the land itself resented their intrusion.

    Perry scanned the mire ahead but found no clear path.  Through the rising mist, he glimpsed a line of flat stepping-stones stretching through the muck—but the Slough had churned and frothed, spewing filth across them, leaving them half-buried, slick, and treacherous.

    “My dear, if we try to cross, we’re sure to fall in,” Perry said.  “But at least we’ll fall in together.”  He paused.  “Do you know the bridge in Carnal Policy?  We could take it—but I’m not sure that way’s any less treacherous.”

***

    Eva stood at the edge of the Slough, watching the mire seethe with despair.  It sounded like it was breathing—slow and steady, as if exhausted from endless toil.  As if it knew her.  Remembered her.  Something deep inside her recoiled.

    She remembered the bridge—the graceful arch from Carnal Policy that spanned the Slough.  Broad.  Elegant.  But false.

    Her lips parted slightly.

    She had stood on that bridge once—well-dressed, poised, adored by men who measured her worth by logic, position, and desire.  It had felt solid beneath her heels.  But it had never carried her forward.

   She turned to Perry, the choice already made.  “Let’s fall in, then,” she said.  “But let’s fall forward.”  

   She took off her shoes, tied them to her belt, and reached for his hand.  “We’ll find the stones with our feet.”  And so, they stepped into the Slough together.

   The mud swallowed them past their ankles.  The current tugged sideways—insidious, constant, as if forgetting were easier than crossing.  

    Perry’s staff vanished beneath the surface.  Eva slipped—almost—but caught herself as a stone shifted beneath her foot.  Still, neither let go.

    Perry stepped—and his foot found nothing.  He gripped her hand in sudden desperation, struggling to stay upright.  She pulled him close.

    “My dearest,” she muttered, breath ragged, “the furniture dances better than you.”

    Perry let out a ragged breath—and a half-drowned laugh. “Yes, but she had your lovely tartlets for breakfast.”

   “She wouldn’t have known what to do with them.”  No smile.  No laughter.  “And you wouldn’t have tasted them.”

   She stumbled.  He caught her.  “You dance well, my Lady.  But I will teach you to laugh, Evadne.”

    “Say it again.”  She didn’t smile.  Not yet.

    “Evadne,” he said—neither softly nor loudly.  Just… as it was.

    And when they reached the far side—breathless, filthy, trembling—Eva turned and looked back at the Slough.  “Well,” she exhaled slowly.  “Now I know what it feels like to sink in truth.”  She squeezed his hand once.  “Let’s never take the bridge.”

    “Never,” Perry said, dropping onto the grass with a groan of relief.

     When they reached the thicket, the Bear was halfway through his circuit, and the Hunter had slipped below the horizon.  Ahead lay the Slough.   No one would call this place shelter, just a clutch of weathered, twisted trees.  But it was quiet.  And it was far from the City.

    Moonlight touched her cheek, softening what had once been defiance.  Her brow was smooth now, her jaw untroubled.  Her hands lay open against the roots, unguarded.  The woman he’d danced with was gone.  This was Eva.

    Perry rubbed his eyes.  His vigil had stretched the whole night, and drowsiness clung to him as the sun edged over the horizon.   He sat beside her to watch it rise.  But his eyes grew heavy, and before long, sleep claimed him.

***

   Eva stirred.  Morning light filtered through the branches.  Perry was beside her—not standing guard, not keeping watch.  Just… there.  His head rested on his arm, one hand still curled loosely around his staff.  

    “So… even you sleep,” she whispered.

    She rose barefoot, careful not to wake him, and stepped into the hush of morning.  At the edge of the thicket, she slipped off her scarf and lifted her face to the wind.  Her hair danced behind her—free.

***

    Perry woke with a start and reached for her—only to grasp empty air.  She was already at the edge of the trees, her silhouette lit by the rising sun, hair and dress stirring in the breeze.

   He stepped beside her, rubbing sleep from his eyes.  “You didn’t happen to bring any of your scandalous tartlets, did you?”

   “Tartlets?  Please.”  She tilted her head just slightly.  “I left those behind—when I left her behind.”  

   He started to chuckle, but her sharp look cut him short. They stood side by side in silence as light stretched across the path ahead.  They had nothing to carry.  No provisions.  No plan.  Only each other.  Eva slipped on her shoes, and together they stepped onto the road—northward, toward the Slough.

    Perry stared in amazement at Eva.  This plain, unadorned woman—moonlight catching the curve of her cheek—bore little resemblance to the elegant Madame he’d danced with earlier.  And yet… she held herself with the same grace.  The same quiet poise.

His mind flooded with questions.

    Would the Author allow this?  Perry wanted it—more than anything.  He closed his eyes and breathed.  Yes.  It wasn’t approval.  It was delight.  The Author wanted this too.  Perry could feel it—unbridled excitement, mixed with… surprise?

    Where would they go?  He didn’t know.  He hadn’t even looked.  Strange—he’d never truly looked inward.  He barely knew who he was.  And the night loomed out there—wide, dark, waiting.  But they couldn’t turn back now.  She stood before him, quiet, steady.  Watching.  Waiting for his answer.

    Her comment about the daggers made him laugh.  He hadn’t even said the word aloud.  But she’d known.  Of course she had.  They had a connection that didn’t need words.

    “The more daggers, the better, my dearest,” Perry said at last.  “That leaves only one question…”  He smiled.  “Do you need to pack for the journey?”

    Eva blinked—startled, then laughed.  “The daggers stay,” she said. “They’re a part of me now.”  She glanced down at her patched dress, then at the oilskin bundle in Perry’s hands.  “I have nothing to pack.”  Her eyes found his.  “That’s why I can finally leave.”

    She stepped toward him, the muddy bank sucking at her shoes, and offered her arm—not her hand this time, not as a lady, not as a lover, but as a companion on the road.  “So let’s walk, Perry.  Before I start thinking I have something worth staying for.”

    Perry still had questions.  “Tell me… what’s your plan?”  She would know.  Just like when they’d danced, he let her take the lead.  “Do we sleep under the stars… or do we walk by them?”

    Eva gazed at the stars—hard, ancient points of light, void of comfort but shining with direction.  The Hunter’s bow dipped below the horizon.  “We walk,” she said.  “If I stop moving, I might start thinking again.”  Then she added, with a crooked smile: “That’s usually when I go back.”

    After a while, she spoke again.  “Perry… do you believe someone like me can change?”

    “I don’t need to believe,” he replied without hesitation.  “You already have.”

    Eva stopped.  She didn’t stumble, she simply halted—mid-step, as if the ground had crumbled beneath her.  She turned to him, her tired eyes clear beneath her scarf.  “Don’t say things like that,” she said.  “Not unless you mean them.”  She wasn’t angry.  She looked afraid.  “You make it sound like I’ve already left her behind,” she whispered.  “Madame Wanton.”

    “But I still hear her voice.  She tells me I’ll be forgotten if I go.  That no one will remember who I was before her.  And that…”  She hesitated, breath catching.  “That the King only remembers the ones who never put on masks.”

“We walk then,” he said.  “And then we sleep.  But we never go back.”  He paused.  “Only… I don’t know the way.  I don’t even know who I am.  I was created to find truth in others.  But I just now realize — I don’t even know myself.”

    She nodded.  “Good.  Then we’re starting from the same place.”  She stepped closer.  “Perry… you always seemed like you knew everything.  Everyone.  Like you could see straight through the layers I spent years building.”  Her voice softened.  “But maybe that’s what you are.  A man made to see others… because you’ve never been allowed to see yourself.”

    She glanced toward the horizon.  “Then maybe this journey is for you too.  We walk until we remember who we are.”

    She looked back, finally.  “And if we don’t—then maybe we become it instead.”

    She took his arm.  Then, with a whisper of courage—the first step.  “Come on.  Let’s walk while it’s still dark enough to forget what we’ve been.”

    “Vain Delights lies to the south,” he said.  “And so does the sea.  There’s no future that way.”  He paused.  “We do not go to Stupidity,” he said, emphatically.  “Beyond Carnal Policy lies Morality.  Our road does not lie there either.”

    He pointed to the tail of the Bear, tracing its arc in the sky.  “We follow him.”  Then, more softly, “Or…” He glanced at Eva, sheepish.  “We look at your invitation.”

    She listened as he spoke—His compass laid out not in maps, but in rejections.  When he traced the Bear in the stars, she didn’t look up.  She looked into him.  “I always knew you were watching the stars,” she said.

    She reached into her dress—plain, patched, but with a hidden lining stitched carefully, discreetly.  She pulled out the parchment again and unfolded it.  The wax was broken.  The lettering, blurred.  But something new was there.  In the soft light of the stars, a second line was visible.

    “You were not made for this place.”  And then— “…but you are made for the road.”

    She handed it to him, her hands trembling.  “I thought it was just a warning,” she whispered.  “But it’s a calling, isn’t it?”

    It was Perry’s turn to lead the dance.  He felt her arm relax in his.  “We follow the Bear until we reach the road.  There’s a thicket just beyond where we can rest.  I’ll stand watch while you sleep.  We cross the Slough in the morning.  I will not risk losing you there tonight.”

    Eva nodded.  Not with gratitude, but with trust.  She didn’t protest.  I will not risk losing you there tonight.  She looked at him a long moment, as if memorizing the shape of those words.

    “I’ve never had anyone say that to me.”  And she followed him.

    Perry finished his story about Inconsiderate and set the quill in its stand, letting the ink dry before closing his journal.  He had seen past her mask—into her heart.  The Author would never see her as just Inconsiderate again.  He didn’t fully understand how dancing and speaking with her had changed her.  But he trusted the Author.

    His room was small and held only what he needed: a table for writing, and a bed for sleeping.  He slid his chair back and stood.  He leaned over to blow out the candle when a knock sounded at the door.  Soft.  But not timid.

    A woman stood in front of his door.  She wore a woolen dress—plain, patched in several places.  Her cheeks were pale, untouched by paint.  Her hair was parted simply, tucked into an olive-green head scarf.

    No scent of perfume.

    No mask.

    Perry didn’t recognize her.

    “Perry… it’s me,” she said.

    “Evadne?” he blinked.  Her steel-gray eyes were the same.

    “Please,” she said softly, “call me Eva.”

    “I’d like you to walk with me,” she said. “Not far.”

    She turned and started walking—not looking back.  “Please come,” she added.  “I won’t ask twice.”

    Perry slung his satchel over one shoulder and grabbed his staff.

    The first strike echoed off the cobblestone—sharp, sudden in the hush of the city.  He hurried after her.

    No one walked the streets but the occasional watchman—silhouettes in the dim, oily light of the city’s lamps.

    Eva led him across the bridge and down a narrow alley toward the tannery.  The stench was overpowering.  Not even the rats came here.  At the far end, a postern gate sat in the back wall held shut by a single rusted bar.  It swung open without resistance.

    The gate opened beyond the walls of the City of Destruction to a narrow path along the River of Confusion.  The reeds stood tall at the banks. Mist lay low across the ground.  No one walked here at night.

    With the city behind them, Eva spoke at last.  “There’s something I’ve never shown anyone.  Not even when I believed I had friends.”  She reached into the sleeve of her dress and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.  “This was left for me.  Years ago.”

    She opened it.  The parchment was faded, smudged with age.  In the dim light of the city, Perry could barely make out the words.  It simply read:

You were not made for this place.

    She gazed across the river, toward the road that slipped past trees into the Town of Stupidity.

“I want to believe it was real,” she said.  “That someone saw me.  That someone meant it.”

    Perry caught his breath when he saw her glance toward the town.  Stupidity was no place for a woman like her.  But then he remembered what she’d said about dueling. She probably had a dagger up her sleeve.  Or two.  Maybe even three, he thought wryly.

    He was thankful he’d brought his staff.  It wasn’t a sword, but in his hands, it was still a weapon.  And whatever she meant to show him; he was determined to see it through.

    “Lead on, Eva,” he said.  The name felt right.  “Tonight… we’ll uncover your mystery.”

    She led on, skirting the River of Confusion.  The reeds grew thicker.  The path narrowed, but she walked with unhesitating familiarity.  At one point, she stepped over a fallen log with practiced grace.  This was not her first time here.

    The moon was pale, caught behind a thin cloud.  Its light rippled on the water like silver veins in stone.  Finally, she stopped.  They had come to an abandoned ferry landing—just a warped stone pier, worn by time and tide.  The ferry was gone.  Only the chain remained, half-buried in the mud, stretching out into the darkness where the current ran deep.

    Eva turned to face him.  “You asked me what answers I needed.”  She looked toward the water.  “This is where I come… when I remember the ones I don’t want.”  

    She knelt at the edge of the stones and dipped her fingers into the water.  A moment later, she pulled out something wrapped in oilskin.  Without looking at him, she placed it gently into Perry’s hands.

    “I was engaged once,” she said. “To a man from Carnal Policy.”  She looked down at the bundle.  “I’ve kept this for years.  Letters.  Promises.  Seals with his family crest.”  Her voice turned quiet.  “He never lied… not exactly.  He just never meant to build anything true.”

    She stood again—somehow taller, for having spoken it. “I thought I could change him,” she said. “I thought I could be enough to make him want to become someone else.  She hesitated.  “Instead… I became someone else.”

    “That was how Madame Wanton was born.”  She paused.  “I don’t want her anymore, Perry.”  She looked at the oilskin bundle in his hands.  “Burn it.  Or keep it.  Or throw it in the river.  But don’t give it back to me.”

    She turned away, facing the mist-covered fields.  “I want to remember…” Her voice was quiet. “…who I was, before I needed a mask.”

    “I’ll hold it for you,” he said. “Unopened.”  He stood for a long moment, unsure what to say.  There was more.  She could have told him this while they danced.  Or handed him the bundle tomorrow.  But she had brought him here.  “You didn’t bring me here for this.”  The parchment.  Of course.  “What can I do for you, my dearest?” he asked at last.

    She stood a long while, staring at him.  Weighing.  Finally, she spoke, softer than before.  “It wasn’t written in his hand.”  She glanced at the river.  “The letter.  The one that said I wasn’t made for this place.”  Her voice barely above a whisper, “It wasn’t written by him.”

    “It was sealed…” she caught her breath “with the mark of the King!”

    She turned toward Perry.  There was nothing left of the party in her face.

    No coquetry.

    No calculation.

    Only Eva.

    “But the mark was broken.  The message smeared.”  She looked down, voice unsteady.  “I’ve carried it for years wondering if it was real, or if it was a mistake.  If the King meant it for someone else.  Or if someone forged it…to draw me away from the path I was meant to take.”

    Her voice firmed, resolve rising like a tide.  “I don’t care anymore who it was meant for.”  She looked at Perry

    “I’ve decided.  It’s mine.”

    A breath.  “Perry… I want to leave the City.”  A beat.  “But I don’t want to walk alone.”  She said it plainly.  Without hope.  Without despair.  Just the truth.

    She continued, “I don’t know what you’re looking for.  But if you’re going anywhere… I want to walk beside you.  Until you send me away.”

    Then she added, almost lightly, “Unless you still think I have too many daggers.”

***

    The Author sat in stunned silence, his pen trembling in hand.  When he’d sent Perry into the Dream, he’d prepared for detours.

    But he had not prepared for her.

    Not like this.

    Perry retraced his steps to Madame Wanton’s party.  This was his third time.  The Author had shown him Inconsiderate, alone in her room, sitting quietly after he left.  She would remember none of it.  But he would dance with her again.  There was still so much he wanted to know.  Maybe he’d ask her if peacocks got embarrassed. Or not.  I mean—he could, if he wanted.

   Madame Wanton noticed him the moment he stepped through the doorway.  She didn’t glance up at first.  Instead, she finished a sentence to some forgettable lord, accepted a glass of wine, and only then—only then—did she look.

    “Mr. Graycloak…” she said at last.  “You’ve returned.”

    She had remembered again.  That wasn’t supposed to happen.  The Author must have a reason.  Inconsiderate faded from his mind like music after the last note.  He turned his full attention to Madame Wanton.

    “I trust the wine was more satisfying last time than the company.”  Her eyes shimmered—cool, unreadable.  “Though I hear you’ve taken to slow dancing with the furniture.”  She sipped her wine, calculating.  “Shall I have the floor polished for you?  Or are you planning to talk tonight?”

    “Come now, my Lady,” Perry said gently.  “Pettiness is beneath you.”  He offered her his hand—open, unhurried. “Show me how to dance,” he said.  “And I’ll teach you how to duel.”

    Madame Wanton laughed—soft, amused, unreadable.  She stepped forward and studied his hand.  “You presume I’ve forgotten how to dance,” she murmured.  Then she looked up.  Her eyes were sharp.  And calm.  “And worse—You presume you’ve learned to fight.”

    A heartbeat passed.  The music shifted—slow, deliberate, precise.  Then, without a word, she placed her gloved fingers in his. “Very well.”

    As they moved toward the center of the floor, she glanced up—measured, regal, unblinking.  “But understand this, Perry.”  Her voice was silk.  “If you bleed tonight, it won’t be from the dancing.”

    Perry took the lead—but felt her resist, just enough to remind him who she was.  “I presume nothing, Madame Wanton.  Or should I call you…”

    The question hung in the space between their steps.  Madame Wanton stepped in—closer, but never too close.  Her form was flawless.  Her rhythm, a half-beat behind—just enough to force his correction.  “You presume nothing,” she echoed, voice cool.  “And yet you ask me for my name.”

    She spun—light, precise—tugging Perry with her.  Then stopped. Just short of yielding control.  “Names are dangerous things, Mr. Greycloak.”  She pressed into his resistance, testing the strain between them.  “A man like you should know:  A name given is a secret surrendered.  And I’ve surrendered enough in this lifetime.”  

    She let out a long breath.  “But if you insist on calling me something…”. She paused, then added, quieter: “Try Evadne—”  She leaned in, her eyes sharp with challenge.  “But only once.”

    “My dearest Evadne,” he said, soft with reverence.  “Now I will teach you how to dance.”  He relaxed into her rhythm, letting her lead.  “And you will show me how to duel.”

    A tremor ran through her—just enough for him to feel.  “Careful, Mr. Greycloak,” she murmured.  “If you give too freely… you might discover what it’s like to truly be seen.”

–

    Evadne twirled him with a dancer’s instinct.  It was a test.  A tease.  And, just for a moment, a memory.  Of a girl who once spun with joy, not strategy.

    “Dueling isn’t about wounds, Perry,” she said, voice low with fire.  “It’s about knowing how much to cut—and when to stop.”  She lowered her gaze.  Not in submission. In calculation.  “And knowing which blows you’re willing to take… just to find the answer.”

    “Tell me then, Madame… what answers do you need?”   Evadne.  He didn’t speak the name.  But it echoed between them all the same.

    She closed her eyes and took three slow steps.  “None that I’d admit to.”  She leaned in—closer than before.  “But I think I need someone to tell me…” A pause.  Her breath caught.  “…that the person I used to be wasn’t a fool.”  

    She pulled back—just enough to meet his eyes.  “That she was brave.”  A breath.  “That she was… right to believe in love.”

    She smiled softly.  But her eyes held sorrow.  “I don’t think anyone will.”

    “Not she!”  Fire sparked in Perry’s eyes.  “You.”  His voice softened, steady now.  “You are no fool, Evadne. Not now. Not ever.”  He let the words settle between them.  “But let’s dance a while… before resuming our duel.”

    Evadne drew a quiet breath, her body softening in his arms.  Not as a lover, but as a woman no longer holding herself together out of necessity.

    The song ended but Perry and Evadne kept dancing.  A new melody began, softer than the last.  Perry drew her closer.  “Tomorrow they’ll all forget,” he said quietly.  “But not you.”  He searched her eyes.  “Why do you think the Author wants this?”

    Evadne let herself be drawn close.  There was no seduction in her expression—only stillness.  “Because someone has to remember,” she said, her breath slow and measured.  “Maybe I was meant to.  To hold the thread when the rest unravel.”

    She looked into his eyes, no veil between them now.  “Or maybe…” Her voice softened.  A small smile touched her lips.  “Maybe he just wanted someone to keep you honest.”

    “Why do you throw parties?” Perry asked softly.  Then, after a pause:  “This time I will presume, my dearest—for the same reason I attend them.”  He didn’t need to finish the thought.  The invitation was already there.

    Evadne stopped mid-step.

    She didn’t blink.

    She didn’t smile.

    “Not for pleasure. Not for company.” Her voice dropped.  “I think I throw them to keep the Dream from fading.  To remind myself that all of this once meant something.”  Her voice wavered.  “But I’m tired, Perry.  Tired of pretending I don’t remember.  Tired of watching the same broken souls break the same way, again and again.”

    She stepped closer.  “If you’re asking me to help you…then I will.”  Her voice steadied.  “But I don’t serve the Dreamer.  I serve the story.”  A long breath.  “And I want to see how it ends.”

    “You will. I promise.”  The song ended.  Perry squeezed her hand, then bowed, deeply.  “But for now, Madame…” A faint smile.  “You have a party to run.  And I have one to attend.”

    Evadne let her hand linger in his—just a breath too long.  She didn’t curtsy.  She stood before him like a queen sending her knight to battle.  

    “Then go,” she said.  “Ask your questions.  Wear your masks.  But remember, Perry…”  She leaned forward, fire flickering beneath her breath.  “…this Dream is layered.  And not all dancers know they’re asleep.”  

    She turned and slipped into the crowd—her expression unreadable once more but her soul very much awake.

    Perry Greycloak retraced his steps to Madame Wanton’s house. It was no estate of Carnal Policy, but it rose proudly from the heart of the City of Destruction—timber walls veiled in velvet, gold and candlelight.

    His face burned at the memory of his last time at the party—the flattery he’d offered Madame Wanton, and the way she’d cut him short with a single look. Worse still, the moment he’d asked Miss Light-Mind if they could go somewhere quieter—only to watch her vanish without a word.

    The Author had reassured him.  He had only quoted Prince Vassily, after all.   And now the Dream had been reset.  No one would remember.

    Perry stepped into the ballroom. Madame Wanton was already there, arms folded, gliding to meet him. Her expression gave nothing away—but her eyes caught and held his.

    “We begin again,” she said.

    “You wear the same eyes as last night.  But there’s a change in how you hold yourself.  Have you come to win something this time, or simply to relive what you lost?” she continued, tilting her head.

    This wasn’t supposed to happen—she shouldn’t have remembered.  And yet, he was curious.  Perhaps it would make the evening more interesting after all.  He made a mental note to ask the Author about it once the party was over.

    She studied him carefully, neither mocking nor smiling.

“Tell me, beloved,” she said at last.  “Are we dancing tonight… or dueling?”

    “Madame.”  He let the word linger, just shy of affectionate.  “Is that Lechery I see?  What a bore.  And Light-Mind?  A careless dance may be just what I need.”  He surveyed the room with a faint smirk. “What a delightful menagerie you’ve assembled.  Not even the finest soiree of Vanity could rival.”  He bowed slightly. “As ever, your devoted slave.”

    He had doubled down on last night’s flattery—but this time, he was certain he’d caught the exact shade of Prince Vassily’s insincerity.

    “Such pretty words,” she said, letting them linger on her lips like wine. “And such a tired heart behind them.” Her face softened. “You lie well. Well enough for the room.”  She glanced at Light-Mind, still spinning through the crowd. “But not enough for me.”  Then she leaned in close, her voice low.  “Be careful, Mr. Greycloak. The Dream wears thin… when the dreamer forgets he’s wearing a mask.”

    And with that, she was gone—swept into the whirl of color and laughter, leaving Perry alone beneath the chandeliers, adrift in half-true promises.

    Perry moved easily through the crowd, the music swelling, laughter rising like foam around him.  A footman offered him wine; he accepted without a glance.  It was rich, cool—tinged with something he couldn’t name.

    “Oh!” Miss Inconsiderate had appeared beside him, seemingly out of thin air.  She bumped his elbow as she lunged for a second tart—nearly dropping it into her wine.  “I didn’t see you there. Well—not really. I mean, I did, but I wasn’t… you know.”

    She smiled.  Far too broadly, like someone trying to prove a point—and launched into speech as if outrunning her own thoughts.  “Did you try the tartlets?  They’re wretched.  Or maybe that was last week. I never keep track.  You don’t mind talking, do you? I mean, it’s a party.  People talk at parties. That’s what they do.  Well, not everyone. Some people just stand there and look interesting—like you.”  She tilted her head, eyes squinting as if trying to sketch him without moving her pencil.

    Oh, this would be easy, Perry thought.  He’d drive her off with a dose of sincerity, just as he had with Miss Light-Mind the night before.  Mirror her bluntness and watch her scatter.  But before he could open his mouth, she was already off again—words tumbling out like marbles from a tray she hadn’t meant to tip.

    “Are you interesting?  You don’t seem like one of the silent types—but then again, you were just sort of… standing there.  Not doing anything.  So maybe you’re one of those… broody ones.”  She nodded, entirely pleased with herself.  “That’s fine. I like broody.”

    “Oh, the tartlets!”  Perry cut in, just before she could spiral further.  “Don’t get me started on the scandalous tartlets.  I’m almost certain they were baked in the Town of Stupidity.”  Was that blunt enough?  He chuckled softly and leaned in, voice low in her ear.  “Just between us—Madame Wanton should be absolutely mortified.”

    Miss Inconsiderate gasped with delight, nearly spilling her wine. “I knew it! I knew something was wrong with them!”  She grabbed Perry’s arm to steady herself, eyes sparkling. “They taste like regret and old furniture, don’t they?”

    She didn’t pause for breath.  “Ohhhh! You’re one of those—the ones who say things you’re not supposed to say but somehow make them sound like secrets instead of insults. I like that. That’s clever.”  She sipped her wine, forgot to swallow, then remembered.  “Honestly, I’ve always thought Madame Wanton tries too hard. Don’t tell her I said that.  Or do.  No, don’t.  Or maybe…”

    She frowned—just for a moment—then brightened again.  “What were we talking about?  Oh, right.  You.  Or me.  Or tartlets.”

    She beamed. “I’m so glad you came tonight. I was just about to leave, but now I think I’ll stay and say something truly embarrassing.  Isn’t that what parties are for?”

    Perry took Miss Inconsiderate’s hand gently and guided her toward a quieter corner beyond Madame Wanton’s reach, if such a place existed.

    He touched a finger to her lips. “Quietly, my dear, quietly.  But you’re right—she does try much too hard.

What is she hiding?”  He laughed, startled by his own words.  “Or perhaps it’s nothing.  Just our imaginations. Don’t you think?”

    Miss Inconsiderate blinked, then lowered her voice a notch.  “Oooooh. Secrets and scandal? You are dangerous.”  She glanced around, then leaned in close.  “Hiding?  Oh, definitely.  People like her always are.  That’s why she’s perfect—every minute, every glance.  People who are always perfect are terrified someone might look too close.”  She clutched Perry’s hand a second too long. Then seemed to notice—and let go.

    “You know what I think?”  She didn’t wait for an answer.  “I think she used to be something real.  But something broke her.  And now she throws parties so no one asks where she went.”

    She nodded to herself, then sipped her wine, staring into the glass as if it had become interesting.  “Don’t tell her I said that.”  A pause.  “I mean, do what you want.  But… you won’t. Will you?”

    Perry blinked, caught off guard.  She wasn’t the Inconsiderate he’d heard about.  And this night was not unfolding as planned. “Of course not, my dear. Our little secret is safe between us.”  He hesitated, then added, more quietly, “May I be so bold as to ask you to dance?”  The question surprised even him.  “Slowly, mind you,” he added, tone lightening. “I’m all left feet.”  He extended his hand.

    Miss Inconsiderate gasped—then burst into a giggle, covering her mouth like she couldn’t believe herself.  “Dance?  With me?  Slowly?”

    She placed her hand in Perry’s with the theatrical grace of a child playing princess at court.  When he guided her onto the floor, her steps were clumsy at first—but careful.  She was trying, and Perry could feel it.

    “You’re not all left feet,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Just… not in a hurry.”  She looked up at him.  “I like that.”

    “No, not today, I’m not,” Perry said softly. “More a tribute to you than to me, I’d wager.”  He glanced at her, almost puzzled.  “Strange I never noticed you dancing before.”

    Miss Inconsiderate laughed—softly this time.  Not her usual laugh.  “That’s because I don’t. Not really.  I mean—I have. I do, sometimes. But…”. She glanced down at her feet, then back up, her smile a little shy.  “I usually just talk too much until people drift away.  No one ever thinks I can follow a rhythm.  They don’t usually ask me to try.”

    She softened—visibly. Her body, her posture, even her rhythm began to echo his.

    “But you…”  She swallowed, and her voice grew small.  “You’re not trying to get something from me, are you?”

    Perry blinked, taken aback.  He had come to observe, to understand—but this… this was something else.  He couldn’t bear the thought of harming this fragile soul he was only just beginning to see.  Gently, he placed a finger to her lips and gave the softest hush.  “Just dance, my dear,” he whispered.  “Just dance.”

    They danced in silence for a few minutes.  Then Perry spoke, softly.  “Of course you may talk.  But only if you want to.”

    She nodded but said nothing.  She kept dancing, the tension in her shoulders gone, her steps smooth and sure.  At last, she looked up with a quiet smile.  “I think…”. She swayed with Perry, letting the rhythm carry her, as if it had always been hers.  “I think I always wanted someone to say that.  That I could talk—or not.  That it didn’t matter.  That I mattered.”

    She let out a long, quiet sigh.  “I don’t think I’ve ever had a dance like this.”

    The song came to a close, Perry twirled her with a light flourish, then stepped back and offered a deep, courtly bow.  “Let’s not become the talk of the room,” he said with a faint smile.  “Please excuse me.  But stay, my dearest.  The party would be far duller without you.”

    Perry gave her a warm, unguarded smile.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

    She gave a half-curtsy—awkward, adorable, utterly sincere.  “You’re leaving?” she asked, barely above a whisper.  Then she caught herself, straightened, and flashed a too-bright grin.  “Right.  Yes.  Of course.  Can’t be the gossip.  Can’t ruin the mystery.”

    But something softer rose again—this time, left uncovered.  “Thank you.  For… dancing.  For not asking me to be anyone else.”

    “I’ll be here,” she whispered, to no one.  Or maybe to herself.  “I always am.”

***

    Miss Inconsiderate stood there a long while, eyes wide, one hand still lifted from the spin.  She stared into the crowd where he had vanished.  She didn’t even know his name.  With a blink, and a small nod to no one, she turned back toward the room.  But not like before.  This time, she drifted in silence.

    Lady Gilt stopped her.  “My dear, what was that?”

    Inconsiderate answered, eyes still distant.  “It was… a quiet song.”  Then clearer, “And it was mine.”

    Lady Gilt squinted, puzzled.  Inconsiderate didn’t explain.  She just walked on.

    Inconsiderate stood alone, right where she’d first met him.  Where she’d bumped into him.

    Mr. Lechery sidled up beside her.  “Well now… someone looks flushed.”

    “Yes,” she said dryly.  “Almost like I danced… instead of begged.”  She smiled at him, eyes bright with mischief.  “You should try it sometime.”

    Lechery raised an eyebrow, reaching out—but she moved past him, untouched.

    She found a pillar near the edge of the velvet drapes.  To rest, not to hide.  She took one sip of her wine, then set the glass down—unfinished.  And then without ceremony, she left.

    No goodbye.

    No giggle.

    No stumble.

    She cast one last glance at the dance floor, her hand smoothing the folds of her dress.  Then she slipped out the side door—her heels echoing softly on the marble behind her.

    Her small room in the City of Destruction was cluttered.  Papers were everywhere—lists, half-written letters, scraps with scribbled thoughts and “Don’t forget!” notes.  It was the kind of place that belonged to someone always promising herself she’d get organized.  

    Someday.

    She sat on her bed, still dressed.  Just thinking.

    Her fingers brushed the place on her cheek where he had touched her.  Then her hand fell to her lap.  

    And for a while, she simply sat in silence.

***

    Perry’s heart ached.  When the Author had asked him to do this, he hadn’t known how hard it would be.  She wouldn’t remember any of it tomorrow.  But he would dance with her again.  Not just for the steps.  For the understanding.  And when the time came, he would give her the greatest gift he could offer.  

Not romance.

    She would be a living person—not just “Inconsiderate” trapped in the pages of some dusty old tome.