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.”
