Wednesday brought a rare lull in the snow.

Two frigid evenings past Boxing Day, the zeal of gift-giving finally gave way to old enmities, restoring the city of London to cynicism as usual. At six-thirty AM sharp, from the icy coast of Canisbay to the southern-most part of Cornwall, the folk of England awoke to the sound of the paper boy's adolescent holler.

"DWARFIES to reopen the ye old RED KEEP! OLD Ally NEWLY back in the fold!"

In every news agency, tram station and vendor stand, similar images of the Gate of Kazhul, wide-open for the first time in three decades, splayed across the tabloids. Lower, nearer the article itself, a portrait that had now thrice graced the red-letter tabloids smiled winsomely at the audience with sparkling eyes, promising exciting things to come.

Over in Cambridge, Peterhouse, under the sheltered groves in the Deer Garden, over the clinking of heirloom silverware, Lady Grey shared a spot of morning tea with an old nemesis, "Dickie" Mycroft Ravenport.

With pleasure, The Lady of Ely revelled in the fact that she had been the very first to know of the Murk Dwarves' new stance toward the Mageocracy, and so had time to position her pieces just right. Though she had contributed nothing of note to the endeavour, the ambassador responsible for cracking the hard-headed Dwarves had been sent at her behest. In high-society, this meant Gwen's accolades were foremostly hers, then Peterhouse's, then Gwen's.

"I had to withdraw two Mage Flights and a triage team to babysit her unannounced caper," Ravenport intoned annoyedly. "You know what Ireland's like this time of the year. The Militia's short-staffed as it is, and now the Mercenaries are delving en-mass into Merthyr Tydfil like mud down a sinkhole."

The mistress of Peterhouse waited for a block of loosely-compressed sugar to wholly dissolve before taking a sip of her steaming, yearling Devonshire. "Is that so bad? London has effectively gained access to a virgin Dungeon, one that's untouched since the Beast Tide. Which of the central powers can boast the same? And it's close to home as well, no need for complex logistics. Surely your people stand to benefit more than they can lose?"

"We've no idea what's down there, Maxi." Ravenport buttered a scone with far too much marmalade. Unbeknownst to his enemies, the stone-cold, sable-clad Duke of Norfolk had a sweet tooth. "The girl reported that she fought a Wyrm! A mutated, draconic Earthen Worm."

"It's Gwen's Wyrm now," Maxine corrected her childhood companion. "Ergo, the danger is now sans Wyrm."

Mycroft meticulously masticated, swallowed, then continued. "There's no such thing as a free lunch. The Dwarves are not fools, least of all Whurforlüm. Did you know my grandfather was the last Tower Mage to confide with the Guild Master in person? Now I, his grandson, must broker a deal with the same Dwarf. You understand how vexing that could be?"

"A tad rich, coming from one who negotiated our treaty with the Hvítálfar," Maxine said carefully. "Aren't the highborn effectively immortal? The first Duke of Norfolk, working under Henry V, would have dealt with the same aldermen as you had."

"Wholly different," Mycroft refuted the implied hypocrisy. "The Hvítálfars are changeless, immutable, whereas the Dökkálfars are prone to change, only slower and more stubborn. A century from now, Snowdonia would remain as it has always been, out of touch— and reach— but can you say the same of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth? The girl wants to punch through the Murk and connect their citadel back into the Dyar Morkk. I shudder to think they would succeed."

"Is that so bad?" The Lady relayed her amusement at Mycroft's frustration. "You've been trying to tempt the Dwarves— well, OUR Dwarves, for years. You're just upset that Gwen did the job of the Foreign Office in place of your lackeys, am I right? At any rate, whatever muck will hit the Dwarves first and foremost."

"What an unkind thing to say." Mycroft sipped his tea, making a slight scowl. One of the reasons he did enjoy Maxine's company was that as equals, and as acquaintances since they were children, there wasn't too dire a need for facades and frivolities. After a long few days herding vipers, it was surprising how much one longed for candidness. "My Faction employs the finest men and women our country has to offer."

"I am reminded of an oriental idiom." Maxine fought back a grin. "Black cat, white cat, fat or lean, a good cat is the one that catches the mice."

"Now you're rubbing salt in my wounds." Mycroft sighed. "Enjoy it while you can Maxi. Your whelp will stumble sooner or later. Then you'll have to come to me to clean up her mess."

"Gwen can afford the reparations. Isn't that wonderful, Dickie? What a fortuitous investment Henry has left us, the gift that keeps on giving. All profit."

"Profit?" Ravenport's nostrils twitched. "You realise the Dwarves have submitted a hundred thirty-four requests for Resonators? One-Twenty of which was for overland travel to Central Europe. A mob of them to Sharr, a crowd to the Rila, a horde to Berchtesgaden and Lowland Bavaria. The Shard has decided to show our generosity and throw in diplomatic travel and Teleportation. Over in the mainland, their Towers are charging us arms and legs for the privilege of ferrying Journeymen to visit their cousins."

"Assuming twelve of them are Gwen's merry men, are any others staying in London?"

"Two dozen. Liaisons for the Freelancers. The Guild Master said they don't just want any riff-raff raiding in the Murk. There'll be cultural sensitivity training on both sides and a new licence office."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What is your department getting out of this, Dickie? Don't tell me a bloodsucker like you has suddenly caught an outbreak of philanthropy."

Mycroft twirled a dessert fork.

"We've sent visitation applications to the Germanic and Icelandic citadels, as well as Dwarven enclaves in the Eastern Reaches. Requests for visitation and overland travel should be flooding in as we speak. Naturally, we hope to recoup our costs and then some."

"How are our own responding to this?"

Mycroft's pursed lips edged upward. "It's been a while since we could commission regional Dwarven battle-gear. Just the demand for Spellswords is driving the Militant Faction into a tizzy. The Knight Orders as well are demanding a refresh to their armoury. For a few years now, the youngsters have been making do with re-forged facsimiles."

Maxine chuckled. "How desperate are the men?"

"The Order of St George has offered to send Knight Commander Springfield with a Squadron of his best Hunters to scour the Murk if it means the Ordo can have first-privileges on custom blades. The Griffin Guard is keen for updated Spell-lances, though understandably, the underground nature of the Murk has limited their application."

"You have this well in hand, I assume?"

"Naturally, a good blood-letting— by which I mean a public auction, is in order. We shall soon see who has deeper pockets."

"Boys and their toys." Maxine rolled her eyes. "No extra Golems for the Kingdom's forces?"

"The Red Citadel's designs aren't as easily modified as the German Mark IV's." Ravenport shook his head. "Besides, the contracts are set in stone. We're still waiting on a delivery of two-hundred by next year's end. The department's current budget does not allow for more."

"Nonetheless, you must be a popular man right now. More so than usual."

Mycroft affirmed the Lady's observation, then signalled a change in the subject by switching to an after-meal tea. As though hoisted by a poltergeist, the tea sets rearranged themselves.

"I always digress when it comes to you. Very unpleasant. Now— back to the subject of our sorceress. My sources from Hong Kong have informed me that the Communists are ready to make a move on her assets in Shanghai, in particular, her cut of Tonglv."

"To be expected." The Lady shrugged. "Would you allow a Chinese Magister part ownership of the Royal Docks?"

"You jest, but the clever thing is, they're accusing her of the very thing. Supposedly, she's supplying the Royal Docks. Naturally, rumours suggest she's consorting with myself."

"Supplying you with what, exactly?"

"The fanciful finance she sold to Shanghai via the Pudong Tower."

"Is it true?" The Lady of Ely raised a brow. "You did accost her at Heathrow. She told me all about it. Did the two of you consort beyond what's proper?"

"No, nothing of the sort."

"And did you, Dickie Ravenport, as one of the four major stakeholders of the Royal Docklands, deny such an accusation?"

Mycroft grinned like a shot fox. "I declined to comment, as did my colleagues."

The Lady shot her confrere a concerning glare. "Nanny always said you were a nasty boy."

"Nanny knows best. I wonder, though. Do you think the girl has contingencies in place?"

"You don't know?"

"Should I?"

Maxine covered her smirk with a side of scone. "If anyone should know, it should be you."

"What?" Mycroft shrugged. "What is she to me? Am I the Oracle of Delphi?"

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The Lady of Ely looked up from her teacup. "On a brighter note. Have you finalised the roster for Snowdonia?"

Mycroft paused, sensing an unpleasant premonition rising to the fore. Maxine Loftus seldom made requests of her companions; when she did, the Lady of Ely expected satisfaction. "You jest."

"Don't you think it'll be interesting?" Lady Loftus' eyes became two smiling half-moons.

"Maxine." The Duke of Norfolk replaced the fine china, indicating that he suddenly recalled pressing business. "I really must be going."

"Dickie," his companion's tone grew dangerously charming. "Care for a wager?"

The Duke paused. "Go on."

"I'll loan you the girl for the Isle of Man if indeed she's caught flatfooted by the scheming Orientals. Else, you have to find her a suitable instructor."

Mycroft squared his shoulders "You wager that an adolescent, much less a Frontier bumpkin from Sydney, would possess enough personal or local clout to fend off an attempt by the Party to retrieve an infrastructural apparatus linked to gross domestic output? Am I to believe Lord Shultz will be shortly gracing Shanghai?"

"My confidence in Gwen nears the supernatural."

Mycroft let lose an undulating wave of uncharacteristic laughter. From the shadows among the trees, his footman, ever attentive Elliot Saville, materialised to aid the Duke in donning his outer coat.

Outside the warmth of the Warding Mandala, the frigid winter whistled through the gothic fruit trees haunting the Deer Garden.

"Fine." Mycroft donned his hat. "My scepticism is no less supreme."

On Maxine Loftus' face, the Lady of Ely blossomed as though Juno summoning a second spring. Raising her cup, she toasted the departing Duke.

"Til next time, Dickie. May our communist friends live in interesting times."

London.

The Isle of Dogs.

Magus Gwen Song; honorary Magus of Peterhouse, relayed the events of the past three days to her dearest provisional-practitioner of Magical Medicine, Elvia Lindholm of Great Osmond Street Children's Hospital.

Though it had been only three days, the stimulation afforded by the influx of HDMs had changed the atmosphere of Millwall from humid and mouldy to merely bedraggled. The streets which were previously choked with black snow, industrial waste and mud from the sea-swell had all been cleared, leaving the Victorian cobblestone exposed and glistening under the dreary wintery sun.

The dilapidated press, Gwen's targeted industrial operation, had likewise been unearthed by human hands wrought of flesh and powered by fragile hope, revealing a hint of its former glory. Gwen's only gripe was the townfolk's dubious grasp of sustainability. Downstream, a month on, the Royal Docklands would inevitably discover a glut of old trash clogging up its eastern in-takes.

"Was Hanmoul upset?" Elvia listened, the very picture of attention, "When you told him Ollie was a spy?"

"Not after I bribed him with a dozen Da-peng feathers," Gwen explained. "He forgot all about Ollie after that. Said it wasn't the lad's fault, and that he had to deal with the Clan Heads and the Deepdowners all the time in a similar fashion. Every time he came to Merthyr Tydfil, he took notes and bought information as well."

"Hanmoul's not among the twelve to come here?" Elvia spoke with disappointment.

Gwen shook her head. "The Commandrumm will be all kinds of busy dealing with the new operations to clear a way through the Murk. He's working hand-in-glove with our representative from the Shard though, so there's a chance he might be able to visit."

"A shame, I rather like Mister Bronzeborn."

"Yeah, he's a good bloke, one of the best I've met. Tell you what though. Give it some time and we can both look forward to working with him again."

Quickly, Gwen polished off her richly laden bowl of SPAM soup, a concoction of cabbage, tomato paste and copious amounts of Spam sliced and boiled until falling apart.

Her roster had left little time for cuisine. Since returning from Merthyr Tydfil, she had reported to Lady Gray, dropped off Ollie to recover his sanity, then jetted her way at maximum velocity back to her Evee. After spending a night cuddling the healer's hot water-bottle body, she had risen, rested and restored enough to expend her final few days of freedom.

First, there was Walken. Then, she had to locate Dominic Lorenzo and recruit him for the free paper gig as soon as possible. When her Dwarves arrived in a month, she had a feeling that things would be moving very quickly indeed. Assuming all went well, she should be wrapt in secret studies, meaning she had to have delegates set up and ready to go.

"So." Gwen studied her flaxen-haired companion. "Ready to add a second Spirit to your menagerie?"

"Sure am!" Elvia nodded, bobbing her fringe back and forth. Each day Sen-sen remained an unattached ginseng was a source of disquiet and danger for the not-so-well connected Cleric. "Have you found Master Walken?"

"Lady Loftus gave me his country house address," Gwen said. "No wonder he's disappeared from Cambridge, the old dog's in Brighton."

"The resort town?"

"The very one." Gwen grinned. "Lucky for us, eh? We can take a stroll along the beach. Eat ice cream by the ivory pavilion."

"It's winter and five degrees out..."

"... buy scarves, shoes and dresses from the Lanes, dine on sea scallops by the seashore."

"I thought we're there to find Master Walken's family."

"That too." Gwen laughed. "I take it all's well in Millwall? Are you fine to be absent?"

"Not really…" Elvia sulked. "The other Clerics aren't giving it their all."

"Is Mathias not doing his job?"

"He is," Elvia quickly interjected, pointing to the lone figure of the Knight patrolling the aid station and the food hall. "I guess the Tower hires find it strange that we're treating the NoMs, destitute ones at that."

"Did you tell those snobs Lady Astor and Lady Gray are your sponsors?"

"I don't think we are…?" Elvia cocked her head.

"You are," Gwen assured her friend. "Trust me on this. Why else would they offer?"

"Umm…" Elvia pursed her petite, pink lips, the picture of uncertainty.

"I'll have a word with Mathias and our trio of hired help." Gwen flashed her Peterhouse Magus emblem. "I spent good CCs on those Clerics. They had better be OoM at the end of every shift, or somebody is going to suffer a stern word from Caliban."

Gwen was very much glad that Brighton was where Walken had chosen to hole up because she adored the resort town in her old world. Of course, her glee had little to do with its famous beach— Australia's beaches were incontestable when it came to the quality and quantity of bronzed-bodies being tanned. Instead, she longed for its white-domed pier, its orient-influenced Royal Pavilion, its trendy art-house cafes and restaurants.

As for the journey south, flying toward the curvature of the coast with Evee princess-carried against her torso was itself a pleasure. The squirming, squealing girl's fright gave her no end of sadistic joy as she pumped more and more mana into her flight spell, piercing the air with such velocity that Brighton came within view within the hour.

Mid-way over the rolling hills of West Sussex, the duo encountered a flock of Razor-billed Starlings, appearing as a vast net to enmesh the pair. A robust burst of pseudo-Dragon-fear from Ariel was enough to spare the ten-thousand or so spatchcocks. The farmhouse below, however, was left inundated in a sudden downpour of panicked deposits, spontaneously inspiring a scene from Hitchcock's "The Birds".

Closer to the sea, once accustomed to the skin-ship, her companion relaxed, staring in wide-eyed wonder at a vista which only those willing to pay the gratuitous cost of Flight could see.

"I should learn a faster Flight Spell," Gwen murmured. The velocity was as therapeutic as Evee's delightful squeals. "I recall Allie employed Greater Flight."

"It's a higher-tier Transmutation though," Elvia jittered as they plummeted downwards. When the seaside pavilion rapidly approached, Gwen cut their velocity via a rapid series of Dimension Doors.

When finally the duo appeared on the ground, it was to the shock of the Town Guards on the watchtowers, whose Scrying diagnostics implicitly surmised that anyone licensed to be flying into town would not appreciate overcurious public servants.

"Erg— pebble-sand." Gwen grimaced. The idea of landing on Brighton Beach with Evee had been so enthralling she had neglected the impossibility of walking on loose pebbles in four-inch heels. Of course, the annoyance aside, she had good cause to loathe the touch of cold, clinging sand-grit. "It's coarse and irritating and gets everywhere."

"Sorry…" Elvia apologised.

"What for?"

"I wasn't there for you when Debbie…"

"It's all in the Void now." Gwen dismissed her friend's concern. "Really. Caliban can be very therapeutic."

Both wishing to quell the rising sentiment, the two unfurled the town map.

Elvia's attire matched the winter decor, with her petite figure bundled in a knee-length overcoat and enclosed by a pair of suede booties. Gwen was her usual stubborn self, preferencing a light autumn-dress with stockings, vying for maximum comfort. Thanks to Almudj's blessing, the ravages of the seasons seldom touched her skin, though as a Sydney-sider, she had never bothered with winter-wear across either of her two lives.

"Walken's address…" Gwen diverted her attention to the legend, both brows sulky with confusion.

"Allow me." Elvia turned the map ninety degrees. "It's close."

"Shall we fly?"

"The apartments here are tightly staggered." Her helpful Elf steered them onward. "You'll never find it. Besides, it says 11/43 Chester Terrace, Brighton East. We'll have to consult the locals. The buildings here all look the same."

"Right," Gwen relented. There was certainly nothing wrong with a seaside stroll with Elvia.

Once they cleared the beach, she was pleased to find that the ivory-facade Brighton was famous for had not faded in this world, but expanded to encompass entire blocks. Though her present world lacked many quality-of-life improvements in information technology, its sorcerous means of erecting buildings was second to none.

"It's beautiful," Elvia marvelled as they strolled through King's Parade, overlooking the lapping blue-green waters of the English Channel on their left. The Lanes remained as Gwen had recalled, though more built up, with a significant extension of the Lanes. Gone, however, were the trendy boutiques—instead, trinket-makers, jewellery-crafters, and an assortment of fabric-sellers, seamstress' abodes and gift-emporiums had replaced the familiar sights. After an eye-opening meander, Gwen made a note to take Elvia to a sweets shop called "Charlie's Crystal Emporium", a business with patrons spilling out the doors. Secretly, she hoped that there would be something akin to Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans of Potter-lore. Surely that would be a fun game to play with Evee.

After a few twists and turns from helpful, neighbourly individuals who seemingly appeared out of thin air to aid Elvia with directions, the duo looked upon No. 11/43 Chester Terrace, Brighton East.

Unexpectedly, the abode was not an apartment but a townhouse with shared walls, as was proper for those with the means to afford the view. Impressively, the beach-facing home was three-storeys tall, crammed between two identical apartments in the same Regency style that made Brighton such a throwback to the halcyon days of empire.

Gwen inhaled in the frigid sea air. Despite the Shielding Stations shimmering in the distance, there was almost no detectable trace of mana miasma.

"Bloody good location," she remarked, glancing at the marina and its collection of private yachts. In a world of Mermen and monsters, a vessel spoke loudly of the owner's confidence at sea. Barring the most unfortunate of cases, it was a Mermaid's great misfortune to run into a group of eager Maguses and Magisters fishing for rare specimens. "Well then, shall we?"

"Shouldn't we Message Master Walken first?" Elvia withered in the shadow of the stately townhouse, plausibly worth more than a whole student wing at Nightingales.

"His device isn't in service." Gwen shrugged. "Besides, it'll be interesting to see what he's up to, don't you think? Maybe he's intimately catching up with his estranged wife."

"Gwen!" Elvia appeared scandalised. "You have the wildest imagination... Maybe we should wait?"

"It's almost mid-day, and he's unemployed," Gwen snorted. "Barring coitus interruptus, she'll be right, mate."

She pressed the doorbell.

A delightful chime thrilled.

A brief lull later, the door opened, revealing a young brunette who could only be one of Walken's daughters. Unmistakably, the girl sported the same charcoal-coloured eyes as her father, an unusual hue among Saxons. Beatrix or Angie? Gwen wondered. The girl had the look of a second child, meaning she must be Angie.

Their eyes met.

Gwen put forward her most endearing, benevolent, winsome smile. She felt almost maternal toward the girl, notwithstanding the difference in their age. Having guided Walken with a tender hand in Shanghai, her feelings toward her colleague's children were full of benevolence, especially Angie, who suffered from Mana Asthma. Just as her Master had taken care of Angie, so would she.

"Good Afternoon! My name is Magus Gwen Song, this my colleague, Elvia Lindholm. We're here to see your father, Magister Walken."

As she announced herself, Angie's smile arrested, then like the coming of permafrost, the girl's expression grew increasingly rigid. An Ice Mage? Gwen applauded Walken's genetics.

Despite the unanticipated chill, Gwen maintained maximum amicability.

"Is your father in—"

"MOTHER!" the girl cried out suddenly, her voice crackling with ice. "THE WHORE OF BABYLON HAS COME FOR DAD!"


In Gwen's impressionable adolescence, there had been mandatory Christian-study in place of actual counsellors. Post Thatcher, Australia, like most liberal economies, had embraced a new wave of bible-thumping the likes of which had not been seen since the '50s. It was the zeitgeist of a conservative right-wing boom aghast at the freedoms offered by the rock' n' rolling '80s, a riposte against the rise of alt-pop, hiked-skirts and the modern woman.

The pastor, plagued by gaggles of giggling school girls, gave up discipline within the hour and opted for the fire and fury of hell to inspire virginity for Jesus.

Gwen, being the tallest, prettiest poppy of the lot, would be singled out more than once to endure such a sermon.

The Whore of Babylon was often the topic of such an episode.

"The Mother of Prostitutes! Abominations of the Earth! She with whom all the kings of the earth have committed fornication!"

The pastor, recently divorced as per the spirit of the wanton age, would exhaust himself in bumbling ecstasy, his wandering eye regularly resting on the Eurasian in their midst. Thankfully, it was the age, and not something more sinister. Only recently had the "Gooks" made headlines as kingpins of heroine and the "Chinks" fled Tiananmen en-mass to Sydney's shores, allowing, "the bloody Wogs" a relieving breath of unmolested air.

When the same words emerged from the perfectly formed face of Angie, Gwen had to fight off the stunned donning of an all too disturbing mantle. It made no sense. In this life, her pastor would have wept like a child at her prudence.

Was Walken's daughter daft?

Gwen knew she wasn't a "whore", not by any metric. Naturally, she understood the biblical implication; the school chaplain had called his whore wife nothing else.

Quickly, she glanced at Elvia, who appeared equally slack-jawed and wide-eyed, completely lacking in understanding. Evee had once remarked that a puss at work had labelled her with the title, though Gwen had yet to get around to skin that particular cat.

"I am sorry?" Gwen opted for diplomacy, choosing to understand that there might be a misunderstanding. "Young lady…"

"GWEN? You're here?"

The familiar face of Eric Walken, ex-member of the council of ten of Oceania, appeared in the corridor.

"Eric!" Gwen waved. "Yes, I am here. Why wouldn't I be?"

Angie's face fell once more.

"Oh, dear…" Walken stopped in his tracks. To Gwen's eyes, her old nemesis-turned-ally looked quite a bit different from his Machiavellian self. In Sydney, Walken had been the aloof politician. In China, he had persisted in the air of a prideful English Magister, always appearing a rung above the rest.

Now, with his gold-rimmed spectacles, scruffy beard and apron, the Magister appeared emasculated. There was now an unmistakable air of domesticity to the older man that made Gwen doubt her eyes. She rather fancied the newly mellowed Walken, even though he was so divorced from the Mage she had imagined him to be. "… I think you better come inside first."

Despite her father's amicability, Angie was not having it. "Dad, are you serious?"

"Possum, don't be rude to our guest."

"MOTHER!" The girl fled.

Gwen and Walken looked at one another eye-to-eye.
Walken looked tired.

VOOMP!

A Dimension Door appeared and disappeared, revealing who could only be Audrey, Eric's wife. In between the fading motes of icy Conjuration, Gwen spied a dark-haired woman with the likeness of a lark. At first impression, the wife of Walken seemed sweet and sincere. She was short, as per her bird-like guise, with a narrow body, a small face and teak eyes. She dressed well in a full-length cotton-skirt and a pale-blue cashmere cardigan, certainly better than her aproned husband, carrying a demeanour that was dignified and portrait-ready.

"You must be the delightfully unattached Miss Song." Audrey's voice, like her appearance, was sharp and controlled. "Do come into the kitchen."

"Audrey," Walken raised his voice. "This is most improper. Gwen's a guest and an important one at that. Show her to the living room."

Gwen involuntarily gulped when Walken's wife swept the gathering with her matronly gaze. Having enjoyed no experience of domesticity of any kind across two lives outside of compelling Percy to cook, she felt genuinely lost for words.

"In the kitchen," the wife insisted. "Angie, you may make our guests some tea."

The daughter stomped away, as did Audrey, leaving Gwen standing in the corridor, watched by a confused Elvia.

"How's London?" Walken said awkwardly.

"Not the catch up I expected," Gwen replied to the unspoken question.

"Mmm." Walken sighed. "I had wanted to prevent an incident, but now that you're here, maybe you can help us resolve our differences."

The country kitchen inside the townhouse was larger than Gwen had expected from the outside. Since the family occupied all three levels, the back porch had been knocked out and extended to the exterior, creating an oblong, half-dome winter garden. Around the kitchen table, the family sat for the impending presentation of their father's head on a silver platter.

"My apologies for Angie," Audrey began, her lips thin and severe. "Angie. Apologise."

"Sorry, Miss Song." Angie inclined her chin. To Gwen, the girl looked to be in her late teens or very early twenties. Like her father, her keen features made her appear maturer than her years.

"That's fine." Gwen hand-waved the prior insult. It wasn't as though she could extract satisfaction from Walken's family, so the apology was a moot point.

Audrey began the proceedings with a nod.

"To formalise our introduction, my name is Audrey Walken— of House Coke of Leicester, Norfolk. The late Earl Thomas Coke was my father. I am his surviving daughter. You've met my second, Andrey Coke-Walken, currently studying at London Imperial. Our eldest, Beatrix, is presently a Magus serving in Edinburgh. Finally, as you well know, Eric is currently unemployed."

"Gwen Song, provisional Magus, Peterhouse, Cambridge and Class VI War Mage," Gwen answered stiffly, matching the woman's terseness. "My companion is Elvia Lindholm, a provisional practitioner of GOS and Nightingales. Also, your husband isn't unemployed."

"Really?" Audrey spooned a sugar cube into a steaming cup of English Breakfast. "Do tell."

"He will very soon be working as an Executive Officer on several operations involving the Isle of Dogs and an infrastructure project for the rest of London."

"Working 'under' you, I presume?"

"You are correct." Gwen left her tea untouched. From the wife's tone and the way Walken clenched his teeth, she was beginning to put two and two together. "Audrey, I am sensing a great deal of uninvited hostility. Your husband is correct in claiming that there has been a misunderstanding."

"Very well." Audrey pursed her lips. "I am not unreasonable. Enlighten us."

"Eric?" Gwen turned to Walken. "Care to clarify the problem?"

Walken cleared his throat. "The fault is mine."

"Naturally—" Audrey stirred the tea.

Gwen agreed, as did Angie.

"...After our unfortunate incident in Sydney." Walken's face took on an uncharacteristic hue. Gwen had never seen the man so flustered, not even in front of a Lich. "I er… never quite communicated to Audrey the extent of the trouble I was in, what with the exile from Sydney and all..."

"… fuck me." Gwen winced. "Eric. REALLY?"

Beside her, the well-informed Elvia gasped.

Gwen now understood the source of Walken's humility.

"A temporary affair. As you know, I was repairing the damage from the fallout, and indeed, good progress has been made."

"True." Gwen nodded.

"What progress? From a regional administrator to unemployment?" Audrey chided her husband with her icy eyes. "That's progress, is it?"

Walken waited for his wife to stop interjecting. "At any rate, for amply good reasons, I was off the grid while in China— the family was still provisioned materially, of course. Unfortunately, the trouble here began when they broadcasted the IIUC."

"You didn't realise they would show your face?" Gwen cocked her head. "You were our team advisor. You knew the Proctors by name."

"I had made a request," Walken answered. "We had been right as rain up until the incident with the Lich. It's hard to avoid the vid-casts when one's nearly deceased."

"Ah…" Realisation dawned.

"Daddy risked his life for you!" Angie could no longer hold her tongue. "He wasn't home often, but he always came back! Now, because of you, Daddy disappeared for almost a year! We haven't heard a peep from him since the Fall of Sydney, and when we see him again, he's on the vid-cast with you wrapped around his neck! Who are you to him anyway? Why would he do that for you?"

Puzzle pieces clicked into place. Already, Gwen felt irked by the drama. She needed Walken up and running on the Isle of Dogs, not dealing with trivial domestic disputes.

"Angie, manners," Audrey quietened her daughter. Turning to face Gwen, the older woman's face was the picture of judgement. "I don't know how your folk do things in Australia, but we Brits hold certain ceremonies as sacred. The facade of matrimony must be upheld on the highest pedestal. In private, if Eric wishes to seek the warm and inviting company of a young sorceress such as yourself, then I have only my lack of allure to blame. However, what you have done to our reputation as a household is irreparable. Beatrix has already received many a mocking remark, and Angie here can barely keep her head held high. I, myself, as the chief victim of his affair, should consider myself lucky that I have sympathetic companions and friends in high places. What I ask from you then, is merely the impoverished gift of truth."

Gwen opened her mouth wide enough to fit two boiled eggs.
What. The. Fuck.
Walken's wife was suspecting she and old man Walken were bumping uglies because the old dog had neglected to churned her butter? The very thought of herself and Walken as non-platonic professionals made her drier than a slab of biltong.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

"According to Eric, you're simply a stepping stone back to where he should be," Audrey continued, her words making Walken squirm like a cheap steak on a sizzle-plate. "He expects us to believe him. Of course, I want to, but the evidence is difficult to swallow."

"What evidence?" Gwen demanded, her tone growing churlish. Being labelled a biblical destroyer and being accused of being a homewrecker were wholly different tiers of insults. What evidence did Audry possess? Was the woman going to show her a vid-cast of Instructor Walken teaching horizontal Spellcraft?

"You're easily worth the candle; I'll give you that." Audrey's eyes spoke volumes of what the wife thought of her attire, particularly the breathability offered by the autumn fabric. "Not that I don't trust Eric's temperance— rather— I know him too well."

Gwen shot Walken a wilting glare.

Walken's wife lowered her teacup until it clinked. Turning to her husband, she cooly continued. "I don't think, if it came to it, that you would die for me, Eric. Maybe for the girls, but not for me. You've always been an absent father and inattentive husband, but I always believed in your adherence to the gentleman's code. Now, you've another significant other— Miss Song here, which begs the question. What should your wife think, Magister Walken, when her husband is willing to give his all, NOT to his daughters, whom you've left here in London: Beatrix in that godforsaken Frontier; Angie with her asthma; nor to his loyal spouse— but to Miss Song?"

"You're missing the point," Walken appeared blindsided by his wife's audacity. "I've explained everything! More than once! Gwen's not like that."

"Like what? I somehow doubt this teenager is supplying you with the power and influence you crave. What she can offer, and what you may give; is self-evident." Audrey delivered her verdict. "So that leaves us with a natural conclusion. Ergo, Eric— I want a divorce."

Silently, Gwen mouthed the words, "Holy shit."

"Divorce? DIVORCE?" Walken's Adam's apple bobbed like a buoy at noontide. "Christ, Audrey…"

"It's only fair if you can't even pretend to play the faithful husband. At first, I had my doubts. Then I saw her kiss you— or revive you— or so you say, on the vid-cast, broadcasted across every respectable home in London and beyond. Still, I reserved my judgement, pushed my boundaries of belief, until the truth came out. We've all read the tabloids. Gwen Song, Void Sorceress, the maybe daughter of Mycroft Ravenport— your old patron and Factional chum. That was the final straw, Eric. Now I know why you did what you did— though I can't fathom why she could bear reciprocating the advances of an ageing, greasy eel. The mystery's gone, Eric. To the air, be free."

"Rubbish!" Walken's face blushed scarlet. "Why do you think I was away all the time? Why was I alongside Gwen in the IIUC? I was WORKING! Working to ensure that one day, we would be influential again. That one day, the girls could return to Holkham Hall!"

"Never mind the ancestral estate, Eric. That's not your business, not anymore. We wouldn't dare take up any more of your time."

Walken appeared to fight his hypertension with every mote of mana remaining in his unemployed body.

"HOLD UP." Gwen raised her voice. She had seen enough. A few clarifying words should clear the whole thing up in a jiffy. "This is ridiculous. Audrey, Eric, Angie, can you at least listen to what I have to say before burning your bridges?"

Three pairs of eyes converged on Gwen.

"Gwen, tell them." Walken massaged his heart.

Imperiously, Gwen sat up straight and dosed herself with a jolt of Almudj's Essence. Crossing her long legs, she squared her shoulders and extended her swan-neck. "Fair warning. I will NOT be interrupted."

The women snorted.
Walken nodded.
Elvia briefly met her gaze, her blue-eyes wild with alarm.

Gwen began.

"First, Audrey. You are mistaken. Eric and I started as enemies at each other's throats. My Master, if you haven't read the backlog, is Henry Kilroy, Master of the Ten, and victim to your husband's grievous miscalculation. He's dead now, in no small part thanks to Eric. Later, when Walken first approached me in Shanghai, we almost came to blows. When my sister-in-craft, Alesia de Botton found him, she chased him across the university district flinging Fireballs. In time, he assumed the role of an advisor for Fudan's IIUC team, of which I was vice-captain. We went through the rounds, eventually ending up in the Chinese Undead Front. A Lich ambushed me, and not wanting to lose all his efforts in making it up to Alesia and my brother-in-craft, Gunther Shultz of Sydney, he risked his life to do what's best for him. Having lost a gambit, I shared with Walken some of my life. That was the broadcast where I revived him from the brink of death."

Walken nodded at Gwen, then at his wife.

"This is why we're close." Gwen patted Walken on the shoulder in a familiar manner. "I don't know if you've ever fought a live Lich, but we survived one. At that moment, our lives were inextricably entwined. That's the reason why I trust him, and he trusts me. For Combat Mages, there exists a special bond of camaraderie that's difficult for civilians to internalise. But fear not, our bond is platonic and professional. With your husband beside me…"

Walken inclined his chin in approval.

His wife, however, grew more frigid with every word.

Besides her mother, Angie's mouth twisted with loathing. "Disgusting…" Angie mumbled. "Dad, you're disgusting."

"… and as my Chief Executive Officer—" Gwen bit her tongue. Her audience wasn't listening, though God knew why. Having come from a family championed by Morye no.1 in her old world, and Hai no.2 in her new world, she knew she was ill-equipped to be a family consultant. But Gwen had thought her monologue thoroughly diplomatic. If she were her mother's daughter, she would have slapped Audrey right in her sulky mouth.

In any case, the wife was giving her the piss. Was exploring the beneficial bond between her and Walken insufficient? Perhaps Audrey needed to hear the jingle of crystals. How about a spiel about the profitability of Legion? Or the Isle? Or her Dwarves?

"Eric." The wife spoke before she could continue. "We can make it to the Shard and get the forms signed before they shut."

"Audrey, my patience isn't without limits..." Walken undid his apron. Understandably, her companion had suffered enough.

It was just as well; Gwen shrugged mentally. An unattached Walken would probably devote himself to work more readily than one with baggage. After his liberation, she could settle Walken down on the Isle as her majordomo. Once the Dwarves arrived, he would know how to deal with them. There was the matter of trade with the Red Keep as well, involving the import of jadeite and Maotai and other materials from Burma and beyond. Post commencement of her Spellcraft lessons, Walken would keep matters well in hand.

"Dad, you're ridiculous…"
"Not now, Angie..."
"Don't you dare silence her! You're just a Baronet if even that!"
"You two do whatever you want, and I don't complain…"
"What do you call this then? Are you not complaining? I must have gone mad…"

Once the noise began, Gwen tuned right out. It was amazing how some habits could cross over two lifetimes. Family disputes were all the same, everywhere. Vaguely, she felt sorry for her future officer, but really, Walken's family business was his own. All she could offer the man was work to free him from strife.

It was generosity enough.

"STOP! ALL OF YOU!"

The cry that rang out like clarion to quell the quarrel came from the unlikeliest of sources.

Elvia stood, pale-faced, red-eyed and panting.

"You're all wrong!" She howled at them, a little lioness clawing at the air. "GWEN ISN'T A HOMEWRECKER!"

"Who are you to say so?" Angie challenged Gwen's companion. "Who are you to her?"

"I am…" the girl paused. Gwen met her Evee's glimmering eyes. What was her cleric up to now? Why should she care about Walken?

"Evee—"

Then Gwen got her answer.
Without reserve, hesitation nor warning, Elvia Lindholm; her sweet little Evee from Avalon— kissed her full on the lips.

Gwennie was digging her own grave.

From what Elvia knew of her friend's familial history, Gwen was the last person who should be giving Walken advice about marriage. The scenario was so insane that, as soon as they had passed the door, Elvia suspected Gwen would be swimming upstream through a river of shit.

How in God's name could two workaholics: one a power-hungry career politician who had left his family for almost a decade to work on the Frontier; the other an orphaned daughter of Hai and Helena— rekindle the flames of a snuffed marriage? The two arsonists of love might as well douse Brighton in Dwarven promethium, then invite Yue to start a bonfire.

When Gwen's explanation strayed into how important Walken was to her immediate future, Elvia had cringed so hard her chest cramped. When again, through the lens of meritocracy, Gwen had raised Walken above and beyond the boundaries of ordinary friendship, her heart grew sore.

If even herself, who knew Magister Walken was not Gwens' carnal companion, was feeling such jealousy and frustration, what would Walken's family think?

There was also Gwen's cold-heartedness, her complete disdain for the fact that a man was about to lose a wife and two daughters. How could her dearest friend be so kind, and yet be so insensitive to others? It was a side of Gwen she had rarely seen, one that sent shivers quivering down Elvia's spine.

In private, Gwen had once remarked that family was a love that grew about the bone. If so, why should Walken slave away in the salt-mines of regret and bitterness for Gwen's convenience? Why not let go? Leave him to his family?

As expected, following Gwen's tirade, Walken's wife and daughter descended into self-harm, feeding on each other's flesh. As for Gwen, as soon as her friend's eyes glazed over, Elvia knew the girl had gone over a cliff and would not be coming back.

There was only one person present who could bring back the trio from the brink, and it was herself.

"STOP! ALL OF YOU!"

Her new-found sternness surprised even herself. When Angie, the foolish daughter of the Magister, furthermore challenged her with the absurd question of who she was to Gwen, all of her pent up frustration and longing cascaded into an unopposable, barrelling impulse.

It was a threshold that she had told herself never to cross, no matter how much she desired it. Growing up in Avalon by the bay, she understood the importance of boundaries all too well. Her house had overlooked the Shield Walls. These invisible barriers, these curtains of civilisation, were the final frontier of Sydney. Once past the shallows, past the final stretch of the continental shelf, came the dark water— murky and muddled and mired with Mermen.

Now, she crossed it.
Thoughtlessly, she had stepped past the sandbar and plunged into the deep dark before her mind even registered that her feet were no longer touching the seafloor.

"To Gwen. I am the only one that matters." The voice that spoke was alien and strange, almost as if not her own. She must be sleep-talking, Elvia thought. Only in her dreams had she ever been so full of surety and confidence.

From her pocket, the newly awakened Kiki, stirred by the turbulent emotions welling up inside her torso, made itself known with an equally elated, "KIKI— KI!"

"Gwen isn't for your husband," the voice of God continued. "Not now, not ever. So you have nothing to worry about."

"Ki-ki!"

The room sat in stunned silence, including Gwen, now the victim of a Gorgon's gaze.

"Mister and Missus Walken!" Elvia wasn't sure if she could maintain her ethos after her implied logos of love, but she was up to her neck now and paddling free. She had only the experience of her sickeningly-loving parents as an anecdote— that and fifteen years of Sunday Service at St Mary's. "Earlier, you said that you hold 'certain' ceremonies sacred— inferring that you made a vow to love and care for one another in sickness and in health, till death do you apart. Is this true?"

The couple nodded.

"Where were you married?"

"St Andrews…" Walken's eyes darted between Gwen and then herself.

"By a priest?"

"A Bishop…" Walken intoned drily.

"Then why do you neglect the Lord's sanctification? Did St Paul not say that husbands should love their wives, just as Christ loved the church, for he gave up his life for the latter? And YOU, Ma'am. As one with children, TWO in fact, how can you talk of divorce so carelessly? So selfishly? He who loves his wife loves himself. Man and woman; yolk of the one egg, who shall mock the flesh of their flesh? Why should Angie and Beatrix lack their parent? What kind of blasphemy do you propose to teach your children?"

Audrey stared, bewildered by Elvia's accusation of apostasy.

"… We're agnostic," Walken's wife interjected woodenly. "Papa wanted the chapel wedding."

The atmosphere grew somehow even more awkward.

"Do you love your wife, Magister Walken?" Elvia cashed her chips. She was all-in.

"… I do." Walken nodded sheepishly.

"Say it then. Affirm yourself, Magister."

Walken's scarlet face was no less carmine than his wife's. "I do still love you, Audrey."

"Do you, Audrey, still love your husband?"

There was hesitation.
However, compelled by Elvia's angelic aura, Audrey nodded.

"Say it."

"I… don't hate him."

"Angie? Do you want mum and dad to go their separate ways?"

"Jesus, I am in university…" Angie cowered in her chair. "Miss Lindholm, please don't make me say this."

Elvia channelled her inner Gwen, pouring positive mana throughout her conduits until she appeared to glow with unadulterated altruism. Likewise, tapping into what little Faith she had collated in the last few days, she threw in a silent invocation of Bless, turning a few motes of her outward projection golden.

"… I love you both…" Angie cringed against the chair, every inch an Undead compelled by the sun. "Oh my God… someone Void me right now."

"Then love each other deeply, because only love shall overcome the multitude of your sins," Elvia repeated the often spoken mantra drilled into her brain by the Matrons at Nightingales.

"And another thing." She wasn't finished just yet. "Why do you think we came all this way? We're not just here for you, Sir Walken. Not at all! Gwen knew about Angie's mana asthma, and I may have a way to deal with her condition in the interim."

"You do?" Her companion blinked. "We did?"

"Of course. Did you forget? We came to seek Master Walken's aid in making a Greater Familiar contract-circle," Elvia announced. "Through Sen-sen, we may once again gain access to something akin to Lord Henry's Golden Mead, or at least a facsimile. If the Essence of Mythic Dragons isn't going to overcome something as worldly as hyper-inflammation of the respiratory tracts, then I would be supremely surprised by the Yinglong's existence beside Shanghai's world-class miasma."

"Y— you have Golden Mead?" Walken and his wife spoke up at once.

"Not if you don't corroborate with Gwen."

"We'll cooperate." The Magister affirmed his new loyalties.

"Yes, it was all a misunderstanding." Audrey inclined her head. "My apologies. Angie, apologise."

"Umm..." Angie appeared confused. "Sorry?"

"GOOD." Elvia's aura of benevolence faded. "Do everything in love. Amen."

She sat back down.
Just as her external crisis faded, her internal uproar rang out like an air siren. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around her torso, curled her knees into a foetal stance, then folded herself like origami.

A threshold had been crossed.

She was out now. Out and out. Out past the shallows, past the sand bar and the rolling white shoals brimming with mana, out where the sun burned bright, glimmering as blinding shards of scintillating silver, fleeing toward the great blue yonder; unbound and outside the shelter of Sydney's Shielding Stations.


Despite the aborted divorce, Walken's wife did not appear nearly as convinced as Angie of Gwen's presumed innocence. Instead, Audrey's reprieve would depend on the delivery of a panacea for Angie.

"I'll arrange it right now." Her future executive officer had wasted no time. "First, tell me all of your current contacts in London..."

True to form, the old snake's knack for dropping names at precisely the right intervals worked wonders. After an hour of interrogating Gwen's numerous overreaches and over-achievements, instances of "Lady Grey", "The Mistress of Cliveden", "Our new Dwarven Allies", and "I would not want to waste Duke Mycroft's time either," peppered the Magister's vernacular.

She needed time to think, and Walken had unconsciously done her a favour by exhausting the afternoon pulling every favour to schedule Sen-sen's ritual as soon as possible. In addition to procuring materials, he would also personally inscribe the Mandala, as well as spend CCs to contract an assistant upper-tier Enchanter.

It was a pleasure, in a way, watching Walken work, even if his care for Angie did leave a bittersweet saltiness in her mouth.

Beside her, Elvia remained shut as a catatonic clam, likewise needing time. Whenever Gwen tapped the healer's shoulders, touched her shins, or called her name, the girl only answered in single syllables.

For Gwen, the lack of response only multiplied her silent distress. Even now, the petals of her lips burned with the heat of a thousand suns; though she tried NOT to think about the sweet kiss planted by her willing Evee, the sensation invariably lingered.

"I'll join you on the Isle of Dogs mid-January," Walken explained, finally exhausting every topic of conversation. "We'll be attending the IIUC ceremony together."

"Will it be in London?"

"The venue depends on the victor. If Oxbridge takes the crown as per usual, then you'll receive your scroll at home. If not, you can choose to go to Cambridge, or exercise a private ceremony at Peterhouse."

"The one in Massachusetts?"

Walken nodded. "I think it should come as no surprise that your friends from Pretoria failed to outperform the previous champions. Did you get a chance to watch the December match?"

"No, not at all. How about you, Evee?"

The Cleric's chrysalis remained impregnable.

".... A shame. Jean-Paul did well. Nothing compared to a certain sorceress' metrics in Shenyang, of course, but he's made a name for himself. The lad from House Hertzog as well has received invitations to engage in post-graduate studies here in England. They both have an interest in you and, though I am overstepping my boundaries, let me say Meister Bekker's influence transcends Factions and borders."

To further distract herself, Gwen recalled the cringe-worthy invitation from Jean-Paul, smothering the smouldering coals stoked by Evee.

"Is Jean-Paul back in London?"

"I doubt it," Walken said. "Its spring right now in Pretoria."

"True." Gwen redirected her thoughts toward the jacarandas and flame trees studding Sydney's southern suburbs. Her advisor was right. Her fellow Void user did profess that he and his Master escaped the winter every year in South Africa. Given time and resources, she too would one day ascend the ranks of migratory globe-trotters.

The two rested their teacups.

"... Miss Song, are you staying for supper?" Angie appeared at the kitchen door. "Mum said you're welcome."

And with that, her hardwon time delay came to an end.

After the teas and ices, the crisis had climaxed. Within her beaten body, the surviving motes of emotional awareness that had outlived Helena and Hai cried out for redress. Whether weal or woe, Elvia's courage deserved an answer.

And for that, they needed privacy.

Luckily, they were in the right town.

On Brighton's foreshore, there was an old observational outpost, an enormous pin-shaped tower that commanded a three-sixty degree view of the township. A simple call from Walken citing a Class VI War Mage's desire was enough to warrant unfettered access to the decommissioned war relic.

And that was why, ten minutes later, with Elvia cradled in her arms, the duo arrived a-hundred-and-sixty meters above sea-level into the curved-glass capsule, overlooking the bayside town of Brighton.

"Kiki!"

"Sen!"

"Shaa-shaa!"

"Ee—EE!"

Elvia had long since learned to observe Gwen by observing her Familiars. Near the ceiling of the semi-doughnut dome of the observatory, Ariel hovered listlessly, agitated by alien emotions it could not process. Below the Kirin, its sibling writhed, an eel on a hotplate, drooling goo like a dying hagfish.

Not far, her Alraune Spirit was in full bloom, feeding off her burgeoning desires, dripping with the scent of lilies. Besides her, Gwen sat as shy as a rain-teased bud, swaying softly in the honeyed light from the bay below.

Elvia circulated a calming surge of Positive Energy to ease her nerves. What should happen next, she knew all too well. In her occasional daydreams, when she dared to have them, she had already imagined every nook and cranny of her friend against her own, perfectly fitted as if devised by nature.

In Blackwattle, mid-adolescence, her delusions had been vague and fuzzy, full of ambiguity and fantasy. Now, as a provisional practitioner of reproductive health and magically-assisted midwifery, no imagination was needed. Though she lacked practical experience, Elvia understood the physiology of pleasure in an academic context. Though best practices varied, she knew what to stoke and coax. Why, with a little help from diagnostic magic, she would take Caliban's best consumption for a run—

And then the delusion ended, and the root of Elvia's slender neck grew flamingo-pink. From the corner of her eye, she spied at her muted friend, wrapped up in deliriums of her own.

A passive Gwen was lovely as well. Elvia loved the way the dying light turned her eyes amber. She loved the elegance of Gwen's neck, the fall of her hair about her shoulders, her pale skin against the dark fabric of her dress.

When would an answer be forthcoming?

Between her abdomen and her diaphragm, two Sen-sens jostled for space. In the chamber of her heart, an effervescent Kiki danced.

Elvia blinked, realising she had been caught in yet another private revelry.

Beside her, sitting pretty, Gwen had never appeared more beautiful, more within reach.

"Gwen…" she reached out.

There was no more patience to waste.

The fruit of the temporal was ripe for the picking.

For the self-reared Gwen growing up in Newtown, the path of love proved only marginally less torturous than midday dramas. To pay her way through university, she had worked popular dives, which put her in the vicinity of unique opportunities. More than once, she had frightened off disappointing father figures who skipped town when the crazy out-stripped the fun.

By the second year of university, she had grown tired of catfights, fistfights and the company of sympathetic cops escorting belligerent lovers from boarding houses.

Vowing to better herself, she turned to the voracious consumption of literature, living the lives of fictional women to supplement her loneliness. It was there, in the library, in the first chapter of a vintage romance novel, that she met Clarissa, an Austen-reading, Woolf-quoting, Plath-citing bibliophile.

For six-month, Gwen had done her best to keep her spectres bottled, and for a while, life was stable and fulfilling, thanks in no small way to her mild-mannered lover's incredible endurance. After that, old habits surfaced, grinding her companion down to the stump until she too could no longer endure Gwen's unpredictable mood-swings.

In hindsight, the juxtaposing six months of happiness were a rare poison. The fallout from that particular breakup had bordered on the burlesque, almost derailing Gwen's tertiary education.

What she learned from the episode, once professional advice had been sought, was that lacking the aid of Dr Monroe's one-fifty-an-hour clarity, she struggled to understand, much less balance, the intimacy, insecurity, support, challenge and celebrations that came with "healthy relationships".

"I think we should keep exploring the episode with Clarissa." Dr Siobhan Monroe's empathy was boundless when she finally coaxed the tale from Gwen. "That said, are you keeping up with the Celexa? How's your appetite?"

And therein, Gwen self-diagnosed, lied the crux of her agitation.

It wasn't so much that she wasn't "Gwen". That was a moot point since Elvia had never known the original. Rather— she couldn't get over the cradle-robbing reality of their difference in maturity.

Perhaps it was a symptom of growing up in the '90s, an era where the prurient paedophilia performed by the local Church perverted the public conscience, popularising the notion of "grooming".

Sure, under her guiding hand, Elvia could live in a golden palace. But the imbalance of control she would exert over her doll-like lover turned her stomach. She required Elvia to be herself, to live her own life and attain her dreams as she would. She wanted Elvia to be happy, upset, angry, indignant, all of her own accord.

But Hai and Helena had only taught her that love was usurpation; that Caliban was Love's patron saint.

Conversely, her affection for Elvia had its origins in sisterhood, in friendship, in oxytocin incited by small blonde things soft to the touch and snug as a warm pillow. To say that there was something more, to pass that particular threshold, required a re-arrangement of mental and physical faculties beyond the pale.

And her self-chastisement wasn't even the beginning of their problems. Say she cast aside the metaphysical age difference between herself and Evee—how would their meritocratic society gaze upon the loss of not one, but two unique sorceresses?

Soon, Elvia would become a twin-Spirited Cleric with unlimited potential. As for herself, she could strip a city down to the bones and not even need to change out of her dress.

Evee had the privilege of naivety, but she had tasted the bitter fruit of societal pressure all her life. Before she could raze a village, her beauty had been a burden, something to be prodded and molested, or upheld on a pedestal. Now, that very power which freed her acted as her chains. If she denied the Mageocracy its dearest wish, as her Master had once foreshadowed, as JP's Meister now so desired, what would become of them?

As a Weapon of Mass Destruction with a womb, were her life choices truly hers alone? What would Gunther say? Or Babulya? Or Opa, or her Yeye or Uncle Jun? From Sydney to China to London, there was no doubt that the availability of her body, to put matters crudely, had opened doors. As one old enough to understand consequences beyond overt sentimentality and hormonal longing, she shuddered at the catastrophic cost of forsaking potential.

And wasn't Elvia a staunch Christian? Or at least a devoted practitioner of the Faith? The Evee she knew always said her prayers, gave her alms, knew her psalms and attended Mass. What would happen to her Faith Magic if she lived in existential sin? How would the hospital, the state, the Shard, Evee's sponsors, overlook an asset the likes of which they may never see again?

For now, love was blindness.

But success, their future success, required sacrifices.

And say they overcame all of that, Gwen licked her parched lips.

Could she abandon her cloud-capped Tower and the ambitions left by her beloved Master? What about Sobel? Could she leave that behind? She was a one-woman army, but she was no longer one-woman, not anymore.

"Gwen…" Elvia's longing resounded as though filtered through a dream.

Their gazes entwined.

"Evee." She swallowed, fighting to keep her voice from trembling. "Quite the display you put on at Walken's."

NO! Her brain almost threw up. That's not what she meant to say, not what she meant all!

"I did it for you." Elvia sidled closer, her limbs parasitic vines curling about Gwen's princely trunk. In the next moment, her healer's breath was hot against her collarbone. "I swear by my Astral Soul, Gwennie, I—"

"I know," Gwen interjected. To prevent any immediate misunderstanding, she gave Elvia a peck on the forehead, deftly re-zipping the side-slit of her dress. "Let's slow down a bit, shall we? I want to ask you some questions, Evee, and we'll need all our wits about us."

The vague fingers withdrew.

There was confusion and hurt, Gwen felt it acutely, but there was no helping it.

"When did you know?" Gwen wrapped her fingers around Elvia's dainty digits. The girl's hands were tender and warm and trembling.

"Since Sydney."

"When did you start to like girls, I mean."

Elvia's face grew evermore scarlet. There was a pause before the girl began to speak.

"I am sorry, I lied to you and Yue." Her figure appeared to shrink.

Gwen blinked, derailed by Elvia's train of thought. "How so?"

"I told you both that I was afraid of the arranged marriages set up at Lilith's," the Cleric confessed. "And that's why I transferred to a government school, where no one would know me, or care to find out."

"Oh…" Gwen was intrigued. Elvia was indeed an oddball at Blackwattle. Her talent, her wealth, her demeanour, all of it juxtaposed the academy's working-class cohort.

Her healer squirmed in her arms.

"I had to leave because one of the sisters found out."

"About your… disposition?"

Evee nodded. "I didn't know what I was doing then. One of the older girls I was fond of took me behind the chapel, to a shrine in the cloisters…"

"Oh my…" Gwen felt her cheeks heating up. "And then?"

"Then nothing," Elvia quickly clarified. "We danced... and kissed, that's all."

"Like a peck? On the lips?"

"No..."

"How did it feel?"

"It was... the most exquisite thing. I couldn't think at all. One minute we were practising for the formal, then the world was on fire. All I remember was Matron Mavis screaming, that and St Peter's disapproving face looking down from the altar."

Gwen felt her palpable jealousy prick like a malicious pin.

"Did you tongue-wrestle?"

"GWENNIE!"

"Hahaha…" The built-up tension fell from her shoulders together with the rolling laughter. Finally, she could breathe again. "Alright, that was my bad. So the Sister found out, and then?"

"She called my parents and the girl's parents. Mine was nicer. Less fire and brimstone, but the senior girl's parents were livid. They accused me of seducing their daughter, who was Awakened and engaged to marry. They were from the North Shore proper, not immigrants like us, so we couldn't do anything other than accept their accusation at face value."

"Bastards…"

"In the end, Daddy appeased them by offering to move me out of school so that we would never meet again. I stayed home for a term, moping and crying while my mother comforted me. She said that everything would be alright."

"And was it?"

"It was." Elvia's lips were wet with happiness. "I met Yue— and I met you."

"I am glad you came to Blackwattle as well." Gwen offered her Cleric another affirmation, this time on the hands. The fascinating flashback recollected by her healer had finally dispelled all doubt from her mind. "Okay, I've made up my mind. Care to listen?"

Elvia nodded.

"Right. Here goes."

Gwen took a deep breath.

"Evee, I do share your feelings."

Elvia squealed, her voice child-like and full of glee, further cementing Gwen's determination.

"But—"

Instantly, the girl settled.

"— Love is never easy. It's complicated, messy, and deceptive. It's not black and white, give and take. Some of us— like you, have so much to give, while others like me— tend to take and take."

"I don't—"

"I know you don't care if the balance is tilted. That's too like you." Gwen continued. "And yes, that's what it means to be in love. I don't intend to patronise or condescend, Elvia, but whatever I say to you now, you're not going to empathise, not holistically, at least."

"What do you mean?" Elvia's nervousness was palpable.

"I can only speak for myself," Gwen spoke up. "And speaking for myself, I am not a suitable partner."

"No!"

"Let me finish," Gwen silenced her Evee with an all-too-serious flash of her amber eyes. "I didn't say I wouldn't make a wonderful companion, a loyal mate, an incredible business associate, a constant sister or a zealous devotee—"

Elvia ceased her struggles.

"Rather— I was raised by Helena and Hai, remember? Right fucking paragons of partnership and parenthood. For a long while, I knew only how to appease others. Then for a longer-while, I learned only to please myself. Even now, what I want from you is completely one-sided."

"I can…"

"But not like that, not yet." Gwen arrested Elvia's fingers a little more tightly in case her resolve grew ill. "But that's what I mean. Love isn't simple. It's a network of conflicting interests that, without venturing into the wider world, you can't begin to comprehend. I love you, Evee— as a friend, a sister, a party member, and so much more, but let me say this, and you're not going to like it—"

Elvia's eyes turned liquid.

Before she could continue, Gwen knew she had to fortify her life-long companion for what was to come. Evee's gentleness, depthless when needed, was also as fragile as crystal.

Answering her healer, she leaned in until their face was an inch apart.

Greedily, Elvia met her halfway, wrapping the small of her arm around the crook of Gwen's neck so that she could no longer pull back.

Then for a long, lingering while, with Brighton's brimming channel shimmering below them, they stayed entwined and interlocked, a pale-skinned glory against a mortal Ledean body, enacting the yolk and white of the one shell. She was breathing through Evee, and Evee through herself, connected by a consciousness older than the oldest of continents.

In time, the pair parted— a viridescent spider-thread appearing and disappearing between them.

"What were you saying?" Elvia slurred, drunk on the milk of paradise.

"Evee." Gwen forced her tremulous voice to remain perfectly level, her brimming emotions a careful meniscus of constrained passion. "We're going to have to take things slow. Very slow."

"I don't understand."

"You will, in a decade or two," she pulled them apart, tearing Elvia from her as one might coax an octopus clinging to the coral. "For now, I want us to remain the best of friends. Closer than friends, but not quite lovers, not yet."

"Why?"

"For one, there's no gay marriage here or there or anywhere, unless Hanmoul's expecting to blow my mind when we get to Deepholm."

To her surprise, Elvia's confusion multiplied. "Why would we get married? We're both girls."

Gwen performed a double-take.

"… Good point, I'll get back to you on that one." She realised she might have to pull back, not just to the '80s, but possibly revisit the '50s. "Don't you want to have children, Evee? I know you've got a brother, but your parents are the most loving, caring people I've ever met. Wouldn't they be disappointed? After your ejection from Lilith, weren't they upset?"

"Mum..." Elvia's tone lost some of its enthusiasm. "Mum and Dad were both very kind, but yes, they were shocked."

"And did you stop to think whether I would want children?" Gwen struck while the fire was hot.

"No…" Evee's voice grew fainter still.

"NOT that I do, so don't fret! On the off-chance, we could adopt, of course, save a soul, or two, or a dozen from destitution and ruin," Gwen assured her little Evee. "Our children need not even be human— Golos would make a good candidate for a little gopher."

"… that's terrible! I would prefer my Kiki."

"Ha! They'll make quite the pair at the local kindergarten." Gwen relaxed her guard. For someone with her limited capacity for non-manipulative empathy, trying to seesaw between passion and prudence was no easy feat. "And what if this is just a phase, Evee? The seasons change, as do lovers. Lest we transcend the shackles of time, nothing's immutable."

"I won't change."

"Nor do I want you to," Gwen sighed. "But you're— we're still YOUNG. Gods, Evee, we're a bunch of babies! Relatively speaking, we're infants! According to Golos, I'd be still kicking around in my third or fourth century, and that's before I had met Almudj again, or ate more Dragons."

Elvia's eyes misted over. For a girl of eighteen, a century was unimaginable.

"I mean, holy crap Evee. Fancy that! In a hundred years, humanity went from buffalo farming to a globe-spanning system of Towers connected by Teleportation Stations! Can you imagine what things would be like two-centuries from now? Would we be in space? Will we jaunt across the aether and colonise the Planes of Fire and Radiance? Drink coffee in Deepholm? Mine the red soil of Mars courtesy of Meister Musk?"

"Who's Musk?"

"What I mean," Gwen backpedalled from her digression. "Is that there's no rush. For now, if you're content with my devotion, then leave us enough space to catch our breath."

"… and if I am not?"

Gwen paused. Sometimes, she hated the fact that she had all the right lines.

"The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long. I don't want that for us, Evee. A millennium without you? What a terrible aeon that would be. I would prefer the extinction of our world."

Her prophesy lingered in the air, keeping company with the redolence spread by a simpering Kiki perfuming the interior of the observatory. Beside the flower Sprite, Sen-sen approached the observatory's precipice, only to shrink back with an alarmed "Sen!" before retreating to the stairs. Ariel lingered near the ceiling, feeding off the nascent emotions rolling through their Empathic Link. A calmer Caliban coiled under the chair, purring softly at the twin-morsel.

As per the mutability of England's weather, the once burning sky turned rapidly overcast, mauve and under-lit against the crumbling silhouette of the Shielding Station's constant shimmer. The town itself remained fruit-shop bright, gregarious in its faux-summer hues; across the painted English Channel, Gwen saw the marina's yachts returning from their hunt.

Like goose-down they were, erect and upright, bobbing in a crow-black sea, mariners of the aubergine murk, cubism hovering on air. As the light died, the mulberry horizon lost its dimensions, becoming as dull as bleached chiffon.

"Gwen?"

"Yes, Evee?" Gwen held her breath.

"At the very least, can I kiss you now and then?"

Her hesitation lasted only a second.

The fear of loneliness made for a potent aphrodisiac.

Down below, one by one, the unfurled quills came home as a line, each a white-winged sister from Nightingale's, idly awaiting their turn in the confessional.