The Ravenport's London Compound sat three stations east from Westminister and two stops south in a prestigious corner of Chelsea adjoining the Ranelagh Gardens. In the past, the compound had encompassed the entirety of the southern courtyard from Chelsea Bridge to King Charles' Court. Now, at Charlene Ravenport's behest, most of its private land had been surrendered for a public park, leaving only a modest sixteen room "Manor" in service to the Earl Marshall of England.

It was under its austere, Edwardian facade in rich red brick that Gwen now arrived, clacking from Sloane Square in her eye-watering heels for a few hundred meters until confronted by its brass-bound gates.

There were three modes of transport which she could have chosen, and sore feet were her sufferance of choice.

The rationale, at least according to her cabal of schemers at the Isle of Dogs, was well-founded. Firstly, unless she wished to ride to the compound in a Fabricator Engine or a Strider, there were no decorum-worthy vehicles to deliver someone of her class and station to visit a noble of a higher station. Buying one when the IoDRP was trying to gather funds was doubly untenable. As for flying, that particular convenience would break all manners of etiquette.

As such, taking the public transit and making a public showing of her closeness to her employees made not only for an excellent front page—it also cemented the difference between the haughty Militants and her IoDRP. Additionally, scant critique could be levelled toward her announcing her visit to the Ravenport's compound, lest the Sun wanted to expose her for the "absurdity" of taking public transport.

Secondly, the appearance of her visitation to the Ravenport mansion must be communicated to her stakeholders, regardless of the success of their alliance. Walken's opinion was that such a showing would complete the despair of the Barlow Group, thoroughly demoralising their attempt to block the Pinnacle's construction.

Thirdly, House Ravenport was a stumbling block she had to cross sooner or later. Despite Dickie's professed neutral feelings about the death of his son, "bad" blood doesn't go away with fancy words. The only way to move on with peace of mind was to wed her interests to theirs and vice versa—through mutual profit. Once that happened, both parties were bow-tied at the ankle by their joint stakeholders. Likewise, as a future Magister with a Tower on the horizon, diplomacy with enemies she had not chosen of her own free will would be best practice.

"Caw—" A pair of ravens flapping atop the anchor struts for the gates announced her arrival.

As seen in Gothic horror films, the gates yawned open with a squeak of green brass, entirely of its own accord.

The interior was the textbook definition of a manicured English garden, with every tree and hedge tamed and shaped into geometric perfection since the epoch of King George IV.

There was also an explicit lack of entourage out to meet her.

Gwen glanced at the riverbanks, where Lorenzo and his men awaited with dismay for the front page shot that would no longer appear.

In a way, she felt relieved.

It made sense that their success should be limited. Unless Dickie consented, there was no way the old ghoul didn't see past her shallow ploy of the Kitsune borrowing the Manticore's terror.

Nonetheless, she walked in-between the gates, shook loose her hair, then struck a pose in the middle of the open gates embossed with the heraldry of ravens. Lorenzo took a low-angle cover shot from a suitably safe distance for his ostentatiously titled "Dog visits Raven" article, then farewelled the onlookers gawking at her dramatic narcissism.

CLANG!

Like a pair of gnashing incisors, the gates railed closed with a discordant tone of disapproval.

The pebble stone path ahead was undoubtedly never made with stiletto heels in mind, nor was the distance to the "modest" manor, designed originally for war horses, suitable for walking.

Thankfully, Gwen had a Flight Licence and so abused the fact to "glide" her graceful self toward the frontage of the three-story manor with its Gothic arches in wine and enormous, white-ribbed French windows.

As she closed the final dozen meters, the door opened, revealing the absent figure of the majordomo, who bowed from the waist before hailing her countenance.

"I can only presume Lady Ravenport is expecting me." She smiled at the butler. "Is Duke Ravenport in?"

"He is not," the man offered a curt and unambiguous answer.

"How about Lord Saville?"

"Lord Saville is on business for the Duke. The young Mistress of the House is waiting for you inside." The moustachioed servant appeared ripped from a period film. "If you would follow my humble self, I shall take your august self to her."

"Very well, lead the way." Gwen figured there wasn't much point in squeezing clues from a man who was likely the hidden villain of Cluedo.

The interior of the Ravenport's London Manor was not the lavish Louis XIII style she had been anticipating, but rather a minimalist form that deviated from the ecliptic preference of the late Edwardians. Chief companion to the ridiculous space were the portraits, hundreds of them, row after row of gaunt Ravenports of the past going back centuries, all the way unto the rise of Henry V, the "Argent King", progenitor of England's Arthurian legends. Gwen noted that common to the appearances were the hawkish nose, the calculating grey eyes, and the thin lips that gave Dickie the look of a Bond villain.

Nearer the end of the upper corridor, Gwen received a preview of the hostess she was about to meet.

It was a portrait of the Ravenport family with Dickie's second wife, Everleigh, and her two children. The Mistress of the house was herself a vision of femininity perfected by good breeding, good food and unfettered access to Transmutation magic. From her perfect fair hair to her flawless poise, Dickie's second wife should be in her thirties in the picture but had the mien of a girl-wife just making it past her second decade. To Everleigh's right stood a girl with a regal frame and eyes that took after the Duke, though feminised and with lips kissed by rouge. The kids and the mother did not look at all alike, a testament to the strength of House Ravenport's genes.

Then there was the boy to the woman's right, dressed in flamboyant doublet and hose, embroidered with the crest of House Avon and Ravenport. With a sinking feeling, Gwen recognised the psychopathic glint in the kid's dead fish irises, becoming astounded by the skill of the portrait artist in framing Edmund's hidden mania.

The door to the room in which Charlene waited for her was already open. From the look of the doorframe, this was not a tea room but a bedroom.

More mind games? Gwen frowned.
Or did Charlene read too much into her widely known association with Elvia?
That would be foolish. Firstly, she liked blondes. Secondly, thanks to Caliban, she had never been less thirsty in all her life.

Whatever the play awaited her, Gwen tugged on her dress, patted down her blouse, then ventured past the threshold.

"Welcome to our humble home, Magus Song." The voice that greeted her came from a young woman about Gwen's age, though her severe features did make her look more mature than her mid-twenty-odd years. Her voice was controlled and measured, with an aristocratic air not unlike her father's. "Please, call me Charlene."

Charlene Avon Ravenport, of House Ravenport, stood from the arrested grains of an enormous armchair to greet her, dressed as one might expect, in form-fitted, crow-black sables. Compared to Gwen, Charlene was half-a-head shorter, though the girl carried herself with the poise of someone taller by a handspan. As she approached, her kitten heels announcing her arrival as she left the plush Persian rug to step onto the polished oaken floor. Charlene Ravenport, Gwen surmised, had the look of a handsome and confident predatory bird of prey.

"Thank you, Magus Ravenport, for sparing the time." Gwen kept their meeting formal.

"It's provisional-Magister, as your title should soon be as well." Charlene extended a hand as the two women closed in on one another like duelling hens.

They shook, her hand warm and soft, hers cold and skeletal.

"They're preparing the tea in the garden." Charlene nodded toward the back section of the compound. "Before we become partners, I would like to divine the Oliphants in the room, if you do not mind."

Charlene sat but did not invite her to sit.

"Of course—" Gwen had a feeling the topic was unavoidable. She looked around the bedroom for a place to sit, eyed the bed, then a disturbing realisation crawled up her thigh, tickled her spine, then spread across her scalp.

Here was not Charlene's room, nor a guest-chamber—but a boy's bedroom. Gwen had not noticed at first because the room was choked full of things; specimen jars, magical implements, scroll parchments, assorted magical ingredients, collectables, two globes of the world, as well as extensive landscape paintings that drew the eye away from the smaller lumen-pics hidden in brass frames among the dusty bric-a-brac.

In one frame, she saw Edmund in his early teens, stoic and rigid, smiling disinterestedly at the lumen-recorder. Another picture showed an adolescent holding a wand and wearing a cape, pointing at something in the distance. A third vision showed him at a Duelling Arena sitting front-row with his mother beside him, looking like he'd stepped in shit.

To her right, a picture that caught her eye involved a smiling kid with his hand on the Awakening Stone, both thrilled and happy. Beside it, there was a similar image of Edmund at what looked like Cambridge's King's College, with the distinct form of "Dusty", the Dust Devil, looking all kinds of harmless.

That Edmund had a childhood, a life of his own, or that there was a boy before there was a man had never occurred to her. In Gwen's memory, Edmund was merely a faceless bastard who had assaulted her, gotten inside her Astral Body and molested her after confounding her mind. The realisation now that a human being was inside the monster made her feel strange and angry.

"Unpleasant memories?" Charlene was testing her.

"I do not think that the passing of a bloke who tried to have a go with my body and mind is going to touch me as much as you think." Gwen switched tracks from diplomacy to sarcasm. "Besides, even as a victim, I hardly knew him."

"What was he like in his final moments?"

"I didn't kill him," Gwen reiterated the fact, her emotions feeling as though caught in a crucible. "And I wasn't there. I killed his compatriot, the one they called the Faceless Man."

"What was he like when you met him?" Charlene put up both hands in defence. "I am not accusing you of anything, Magus Song. I am merely interested. Edmund and I weren't close, but he _was_ my brother. Could you tell me how you met? I've read the reports from Father but never met an actual person with whom he had—interacted."

"A victim," Gwen corrected her. "We're called victims. As far as I know, I am a rare survivor."

"Of course," Charlene concurred. "My condolences. Could you humour me?"

"I shall, but then we must talk business, else I've got uncomplicated deals elsewhere," Gwen declared her position.

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Charlene inclined her head, wearing the expression of a sister rather than the young Mistress of the House. Gwen wondered whether the girl feigned sympathy or otherwise, then resolved not to care so long as they got to the business at hand.

"Agreed." Charlene concurred.

As she did not want to touch Edmund's things, she remained standing.

"We met at the Royal National," she began, feeling all kinds of strange, like delivering a victim's testimonial at court. "This is not a happy story, so don't expect any euphemisms..."

Gwen told her opponent as much as she was able to divulge without giving herself away. She began with the killing of the teachers, then moved on to Debora while withholding the involvement of Faceless. She talked about Spectre, the cave, the "Land God" that Edmund had wrangled, then in meticulous detail, she relayed Edmund's madness.

"… and if I had been a second late in Voiding him, I wouldn't be here today."

As she finished, Gwen noticed her fingers were trembling. She might be mentally over the bastard, but it seemed her body remembers.

Charlene sighed. "I see. And the Mageocracy would be a poorer place for it."

Gwen raised a brow.

"Whatever Edmund's faults, I thank you for the story," Charlene said. "I will relay his… somewhat final moments to Mother."

"Lady Avon is present as well?" Gwen realised that etiquette indicated she should greet the eldest Mistress first.

"No, she's away." Charlene absolved her consternation. "Mother's merely unhappy at father's pragmatism, as usual. She thinks it's a slight to the Ravenport name to leave you unmolested."

"I would reconsider your choice of diction." Gwen stared daggers. "Edmund didn't exactly leave me in a caste state, as so to speak. Compared to what he did, a salacious grope wouldn't even register on the scale of damnable offences. Tell me, how much do you care for Edmund? Is this conversation a task set by mummy dearest? Or did 'Daddy' dear put you up to this?"

"Now it is I who should commend you for your choice of words, 'Secret Sister' dearest." Charlene's lips curled. "That's the true reason for my mother's ire. It's sickening, but she had considered owing up to the rumour that you might indeed be her daughter. Father rarely speaks to mother, so to see him in a rage was quite the unique experience."

Gwen fought to keep her expression from twisting into a mask of cringe. "She dislikes Edmund THAT much, eh? He's not a stepchild, is he? He sounds like he was adopted."

Charlene's reply came with a secretive smirk. "Gwen. I'll gift you an open secret as thanks for Edmund's story. Would you like to hear it?"

"Sure." Gwen shrugged. Free was free.

"We ARE stepchildren."

Gwen blinked. "What?"

Charlene laughed. "It's well known that father's marriage to Lady Avon was political. Our birth mother died delivering us. Edmund and I, we're fraternal twins."

Gwen stared at Charlene's face before recalling that fraternal twins did not share identical DNA. "So Lady Avon…"

"Might have given birth to you after all?" The girl laughed. "You have her colour—and Mother is incredibly vain when it comes to the emerald lustre of her eyes."

"Gods." The corner of Gwen's lips twitched. "If I could tell my mother that, it might just be worth it to see Helena implode."

The two women shared a private chuckle, each for reasons the other could not know.

"But Lady Avon is your mother, isn't she? Even Lady Maxine said so."

"From birth, yes," Charlene clarified. "But we did not issue from her womb. Father never touched her, you know, on account that he's an old romantic."

"Who was your mother then?" Gwen struggled to imagine Dickie with roses and chocolate, serenading a woman under a Romanesque balcony, crying Caw—Caw—!

"A far-removed relative and a childhood friend of my father." Charlene appeared to read her expression with great interest. "Father wanted to continue the Dust-talent of the Ravenport line in an unbroken manner— his success can be seen in Quinn, Edmund and myself."

"Yet, with all the healing magic in London at your disposal, your mother still died?" Gwen furrowed her brows. "Don't tell me there was a conspiracy involved as well. Assassins plots and whatnot."

"There isn't," Charlene said. "But you are VERY astute. Of the twins, I was the older, and my delivery was already difficult for the body of a well-practised Dust Mage. Edmund was the weaker of the two of us, and his birth taxed mother to her breaking point. As a Void Mage, you should know the limitations of healing magic, Faith-charged or otherwise. If Astral Bodies could take healing, your kind wouldn't all be dead."

"You couldn't call on Tryfan?" Gwen remained puzzled by the aftermath. "Summon the Bishop of Canterbury or something? Drops a dozen Vitae Fruits or use Regeneration laced with Faith from the knightly Ordos."

"Father is in the wrong Faction to command the church's aid for such a private matter," Charlene replied. "And yes, he should have called on Tryfan. I have no doubt the Bloom in White would have sent aid—at a cost—and then mother would have survived."

"But she did not?"

"Father did not call for aid. I think it is because of duty and his sense of honour to House Ravenport. Edmund thinks that father wanted mother to die."

"Okay— a bit extreme. Why?"

"Father wedded Lady Avon while we were still nursing at our wet nurses' breasts," Charlene said. "Thanks to the abrupt marriage, High Society readily accepted that we are her children. In truth, father needed an alliance at the time, and Lady Avon's family was perfect for the precarious position he had found himself mired. If you look at who benefited in the end, as Edmund had—"

"Holy shit." Gwen sucked in a lungful of perfumed air from Charlene. "He got EVERYTHING he wanted! The kids with Dust Talent, the political alliance, AND his kids grew up with a mother as decorum demanded!"

"That's right," Charlene gushed with questionable authenticity. "Isn't Daddy wonderful?"

"Good grief—your Daddy's a real piece of work! So I take it Edmund's not good pals with Daddy-dearest?"

"He was born tearing at his father's throat." Charlene's shoulders drooped. "They fought even before he could speak. Edmund blamed Father for forsaking his birth mother, even outright accused him of killing her for the favour of Lady Avon, the stepmother he hated with every ounce of his being. Father's attitude toward him grew even more aloof when Edmund Awakened a tier lower than I had a year earlier. Once, Father even confided in me that had Edmund not taxed mother during labour—she might have survived the ordeal of a high-tier Dust Mage giving birth to two Dust-talented children. That Edmund's talent was above average was an existential insult to my mother's sacrifice. Of course, to my knowledge, Father loved our mother dearly, and to this day, he and Lady Avon sleep in different rooms. He was as good a father any noblewoman could ask and had rarely left me wanting. I never understood Edmund's gripe."

Daddy issues were the worst; Gwen shuddered as the thought crossed her mind. If Edmund wasn't such a psychopath and had gone off the deep end, they might have even found common ground.

Charlene picked up a photo of Edmund. "I understand why he joined Spectre. Father disliked Edmund's attitude so much that he had Ed board at Eton from the earliest possible age, then threw him into College without even a semester break at home. Ed quit, of course, never completing his Magister training. He reappeared in Sydney, or so the reports say. I don't know if Father knew the truth, but Lady Avon and I assumed he merely wanted to get away from Father by escaping to the other side of the world."

Gwen felt her head throb. She also knew a guy who hated his father so much that he fled to a penal colony to escape the guy's control. Holy fuck, was Edmund her father's soulmate? No wonder the two of them 'found' each other.

"So you and Ed—" Gwen paused. "Never mind. You said you were not close."

"No, we're not."

"And you asked me all this out of curiosity?" She pointed to herself and then the Lumen-pics of Edmund. "Or is there another meaning to this ruse?"

"Closure, perhaps?" Charlene stood from the lounge chair. "I don't know. He WAS my brother, even if we never grew up together. Do you have siblings?"

"I think you already know I do. Percy's in China, and you've just made me miss him terribly." As expected, she felt a hot gush of tenderness engender from her diaphragm, coupled with the vision of her hugging a struggling, scowling Percy. Charlene's apathy was impossible for her to understand. Baby brothers were the best, and she loved her brother dearly. Unlike Edmund, Percy was a good boy who didn't care for Daddy and was on solid ground with grandad. What is Percy doing now? She wondered. Maybe she could Teleport back to Shanghai for a spell and give Percy a big, wet, slopping kiss on the cheeks while he squirmed and complained. That would be the best feeling.

"I see." Charlene's steely eyes, so like her father's, studied her. "I should also confess that I wanted to see how you would react to the humanity Edmund had lost. I wanted to see if you're as ruthless as the rumours say or if there's still humanity in you. From our interactions, I sense you're either a Magister-tier illusionist or an honest and sensitive individual, not at all like the picture of you painted by the SUN or your METRO. There's little wonder you're so sympathetic for the NoMs. In that regard, I don't think our opinions diverge."

"NoMs are people too. The IoDRP employs almost six thousand NoMs a month so that you know," Gwen said, impatient to be away from her uncomfortable feelings of empathy for a villain. "So, are we done? Here, I mean."

"We're done." Charlene opened the door. "And I apologise, Magus Song. Know that Father has put me in charge of the Norfolk Estate Fund, so please ease your mind. Now, let us retire to the garden for tea and talk of the real reason why you're here."

Gwen sensed that Charlene must be the kind of girl who always does her homework, for the newly minted Magister knew the details of her IoDRP almost to a minute scale. The knowledge meant that their negotiation spoke the same language and worked on the same plane, drastically reducing her wiggle room.

"Five million for a fifteen per cent ownership in the second Phase IoDRP's Millennium Wharf and the Pinnacle, and five per cent for ongoing ownership of the Millwall and Cubitt constructions."

"Seventeen per cent for Phase II, fifteen per cent on future rental leaseholds, but no ownership of Phase I. We retain management rights." Gwen moved the illusory bar charts she had conjured. "The Dwarves are invested in West Ferry and the Bunker, meaning we won't be able to sell, much less transfer ownership without say so from the City of London."

"You think that's an obstacle?" Charlene cocked her head haughtily, a bone china cup in one hand and a saucer in the other. "Four per cent. We'll arrange the High Arbiter for the Barlow Case."

"Am I to think you would buy a fifth of the Pinnacle, then ignore Barlow's underhanded tricks?" Gwen made a thrust. "The judge comes with the territory, one would assume."

"Judges don't come cheap, neither does a future favour promised by House Ravenport," Charlene riposted. "How about the Print Works? Twenty per cent, and we've got an agreement."

"The Print Works is inviolable." Gwen shook her head. "I'll sell you a portion of my one per cent stake in the isle, how's that? There's boundless potential, even if it doesn't come with voting rights. Ten per cent of my origin stocks, and thirteen per cent for Phase II. I reserve the right to re-purchase my share at a later date."

"Twenty."

"Now you're just greedy." Gwen pointed to another floating chart. "Perform your duty, Magister Ravenport, and that point one per cent will gift a near-perpetual income to the Norfolk Fund rivalling its best investments."

"Why does a girl as young as you need so many HDMs?" Charlene mocked her. "Ten million, five up front and five in assets for fifty-one per cent of your origin holdings, ten per cent of Phase II and five per cent of Phase I, and we'll call it even."

"Now you're insulting my business acumen." Gwen smiled back with teeth. "I did say we could forgo the matter and simply delay development for a few years. I am sure another opportunity will come about, but how many IoDRPs are there for the Norfolk Fund? You're not investing in lettuce."

"We could take over Barlow." Charlene showed her teeth as well. "I'll manage it personally with staff from the Gray Faction."

"I am sure Lady Maxine would love that, and Daddy-dearest too," Gwen's tone grew churlish. "Leap into bed with the Militants? Taking over a failing company propped up by loans and about to be cannibalised? I've no doubt someone with your talent would make it work, but Norfolk alone can't stem the tide. You'll need allies."

"For us, allies are not in short supply."

"I am your ally." Gwen smirked. "Sell me three per cent of the Norfolk Fund. "

"You jest, surely?" Charlene retorted by biting into a scone.

Gwen rebutted with a passive-aggressive scone-slathering.

Both women had to pause for breath for the impasse they had reached.

While Charlene pivoted to talk about their family, Gwen scanned her memories for parallel portfolios. She and Charlene were on the same page— but their interests had yet to align. How is it then that they could meet in the middle? While her mouth filled with jam and cream, her sugared synapses fired up the recollection of a legendary deal made on a golf course in Hangzhou between developing "Alibaba" and a falling giant in Yahoo. One was a company with no cash and explosive revenue potential, and the other was a company with liquidity and an uncertain future. BOTH believed that their company was undervalued by the other.

The solution, a stock swap, was a stroke of bloody genius.

And though Alibaba rightly predicted its ascension and Yahoo did not, the latter's double-digit stake in Ali emerged to encompass the entire marketable value of Yahoo in a post-Google, post-Facebook apocalypse, providing Yahoo with so much revenue that its stock had the tenacity of a Lich.

"How about—" Gwen remembered to swallow before speaking. "—we do an equity swap?"

Charlene raised a carefully plucked, aristocratic brow.

"We'll settle on a fair evaluation of five per cent of the Norfolk Fund." Gwen conjured the charts from earlier with a swish of her hand. "Forget the cash. I'll trade you fifteen per cent of the IoDRP as it is currently valued, give or take the difference. Once we are connected at the hip bone, your cash-stake is my cash-stake. If your investments fail and mine succeed, you still come out on top. Likewise, on the chance someone blocks our construction, we can count on the Norfolk fund to control the aftermath, which in turn minimises your risk. And if we BOTH do well, then the profits can only be said to be astronomical!"

She extended a hand across the petite fours, her green eyes glinting with the distinctive sparkle of glimmering HDMs. "We work together, for mutual interest, in pursuit of mutual profit. We'll combine the IoDRP and the Norfolk Fund to form the Isle of Dogs Norfolk Redevelopment Project and let the Duke's name resonate across every sound and bay in the isle!"

Charlene's eyes said she agreed—but her hand teased Gwen's fingers a little too long before meeting her palm in a firm handshake.

"When shall we summon the accountants?" The bird-like woman's grey irises did not betray the excitement Gwen assumed she should be feeling. In a way, she knew Charlene had agreed so readily because the equity swap was a bum deal for the IoDRP. On the surface, Gwen was paying for Norfolk's social position, power and influence with cold hard currency while Norfolk took in assets on the cheap.

Their hands parted—Charlene's rouged lips parted, exposing pearly white canines.

It was a shame then, Gwen grinned back, that Legion, borne from the IoDRP proceeds funnelled into a separate investment account, would otherwise be an entirely independent entity the Norfolk would have to purchase all over again.


In the end, The METRO got the shot it wanted, though not in the form it initially wished.

In the garden-estate of the Ravenport's London manor, the Devourer of Shenyang, Handler of Worms, Mistress of Dog and Rats, stood beside the Lady of Ravens, one in white and tartan, the other in figure-hugging sable.

The special edition's cover page featured little else other than the two eye-catching young women smiling at the audience, embossed with the cryptic and yet self-explanatory title "Dog meets Raven".

Within hours of the ink drying, the edition inundated every transit node in London, both land and water-bound, even flooding the Teleportation Station at Heathrow.

Be it shoved by force into the idle hands of passersby, or picked up out of curiosity for the "twin" daughters of the Duke of Norfolk standing side-by-side, all of London knew by the day's end that a project in the hundreds of millions of HDMs, inflated to over a billion, was happening in their city.

What especially hooked the good folk of London was the scope and scale of the IoDRP in its transformation of a mud-swamp industrial bloc into a nouveau jewel of commerce. As customary, hyperboles like the "The Pearl of London's Real Estate" and "A Hub for All" captured the interest of their readers. Then, to the pleasant surprise of the audience, the devil in the details surpassed the bait-worthy headline.

For the genteel readers, the IoDRP was to change from a private enterprise into a partially state-funded cooperative. Four per cent of the Norfolk Sink Fund, possessing land and leaseholds second only to the Crown, would be traded to the IoDRP for sixteen per cent of its original shares. The eye-watering small print floated for the investors immediately glued their eyeballs to the page, enough to neglect the alluring headshot of the deal's architects smiling at the viewer.

Comparatively, the average NoM labourer, after their eyes had feasted upon the two young proprietresses, turned the page to find an article dedicated to London's underclass. "Pinnacle and Millennium Wharf to add 3500 Jobs" implored the supplement on the third page, together with a pleasing pie-shaped chart. On the fourth page, the girls promised that in its completion, the next phase of the redevelopment would add five thousand jobs for NoMs to service the locale via catering, general service, cleaning, maintenance and other miscellaneous employs Mages disliked. Most of these jobs, the METRO explained, would be made available through the IoDRP, with management positions open on merit to the company's existing NoM employees. In addition, small businesses such as cafes, restaurants, food stands and service amenities would account for another six to seven thousand positions. What's more, the City of London's public sector was due to announce another thousand-plus posts once the hub was running.

Altogether, between the construction, which would take upward of thirty months, there should be ten thousand jobs soon to materialise, both long and short-term, with salaries promising to fall between liveable to lavish.

In a week or so, the Isle of Dogs Redevelopment Project would be renamed the IoDNC, or Isle of Dogs-Norfolk Conglomerate, and its logo would change accordingly.

"A triumphant return to the days of London's explosive growth!" the METRO concluded. "A city for all, not just the powerful, sorcerous, and noble-born."

In the Bunker, Eric Walken placed the paper brought by the girl on the boardroom table with a complex expression.

Walken's reaction to Gwen's triumphant return was a bittersweet ambivalence—one he expressed with profound sentimentalism. On the one hand, he had inadvertently risen from a senior member of the Grey Faction to one of its splendiferous stars, surpassing the position he had held even as one of the Magisters presiding over Oceania. On the other, he had spent almost a year working six days a week, carefully pruning every facet of the Isle of Dogs Redevelopment Project, and had made the Bunker his home. He had hand-raised its staff members and middle management and had even gotten to know the cleaning corps by name. Now, with a part of the future IoDNC co-owned by the powerful and influential Norfolk Fund, there was bound to be new members of the board who would disagree with his choices.

"Like giving up a child for unwilling adoption" was how he explained his ambivalence to Gwen.

To his chagrin, the girl's annoying sense of empathic justice was absent when it came to HDMs.

She explained that a part of the deal was that the original company would retain complete control—though, of course, Walken was correct in that snobbish folk with large titles would indeed be joining their board meetings. However, he shouldn't worry about butting heads. Instead, Walken should anticipate the moment when their newcomers flexed their weight. Quietly, he could then explain that a small but significant portion of the company's controlling stocks belonged to a Mythic-tier Dragonic Scion. To get Ruxin onside to go against Gwen's decisions, and therefore Walken's decisions, would be a truly epic and Lumen-caster worthy mini-series by the BBC.

Besides, Gwen explained, even if Norfolk were to eventually usurp control of the IoDRP through the Gray Faction's underhanded avenues, the subversion would work out for the better. The revenue she had apportioned for Project Legion could not be stymied without catastrophic contractural breaches. If so, then they should receive enough reparations to complete the first phase of Legion regardless.

"Still, you won't find anyone willing to work on the Llias Leaf in London, at least not publically," he reiterated his warning for his overconfident girl boss. "Besides, where are you going to find a Planar node like Tryfan?"

"I have my ways," Gwen said with a wink. "Do you wish to know?"

Walken shook his head. He had a wife and daughter and thus did not need to know how the girl was hoping to subvert the unspoken rules of reality.

After patting his rigid hand, Gwen then softly explained that her Tower wouldn't be in London anyway, meaning he had nothing to fear and that the IoDRP was never "theirs" in the first instance. Rather, they were custodians for the Lady of Ely, the Ravenports, and the Middle Faction members with their vested interests. In time, their little group would lack both the clout and the time to manage a project of such a size and would have to leave it in the hands of proxies. Taking that into account, Walken should enjoy his time in the limelight, solidify his connections, and get ready for the next stage of their mutually beneficial relationship.

"We had thought you were raising a child." Richard tsked when she made her point. "Turns out, you were rearing cattle. You know how Pats and I took care of this place—"

"Whatever the case, we made lives for the NoMs better, even if Gwen made out like a bandit." Petra gawked at Richard in surprise. "Besides, sentimentality from Richard 'Drowner' Huang? Now I've seen everything."

"You did well on the Isle, Dick," Gwen comforted her cousin to reassure him that they weren't abandoning the Isle of Dogs, only that they would lose complete jurisdiction and that their closely-knit team should prepare to move on. "It added the necessary laurels onto your graduation certificate, I assume?"

"Oh yes, both me and my friends from King's," Richard readily agreed. Meeting her eyes, he adjusted his ensorceled glasses. "Thank you, Cousin. You've done me another favour I cannot repay."

"Don't be like that." Gwen punched her cousin's arm. "You've done me plenty of favours. You kept a tight lid on things while I was gone. That's more than I deserve."

Richard shook his head.

Petra rolled her eyes. "For a Water Spiritualist, he's stubborn as a Mineral Mage sometimes."

The boardroom laughed, putting a gentle comma on the matters at hand, for the rest of the problems to come was now well out of their hands.

Watching the kids, Walken laid back in his seat not to relax but to conserve his energy. At the velocity at which events were now transiting, there was bound to be a train wreck very soon.

A week after, under the auspice of the "Dog-Meets-Raven" article, Gwen and Lady Ravenport visited the Museum of London together to cut ribbons for Charlene Ravenport's "Life in London" Project featuring giant Lumen-stills of the everyday lives of the city's NoMs.

In the interview, they confirmed their companionship, concurrently teasing the Sun and the Telegraph about their supposed relationship and their "shared" connection to the Duke of Norfolk. Eventually, once their sisterhood was denied, both gave word that everything The METRO had reported was true and that London's investors should ready their HDMs.

A day later, the proverbial levy broke.

Suddenly, it was as though fractures that had been building became magnified at once, leading to the complete structural collapse of the fatigued system the Militants had been undermining.

Unexpectedly, it was the Telegraph that broke the silence by putting the Barlow Group to the roast. To her disbelief, the merciless headline "THE ISLE OF DOG FOOD" firmly placed the blame of its imminent collapse on the IoDRP, then went on to note that due to the untenable prospects of the company's debts, they would no longer be able to hold onto their loan-purchased holdings in Canary Wharf and its surrounding government areas. The article itself, much to Gwen's brow-twitching, continued its euphemism and idioms of "A dog's breakfast," "A dog will have its day," "dogged by debt," and had even put up a picture of her from her high-heeled, summer-skirt days in London with the tag "The Hound Mistress puts the bite into Canary."

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In short, whoever wrote the article deserved a damned raise for exhausting every dog-pun in the English language, concurrently communicating Barlow's precarious position while placing all blame on the IoDNC and Gwen in particular.

_Was this a counterattack?_ Gwen wondered but couldn't fathom why or how. Was the Barlow Group hoping to declare insolvency? As far as she knew, that's not how bankruptcy worked in the Mageocracy.

Whatever the case, the counterattack completely caught the METRO on the back foot, as they had at least six days until their next edition. Meanwhile, the Telegraph busied itself, simultaneously undermining her reputation while directing their opposition to visit the Isle of Dogs for redress. It was a stroke of genius, one she had no way of anticipating. What frustrated Gwen more than anything was that even using The METRO, there was no possibility of getting Barlow's stakeholders to realise that theirs was a self-goal and not one instigated by the "top bitch of the IoD".

Simply put, no laymen could understand that the Militant-Funded Barlow Group was a cluster-fuck of conflicting interest from its very inception. Even in her Magister's classes, her teachers had stated without ambivalence that the Crown, unlike their continental cousins, looked poorly upon war for the sake of pure profit. According to the Commonwealth's historical lessons, profit should be a byproduct of victory, and a loss-in-war did not mean the venture should be a loss-in-profit.

Comparatively, the Militant Faction's military-industrial greed was ravenous. They borrowed funds to fight wars and used their political clout to make the Shard turn a blind eye. When their members returned laden with magical loot, all remained happy and kept their bought mouths sewn shut. However, in the advent of the Niger Delta, early profitability quickly turned into Sunk Cost Fallacy, coalescing as a stubborn refusal to withdraw from a "tamed" region rich with magical flora and fauna. In six years, what had been regular principal payments then slowed to interest only, then more loans had to be taken out to pay the initial war bonds, which then forced them to turn their eyes toward the civilian market.

Once more, Gwen could only marvel at the audacity of the Telegraph, who now accused her of single-handedly undermining the livelihoods of thousands of people who worked for the Barlow Group. Additionally, the unspoken word in the article had suggested that the collapse of the Militant's pseudo-Ponzi Scheme should be laid at her feet and that Gwen wore the heel that broke the camel's back.

Whatever the case, her METRO printed its retort; then everything seemed to chill for a few days until unbidden, Charlene suddenly materialised to warn her about the shit storm coming her way.

"You're about to have a major problem, which is a problem for me," Charlene broke the news at Cambridge after finding Gwen blissfully feeding Dede. "Jesus, is that even a duck anymore? What tier is that monster?"

Dede lumbered up the shore of the Duck Pond, a Goliath of a duck only a little smaller than a pony, putting an end once and for all to the debate of whether a Magus could fight a horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses.

"If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck—" Gwen joked.

"QUACK—" Dede roared, letting loose a sonic blast that would have Golos' approval.

"Caw—Caw—" Another greeting came from the nearby tree.

"Mori?" Charlene looked to her for answers. "What's she doing here?"

"You know the Tower Crows?" Gwen felt impressed by just how connected Charlene was proving to be. "But of course, they're your Dad's goons. I know it is called Mori, though interestingly, different ones come around, all calling themselves the same name. What's with that?"

"Much like the secret of your duck, that's not for me to tell," Charlene rebuffed her enquiry, then cut straight to the chase. "Anyway, let's not divert from the issue at hand. The Militants are moving to pay their debts with the Veteran's Pension Funds."

"That's both absurd and... illegal, I think?" Gwen blinked, suddenly making an unhappy connection with the suspicion that had plagued her for days. "Don't tell me the Veterans are being told I am the one fleecing them of their livelihoods."

"Of course they are." Charlene breathed out. "At a time like this, they need a villain, and you fit the bill better than most, being a famed NoM sympathiser, and one guilty of taking their jobs."

"I took their jobs!" Gwen's eyes widened. "Really! When?"

"In their mind, you offered positions that Mages could have filled but gave it instead to NoMs who are doing them for cheaper."

"So I should overpay Mages to stand on corners and deliver papers? Pay Mages to shovel mud from Mudchute? No Mage would work for the wage of an NoM!"

"I think that's obvious to you and me, but not so much to these Orc-headed spell heads. Your problem is that the Isle of Dogs employs more NoMs per Mage than any other corporation in London, the public works notwithstanding." Charlene's scowling elfin face reminded Gwen of the displeased Elven Wardens when she flashed Sanari with Caliban. "At any rate, there's going to be a protest aimed at the IoDNC."

Gwen furrowed her brows. "Why? What are we to do? Pay their pensions?"

Charlene rolled her eyes. "I say protest, but it's an organised riot directed at 'us' and 'you' in particular. Maybe there's a legitimate Mage's work union behind it, or maybe the Militants are semi-mobilising their loyal adherents, but the results are the same. You've destroyed their reputation, and now they're going to destroy yours—with mine caught up as well."

"They're the criminals!" Gwen fumed. "What the hell? Can't you do something about this?"

"The law takes time, and I've tasked High Arbitrator Illingworth to begin the Barlow corruption case immediately with the evidence you've provided. An official investigation cannot be rushed, as is the nature of the High Arbitor's Office. Your present problem, however, is far more immediate."

"… Shit. When's the protest happening?"

"Between this week and the next."

"So we can safely assume this is not a peaceful protest? And that it's going to be at the IoDNC's expense?"

"I dare say there are no grassroots intentions to damage anything, but there will be forces instigating the protestors. I can guarantee that."

"Who are the organisers?"

"The Royal Veterans' London Chapter is organising the march."

"Could I go and talk to them?"

"I doubt they will be listening to you unless you want to front up money for their soon to be missing pensions. These are frightened and unsure Mages who survived the Mageocracy's wars—they know we won't prosecute them harshly."

"Come on. Surely the government can do something. What's the Shard doing? The Metro Police?"

"The Metropolitan police is on our side in this matter," Charlene sighed. "Thank God they have a headquarters on the Isle. That said, the inclusion of Veterans in any capacity always complicates matters. Most of the folk you should be expecting are spare bodies, but you never know who-saved-who and who had remained in the service of a Magister and a Magus of the Factions. Even if we assume the ones marching are all sympathetic to the Militants, there's no reason to rough them up or provoke them to self-destruct. These are men and women who have given their youth and their bodies to the Mageocracy. To repel them without mercy would destroy our credibility."

"Yeah, bad optics." Gwen dug her fingers through Dede's down in frustration. "Okay. So who's looking to benefit from all this? What are the Barlow Group getting? What are the Militants getting? So they shift the blame onto me, or the IoDNC, then what? As a private entity, we have no obligation to feed the Veterans or offer reparation. Likewise, if they damage our plant and equipment, it will only generate lawsuits they can't afford or won't pay. These folk aren't walking away as the winners, so who are the beneficiaries?"

Charlene considered her words. "That's… very astute. I do think—"

_DING!_

The Magister-in-waiting paused when the Message from a serving Magister blossomed beside Gwen's ear.

"Gwen here," she answered the call with an apologetic nod to Charlene.

"Gwen, your crows have come home to roost." The caller, unsurprisingly, was Magister Walken. With far less detail, Walken informed her that his sources had revealed an incoming revolution from the Veteran's Association, who has falsely attributed the partial loss of their pension to the Devourer of Shenyang.

"I know, and I am speaking to Charlene right now," Gwen informed her Executive Officer. "Either way, contact the Commissioner and see what he can do to cordon away the protestors in the next few days. Tell them we'll supplement their building budget if they can muster more Arbiters to stand guard and pick out the belligerents. As thanks, there shall be two—no, make that THREE Golem suits made by Master-tier Runesmiths on order for the Metropolitan office regardless of their help."

"Right." Walken understood her intentions implicitly. "How do you want to resolve this? Any advice before I move forward?"

Gwen looked at Charlene, then gave the matter a minute's thought.

"Ask Yossari if they can line up the Striders as a barrier. If there's one thing the Shard cares about, it is continued diplomacy with our rune crafting neighbours in Wales. Likewise, the vets should understand how pivotal their relationship with the Dwarves need be, considering half of them fought under the shadow of the Cromwells. Likewise, park the Fabricators in the middle of the street. Tell our bearded friends to dig out a moat if they have to. We can't have these protestors coming into the IoDNRP and getting slapped down by the Arbiters. If they refuse to be cowed, direct them towards Millwall. Yossari's folk had clearance for two Rocksmashers, correct? Have the War Golems guard the chokepoint, Stone Shape the damn concrete into an impassable maze if you must. Record everything and hold the line even if they throw the first stone. We'll rebuild once it's all over."

"Right, I'll get that sorted," Walken replied. "Any advice for your companions?"

"Get Richard and Petra to keep an eye out for agent provocateurs," Gwen gave the order. "Charlene says there's bound to be agitators in and among the frustrated folk—" She paused. "And tell Richard to exercise complete discreteness in his fact-finding."

"Will do." The Message Glyph died.

"You have a good team," Charlene observed with appreciation. "A Magister is never himself, but a collective. I have companions as well, though most were hand-picked for me by Father."

"My folks have been through a lot since Sydney," Gwen vaguely explained. "What's your take on this?"

"Well." The heiress to the Ravenport Fund strolled around Dede with a learned eye. "I think you're bound to receive a visit soon. As am I, in fact, so I came here to save us both some time."

"A visit?" Gwen cocked her head. "From?"

"From our mutual friends behind the Barlow Group." Charlene's eyes grew hard as peach pits. "I still doubt that they're committing to the wholesale denial of the Veteran's Pension, meaning there's bound to be a play happening very soon. Have you had tea? Shall we wait a while to see if my prophecy comes true?"

Gwen stood from Dede's lap. "Sure. Dede, you up for tea?"

"QUACK!"

"CAW—!" The crow professed its desire to join them.

Charlene stared at the crow with disapproval.

The crow did not appear to give a toss about its boss' daughter.

"I'll ask my guest from Shalkar to join us." Gwen watched Charlene's interactions with the crow with interest. "Have you met Strun, Lady Ravenport? He's a self-professed refugee rat, but once you get to experience his tack-sharp mind, the bloke's an absolute hoot—"

_DING! DING!_

The Glyphs that blossomed was red.

"Gwen here." Gwen took the emergency call. This time, it was from Dominic Lorenzo.

"Boss, we've got a Garp-sized problem," her Chief Editor's voice came through. "It's our NoMs."

"Our NoMs?" Gwen looked to Charlene, who looked back with just as much uncertainty as herself. "What about them?"

"Before I say anything, stay calm." Dominic's reply sent chills up her spine. "Are you calm?"

"I am calm."

"Right." Dominic continued. "Gwen, there are folk attacking our paper handlers, accusing them of taking their jobs and working for the b—for you! Do you remember Ken Peterson?"

"... The bloke from the train?" Gwen recalled the man's terrified face with a sinking feeling.

"Yeah." Lorenzo's voice grew low. "We received him at Elvia's Clinic with extensive injuries. If it wasn't for a sympathetic Cleric who stopped the mob on the train..."

"Alright." Gwen's reply was calm indeed. Calm enough to charge the air with fizzling static. "Hold the fort, Dom. I'll be right there."


Elvia's Clinic and Soup Kitchen for the Poor Believers of Christ, "Evee's" for short, was renowned across the docklands from Hackney to East Ham. According to the word on the Thames, it was the place to bum if a man or woman was down on their luck. Be they hungry, destitute or desperate; all were welcome at Elvia's.

Without disappointment, such generosity attracted abuse as naturally as gadflies were drawn to an Auroch's arse. Once the news of its fulfilling free food drifted downstream, all manners of vagabonds had floated from the outskirt slums toward the Isle of Dogs. At first, the locals rose with homemade implements to keep order and protect their "Saint Evee". After an altercation with a gruff Mage broke out, Gwen had invited a private security firm to patrol the perimeter. Coincidentally, the same corporation also hired ex-Arbitrators from the retired Municipal Police ranks, thereby supplying law and order to Elvia's open-handed generosity.

When she stepped once more into the courtyard, Gwen thanked the Nazarene that she had made such a foresightful decision, for the moment she arrived at Elvia's Clinic, already a dozen officers were interviewing victims and taking records of the injuries sustained by West Ferry Print Work's paper handlers.

Other members of their little cabal were likewise present, including Lorenzo and a few of the Dwarves. Walken was missing, likely putting out fires elsewhere that would later arrive at Gwen's desk in the form of documents needing signatures and acknowledgements.

"Sergeant Rhodes, McMahon." Her heels announced her approach.

The officers turned. One was a stout man that looked right out of Blue Heelers; the other was a younger bloke more interested in her than in his investigation.

"Magus Song."
"Your Ladyship."

"Please, just Gwen." Gwen shook their hands, then stood closer to the gurney where the NoM slept. "How's our man?"

"He'll heal." Sergeant Rhodes breathed through his mouth. "They weren't going to kill him anyway. That said, this was intimidation through and through."

The man on the gurney was "Ken Peterson, Son of Peter Peterson of Unit 11, District 2, Bugsby's Way, Greenwich," better known as the bloke on the cover of the METRO to his friends and family. She vaguely recalled the man's name but recognised his face— or what had been his face before the brutal beating had given him a new one.

While Gwen soothed her tempestuous feelings into a semblance of calm, the officers studied the woman behind her with wary distance until the visage appeared to match the list of VIPs in their bank of notable personages.

"Your Ladyship Ravenport!" The Arbitrators bowed their backs.

"I am here as a guest and an observer." Charlene Ravenport raised a hand to stop the officers from offering bothersome platitudes. "Please, Sergeant, assume that I am not here and go about your business."

"At once, your Ladyship!"

The amusing sight of the officers obeying and actually "pretending" that Charlene was no longer present managed to cool a little bit of Gwen's bubbling anger. From what she could see, a copper working alongside nobles and Magisters required a particular class of social awareness.

"Ken?" She approached the bed.

One of the Clerics Elvia hired from the local hospitals jolted the man with a carefully transfused mote of Positive Energy. Slowly, Ken's eyes fluttered open.

"Y-your Devourership!"

"Yes, it is I." Gwen held the man's hand. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"The cost of… fame." Ken managed to squeeze out a smile. "Your Devourership, I lost… I lost the box."

"The box?" Gwen looked to Lorenzo, wondering what was so important about this box.

"They destroyed his storage box." Lorenzo exhaled in exasperation. "It's not just a warning to you, but us as well, and to the NoMs working for us. They could have killed Ken with impunity so that you know, and I think your reputation prevented that—no one wants a Shoggoth to manifest on top of their mansion one day."

"Who did this?" Gwen looked back to Ken. "Ken, do you know?"

"Mages—from the Barlow Group!" Ken Peterson was adamant. "I know their faces! They're always loitering near Canary, the lot of them. They came into our neighbourhood to try and intimidate us into selling our leases! We wouldn't budge, but they dared not attack us there in our homes on account of Master Richard waiting for them outside."

Or waiting for them inside their homes, Gwen figured. Sometimes, it took unconventional methods to deal with particular methodologies. Even so, what had changed to precipitate this specific shift in scope and strategy from the Barlow Group? The answer she could guess, though she wasn't sure if her partner would agree.

Behind her, Charlene audibly drew her attention with a soft cough.

"You're right. I think we both know what's happening here," Charlene spoke as if reading her mind. "It doesn't take a Cabal Agent to figure out that the catalyst was our equity exchange. You and I are now in an unassailable position—at least one not movable by the Barlow Group. Ergo, the Militants have decided to move everything at their disposal to salvage the situation."

"They won't win!" Ken Peterson spat specks of blood from a mouth swollen with bruising. It was a miracle that after all that, the Brit had kept all of his teeth. "They won't—will they? Bastards! We have it good here, and that's too much for them!"

Gwen assured the man by patting his hand once more. This time, her compassion was genuine and heartfelt, much like her guilt for putting the man in the limelight to be targeted by petty revenge. If Ken had died and not merely be injured—or if Ken had been a Mage and his Astral Body disrupted or damaged—her feelings right now would be a storm of rage only conceivable by Golos and Ruxin.

_Click-Click!_

Not to miss the chance, Dominic took another image, ensuring that her compatriot Ravenport was also in the frame. Charlene did not protest, attesting to the fact that their interests were indeed mutual.

"And there are others?" Gwen asked the attending physician.

"Yes, dozens, albeit in lesser states of trauma." the Cleric parted from Ken's bed to steer them elsewhere. The officers stayed with the now lucid Ken Peters while Gwen and the management team at the Print Works ventured to the other beds.

The other workers were indeed better off, even if roughly-rolled and in a state of shellshock. Some apologised for losing their devices; most were fearful they would lose their jobs, while a few carefully asked if they could switch to a different position.

Gwen bit her lip.

Whatever the case, she could sense the damage was done. Confidence in the company's ability to protect its NoMs was faltering, and those in less desperate situations would no longer think that the West Ferry Press was a safe Eden.

_Ding!_

While she mulled over her next course of action, a Message Spell bloomed beside Charlene's ear. The daughter of the Duke gave her a knowing nod, then left the Clinic's compound to take the call. While the woman was gone, Gwen walked from bed to bed, reassuring her workers and fomenting a speech, wondering whether this world's Churchill had any rhetoric to lend. Newly injured workers from further afield continued to arrive now and then, both a testament to the success and scale of the METRO Press, as well as the effort to which the Militants were asserting their dominance.

Looking at the flustered Arbiters milling about the place, Gwen couldn't help but wonder if there was a power up-on-high that was looking down on them. The Crown, well nestled behind its Griffins and gold-wrought gates, was probably as giddy as a kid watching the bees fight the hornets, breathless as it waved its sceptre-stick, waiting to poke fun at the losers.

For what other reason, Gwen rationalised, should Charlene be caught flat-footed? It wasn't easy to believe her father Duke could be waylaid as she had. Likewise, the Ravenport family cared, above all else, about their reputation. If their venture failed to achieve the lofty heights promised by the METRO and over-blown by the Sun and the Telegraph, then the Duke's perchance for faultless schemes would lose its lustre. In a sense, London was a nest of Dragons, and the city's competition, Gwen supposed, was something akin to a Magister-making "Gu" pot.

A few minutes later, Charlene returned to her side with a knowing expression that suggested the next stage of Barlow's ploy had arrived as she had anticipated.

"Gwen." She willed the glowing Message toward her so that her Device made a resonating " _Ding!_ "

Gwen took the Message, not entirely sure what to expect.

_"Our Dearest Magus Song."_ The Message possessed a familiar voice. _"We have missed you so much since Cliveden and have since been watching your performance with bated breath. As your friend and admirer, House Exeter cordially invites you to the negotiating table with the Barlow Group so that diplomacy can be achieved, one that is mutually beneficial to you, us, and our dearly cherished Charlene. A meeting has been arranged as noted. Meanwhile, we wish you all the luck in dealing with your woes._

_—Your ardent fans in waiting, Edward Poins and Benedict Thomas of House Holland."_

"… the Exeters?" Gwen recalled her lesson from Le Guevel. "They want to help us negotiate with the Barlow Group?"

Charlene nodded, then pointed in the direction of the Bunker. "I do hope this is the light at the end of the tunnel. In that regard, may we speak more privately?"

"Of course, give me one second." Gwen motioned for Lorenzo, who attended her at once.

"Yes, Boss?" The Chief Editor and presumably Ex-Cabal agent did not look amused by the state of his precious news sellers. "Your orders?"

"We'll make this right. Anyone injured can submit a verified Arbitrator's report to receive one months' wage, doubled, HDM-in-hand. For everyone else, one-week bonus wage. Additionally, tell the kitchen their budget is tripled for the next month. I want all the workers well-nourished and happy. Likewise, for anyone who is living in our properties or leaseholds, give them one month rent." She paused, looked at the envious faces of the Arbiters whistling at the smiling labourers, then once more upped the ante. "Put out a bounty with the Tower for the criminals who did this, set the cap at forty thousand HDMs and take it from my private account. Make it preferentially open to our local Arbiters and work with the inner-city Metropolitan Office to verify their capture. As soon as possible, I want their faces and confessions on the next edition of METRO."

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"Great move and I'll write up something in defence of our NoM employees," Lorenzo affirmed her order. "Anything else?"

"Tell the Runesmiths and Engineseers we've got trouble coming—possibly an enormous protest and a potential riot. Walken will coordinate the Bunker's movements with theirs so that we can minimise loss of life if they're forced to 'defend their property' against unlawful citizens seeking to loot the sovereign Magi-tech property of our allies. Once Richard's back, get him and Lea on recording duty."

Lorenzo took his orders and left.

"Alright, let's go." Gwen pointed the way to the Bunker so that Charlene could follow. "So, what do you think the Exeters want?"

"The answer is straightforward enough, even if it is not to either of our likings." Now that they were walking alone, Charlene grimaced as though she had to swallow a live hornet. "You do know what the Exeters want— and it's you—and I."

Gwen cocked her chin with a scowl. "They're after our funds? Bastards! That's my money! I made the Isle of Dogs from nothing! And it took you years to gain the Duke's confidence."

"There's that," Charlene responded to her intensity with a strange look. "That's not what I meant." She raised a brow. "Do you need me to spell it out for you? We are in London, here, in the heart of the Mageocracy, the veins of the aristocracy bleed a bright blue."

Further down the quay, realisation dawned upon Gwen like rotten soil dug out from the swampland surrounding Mudchute Farm.

"They want to… marry me?" Gwen almost gagged at the prospect.

Charlene's brows twitched. "ONE of them wants to marry you, although I'd wager both would want to have their bit of fun. Think about it, Gwen—what do you think is the perfect resolution to our conflict of interest with the Barlow Group? What would resolve all of our problems and emerge in a way that all of us become winners?"

"Christ…" Gwen searched her mind for a better way of expressing herself but fell to an old faithful expression of bewilderment from Forrestville. "Fuck me, are you serious?"

"Indeed, that would be a part of the deal." Charlene illustrated suggestively with her fingers while wearing a secret smile. "Thoughts? Which one do you fancy? Poins or Benedict?"

"No fucking way!" Gwen growled at her recollection of a grey-haired young man with his carrot-top brother, then groaned as the rational part of her mind put a stopper to her outrage.

Whatever her feelings, Charlene made a sensible case.

Matrimony among the nobility was never about love or even physical attraction. Instead, it was about the compatibility of Elemental Affinity, wealth, class, and prospects. Right now, the IoDNC was at war with the Barlow Group and the Militants. Classically, the most natural way to resolve the problem was through marriage—not of young bodies—but wealth and interests. Then, if they could make love and not war, new wonders would engender.

Terrifyingly, now that Gwen knew the rules, the prospect was indeed enticing. According to Le Guevel, what belonged to her would remain hers alone as a part of her dowry and insurance. Concurrently, the Exeters would lose an enemy and gain an ally. The conjoining of the Barlow properties with the IoDNC would also resolve all major land disputes and pave the way for the most significant urban development in recent history.

If that alone were not enough to catalyse a political and economic marriage, she could also consider that House Holland, with its golden lineage of Henry of Monmouth, would make her children distant heir to the Throne of England. Furthermore, her bloodline of Lightning and Void would mix with the Exeter's Smoke and Steam to create genuinely astounding heirs who could be the envy of the world.

For blood.
For wealth.
For prestige.
For privilege.

Logically, was there a reason to refuse?

Of course, she would never entertain the matter under normal circumstances. Of the four above, she lacked nothing, and when she came into possession of her Tower, there would only be an excess. Besides, Evee would be sad.

If so, what could compel the Exeters into possessing such confidence? The answer, Gwen found with some distress, was in Ken Peterson.

"Are you implying." Gwen turned to Charlene; the more she thought about this, the more she wanted to murder something. "That all of this—the articles, the attack on the NoMs—the drama with the Veteran's Pension Fund—all of it was for me?"

Charlene tilted her head at Gwen's accusation, her eyes twin slits of scepticism. "Gwen, your ego is as legendary as your exploits. Do you think I am not caught up in this as well?"

"They're out to fuck you too?" Gwen blurted out, a flicker of spit narrowly missing her conversation partner.

Charlene winced. "Please, Gwen, I know we're comfortable in each other's company, but I assure you I am not as comfortable as you might assume. We are business partners, compatriots, companions, perhaps, but we are not close enough to share bodily fluids or casual vulgarity, which is worse."

Gwen stood a distance apart and studied the girl, her mind alive with new suspicions that her partner was playing chess in a dimension that she could not access. "Tell me truly, did you plan this? If so, what do you want?"

The daughter of Mycroft Ravenport raised both hands in surrender. "I deny nothing, but don't accuse me of ploys I did not put in to place. I merely went with the flow of events. Schemes, Gwen—are not so simple as business deals. A supplier of ploys should be fluid. A good plot flows around the events, not become the event itself. My father taught me that."

"Your Father's a Duke," Gwen reminded her. "My father was sowing seeds in NoM single mothers while fighting my actual hellion of a mother."

For once, Charlene appeared taken aback by Gwen's briskness. "What? Despicable! No footman to cover his tracks and take the blame for his bastards?"

"Maybe he IS the footman, you thought about that?"

Unable to control her laughter, Charlene halted her then and there, waited for the awkwardness to pass, then returned to their former, more profitable topic. "I shall confess that yes—I do have some knowledge of the Exeter's plans. However, I am not a partner to said plans. In reality, I wish the two of us would remain as unattached and disconnected from the gentry as possible. As father already has Quinn to continue the line, the reins around my neck have been loosened, and I may pursue whatever I wish, be it politics or blood."

"What does this have to do with the Exeters?"

"Is it so hard?" Charlene asked. "To believe that the Exeters have you and me in their sights? They are twins, after all, and London's laws do not allow one woman to have two husbands. Besides, is my share of the Norfolk Fund not many times the worth of your ownership of the IoDNC? Are we not both women carrying distinct and desirable bloodlines?"

Gwen made a scowling face. "The cheap bastards!"

"That's God's truth." Charlene laughed. "What a ploy, though, hmm? They put pressure on our respective investments, then offer a greasy olive branch. Of course, there's merit as well. The blood that flows in the veins of House Holland is sacred without question. If our children—disgusting a concept as that may be—should yet engender a second Henry Dawn Star, who knows what the Mageocracy might look like in the next century. Likewise, you don't need me to tell you of what the marriage can produce, both economically and in terms of London's political scene."

"Either way, I see it as a poisoned apple—" Gwen shook her head with absolute adamance. The more she thought of the bastards' smug faces, the more she felt that a stern point must be made to leave her and her investments well alone. If the Exeters wanted to push the envelope in this dire time, she would return their Message to the sender in the cruellest terms. "I only trust in my future, carved with my hands. Besides, I know you, Charlene—you and I— we don't marry Tower Masters. WE ARE the Tower Masters."

"Well then." The self-professed schemer extended a hand. "Shall we teach them a lesson? I don't think it will salvage the situation here at the Print Works, but it should keep undesirables from interfering with an already complicated situation."

Gwen took the dainty, aristocratic hand and firmly shook the potential Duchess' palm. "I am sold. So what's the plan?"

"Well." The Ravenport girl's cold, hard eyes glimmered like black diamonds. "I hear, Gwen, that you're awfully good at duels..."

London.
The Isle of Dogs.

The Veterans' protest promised at West Ferry materialised two days later in a manner as infuriating as it was futile.

Around the fortifications the Dwarves had set up overnight, just over two thousand men and women gathered, excluding their friends and family. Likewise, joining the march via resonating sympathy or boredom were another thousand or more spectators caught up by the riotous atmosphere. Annoyingly, most of the protesters wore the colours of the union jack, adding to the impression of legitimacy, dissuading onlookers from thinking that this was merely a rioting mob.

They were also organised, for just past Canary Wharf, near the inner dock, the protesters held up well-made signs, placards and banners made for a headline-worthy spectacle.

"GIVE BACK OUR FUTURE"
"GREEN-EYED GREED"
"DON'T DEVOUR OUR LIVELIHOODS"

From the Bunker, Magister Eric Walken stood over a battle map reconstruction of the protest, wishing with all his might that these were Mermen and that all he needed to resolve the matter was to unleash Gwen for fifteen minutes.

"Those are some nice looking signage," his War Mage boss remarked. "Funny how a bunch of poor, penniless Veterans have access to industrial printing machines."

"It would be funnier if we could trace those signs back to the warehouses where the Sun or the Telegraph prints their papers." His new Duchess von Boss, the daughter of Duke Ravenport, snickered in turn.

The banter between the girls made Walken's temple throb.

For several hours now, they had been monitoring the protest. Charlene was confident that there should be agent provocateurs working among the Veterans. Merely from the fact that bystanders and family members had shown in force, he could already imagine the political fall should the elderly or the young be injured.

Besides the trio and their scribes, several open channels of Message hovered, each in their distinct Divination spheres. One was to Petra, who was using her hidden talents in the field to canvas the protesters. Thanks to his unique Spiritual talents, Richard remained invisible and hidden above the crowd, keeping an eye out on the Sun and the Telegraph reporters, or at least those wearing their press badges. Finally, the dubious shadows of Strun, Dede and Mori lingered atop a construction crane, watching the events unfold with interest.

To ensure that no betray came from their side, Walken withdrew all their Print Work's workers from the front line in favour of Dwarven engines. Usually, this would incur severe penalties from the Municipal office, though the political fallout should hopefully be absolvable with Charlene onboard.

"Christ, next week can't come soon enough." Gwen appeared to split her attention between the vista outside the boardroom window and the illusory markers on the enormous table. "Are you sure the Exeters can put a stop to this?"

"Nothing on earth is going to return their pensions unless the Militants can return to profitability and repay their debts," Charlene assured the girl. "But yes, they absolutely can stop this nonsense."

Walken looked from one girl to the next, feeling distinctly old in his late age.

"If you lose," he warned the girls. "You would have to marry either of them."

"If I fail, I may as well be dead." Gwen grinned prettily, her fatalism as morbid as it was sardonic. "So, how could I lose?"

Walken nodded in silence.

To the Exeters, Gwen was game, and Charlene was a worthier prize. However, against a self-made woman who would fight as though her life hung in the balance, how could the Exeters hope to win unless they were also willing to put their life on the line?

In Walken's eyes, the riposte from the girls was a masterstroke in hitting your foes where they were most vulnerable while avoiding their strengths.

In the reply sent to the invitation from the Exeters, both of the girls stood firm in their position that they would not allow themselves to be wooed by knock-kneed Mages too afraid to make genuine proposals without the threat of coercion.

However, they were amiable to negotiations and would prefer to meet the Exeters on neutral ground, such as the Royal Goring Hotel directly opposite the Buckingham compound. Within, in a private suite joined by a few press members, Song, Ravenport and Holland could openly carve out the conditions necessary to meet the Barlow Group in the middle and put an end to this fiasco.

Perhaps thinking of success, the Hollands agreed.

In reality, Gwen would take Le Guevel's lessons and strike the Exeters between the legs, where their honour lay by asking for a public duel. Such a development was unorthodox, but it wasn't every day that an heiress was also a Class VI War Mage.

To further entice the men, Charlene would offer confidence by offering herself as assurance that she and Gwen would follow through with specific promises should the Exeters be victorious. Of course, if Gwen and herself were the winners, they would ask the Exeters for a favour.

To refuse the offer in public would bring such scandal and shame to the Militant Faction that the twins need not raise their heads for a decade—an outcome that suited Charlene just fine, as she could finally cease responding to the continuous requests for marriage from undesirable partners. As for Gwen, the duel's outcome would firmly establish her position among the nobility and catalyse an optimal end to the IoDNC's protest problems.

As for the planned spectacle—the scions of a Great House matching up against the Devourer of Shenyang in public would dominate every headline and put a stopper to the daily "bad news" spewed forth by The Telegraph.

Once more studying the two ambitious young women, Walken thought about retirement.

In many ways, he felt distinctly sorry for House Holland, who would undoubtedly underestimate Gwen's growth after Shalkar and be woefully incapable of understanding the sheer grit needed for Gwen to be standing in her present position.

As for the protest.
He felt only sadness for the ruined lives of the men and women below, each a red-blooded personage and yet, not even worthy of being a chess piece in the hands of the city's future twin Magisters.


The Royal Goring, located opposite Buckingham Palace, was famous for its regular hostings of Royal Galas and high-class functions. To date, it also remained the only hotel owned by the founders' direct line, having been built by Otto von Goring before the outbreak of the Great Undead War and now operated by Otto von Goring the Fourth, Great Grandson of the original proprietor.

What surprised Gwen as she entered was how lovely the place looked despite its low ceiling, cramped space, and busy furnishings that appeared the world's loot collated in an eclectic museum. Conversely, the quirksome decor with its paintings and herringbone tiles gave the suite a strangely welcoming atmosphere, one rich with the Empire's history.

At the lobby, a group of reporters from the Sun, Telegraph and the METRO were already swarming like Mermen around a struck whale. They were entertained by none other than Otto Von Goring the Fourth, who immediately broke from his polite engagement with the press pack to join the austere figures of the Devourer and the Duchess. Together with their METRO reporters, Gwen spotted Richard and Petra, who she deeply suspected had tagged along for the complimentary royal-class High Tea "shouted" by Charlene Ravenport. All the same, she had entertained the notion of bringing Strun and Dede, though Charlene's almond-sized eyes and deathly glare proved rather more dissuasive than her impulse.

They were, after all, here for business, a fact reinforced by their choice to forgo flamboyance.

Gwen's dress, now that she could afford a King-sized bed carved from a block of solid HDM crystal—was subfusc French-chic in black chiffon, adorned with aggressive ivory collars and cuffs that gave her the air of a domineering mistress. The designer was one of the dozen ambitious NoM graduates Gwen had on-call, and for the occasion, the young man had not disappointed.

Comparatively, her partner took the seriousness a step further, showing up in crow-skin, four-inch heels that added to her bird-like visage, completed with a cubic jacket and tapered, stiffly-starched ankle-length suit-pants.

Together, the clicking of their heels on the marble tiles communicated without ambiguity that they were witches of the same cabal—and that the scions of House Holland who awaited within would be enjoying a rather unpleasant surprise.

"Magus Song. And our dear Lady Ravenport!" Gwen stood aside while the general manager exchanged personal greetings with Charlene.

Once their cheek to cheek was over, Otto bowed from the waist and mock-kissed Gwen's offered fingers. "What an achievement in the Elemental Sea, Magus Song. You have been burdened with the affairs of our state unfairly, Milady. I do hope you are taking care of yourself."

"I am, thank you." Gwen received the man with politeness.

"Otto's father spent a while serving Grandfather as his second," Charlene clarified the position Otto held. "He's like an uncle to me."

"You are too kind, Lady Ravenport," The proprietor cut short his genteel address to shake Gwen's hand. "To think the cherished girl-child of yesteryear is now London's bluest rose, one whose bloom puts this old man to shame."

Charlene's chuckled.

"Well, it's good to know we're on home ground." Gwen withdrew from Otto. "Sir Goring, where are the Hollands?"

"Inside." The man nodded in the direction of the garden suite. "I've set up the press gallery in the drawing-room adjoining the garden tea room. Our young lord Exeters are awaiting your arrival and has been for about thirty minutes."

"Good, at least they know their decorum," Charlene nodded. "We should be glad that they're taking this seriously."

"Well, you did say they only get to marry once—lest they wish to impersonate the infamous wizard Bluebeard," Gwen remarked. True to her words, the influence of the Church of England ensured that officially, there would only be one wife, both in sickness and in health, until death did the pair apart.

Charlene laughed, then asked "Uncle" Otto to steer them toward the objects of their present ploy.

While they followed and was in turn followed by the troop of reporters, Gwen pondered whether the Exeter honestly possessed the miraculous power to dissuade the protesters from the IoDNC's compound. In the last few days, things had indeed reached a boiling point, going so far as to cause her pair of Dwarven Hammer Guards to ride out in their MKII Rock Smashers as a show of force.

For now, the swaying Spellswords had dissuaded the passionate protestors from taking a step further past the barricade. The reasoning, Gwen figured, was that even a Mage-grunt was aware that dying at the hands of Dwarves "defending" their Fabricator Engines was an exercise in futility with no legal recourse for compensation. For both sides, having the lot of them dying would save the Faction money in terms of pensions and validate the Metropolitan Police's promise that a "riot" would draw a response exercised with "great prudence".

Nonetheless, the protesters' passion had proved to be inflamed beyond the scope of diplomacy. Their continued harassment of the Print Works' workers meant that circulation of the METRO was at an all-time low as advertisers deserted them in droves. Worse still, construction of the projects at the Isle of Dogs had ground to a halt due to protestors blocking the transit of garbage trucks and barges, going so far as throwing delivered construction materials into the River Thames.

Gwen had to admit that what was happening was a good strategy for the Barlow Group and their Militant backers. Conversely, the Exeters taking the opportunity to push the envelope was right up her alley, even if it proved an unwelcome Hail Mary. In their bid to shame the Exeters, her greatest regret was that she couldn't invite Ruxin to London to have a friendly chat with the Twins, who would certainly appreciate the time spent under a mythic millstone of living-lightning and Dragon Fear.

Ahead, Otto waved away the footmen and personally opened the doors for them, revealing an empty garden view chamber with a walled-off illusory barrier so that they and the Hollands could have faux privacy.

Within, the Exeter twins awaited under an ornate ceiling with its mural of Grecian bathers, dappled by the light from a row of two-storey French windows. As the girls entered, both rose from their seats.

This time, away from the sordid atmosphere of Cliveden and its seedy history, Gwen saw the men for the first time in their natural habitat.

Edward "Poins" Holland, the Smoke Mage, possessed dusky-platinum hair and charcoal eyes polluted by the purity of his Affinity. He wore the high-cheekbones of his Clan, a protruding, hawkish nose that reminded Gwen of Rowan Atkinson, and sported thin pale lips curled into an expression of frozen sardonicism.

Comparatively, brother carrot-top was a sunnier fellow with fairer skin, a less stooping gait, and though he shared the same face, the Steam Mage appeared less hostile and arrogant. In stark contrast to his twin, Benedict "Thomas" Holland broke into a pleasant grin when his eyes landed on the girls and their choice of garments.

Unlike the girls, the brothers wore matching, three-piece suits suitable for the April weather, with Poins in black and Thomas in light grey. Their ornate vests, comparatively, drew Gwen's eyes toward its embossed heraldry, which were rune-like and interlaced in the manner of fine herringbone, leaving little doubt about the time and effort a Master Enchanter had spent making the vestment.

The foursome met in the middle, framed by a marble arch overlooking enormous bay windows and the garden beyond. Where it not for the sizzling tension in the air, the vision of London's tailored young folks standing shoulder to shoulder would have sent tongue wagging from John o' Groats to South Sea.

Once in position, all four turned to face the press pack.

A flurry of Lumen-recorders exploded, filling the room with light. After this point, the press would reside behind the illusory curtain, giving the speakers relative privacy.

Otto directed the dazzling pairs to the window seat, where already, he had set up three-tier tea sets, each positioned meticulously in front of a flurry of antique silverware from the epoch of Victoria.

Feeling the pressure of the men's searching eyes, Gwen turned her gaze directly to the twins who she hoped would meet her in the middle, ideally in an arena.

The company of youths studied one another for a full minute, searching for a kink in their irrespective armours.

"Your IoDNC," Poins began with undisguised displeasure. "It really is the most damaging thing to come to London since the Red Dragon."

"Poins!" Thomas shot his brother a disapproving glance. "Be nice."

Gwen looked from one face to the other, both identical but for their in-built colour scheme. From the looks of it, they were playing good and bad cop, just as she and Charlene were bitch and bitchier.

Charlene motioned for Otto to pour her tea through a silver sieve to remove the sediments. Presumably, a trained butler was to be their man, but the owner had replaced his disappointed employee after becoming overcome by what Gwen read as second-hand fatherly affection.

"Milords Holland," Ravenport's voice was huskier for her two decades as a Dust Mage, a stark contrast to Gwen, who often lowered her voice to suppress her youthful vitality. "The true damage to the Mageocracy is the fiasco at the Niger Delta. When had our glorious estate ever suffered such a resounding loss? Not in recent memory—not since the Elemental Sea. Gwen returned from Shalkar with Demi-human allies. Your men, or so I've heard, returned with a thousand caskets."

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The riposte should have come as expected, though Poins' lower lips still grew tight, while Thomas laughed off the matter with a smile. It was an interesting insight into the brothers' dynamic, one in which Gwen fancied a potential divider.

"Speaking of the Elemental Sea." Gwen took over from Charlene, who had set her up beautifully for the boast. "I do believe that particular problem is resolved, at least for a decade, or until drastic changes come to the region. We expect profitability within three months, as soon as the imports clear the port."

"You've done an unbelievable job," Thomas took a swipe by emphasising the "unbelievable" part of his statement. "You mean to tell me you've terraformed the place singlehandedly?"

"Of course not— though thank you for assuming so," Gwen thanked Otto as the man passed her the yearling Darjeeling. "I've had help from ten thousand Rat-folk and Tryfan. Do you know Tryfan, Milord Hollands? Immortal beings holding the secret of Spellcraft? Solana and I are on a first-name basis."

That last part, Gwen amused herself, was genuine because Solana referred to her as "Gwen" on account of her Master.

"Aye. We know of the Hvítálfar's role," Poins interjected with a scowl. "We know of your association with them. When you are a part of House Holland, you should take care of with whom you associate. Of the undesirables, the Hvítálfar count among the few that we forbid."

"When I become a part of Holland?" Gwen raised her chin and extended her elegant neck. "'Forbid?' What a claim, Milord Poins. Tis a curious choker you've placed around my neck. Is that the courtly decorum they teach at London Imperial?"

"Poins has been looking a little too forward to the diplomacy," Thomas chuckled. "I should confess that I was no less eager."

"Grace begins with gratefulness," Poins continued his routine. "Look about you, Gwen. Poins and I, and Lady Ravenport yonder—we are the Mageocracy's future. Yet, you have been invited to join our ranks. As someone from the Frontier, you should know just how rare an opportunity this may be."

Gwen glanced at Charlene, finding her partner's expression unreadable. She supposed that as a matter of breeding, she was the anomaly while Charlene and the Hollands were born on the same stratum.

"Oh, I am no stranger to sharing regal company. I already had the pleasure of Edmund, even back in Sydney." Gwen prodded the trio a little. She rather disliked the idea that Charlene and the twins were werewolves of the same pack. Before they were nobles, Gwen had hoped she and Charlene should be witches of self-made means.

"Ah yes, the untalented twerp." Poins smiled for the first time. "We were good friends, young Edmund and I—weren't we, Thomas?"

"Edmund was a special kind of guy for sure," Thomas laughed as well. "I am sorry, Charlene. I know you did your best."

"I would thank you not to mention my brother again," Charlene sighed at the threesome. "Have you all had enough banter? Our patriarch's world has enough smoke and mirrors to last me a lifetime, so let us of the younger generations be more direct while we still have the time and convenience."

At Charlene's agitation, Gwen regretted her callous mention of Edmund.

"That's fine by me." Poins looked up at Gwen with expectant eyes equally hungry and desirous. "Brother's Affinity is safest when coupled with the Void Mage. Charlene and I should make an equally well-matched pair."

"How practical." Charlene nodded. "Although I heard that you often asked after Gwen. Is there no affection, Milord? No attraction, even? Her popularity on campus remains unrivalled."

Even with foreshadowing and context, Gwen felt shocked by the straightforward nature of Poins' statement and Charlene's rebuttal. Were they merely bitches and bulls? Was this Crofts? The absurdity of what these men considered normal was on par with Swiftian satire. To air her unhappy thoughts, she lavishly jammed a scone with excessive cream, then rudely gestured to the hotel's upper suites.

"Say I agree. Then what?" She spat. "Shall we get a room or do it on the table here? After you finish, those poor protestors better get off of my property!"

All three nobles, with the addition of a shell-shocked Otto, converged on her outrage.

Somewhere, the muted sound of Lumen-recorders going off reminded Gwen that they were being recorded for posterity.

"Milady Song." Thomas coughed to cover his awkwardness. "I applaud your eagerness, but there needs to be more to diplomacy than the horizontal variant."

"Oh, sorry, I forgot we needed a ceremony as well," Gwen said sardonically. "For a minute, I thought Poins was intimating that we're at a Mermen Flesh Market. Shall I summon the accountants and the Magisters then? Time is HDMs, you know?"

More clicking came from the adjourning room.

The twins appeared lost for words.

"Gwen, calm yourself," Charlene stepped in. "Milord Holland, we've convened here today for reasons that need not be profaned—however, need I remind you that we are not here under our own will? You've put us in a compromised position, Milords, and we have this way responded to your invitation. We have attended, but to dance the quadrille is an entirely different matter."

"What do you propose?" Thomas halted his brother from rebutting to Gwen by muttering something about golden blood. "An equity exchange? Our Father is happy to up the ante if your Father obliges."

"First of all, we don't need your money," Gwen spoke before Charlene could continue. "Charlene and I— We ARE money."

"Thank you, Gwen." Charlene shoved a scone onto her plate. "For that perfect revelation. Now, Milords, please listen to our proposal."

"We are listening," Thomas concurred. "Pray, tell."

"I propose a trial of arms," Charlene said. "You are of the Militant Faction and should know the tradition well. Gwen and I wish to organise a Trial by Combat in the same vein as Henry Dawn Star's wooing of Catherine of Argon. If your golden blood of the Plantagenets flows true, you would not deny us, or so I would hope."

Behind the illusory veil, another flurry of Lumen-recorders erupted. By citing their proud ancestor, the twins could not deny her proposal without denying their "golden blood".

"Tis true," Thomas replied after a moment's thought. "I would not and cannot deny you this. A lack of confidence would go against our Credo."

For the moment, Gwen withheld her mockery.

"So you harken for a good whipping?" Poins looked at Gwen with an expression she once recognised in Charlene's brother, possessing equal parts excitement and cruelty. "Will you participate this time?"

"Gwen is an ordained and proven War Mage," Charlene reminded the man. "I would speak with care, Milord, lest she flays you alive in front of all of London."

"Oh, she would, would she?" Poins voice grew gravely as Ravenport's daughter pricked at his pride. He turned to Gwen once more. "Would you like that, my dear?"

"Win or lose—I'll make a man out of you." Gwen thrust forward her best figure by arching her spine and raising her eyes defiantly.

A flurry of lumen recorders shuddered.

Thomas burst into an impolite snicker while his brother floundered at Gwen's teasing outburst. "You're a jewel, Magus Song. There's no doubt about it. Very well— we accept. What are our stakes? Officially and otherwise?"

"If we are defeated in our suit," Charlene continued. "Then Gwen and I shall formally accept your proposals for the union of our Houses. Naturally, we reserve all rights gifted by etiquette and tradition, but we shall concede that you two are capable future spouses and will undertake your offer with complete sincerity. So long as you remain willing, we shall not refuse."

"Maybe I'll have the Void witch after all?" Poins said to his brother. "We do make a passionate pair."

"And should we fare poorly in the arena?" Thomas halted his brother for the fourth time, then continued the parley, demonstrating a composure far exceeding his brother's Affinity-driven frivolity.

"Then House Holland will do its utmost to leave the Barlow Group and its interests, as well as perform a favour in the withdraw of the protests on the Isle by the Militant Faction," Charlene said. "After which, we are happy to conduct business with House Holland if you would have us."

"All risk and no reward," the mocking voice of Poins rose from between them. "Why should we agree to such terms? When we have you by the neck?"

"Bah! What a curious case of a fool and his advantage." Gwen held little patience for such economic illiteracy. "You have anaesthetised our profits, Milord Hollands. But the IoDNC will not be making a loss either way. And there are other means by which the IoDNC's interests can be preserved and West Ferry continued. As the adage goes, don't push your luck when you don't have all the spells memorised. You have far more to lose, while we have only un-materialised gains to be lost. The IoDNC is the tide of change, Poins. Can you stop the tide? Can House Holland will away the ebb and flow of the Thames? What power Holland must wield to hold back the progress of a city!"

"Magus Song." Thomas motioned for Otto to give her more sweeties before she could say something genuinely catastrophic. "Poins, you as well. Please control yourselves."

Charlene assisted by offering Gwen a glimmering fruit tart and a lime-lemon profiterole. "To exercise fairness and tradition, we will use a three-crew bout, as per duelling jousts of old. Gwen will compete herself— and I reserve the right to nominate a champion on my behalf. Milords may have the convenience of either option."

Thomas appeared to consider the matter on his brother's behalf.

"Three-Mage bout?" He looked at Poins, whose thin lips curled. "I see. That is agreeable to us. Where should this take place?"

"May I recommend the All England Duelling Club?" Charlene proposed a very public arena. In Gwen's old world, this was where the Wimbledon Tennis Cup held its matches. In her present London, the All England Club hosted six arena-sized duelling rings and ten individual-match rings. It was the place where the International Duelling Grail, the national sport of the Mageocracy, took place every year.

"Oxford rules?"

"Of course," Charlene rejected the American's love of flamboyance out of hand. As she had discussed with Gwen, pre-buffing before the battle was likely not in their favour, considering what House Holland had in its six-century history of conquest. "Elimination?"

"I would vouch for none-other," Thomas agreed with a glint in his eye. "Likewise, if you choose these conditions, then I propose a blind match up."

Gwen likewise favoured elimination rounds. Without incident, she could defeat both Thomas and Poins and end their ambitions once and for all. Comparatively, a round-based bout would imply that either they or the Hollands could use the three-horse strategy to skewer their odds, such as matching Gwen with fodder while they took on Charlene and whoever served as their third member.

Meanwhile, a "blind" match implied that participants, or in this case their third participant, would remain a mystery. Together with the elimination rounds, the setup raised the tension and exponentially increased the bout's entertainment value for the viewing public.

As for who might be their third wheel, that was an additional layer of strategy and complications. If they or the Exeters chose a senior household member, it would draw wrath from the spectators and scorn from the adjudicators, effectively invalidating the victory. If they choose poorly, the choice may offer a complimentary match to one's opponents. Ergo, a pre-ordained condition was to pick someone of the same age and pedigree as the original participants.

What mattered then was the selection of a Mage that countered at least one opponent, such as selecting a high-tier Dust or Earthen Mage to deaden Gwen's Void and Lightning. More creatively, picking a Cleric or a Faith-caster was likewise a viable option to offset the overwhelming popularity of Spellcraft sorcery with Faith Magic.

Finally, an extreme option would be the choice of forgoing number three entirely and simply challenge the Exeters as a duo, or Gwen could choose to solo the threesome.

"Very well. We shall agree on three-Mage bouts. And as I picked elimination as our format, I shall abide by your choice of blind matches," Charlene confirmed the conditions. "To minimise undesirable interferences, shall we set the date? All England has an opening on court number two as early as Saturday, three days from now.

"If you have it all planned out," Thomas leaned back in his chair. "Than as gentlemen, we shall respond in kind. Is Magus Song amiable to the conditions?"

"I am." Gwen inclined her chin. "And you as well?"

"We are," Thomas spoke for his brother. "I assume you have no complaints, Poins?"

"I eagerly await our wedding night." Poins, as advertised, appeared to have a particular obsession with her.

"I am also eager, though for something else entirely," Gwen returned with a smile of her own.

"Then we agree," Thomas turned to the illusory veil. "We shall reconvene on Saturday at the All England Duelling Club. There, we shall show the world what may yet be achieved when history and blood met in Raven and Exeter—"

The man paused to grin at Gwen.

"—additionally garnished, of course, by our flower of the Frontier."