Tyriel Wert was peering at his latest acquisition through a loupe, when three knocks sounded from the door. For the briefest moment, the sudden impulse to ignore them overwhelmed him, before his rational self surged back in control.

He knew that knock, and it meant business. Day business. Unprofitable and cumbersome as it may be, for the good part of a decade it had allowed him to conduct his actual business in peace. The wool over the wary eyes of the Jaisian law.

Swallowing his sigh, he called out as he slipped the loupe and the ruby necklace into his desk drawer.

"Yes, Gertha?"

The door opened just wide enough to allow the maid's masked face to squeeze in for a nervous word,

"A Madam...Dunstaal...is here to see you, sir." Gertha glanced quickly at the unseen client for confirmation. Tyriel cocked his head as he rifled once through his memories. The name rang no bells. A new client.

He browsed through his array of practiced smiles and slotted on the humble and welcoming one. He traversed the room in three brisk strides, and pulled the door wide open as Gertha quickly stepped aside.

Draped from the shoulder down in her black Jaise veil, Madam Dunstaal reminded Tyriel of a velvet jewelry display. Her Jaise mask featured a stunning white peacock, whose trailing train seemed as if to loop around her neck in silver-white chains, beset with rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Tassels of gold cascaded from her earlobes onto her shoulders. Metal bands thick and thin pooled at her wrists, and rings adorned every other finger of her gloved hands.

Tyriel beckoned the client over to the seat before his desk with a bow and a slow, graceful flourish of his arm. Once Madam Dunstaal had lowered herself onto the velvet-padded chair, Tyriel swept back to settle down on his own.

"My lady, it is our pleasure to host you in our humble bathhouse. What seems to be the problem?"

He steepled his fingers, his gaze alighting on the empty eye-sockets of Madam Dunstaal's mask. Madam Dunstaal gave a start, her honeyed smile faltering in alarm.

"Oh no, no. I'm not here with a complaint." She vigorously waved her ornament-laden hand. Judging from her voice, and the size of her bosom, which she casually rested on the oaken desktop, he guessed she had had children, and was well into her fourth decade. Yet, she dissolved into a bout of coquettish giggles as she leaned towards him,

"I have an offer for you."

Tyriel's hand spasmed on his desk, before he quickly regained composure. He had pinned her for a westerner from the fair skin around her lips. How had this foreign lady been introduced to his actual business? And to call for his services during daylight hours, no less.

He let his mask deal with his pallor and apprehension, and simply dredged the tremors out of his mild voice,

"Do tell, my lady."

Madam Dunstaal unfurled a smile of relief. She took a moment to glance around his office, appraising the various memorabilia from previous business dealings he had framed in gold on the wall, or rested on velvet busts atop marble plinths.

There were rows of ancient Tyldornian dubloons. A diamond necklace with a sapphire centerpiece roughly the size of a quail egg. A jet-studded tiara. An ornate copper shield. A puzzle box of carved ivory. A polished tortoiseshell bowl. A hunk of aged ambergris. She lingered particularly on the amiant cloak with Lattis yarn goldwork that Tyriel had pawned off a Greeneye trafficker. It could have been a trick of the light, but Tyriel thought he saw a shiver rushing down Madam Dunstaal's arms.

At long last, the lady turned back to face him. Fondling a ruby brooch over her heart, she heaved a sigh and shone him a guilty smile.

"Pardon me for ogling. I have a weakness for shiny trinkets. You'd think I'm an overgrown magpie."

Tyriel responded with his obligatory smile.

"Not at all, my lady. I prefer to think of it as an appreciation for rare beauty that we both share."

His reassurance only seemed to trouble Madam Dunstaal further; she unpinned her ruby brooch and continued fidgeting with it on the desk. Glancing up to meet his gaze, she continued with a sigh,

"If so, then I'm sure this must come as an outrageous request." Tyriel tilted his head in question to mask his growing impatience. He itched to pick up where he left off with his ruby. As if Freda had divined his annoyance, she willed the lady to finally unveil her business;

"You see, from the instant I caught sight of that crystal ball in your chough's beak," Madam Dunstaal gestured in what she assumed was the direction of the Falls, "I realize I couldn't rest until it's nestled in velvet in my collection."

Ah, finally.

At the revelation, Tyriel was inundated with satisfaction as well as relief. Ever since he had had that eye mounted onto the chough statue three days ago, he had received countless complaints from tourists, who were mainly from Meriton, Icemeet or Aquar.

He had set the old statue cleaner to explain eastern norms to them as needed, and the deluge gradually subsided. Though a few persistent naysayers would trickle through.

Seeing Madam Dunstaal's fair skin, he had expected she would be one of the petty lot. Instead, she had turned out to be the visitor he had been anticipating; the ones of like mind. A fellow seeker of exotic relics.

A dull clack of metal and stone on wood rippled the silence; Madam Dunstaal's drooping necklaces caressed the desk as she leaned forth and lowered her voice,

"I heard you've lost a dear for it, and I would be willing to compensate you for every Latt, down to the last brass coin."

Unfortunately, Tyriel had decided from the beginning that the Eye would not be up for sale. And accordingly, he had prepared a solution for fellow collectors. Reclining back against his chair, he bent down and reached for the handle of the bottommost drawer.

"If so, my lady, you would no doubt have also heard of whom I've obtained the eye from." He pulled it open and extracted a heavy ledger bound in carmine silk, "There is one more where that came from. I have seen it, and I can assure you, they are as alike as any twin."

He propped the ledger against the desk's edge, trawling through the multitude of names, dates, and amounts of owed gold with a nimble finger. The deal was still fresh in his memory, and he found the entry in roughly half a minute.

"Ah, here we are," He glanced up at Madam Dunstaal, who seemed to be toppling from the edge of her seat, her ample breasts flattened under the combined weight of her jewelry and her leaning head. Swallowing back a chuckle, Tyriel gestured towards his inkwell and pile of blank paper,

"I have the boy's father's name and address. Shall I write it down for you?"

Madam Dunstaal's lips burst into a radiant smile. She brought her hands together in a soundless clap.

"Why, thank you, sir! That would be ideal. You are most generous." She wetted her lips greedily as she watched Tyriel's quill dancing on the paper, then added as if to lighten the awkward wait, "I hadn't expected you to be so open about your business dealings."

"Not at all, my lady." Tyriel's smile had unconsciously sagged as he concentrated on his work, and he hitched its corners back up. He slid his peacock quill back into its stand, then flourished the once-folded note towards Madam Dunstaal, "From one collector to another."

Swift and soundless as a snake's lunge, the lady swiped the note from his fingers and promptly unfurled it.

"But would it be as simple this time around, though?" She objected slowly as she scrutinized the note's content, before glancing up to meet Tyriel's patient smile with a shrug. "After all, it's the boy's only remaining eye. And I do have some reservations about robbing a child's eyesight."

Tyriel drummed his fingers on the desk as he pondered; he had not prepared for that potential drawback. His gaze wandered about his room at his motley collection, as it often did whenever he sought a spark of inspiration. Rather unexpectedly, he found it in the blood-red cover of his debtor ledger, yet he smiled in satisfaction nonetheless. He leaned forward, prompting Madam Dunstaal to mirror him, and steepled his fingers,

"We're in luck, my lady. I happen to know of a covert place."

He paused, watching what little blood the lady had under her skin drain gradually away. He cocked his head, and his smile widened.

"There, you could find Greeneyes who would be eager to trade off their...possessions. Any of their possessions. Provided you have the gold."

For a breath, Madam Dunstaal simply sat hunched there as if stunned. At long last, she seemed to have regained her senses. Clearing her throat and nodding, she straightened up and glanced to the side, her gaze settling once again on the Lattis-embroidered amiant cloak. Even as her hand clenched into a trembling fist around her ruby brooch, her voice remained light and genial as she boasted,

"Oh, more than I would ever need."

⏳

Lady Crosset's white gold-gilded carriage was parked in wait in front of the Pearly Falls' humble entrance, with Jerald sitting at the reins. He descended gracefully to assist the young ladies and children as they filed into the wagon. Gretella brought up the rear, supported by Lady Arinel.

Jerald took her free hand and, together with Arinel, eased her up to the driver's seat. Gretella was still adjusting her dresses when Arinel turned and presented him with a folded note.

"Please take us to these places first."

Jerald took the note after a nonplussed pause. He didn't unfurl it, let alone so much as glance at it; his gaze remained focused on Arinel.

"Your Grace, my order is to bring you directly to Jaise Castle," He began, his voice strained by the uneasy lump he soon swallowed down his throat, "You are to prepare for dinner and an audience with Lady Jaise in Meya's place. I doubt we'd have time for detours."

Arinel was unfazed.

"I'm sure we could cut the preparations." She gave her mask a slight nudge, then spared a quick glance at the sun's progress in the sky,

"We still have a few hours before sundown. Please, Sir Bayne. It's for Meya and the Greeneyes."

The Lady had probably sensed Jerald's defiance, for she turned fully to face him and grasped his forearms. Jerald stared at the masked face. At her beseeching voice, he had a glimpse of those pleading blue eyes through the opaque glass.

He peered over Arinel's head into the carriage. An acid green eye glowed in the shaded box; Meya had taken off her mask, her back curved, her face ashen and her gaze faraway, as Lady Heloise and Lady Agnes busied themselves relieving her of the multitude of jewelry on her person. He pursed his lips and gave a slight nod.

"Very well, my Lady."

The Lady's lips burst into a smile of relief. Arinel gave Jerald's arms a brief squeeze of gratefulness, then allowed him to help her on board.

The carriage shimmied to life just as Arinel settled down in her seat facing the rear, between Heloise and Fione, and she instinctively turned around. Just outside the doorway, Gretella was leaned towards Jerald in closeted conversation, without doubt filling him in on what the girls were up to.

Beaming her grandmother a silent thanks, Arinel turned back to scrutinize the rest of her fellow passengers. As was customary for the Lady, Meya had taken the front-facing seat in the middle, flanked by Agnes and Amara. Being the lone gentleman, Frenix had volunteered for the rear seat. His curly head bobbed in and out of sight through the rear window as he enjoyed the view and the breeze.

Meya had been uncharacteristically silent all through their trip back to the surface, responding to their frantic pestering for results with listless nods and shakes of her head. And now that she had shed her mask, Arinel could appreciate just how pale she was.

Agnes had relieved her of the excessive adornments they had plied onto her to create her Madam Dunstaal persona, and Heloise was arranging them back in their velvet boxes. Yet, she still held onto the ruby brooch, fidgeting endlessly with it on her lap as she stared morosely into space.

Arinel tugged off her mask, then laid her hand atop those restless fingers. Meya looked up with her left eye and an empty metallic socket; her right eye had been slotted into the chough statue in place of the gum farmer boy's, as part of her scheme.

It was obvious her good friend was not all right, so Arinel leaned forth and plunged straight into the matter,

"What happened in there?"

It seemed Meya had set out to shake her head when she felt the burn of five pairs of eyes on her cheeks. Frenix must also have heard, for he flipped around and poked his head inside curiously. Sighing, Meya twiddled the brooch's pin and nodded.

"He's got this cloak on display." She confessed in a low, weary croak, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder in the direction of the Falls, "It's made of amiant and embroidered with Lattis yarn."

Arinel felt Heloise and Fione shift beside her as they turned to wordlessly consult each other's opinion. She shot a covert glance at Agnes, arguably the most studious of the immediate party, now that Coris wasn't available, but the Lady Graye could do no more than shake her head. As if she could sense their confusion, Meya continued,

"I was almost sold off by Greeneye traffickers once. Just last Fest, actually."

Heloise seized up with fear. Fione leaned forth, her wide eyes transfixed on Meya. Frenix's grip tightened on the windowframe. Agnes's hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes met Arinel's as the same inkling began taking shape in their minds.

"I remember. Those were the first hangings I've ever seen." Agnes whispered, her voice hushed with resurrected horror. Arinel tightened her grasp on Meya's sweaty hands, remembering all too soundly the dying throes of the five wicked men, as they swayed and convulsed side by side from freshly erected gallows.

"Mine as well. They were the first hangings in Crosset after Bailiff Johnsy."

Meya nodded. Yet, she seemed so phlegmatic that she could have just been bobbing along to the rhythm of the carriage.

"Them traffickers used one of those cloaks to knock me out." She unconsciously smoothed the hairs on her shivering arms as she recalled, then a mocking grin twisted her chapped lips, "Now I know it's because sleeping draught doesn't work on Greeneyes like me."

"Oh, Meya."

With a sigh of lament, Agnes gathered the shaken girl into her arms. Meya's bloodshot eye bulged as she sucked in her lips, a futile attempt to will back the lone teardrop that had emerged. Accepting defeat, she rubbed at her eye with the heel of her hand,

"What did you do with those cloaks, by the way, my Lady?" She turned back to Arinel, wringing her trembling lips to form a half-grin, "Amiant and Lattis don't burn, do they? They're nigh indestructible."

Arinel forced her lips into a consoling smile.

"Lattis, perhaps. But not amiant." She cocked her head, then disclosed, "The alchemist dissolved the robe in vitriol and buried the Lattis yarn. Rest assured, it could never be used on another Greeneye."

She slid her remaining hand under Meya's, enclosing them between hers, as she stared intently into the dragoness's lone eye. Meya unfurled her first genuine smile ever since she had donned (and discarded) her disguise, then chuckled as Frenix playfully patted the top of her head. Heloise, however, was not placated.

"How many are still out there, though?" She muttered, her arms stretched taut, her shaking hands clinging tight to one another on her lap. She remained staring ahead as the others turned to her, shrugging with a savage grin.

"It's a chilling thought. Wrap a cloak around a Greeneye, and you can whisk them away anywhere."

Heloise bent forth, clutching her head in her hands, as her strangled voice filtered through her mane of golden-brown hair.

"Fyre, I hate being a Greeneye."