I wake up, and once more I have to untangle my Reska memories from my Alice memories.

Associations and connections form automatically as I parse each aspect of the dream and acknowledge it as a dream, a vision, a separate set of memories; not my experience. I am not Reska, and I’m not the one being flirted at by Homura, but it strikes a chord with me nonetheless, and it pulls my mind to Cheshire and her manipulations.

I know, better than I would have a mere week ago, how it feels to meet someone who seems hand-crafted just for you. I know it has to be a lie.

My mind sifts through possibilities and commonalities, dissecting the dream. There’s a part of me that feels rushed, panicked, like I have to understand it now or lose it forever, but just like last time I find that none of the details of my dream are fading. In fact, the details of the first dream are still clearer and crisper than some of my real memories.

So I have information, and I can catalog that information as something distinct from my experiences in the Labyrinth, and it is fascinating to examine the similarities and differences. I have the vague sense that I am in a bed right now, beneath lumpy blankets, and I remember being brought to a shrine and a doctor, but I willfully ignore my physical sensations to immerse myself within the world of my dreams.

It happened again. The visions of Reska and Homura, they didn’t stop with the meeting. Will this happen every time I sleep? Is the length of the dream determined by how long I sleep, or some other factor?

Are these dreams of something that will happen? Something that has happened? Or something that is happening?

And why am I receiving these dreams? These are too crisp, too structured. There is a sense of purpose here. I thought it might be a warning about Cheshire, but I received that warning and ignored it. I took Cheshire’s hand. I said yes.

I run through the events of the dream once more: Reska and Homura growing closer, discussing magic, discussing Reska’s magic, showing Shadow and Starlight and Blood. I seize on that last item, on Reska’s affinities. I feel like I can see puzzle pieces clicking into place, though the complete image eludes me.

In the first dream, Reska narrated, “They called me a monster from old myths, a demon wearing human skin.” But demons aren’t mythical, not to Bashe, not to the reavers. And in the second dream, she said, “Humans can’t use this magic, not normally. No one else alive has an affinity for Shadow, because anyone who tries to build that affinity dies.” But there’s a whole Throne of Shadow, with demons and imps and diabolists tapping into it. Those first two may be inhuman, but they weren’t always, and diabolists are definitely human. So there’s desync.

The Leviathans, the Abyss, those are things I’ve heard from my companions. Bashe told me at length how dangerous Abyssal magic is, but he also revealed how accessible it is. I could borrow some when I was still just an unaligned human. It’s not some forbidden, impossible, mythical form of magic. Not to us. But it is to Reska’s people.

I questioned before why Reska called them affinities and Cheshire called them Truths, but maybe that difference is substantive, not just superficial. Maybe Reska really is using a completely different system of magic. If her relationship with Shadow is so different, if the Throne of Shadow doesn’t exist, then maybe she exists in a time before it was made… or after it was destroyed. I can’t know for certain either way.

I need to know more about the setting as it is now before I can determine how Reska’s setting relates. For all I know, she could exist in some obscure corner of Pandaemonium where all the rules are not quite the same.

That last affinity is interesting, though, for wildly different reasons. Reska and I both have a connection to Blood, and now my dream-self, Homura, is developing an affinity for Blood of her own. Is Homura an astral projection, and taking on Blood because I’ve chosen to? Does she predate me, and my choice is an echo of her choice, of Reska’s choice? Does she exist after me, and her choice is an echo of my choice?

There must be something significant about this alignment. I didn’t choose Blood because of Reska, though I did think of her when I made the choice. If Blood can represent bonds, then is there something meaningful in how all three of us (or perhaps two of us, if Homura is not substantively different from this version of me) made Blood a part of us?

If Homura is me, then why does she need an affinity if she already has Truths? Is that a lie to manipulate Reska? Has she lost her magic?

It makes me uneasy. Again, I wonder: why am I having these dreams? What am I meant to take away from them? How is the information contained within meant to recontextualize the information I already know?

In the end I’m left with more questions than answers, and so at last I allow myself to open my eyes and rise from my rest.

I’m in a room with cream-colored walls and a bed that is comfier than I’m used to for a hospital bed, not that I’ve been in many. There’s a chair in one corner, a little table with a flower vase on it, and a fairly typical-looking medical cabinet. Bashekehi is leaning against the wall next to the door, watching me.

As I sit up I realize that my blankets aren’t lumpy, there’s just a cat lounging atop my legs. Predictably, the cat has white fur and mismatched eyes. I give the kitty some ear scritches and murmur, “Good morning, Cheshire. Morning, Bashe. How long was I out this time?”

From my lap, the cat answers, “A healthy night’s rest, but no longer. We’re at what passes for dawn in the Labyrinth.”

“Well, that’s good. I’m hoping to make this a very productive day after the disaster of yesterday.” I glare at Bashe, still largely blaming him for how that went.

Bashe is immune to my glare, of course. He’s giving me a long, measured look, and it’s honestly kind of annoying me.

“Hey, incubus: pipe up. You don’t get to play the silent game after that fiasco. You led us right into a trap, then tried to bail. What the fuck is up with that?”

Bashekehi stares me down, not rising to the bait. After a few more moments of him getting on my nerves he finally speaks up. “Why’d you kill that guy?”

What? “What? Why does that matter? Why do you care? Also, again, circling back to my point: you fucked up. That place was a terrible feeding spot.”

The incubus shrugs. “So it was. Things have changed.” His gaze is hard, unrelenting. “But you didn’t have to kill that man.”

I scoff, disbelieving. “What is this? What is this moralizing bullshit? He was trying to kill me, Bashe, so I killed him back. That’s how the game is played.”

“It’s not a game,” he snaps at me. Shit, is he actually angry about this? What the fuck? “I need you to understand that none of this is a game. I have no love lost for Averrich’s brigands, but once upon a time there were rules in this city; a code of conduct.”

I fire back, “Are you even listening? Were you not there? He tried to kill me! I could have died there. I didn’t have a choice.” I didn’t have a choice. I’m not a murderer. It was just self-defense.

“There’s always a choice. Who threw the first punch? Who escalated a tense conversation into open violence? That situation was salvageable, Alice, and you sank our chances.”

“Fucking hells,” I marvel, “you actually are moralizing at me. You dumb shit.” I start laughing. “What’s the point of this? Really, what’s the point? You’ve said you don’t care about the people involved, so it can’t be about who I killed, it’s about the fact that I killed at all, right? Does that surprise you? Does it surprise you to learn that a demon is capable of killing someone?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I know you’re not as cavalier about this as you’re pretending to be. I saw you staring into that dead man’s eyes. There’s still a human in you, and people don’t just walk away from that kind of violence unaffected.”

“So what?” I hiss. “Is this the part where you give a long-winded speech?” I switch tone and start mocking him. “‘Oh Alice, I know we’ve had our differences, but I truly believe that there’s still good in your heart! I’m convinced that you’re better than this, despite all evidence to the contrary!’ Fat fucking chance.”

He rubs his face and sighs. “Call me delusional if you like, but yeah, I do think there’s some good in you. Not a lot, mind, but a little. An ember. You’re a selfish, manipulative, violent piece of shit, but you’re not a monster. Not yet, at least.”

The retort I’m about to make is silenced by Cheshire stirring from her place on my lap. She hops off the bed and shifts back into her catgirl form, arms crossed.

Bashe turns a burning look on her. “Got something to say, changeling?” Changeling, changeling… didn’t I hear that before, in the club? What does that mean in this world?

Cheshire’s voice is calm and cold as she asks, “Son of Amin Dara, who do you blame most for the death of your father?”

Bashe’s expression immediately cycles from vicious to stunned to furious. “You little–”

“Do you blame the mobster who slit his throat to send you a message?” Cheshire interrupts. “Or do you blame yourself, the prodigal son who could never live up to his father’s moral standard? What part of it do you feel most guilty about, Bairam? The gambling debts you racked up in your obsessive attempts to win a game rigged in the house’s favor? The devil’s bargain you made with an incubus to try and cheat the casino’s system?” Cheshire pauses, and then, before Bashe can cut in, says, “Getting caught?”

Holy shit. So that’s his backstory? He got in deep with the mob, turned to an imp for help, and ended up getting his dad killed? How the fuck does Cheshire know that?

Bashe’s fury turns cold. “Don’t think you can manipulate me, witch-beast. I’m nothing like your demon.” Rude, I mutter to myself internally.

Cheshire strolls up to the incubus and pokes him in the chest. “Don’t use my demon as a proxy for your own failings.”

He slaps her hand away and says coldly, “I’m just trying to do some good. I know that concept is alien to your kind.”

“You’re not some righteous martyr,” the catgirl sneers, “you’re just a broken man stuck in all the worst moments of your life. No, it’s worse: you’re a fiend pretending to be a man, lying even to yourself. You think your precious rules make you different from all the other imps with hearts of Indulgence, but it’s just a mask. That’s all it will ever be, Bashekehi: a mask. A lie. And one day, I promise you, that mask will shatter.”

“You’re wrong,” the incubus says with the conviction of fact. “These rules make me better. They help me be better. I can still do good with this life of mine.” He hesitates, and I wonder if Cheshire’s words have hit more deeply than he’s letting on. “I can still balance the scales, such as they are.”

Cheshire smirks. “Bashekehi the Ever-Gleaming will never find redemption for the sins of Bairam Dara. Drown in regret all you like, but know that nothing you do will change the score.”

Bashe glares daggers and opens his mouth to speak again, but I speak first. “You said I’m not a monster, Bashe. Do you really believe that?” I lower my legs to the floor and stand up, wobbling a little and letting Cheshire help steady me.

The incubus turns from Cheshire and meets my gaze. “I’ve met my share of monsters. You’re standing right next to one, in fact. But you’re not a monster, not yet.”

I tilt my head. “And… when you told me that the path of a demon involves killing thousands, and I still chose to walk it… that didn’t make you think that I might be a monster?”

He laughs, clipped and dark. “No, it made me think you’re like one of those little kids bragging on the playground about how good at killing they’d be if they were the hero of their favorite book or show, too immature to understand that there is nothing ‘cool’ or ‘badass’ about the taking of a life. You are a child, Alice, playing at being a villain but not understanding what that entails.”

I feel a flash of white-hot rage at being talked down to like this, and I dig my nails into my palms to keep control of myself, to keep myself from lashing out without thinking and saying something he can use against me. I run through responses in my mind, looking for anything that doesn’t make me sound as childish as he’s accusing me of being. I’m not a child. You underestimate my resolve. It’s not like that. You have no idea what I’m capable of. You’re wrong.

They all ring hollow, because on some level I think he might be right. Hells, I couldn’t even bring myself to bite a girl without first interrogating the philosophy of her existence and attaining her explicit and very enthusiastic consent.

A wash of cold shame and loathing dulls the heat of my anger. Is he right? Am I committing to a path I’m not prepared to walk?

Deep down, you’re still just a scared little girl.

I exhale the rage from my lungs and let exhaustion filter onto my face. “Maybe I don’t understand. But I will. I have to. Because I have no other choice.”

He shakes his head. “There’s always a choice.”

“You’ve said your piece,” Cheshire says with a roll of her eyes. “Now get going. You are leaving, aren’t you?”

Bashe curls his lip at her, but says, “I am. And Weaver willing, this will be the last I see of either of you.”

“What a heartwarming sendoff,” I mutter. “Don’t forget to write.”

The imp turns to leave, and as he goes he delivers a final warning. “Just remember, Maven Alice: there’s still an ember of good in you. And I would hate to see what you become when that ember flickers out.”

I wait for the sound of his footsteps–hoofsteps?–to fade before turning to Cheshire and immediately asking, “Hey, what the fuck is a changeling in this setting?”

She seems more amused than annoyed by the question, which is a relief. “I admire that curious spirit of yours. Allow me to pose a question of my own, and then I’ll answer yours. What do you think of, when you hear ‘changeling?’”

I tap my chin and take the question seriously. “Well, my view is a bit biased here, but I’m used to thinking of changelings in terms of autistic or otherwise neurodivergent kids getting demonized for being different. Your kid’s not like the other kids and you’re an illiterate peasant, so you say they were replaced by a faerie or a devil and beat the sin out of them.”

Cheshire nods. “There are similar points of contention surrounding changelings in this world–or rather, the worlds beyond this prison of glass and dreams.” The catgirl hums, then sits down on the bed and pats the sheets for me to join her, which I do. “This is, in fact, one of the things I was arguing with Bashekehi about. He believes, as many do, that changelings are inhuman things hand-crafted by the Demiurge to replace a human child, while others argue that changelings are born as ordinary children and marked by the Demiurge in early childhood. Either way, it is known that changelings have visual differences from other children, such as physical deformity or discolored hair and eyes.”

I note her white hair and those vibrant yellow-and-blue heterochromatic eyes, which have carried into every transformation, and I wonder if the cat ears are also part of her changeling nature, or, since they don’t stay when she shifts, if they’re some affectation of her form as a geist.

Cheshire picks her words carefully, staring off into the distance rather than holding my gaze. “They are also different in behavior, manifesting from a young age and worsening over time. Those who fear changelings would say that this is a sign of their inhumanity, and they are often said to be incapable of empathy and other essential social traits. Those changelings that do manage to fit in and adapt, it is claimed, are just very clever liars.”

So far, so similar. Handpicked to be relatable to my experiences, and I doubt that’s any kind of coincidence.

“And then, of course, there is what gives weight to many people’s fear of changelings: their magic. At a certain point in every changeling’s life, they will discover the Gift of Change: a power granted to them by the Demiurge which does not obey the rules of Throne magic. It’s different for every changeling: some can take the shape of humans they’ve seen, some can take the shape of animals–but not magical beasts like night horrors–and some can change their whole body but not individual parts, while others can change individual parts but never the whole body.” Cheshire grins and becomes a cat once more, then returns to her catgirl form. “You can see what I was given.”

“You said it differs from Throne magic,” I immediately focus on. “How so?”

“The change doesn’t require mana, for one, and it’s not really a spell like you’ve been dealing with so far. There’s no bracketed title to announce and no spell matrix that springs to mind. It’s all instinct and will.”

“Fascinating,” I murmur. “He also called you a ‘witch-beast.’ Is that derogatory, or an actual descriptor?”

Cheshire wiggles a hand in a noncommittal gesture. “Somewhere in between, really. There are a few vanishingly rare cases of someone having a power or ability that is clearly magical but just as clearly isn’t Throne magic, and the people who have those abilities are called ‘witches.’ Those looking to dehumanize witches–particularly changelings–will call them witch-beasts instead.” She shrugs. “I don’t find it that offensive, really; I quite like being a beast.”

I chew over everything she’s told me, a pressing question looming in my mind. A lie has been exposed, or maybe revealed, but I need to gather just a bit more data before interrogating her about it. “You said there was ‘contention’ about whether changelings are born or made; replaced or transmuted. Which is it, in your expert opinion?”

The changeling muses, “I’m not sure which it is. I’m not sure the distinction means anything, to the Demiurge. I think, either way, that the changeling was chosen before it was even conceived, and so the details are irrelevant.”

“Mm. Then… were you lying, when you said you were created? When you said you were made for me, and that you were made because of Katoptris dragging me into the Labyrinth?” I try to keep my voice curious and interested rather than sharp and accusatory.

Cheshire smiles, the expression softer and subtler than her usual wide-mouthed grin. “Not entirely. I wasn’t lying when I said that I was made for you… but I wasn’t made recently, and I wasn’t born knowing everything about you. I wasn’t born a geist, either, since you were probably wondering about that.”

“I was, actually,” I admit. “So… how exactly does that work? How were you made for me, but didn’t even know about me at first?”

The geist chuckles. “Nyarlathotep is scary good at playing the long game. I had a childhood, though hardly a normal one, and then I learned that I was a changeling, and then that I had powers, and then that I enjoyed using my powers. And then… she found me. She found me, bleeding out, in the winter snow. I’d come to enjoy my powers too much, and I had become reckless in my shifting and my play. So she found me there, bleeding out in the form of a cat, and she offered”–Cheshire licks her teeth, expression growing sardonic–“a generous gift: the gift of nine lives.”

I couldn’t stop the snort that came out of me at that. “Really? Cat gets nine lives? Wait, do you guys even have that legend here?”

“We don’t,” Cheshire laughs, “or at least the world I was from didn’t, and it really threw me for a loop when I first learned about that. Nyarlathotep is terribly fond of making references only she will actually get. But, yes, she offered nine lives to a dying cat, and all she asked in return was that, when my last life ran out, I would come and serve her as a geist. I said yes.”

“And then you died.”

“And then I died,” she agrees. “Nine times, in nine different ways, taking nine reckless risks that were wholly unnecessary but very, very fun.” Her lips twitch and she adds, “I didn’t even last nine years. Real waste of symbolism, don’t you think?”

“Truly the greatest loss,” I snark back. “What happened next?”

“I kept my word, though it wasn’t like I had a choice in the matter. She came to me again, as I lay dying in a different place by different means, and she told me that it was time to become a geist. And then she… reshaped me.” Cheshire shivers at the recollection, gaze going far-off and unfocused. “Do you know what it’s like, to be sculpted in an artisan’s hands? I do. She put me under the knife and she cut until I was the pinnacle of her art. She snipped at dead growth like a horticulturist tending her garden. She grafted secrets and knowings to my raw and open soul, and she pressed her fingers into my mind until it gave like wet clay and could be molded into the perfect shape. The perfect Cheshire.” The changeling leans against my arm and turns her gaze up at me, frenzied light now burning in her eyes, blissful smile fixed to her lips. “She made me perfect for you. The perfect Cheshire to your perfect Alice. It’s what I was born for. It’s what I died for. It’s what I was remade for. It was all for you.”

That is… wow. Uh. Wow. I can’t help but shiver as my mind fills with vivid, tantalizing, horrifying imagery. To be destroyed like that… to be created like that… and all for me. Somehow, that’s actually more concerning than the idea that Cheshire was created ex nihilo to seduce me. The Demiurge picked a thinking, feeling woman and took a scalpel to her identity until she fit the role of my ideal partner.

The cosmic toymaker made a toy just for me. I’m hit by immediate conflicting waves of excitement and revulsion. How the fuck do you respond to that? How can I possibly interact with Cheshire knowing that Nyarlathotep did that to her, and all for my benefit?

If it was for your benefit, which it very likely wasn’t. Nothing about this Demiurge seems benevolent. If Cheshire is telling the truth about her rebirth–and for all that I’m suspicious of her in general, that story felt too raw to be entirely a work of fiction–it still doesn’t mean we can trust Cheshire. I refuse to believe that Nyarlathotep would grant us a handcrafted girlfriend out of purely altruistic motives.

Yeah. You’re probably right. But, still… how do we deal with this, if any of it is real? I… I don’t know what to do.

Then we focus on what we do know, and on what we can do, and that means our next steps are clear: getting out of this shrine, getting an outfit that boosts our magic, and growing our power until we’re ready to take on the Beast of Lamentation and Euphoria.

I look down at the impossible creature still smiling up at me, this radiantly horrifying vision of perfection. I struggle for words and find my thoughts too scrambled from Cheshire’s revelations. Even if only a fraction of her story is true, it’s still utterly game-changing for me.

When I finally manage to speak, it’s only to say: “I don’t know how to respond to that. If you’re not lying, then… that’s horrifying. That’s terrifying.”

Cheshire tilts her head. “Are you terrified of being loved, Maven Alice?” I immediately hiss at her and she laughs. “You really are such a delightful creature. Don’t worry, Alice, we’ll save that discussion for another time.”

“Or never,” I mutter.

Cheshire ignores me and rises off the bed, then takes my hand. “For now, you should demanifest me: I’ll be more useful on invisible reconnaissance than bodyguard duty, at least until we run into trouble again. It’s also good practice for doing it when you need to.”

I push off the bed and ask, “Alright, how?”

“Just focus on my form and will me to return to your shadow. It’s as easy as picking up something you’ve dropped.”

I take a few breaths, search for that strange sense of physicality in Cheshire’s shape, and reach out with my will. I touch something, and pull, and then Cheshire is melting into shadow and the wood carving appears in my hand.

I quickly pocket the carving in a belt pouch and ask, “Cheshire?”

I hear her voice whisper behind my left ear, “I’m with you. Shall we go shopping?”

“I do need some new digs. Just have to find our way out of here and off to whatever passes for a mall.”

I leave the bedroom I was in and take a look around the hall outside, but before I can gather my bearings there’s a man in plain robes waving at me and saying, “Ah, you’re awake! Excellent, simply excellent. Please, if you would, come with me: the priestess would like very much to see you.”

Ah. So… detour first, then shopping.

I follow the messenger deeper into the shrine.