"You’re really going to just give this back to me?" Albert was still aghast as he eyed the broken mirror warily. "You killed me for this. Doesn’t that seem… I don’t know, counter-productive?"

"Albert, you seem to be misunderstanding. You work for me now. Whether you or I has written ownership of The True Self is irrelevant so long as you remain loyal." Death answered casually as he signaled for Hope to do something, but Albert didn’t miss the subtle threat in his words. "And it seems likely that ownership of this property may be part of your uncanny fortune. Declaring that with surety is not something I am confident I can do; but, as I said, it seems likely. Spiritual property can behave as such in certain circumstances."

"Okay, what about the ring then?" Albert asked, suddenly remembering that the mirror was not the only piece of property he owned.

"Of course. Hope, pass me the stack of properties and I can filter through for the ring."

Hope absently handed the stack of papers back to her father as she continued writing at the small desk at the back of the room. Albert wasn’t sure what she was writing, but she seemed intent on doing it very carefully. Her arm wasn’t moving with the rapid urgency or the quick precision that he had seen before.

"This really used to be yours…" Albert muttered to himself as he let himself actually touch the brass frame of the mirror.

"Indeed," Death muttered back, his attention still on the papers in his lap. "I commissioned it, as I said. It is always a treat to find a half-dead starving artist begging for an opportunity to create their magnum opus before they pass into oblivion."

"What was their name?"

Albert couldn’t help himself. The question slipped out of his mouth as a whisper, but Death still heard it and looked up to better judge how he should answer.

"His name was Charles Marchant, a brilliant sculptor and metallurgist. He left a lot behind when he passed… You remind me of him, actually."

"Me too…" Hope hummed without looking back at Albert. "It’s the posture, or the set of the jaw maybe? Or maybe it’s just that he’s so disruptive."

"Disruptive?" Albert blurted out skeptically. He couldn’t think of a single time in his life where he’d actually interrupted the status quo. Apart from debating Death to a standstill, at least.

"Not American disruptiveness, Albert." Death corrected. "People here will rage against anything that looks at them wrong because their whole lives are short rides between prolonged anxiety-inducing nightmares and a bed they feel safe in. She means old world disruption, the kind that only stokes up at real injustice."

The abrupt and callous dismissal of an entire nation's troubles mixed with the offhanded compliment caught Albert off-guard. He almost missed the intentional shift in topic. Death’s brow had furrowed at the mention of Charles Marchant; and while it had looked like a minor consideration at first, the prolonged duration of the expression made it clear to Albert that the contractor had deeper feelings on the topic than he was letting on. It felt strange to think that Death could slip up and let his guard down so easily; but with how composed he always seemed, it must have been something incredibly significant.

"How did it break?" Albert asked. He had been afraid to dig further initially, but there likely wouldn’t be many opportunities to ask if the mirror had such a dangerous history.

Death paused and looked up from the stack of papers he was still thumbing through. His gaze was suddenly cautious, piercing, and wary of Albert. "I made the mistake of entrusting it to someone I trusted a great deal. Someone that didn’t work for me. It was and will continue to be the last time I make such a foolish mistake."

Silence followed Death’s proclamation, and Albert could feel the skin on the back of his neck going a little clammy while he sat there under the contractor’s prolonged gaze. It was both a threat and a warning. If Albert kept to the topic, there would be repercussions. Fortunately, or perhaps intentionally, Hope picked that horrifying lull in conversation to return to the center of the room and present Albert with a new sheet of paper.

"Feel free to read over this, but it’s pretty much just a return of property. And the line at the end with a blank is just a placeholder that lets me add on the actual name of the ring once we find it, which I can do after you sign it. That provision there is what lets me do the after signing thing there, by the way."

The idea of something being changed after signing bothered Albert; but as he read it, he felt reassured. Hope had been very deliberate and careful as she was constructing the agreement. The line post signing, arbitrator ___ agrees that contractor ____ may append additional property _________ (which property will be only that item which the arbitrator intends) when it is identified felt very straight-forward. And while the straightforwardness was comforting, the fact that it was Hope writing it counteracted that feeling a great deal. Just because she was trying to be well-mannered, and just because she was around her father, didn’t mean that she didn’t have her own motives and that she would take advantage of every opportunity she could to get what she wanted. Albert just wished that he knew what it was that she wanted.

After carefully reading the document over twice, Albert signed. Hope, who had been sitting on the desk next to the contract, snatched it up as soon as it was signed and took it back to the back of the room. Albert was surprised that the broken mirror wasn’t retracted as well, but there was a different feeling in the air as he sat at the desk now. The first time that Albert had accepted property from Death, he'd sat in that very chair, and the property had felt like any other item. But now, with the broken Heart of The True Self right in front of him and transferred back into his ownership, it felt different. It felt alive in a way that objects shouldn’t; it was almost humming with a pulse that was ticking off at a bpm you’d expect from an Olympic athlete pushing themselves too far. And at the same time, it was perfectly still.

Recovering from the sudden shift in the object’s nature, Albert looked around the room to see all eyes on him. With a nervous shrug from Albert, Death went back to shuffling through pages. But Hope kept her eyes on him.

"It’s got a wicked hum to it, doesn’t it." She said with a grin and a wag of her eyebrows. "Only masterworks do that. Even broken ones."

"Ah, Hope, here it is." Death interceded with a page held out for his daughter to take. "It was nearly at the bottom of the stack. Once you addend that to the previous contract, would you please grace us with the other two?"

With a nod, Hope scratched her quill across the paper that Albert had just signed and began to shuffle through the other documents cluttering the small writing desk. As soon as she was done with the contract, Albert felt a wave of relief wash over him. Marcus’ ring wasn’t anything glamorous, nothing to fight over, it was just a somewhat tacky class ring after all. But it had been the first piece of spiritual property that Albert had willingly owned, and it felt personal. He’d gained ownership of it after working with Marcus and making a deal that relied heavily on his own ability to protect someone else. The condition for Marcus to sign over his soul, and unwittingly save Albert’s life in turn, was that Albert keep Marcus’ sister safe from Death and other contractors like him. The ring felt like a physical representation of that deal, even if Albert hadn’t actually gotten to handle it for very long.

"Now, Albert, you seem to be in a daze, but I would appreciate your undivided attention for a short time longer."

Death’s voice cut through Albert’s relief and recounting harshly and had him back on alert the second he started speaking.

"Good. You heard me make mention of two more contracts." Death continued as he waved Hope back over to his side of the desk. "These have been drafted as a consequence of your recent absence. One is to determine whether or not you can be trusted in lieu of your irrecoverable time spent with Madame Offry."

Hope had placed two single-page contracts on the desk in front of her father and stepped back to lean against the wall. Death put a hand gently on the page to his right and slid it forward to Albert. It was a very careful gesture, more so than he had performed when returning the documentation of The True Self.

"This is a discovery contract. It is a request of your soul, not for ownership but for disclosure. It allows us to see any and all binding contracts you have signed or been party to. There is a filter paragraph in the midst of this contract which narrows the scope of discovery to contracts written by contractors such as myself. Additionally, a difficult to decipher paragraph—the second one of the document—is a paradox countermeasure, which excludes this document from the list of documents. You are invited to review the document in its entirety before signing. But there is the matter of this contract as well."

Albert didn’t know what to expect. The first document was definitely in Death’s scrawling, spidery handwriting; but from across the desk, Albert could see that the second one was not. And as Death pushed it towards him, less gingerly than the first, Hope’s neat and trim hand was clearly evident.

"That’s for your commission." Hope explained, with a slight excitement in her voice. "Both from me and from my father."

"Commission?" Albert didn’t recall any mention of earning a commission from working for either of them. But if they were going to pay him, he wasn’t going to say no—at least not right away.

"You completed the job you were sent to do, albeit in a roundabout way." Death responded calmly. "You even identified two competitors, which is a great help. And good work should not go without reward."

"And you transferred a substantial volume of souls to me, which I consider worthy of a commission."

"I would prefer that we settle the matter of conflict of interest prior to signing your commission, but your commission is not dependant on a clean bill of health." Death tacked on.

Seeing the serious look on Death’s face, Albert picked up the discovery contract and started reading. Like Death had said, it wasn’t the most straightforward document. His handwriting only made it worse too. The second paragraph was entirely unintelligible, Albert wasn’t even sure if some of the words were in English—though that seemed par for the course with contracts. Latin terms seemed to come up a lot. But apart from that, there was still a substantial amount that Albert couldn’t wrap his head around. The introductory paragraph was about all that made sense, and that was only because it was a similar wording to all the other contracts he’d been given.

Even things that almost made sense had elements such as: Contractee agrees, by right of denial or lack thereof, and through signing, to disclose known and unknown agreements as penned by hand or given by unwritten consent. And Albert had no idea what "right of denial or lack thereof" meant. He doubted that there was any sort of language like that in normal legal contracts. But confusing terminology and arbitrary and obscure terms seemed to be the bread and butter of contracting for souls.

"So when I sign this, how will you know it worked?"

"You will have to place your hand on a blank parchment while you sign, and the parchment will populate with a list of agreements you are party to." Death explained with a wave of his hand, like it was no big deal.

Based on the seriousness with which he was treating the situation, however, it was most likely a very big deal. It seemed that every time Albert had to sign his name somewhere, it was a matter of incredible severity and consequence.

Hope slid a blank sheet of paper across the desk for Albert to place his hand on, and he produced his own quill. And, for a moment, he sat there. Even if there was an option not to sign, there wasn’t a reason Albert could provide. He couldn’t identify a reason why the contract was unfair or a bad idea. And without a reason, how would he ever get a better and more clear contract. All that remained was to follow instructions and do as he was told until a better opportunity presented itself.

And so, without recourse, Albert placed his left hand on the blank parchment and signed his name on the disclosure agreement with his right. Slowly, Albert felt a damp sensation crawl across his palm, like there was an open cut letting out onto the paper. Rather than blood, however, ink began to pool out from under his hand and stream out to the top of the page and begin to form words. Albert recognized the first few, but wasn’t entirely sure what the information next to the names meant. Death, ARB, two; Albert, ARB, AG; Albert, ARB, MH; Death, ARB; Death, RES. But further down the list were names that Albert didn’t expect. T. McClellan, NEG; E. Marchant, ARB; E. Marchant, RES; E. Marchant, RES; E. Marchant, RES. And that name kept repeating. E. Marchant. It covered the page completely to the left of Albert’s hand. Additional columns were forming and it all appeared to be the same name with the same letters following it. When ink began to spill off the page and carve the name into the surface of the desk, Albert thought it would be best to lift his hand and stop the process. But it didn’t stop when he moved his hand; he was just better able to see what was happening.

And just when Albert thought it wouldn’t stop, after a good square foot of the desk’s surface was covered in the same name, there was a change. Hope, COL; Hope, RES; Hope, TRF. Albert gathered that those last three transactions represented the procedures that had occurred just that day. And when he looked up to ask Hope if that was the case, he found her standing next to him with her mouth open in shock at the results of the contract. And as she looked up herself, she turned to her father, a mixture of fear and caution on her face.

"Don’t look, it’s probably just an error." Hope’s voice revealed a further layer of panic that Albert couldn’t explain but stirred up fear in his own mind.

If she was frightened by what her father’s reaction would be, then he should have been terrified. But for some reason, the feeling wasn’t sinking in. He felt like he was watching a movie rather than his own life. Nothing he had ever done had produced such a dramatic result. At each stage of the process of working for Death he had done more than he had ever thought capable, but it had always elicited only a mild response.

It was Death’s response, calm and cold, that truly drove fear into Albert’s heart. He had never heard the level of contempt that Death uttered in such a collected tone of voice. "This is not an error, it’s Eleanor."