The depth of Solace.

The winter continued to baffle expectations. The Tempest had summoned a hurricane at the Bones, and the climate would not recover as fast as her temper. Heavy flurries of snow and ice drove Ruhum into total hibernation, a country frozen to a halt.

Snow blocked the roads; ice blocked the harbor. The Conclave could not meet, and the navy could not sail. The Inventors retreated to their laboratories and the workers to their bunks. Shortages in perishables relegated the common man to winter fare as bland as the overcast sky, and talk on the election wore on every nerve.

Lumia howled, streets deserted and windows darkened.

House Mishkan hired scoundrels to watch every entrance to Reed’s estate, but Lace hid in her fortress. The fanatics in the Dreamer’s Den stumbled along, a flock without a shepherd, and the purge against common witches continued.

Alone along a quiet boulevard, the Mishkan car idled under the distant sun. Even that miraculous machinery chugged a little harder in the frost, and the duo inside the back seat wrapped themselves in blankets.

“Aren’t you glad I came along?” Oliver asked, nursing a cup of hot tea. “If you went alone, you’d have nothing to do but read.”

“A terrible fate,” Alisandra agreed, holding her place in a glossary of runes with a finger. Not exactly riveting reading, but this would be the last time she would ever have to read it.

“Exactly,” he egged. “Don’t you want to get out and enjoy the weather?”

A chunk of icicle snapped from the eaves and crashed to the sidewalk like an explosion. Shards smacked into the living metal car, leaving dents that immediately began to heal.

She ignored his joke, and Oliver slowly felt his cheeks begin to heat. It was a stupid joke, of course; he recognized that.

He just wanted her to laugh anyways.

There was nothing you could have done about Father Lucas, he thought, too cowardly to speak the words. We thought we knew the terms of engagement, and Lace danced right around our field of battle.

Now they waited in a chilled can with five hundred gold in a briefcase under Alisandra’s knees, and she read tomes of eldritch arcana instead of sharing a joke over tea.

“I guess I can check the radio again.” He flipped the switch on the fancy, chrome dashboard.

…and thousands of these heroes, these soldiers of righteousness, brave the cold against the pernicious noble depravity that so threatens our way of life. Those fat cats puff cigars in heated rooms while the common man shivers in shared apartments. What does a House know of struggle? What does a House know of–

“Nope,” Oliver muttered, flicking it off. “Thousands of heroes my foot.”

They had driven past the Cathedral square not twenty minutes ago. Perhaps three hundred people braved the brutal weather to picket the doors and lob chunks of ice at what few cars passed.

“That is why we’re here,” Alisandra muttered, still absorbing the page. “To give the truth a signal boost.”

He wondered if this was too little, too late, but he buried the thought and smiled instead. “A very expensive boost.”

“No worse than smuggler’s fees in the dead of winter,” she muttered.

“Still no word on those two kids?”

“Lynne assures me that they made landfall.”

And nothing after…

She tugged her book higher like a shield, mouthing the runes under her breath.

Shouldn’t have mentioned it. Sighing, Oliver finished his drink.

Then a man in a heavy coat with a fleece muffler knocked on the window.

Alisandra slipped out of the car to speak with him quietly for a few minutes. The briefcase changed hands. She returned to the car.

“All set?”

“As well as can be expected. These covert dealings are always fraught with betrayal.”

“If he can’t manage the job, I could always take up broadcasting,” Oliver offered with another smile.

Alisandra leaned back in the cushions and sighed deeply. “Let us return to the manor. Perhaps Sebastian’s investigations have borne fruit.”

The Inventor rolled his eyes. If you weren’t an angel, you’d have run yourself into the grave by now. Aloud, he said, “Do we have to?”

“This is no children’s game, Oliver.”

He glanced at the gleaming dashboard and thought fast. “…this car has all sorts of crazy features, right?”

“They are not crazy. Living metal easily follows from the basic principles of–”

“Crazy to me.”

The slouching angel chuckled in surprise, and he saw his opportunity.

“Last time I had to drive, you were bleeding from a chunk of metal through your stomach. I’m surprise I didn’t accidentally set off a bomb trying to work this thing! Plus, the Livery drivers sell my information like waffle cones.”

“Your point?”

He shifted forward, a finger jutting at her. “Teach me how to drive this thing!”

***

As the sun set across the blinding ice, Sebastian finished another letter of recommendation. Not every witch could book a convenient ferry to the south, especially not with the heavy ice in the channel. Perhaps that would change once the demons finished their aviation initiative, but that would require many years to enter regular production. For now, the angel of witness worked with simpler tools.

For this child, he hoped that a new home in the countryside to attend a tolerant finishing school would suffice.

He looked into this girl’s future and saw both ruin and salvation.

The strange witch girl mocked, bullied, and utterly shunned.

A long rope and a short drop. A letter to her parents covered in tears.

The strange witch girl admired and envied, taught by cruel barb to rise above the petty words.

A voice in the darkness, well-spoken and calm, to counter hysteria and blame.

He hesitated, fingers on the letter.

Both were true. Futures always were. Perhaps that was why he could never see just one.

He could sway the needle with just a little push…

Is this wisdom? Gabriel demanded from his memories.

“I know, old friend, I know,” the angel of witness muttered. “Temptation always finds novel outlets.”

Instead he wrote a letter of caution to the headmistress, warning her that the girl was a touch strange in ways which others might easily taunt and tease. He packed both letters for the morning mail and left the rest to God.

As he finished gluing postage, he heard the thump of an approaching car.

The Mishkan car shuddered into view, battered like an eight-round prize fighter. Spiderweb cracks coated the windows, dents and gouges marred the chassis, and one wheel spun off the axle entirely. The pathetic machine limped into the garage, its doors slammed, and young voices started to yell.

“No, it is not okay, Oliver! You hit me with a car!”

“Hello! Have you met yourself? I hit you dead on, and the car bounced!”

They stomped through the atrium, trailing slush, and stormed past Sebastian without a sideways glance.

“That is not the point. You have to be in control of the car at all times. Both hands on the wheel!”

“The wheel turned into a stick!”

“Because you shifted into avionics mode!”

They echoed down the halls, voices bounding with the indignation of the young and energetic.

The angel of witness tilted his head, listening to a Song that repeated across generations.

A boy and a girl.

Arguing over everything and nothing.

Such a brief flash in the darkness of eternity, but it warmed his heart.

“You may yet have a chance, young Oliver.”

Seeds sleeping beneath the ice with bated breath.