Through the night I dream of a little girl. She looks vaguely like me, but with golden hair. She spins and spins, trying to make her dress puff up as much as it can. She calls out to her father, laughing. He has joined her in spinning before. He has wrapped a blanket around himself and spun next to her, making it puff out just like her dress, and she laughed and laughed. Now, she calls to him to come and join her, and he just sits on the porch, looking a thousand yards past her. She calls and calls, and he gets smaller and smaller, until we can no longer see him, but she just keeps calling.

Aisling shakes me awake, or, more accurately, kicks me awake gently. I blink at her. She has her curly red hair pulled away from her face, but strands of it are still attempting to fly away. A green silk kimono falls from one of her shoulders, and she holds out a mug of coffee for me.

“You told me to wake you up at 9, no matter how hard you were sleeping.” I take the coffee wordlessly. “You said you have an appointment with Letitia Archer this morning to tell her how much of a scum bag her husband is and you absolutely need to be awake by 9, and I had to wake you up without regard to how late I fell asleep last night. Christ, Emmy, were you crying?” I blink harder, and my eyes do feel quite dewy. I remember the night before.

“What? No, just sleeping hard, I guess.”

“Liar. You’ve never cried after an affair case, what happened? And why didn’t you come to see me last night?”

“I wasn’t crying, I was just exhausted. Ended up being a later night than I thought.”

Aisling narrows her eyes at me.

“Stop looking at me like that. I need to get ready for Mrs. Archer.”

Ash rifles through my large wardrobe, and throws a brown tweed skirt on the bed. “Wear this.” Next she starts rummaging through my drawers and finds a wide collared white button up shirt. “And this.” Lastly she pulls a ribbon off of the hook on the side of my wardrobe, sage green, with a small silver beetle pin stuck to it. “With this.”

I hate when she picks out clothes for me, but I always wear them, because I always like them. And I let her do it because she is envious of my collection. She loves clothing, but her work running her pub doesn’t give her much opportunity to wear the type of clothes she likes as they could easily get ruined. Ironically, I don’t care much for fashion except for when I need to wear disguises or blend into a certain area, or when I have to have meetings with clients like today. Our unspoken compromise is that Aisling puts outfits together for me when she happens to be in the vicinity while I’m dressing, and she gets to borrow any of my clothing whenever she wants.

“Good lord, it must’ve been a late night. Who sleeps in a corset?”

As I climb out of bed I can feel the indentations in my skin from the boning in the corset I couldn’t be bothered to take off last night. It wasn’t tight, so it shifted and twisted in my sleep, leaving a deep impression down my spine that certainly ensures I will make time to remove my corset every night in the future. I spin it back to its correct location and pull the laces- a little looser than usual- and tie them in place.

“Business good last night?” I ask Aisling, hoping to guide her away from the topic of my case.

“Not bad for a weeknight. All regulars. Iver asked about you.”

I roll my eyes.

“He’s sweet,” she laughs.

“He’s enamored. It’s getting old.”

“Yeah, well, try tending bar every night. Every single gentleman thinks they’re the first to grace you with their magical words.”

“Speaking of tending bar,” I remember the best part of my evening while buttoning up my shirt, “have you seen a machine that chills liquids? It’s small, sits on a countertop, looks like a little metal tankard with copper pipes coming out of it. I had the best drink last night- they dropped my bourbon into this thing and it came out ice cold.”

“The best drink?”

I grin at her. “Maybe yours would be the best drinks I’ve ever had if you didn’t make me make my own.” I pull the skirt up over the shirt and smooth out the wrinkles. The skirt clasps high on my waist and grazes the ground. It is simple and smart, a good skirt for meeting with a client.

“No, I’ve never seen a machine like that.”

“We’ll have to find one and get it for the Sparrow.”

“We will?” Ash raises her eyebrows at me.

“It’ll be like a little gift I get for myself, and you can maybe use it for the other customers.”

“So was he a cheating scum bag?”

“He is not a cheater. I can’t be entirely sure if he’s a scum bag yet or not. I suppose that’s up to his wife to decide. Hair up or down?”

“Half and half.”

I sigh. “Okay, you do it.”

Ash pulls back the top bit of my hair- without regard for my personal comfort- and ties it with a thin strip of leather. It falls in long dark curls over my shoulders, but she succeeded in getting it out of my face and making it presentable looking. I slip the green scarf around my neck, under the collar of the shirt, and pin it loosely at my chest with the silver beetle.

“All men are scum bags,” she says, handing me my least favorite pair of shoes, a low pair of heeled boots with about 20 French buttons on them. I sigh and grab my button hook.

“The empirical evidence certainly points to that,” I groan, sitting awkwardly splay-footed on my bed to button these dratted shoes up. “We shall, however…”

“Keep collecting evidence!” Aisling grins.

“How else could we know for sure?” I stand, fully dressed finally, and look at Aisling. “Oh ballocks, my coffee is cold.”

I heat my coffee back up in a large cast iron kettle that we keep hanging over the stove, directly above the fire- a kettle we have designated our ‘coffee pot’. We never wash it; We simply dump the acidic grounds in the evening and refill it in the morning. The whole kettle smells like coffee all the time. At this point we could probably boil clean water in it, and it would end up as coffee.

With a fresh cup, I make my way to my office to quickly fill out my report on Nehemiah Archer before his wife arrives.

My office is beneath our apartment, on the back side of the Sassy Sparrow. Aisling and I own the whole building, which we bought with the inheritance I received from my father, and she got from her grandparents. It’s situated on a cobblestone street in Chronofell facing the water, right on the edge of the Kenningate borough, where the port of call is. The homes in this strip were built to be a combination of detached and row home; There are two homes, which share a middle wall, and a small alleyway on either side. They didn’t sell very well, with people favoring the grand terraced row homes, detached homes, or the much cheaper flat housing. Ash and I were able to buy both of the attached homes with our combined inheritance and remodel it to suit our needs. The entire top floor of both houses has been combined to create a large flat we can share easily, with plenty of privacy and common space. Most of the bottom floor is the Sassy Sparrow, with the exception of a large back room that has been converted into my office.

We’re not sure if others got the idea from us or not, but as we were converting our home we started noticing builders going in and out of the other ‘double homes’ on the streets. Soon, every single one had been converted into small business/flat home combinations. Now, we are part of a bustling main street type community halfway between the busy port and middle-class society. What I mean to say is, well, we’ve done alright for ourselves. We got incredibly fortunate. My office sits in the alleyway behind our home, to afford my clients some privacy, and I got frosted windows put in so that I could still have some natural light.

Writing up the report on a case is my least favorite part, but I find my clients are more inclined to pay the second half of their bill if I hand them the report and an invoice. When clients don’t like the outcome of a case, they tend to forget that our initial contract is a legal one. The secrecy of hiring me, my office location, and the fact that I’m a woman can all lead them to believe that this was an informal relationship and they don’t have to pay me anything. This is why I have done two things: 1. Added a clause in the contract which adds 200 sterling, should I have to pursue legal action to acquire the rest of my money and 2. Started typing up very official and legal looking reports and invoices at the conclusion of the case, to remind the client that I am, indeed, a lawful and license carrying businesswoman.

Attn: Letitia Archer

28 Cotswold Towne

Aeramire, Etherbury

Subject: Nehemiah Archer

Summary of Events: I waited for Mr. Nehemiah Archer outside the subject’s home on the evening of August 20th, 1894. When the subject left his home, I followed him through the Towne center, where he received a shoeshine at the corner of Lexington and Parque. I then tracked Mr. Archer through an alleyway to a hidden bar, the name of which is The Magic Four. He waited, alone, within the bar for quite some time before meeting with a man, his name was never said. Nehemiah and the man spoke, at length, about an employment position that Nehemiah was hoping to acquire. It was determined that Nehemiah would begin his work with this gentleman’s company- name also unknown- the following week.

It is my final and professional opinion that Mr. Nehemiah Archer is not, and was not ever, having an affair, but rather has lost his employment at Gilbert and Croft. All evidence points towards him trying to maintain a semblance of his lifestyle while trying to find other employment. At this juncture, I believe no follow up inquiry into the subject’s life is necessary.

Invoice Total- P700

Funds for Incidentals- P130

Deposit Amount- P350

Total Due Upon Case Completion- P480

Reader, I can’t stress this enough, this is my least favorite part of my job. I would take only affair cases if I could hire someone to write up reports for me. I save my reports until the very last minute, waiting until my final meeting with my clients, so that I have no excuse not to complete them. Even knowing that Letitia Archer was most likely in a carriage on her way to my office at that moment, I still spent most of my time staring into my cup of coffee. This report is at least brief, and contains no pictures. There was nothing to take pictures of, fortunately, and pulling out my small Obscura machine- Walking Model- would’ve been far too conspicuous at The Magic Four. That seems like the type of establishment that confiscates cameras on a forever basis, anyway. Therefore, it stayed in the pocket of my cloak, and Letitia Archer gets just a one page write up of her husband’s boring evening.

There is a light tap at my door as I’m pulling the report out of my typewriter. I slip the paper into a file folder and tie it shut, as if it’s been completed for hours.

“Good morning, Mrs. Archer!” I say with as much feigned sincerity as I can muster while opening the door.

“Yes, of course.” She brushes past me, the air somehow becoming more rigid, and takes a seat at the client’s chair of my desk. She sat here before, just a week ago, when she handed me her small leather journal filled with suspicions.

“Would you like some coffee or tea, maybe a glass of water?”

“No, let’s just get on with it, please.” She removes a silk handkerchief from the sleeve of her marigold-colored jacket and dabs her face with it, trying to imply that she has been sick with worry. I’ve seen the routine before.

“Alright, ma’am.” I take a seat across from her. “Well, here is my official report. To summarize, from my investigation, I do not believe your husband is having an extra-marital affair.” She tuts at me, dismissively. “There was no evidence of one last night, and furthermore the signs do not point to one. He has, in fact, lost his position at Gilbert and Croft…” Letitia inhales sharply and holds her breath. “… and has been seeking other employment. I believe he found a new position in an interview last night…” She exhales finally, relieved. “However, I don’t know the company he’ll be working with, a name was never mentioned, and it honestly seemed to be a company of ill-repute- if it’s a company at all. Though, hopefully, an open and honest conversation about all of this with your husband will clear all of this up.”

“Oh, you’re giving out marriage advice now, are you?”

“I, uh, I’m sorry what?” Her tone caught me off guard. In a situation where a woman has just learned that her husband is not having an affair but is instead working diligently and tirelessly to provide for her, you would think, reader, that she would be more pleased. However, I should stop being surprised at the reactions of my affair clients.

“He’s not having an affair and he’s found new employment. That’s all I need to be aware of, and I’ll expect no further comments from you.”

This work could be dangerous. He seemed nervous. He seemed downright afraid. This is not a proper company. They don’t trust anyone to look at their books. Their business practices are shady and probably illegal. He could probably use some support and help from his wife.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m happy this case worked out for you.”

“I, as well. I have brought you the rest of your payment in paper money. I couldn’t possibly write you a cheque as I don’t need anything linking me to your name.” She said that last part with a bit of disgust. I hear that tone a lot, but it doesn’t bother me. These people hired me, they give me money, and they hate what I do, but they felt it was necessary. The quid still spend the same.

“I understand. I do, however, legally need you to take this report and invoice with you. I don’t care what you do with it once you leave this office, but you do need to take it. Oh, and here is your diary back.” I place her little leather notebook squarely on top of the folder containing her report, reminding her, subtly, that though she feels I am beneath her, she put a lot of work and thought into hiring me.

Letitia steels herself, glaring at the file and her diary. She is thinking about something to say back, to have the last word, or even trying to figure out a way to not pay me the final amount. Finally, she reaches into a small velvet clutch and pulls out a small silver money clip, wrapped around a thick wad of folded sterling. She lays it on the desk and picks up her small pile of documents.

“Thank you for your patronage, Mrs. Archer,” I say to her as she opens my door to leave. Letitia looks back at me and smiles, a small but polite smile, and she makes her exit.

As the door shuts, I let my shoulders drop, I untie the string in my hair, I let my forehead fall gently to my desk. I am exhausted. I suppose I didn’t sleep well last night, apparently because I was crying whilst dreaming. Images of swans and watches and little girls and tall sickly-looking men crowded my brain. I close my eyes, tight, so tight it hurts, and reach into the darkness of my mind, trying to push out every thought and picture until only the card is left.

It doesn’t work.

I lock my office door and make my way back upstairs. Aisling is sitting at our dining table by the window drinking coffee, and Evaki is curled up on the window bench in the sun.

“That didn’t take very long,” Ash says to me as I fill my coffee cup.

I shrug. “You can’t please anybody.”

“That’s not true. I run a public house. I please everybody.”

“That’s true.” I grin at her. “Though you could please more people if you got one of those liquid cooling machines.”

“As soon as you buy one, it’ll be on the counter of the Sparrow.”

I smile at her and take a seat at our table. I love this part of our home. We both do; We spend quite a bit of time here. A regular patron of the Sassy Sparrow made the table for us, free in exchange for one free drink every time he comes into the Sparrow for the rest of his life. It is beautiful wood, oval, with thick ornate legs, stained a powder blue color. We put the table up against the window bench we built into one of our gigantic bay box windows, surrounded by long lush curtains and potted plants. Evaki doesn’t care for the potted plants, as they take up spaces in the sun she feels she could be occupying. She has, however, come to an agreement with the plants ever since I built her a special hammock to sleep in at the top of the bay window in my bedroom.

“So, when are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Ash can always tell. She can tell by the way I sank into the chair, or maybe by the way I’m clinging to my coffee cup like it’s the only thing holding me on the ground.

“I saw something, last night.”

Aisling raises an eyebrow and looks around like we’re in immediate danger. “What did you see? A crime?”

“What? No, nothing like that. I saw… Okay, I think I saw… the swan.”

She narrows her eyes, sits back in her chair, and crosses her arms. “What do you mean, exactly?”

I take out the pocket watch and plop it face down on the table, though I immediately regret how hard I placed it down and I wince.

“You saw Cornelia’s swan?” She asks skeptically.

“I think so.”

Aisling lets out a slow breath, thinking, maybe trying to grasp what I said. She leans forward onto the table and rests her chin in her hand, covering her mouth with her fingers. She assumes this stance when she wants to say something, but feels she must choose her words carefully. We don’t talk about my sister often. My mother comes up occasionally, and we both have fond memories of my father- though admittedly she has a rosier recall of him than I do- but my sister, Cornelia, we don’t speak of.

“Okay,” she removes her hand from her mouth. “Tell me exactly what you mean.”

I sigh. “Okay, the man last night, Mr. Archer. He was looking for a job. He was meeting a man that is part of some… organization I guess, or company, I’m not sure. They’re bringing him on to do accounting work or something. And he hands him this card, it’s supposed to tell him where to go for work. And on the front of the card is,” I gesture to the watch, “this swan. Cornelia’s swan, but with a spear stuck through the top of it and blood coming out of it!”

Ash curls up her nose. “Grotesque.”

“It was, rather.”

“Didn’t your father draw that swan?”

I nod and squeeze my eyes shut.

“So why would it be on that card?”

“I have no idea.”

“And you’re sure it was that swan?”

“No! That’s the thing, I’m not sure. I only saw the card for a second, he slid it across the table, and in that second I was sure it was her swan. But then… the harder I tried to hold onto it… I don’t know, my mind started playing tricks. Now I just see all sorts of swans in my head, and I just…ohh I just don’t know!” I slide forward and press my face into the table and exhale, letting my hot breath blow up against my forehead.

Ash lightly taps her fingers against her mouth, which is what she does when she’s trying to solve a problem. Then she smirks.

“You need to go see Zhao.”

I sigh. “Oh, I don’t know. I do that to forget. Now, I’m trying to remember.”

“I’m sure he has something for that too. Plus, you have a headache. He’s definitely got something for that.”

I tap the table for a minute, take another drink of coffee.

“Okay. I’ll go see Zhao.”

“Good, it will help!”

I finish my coffee and stand, put on my cloak to leave.

“You’ll watch Eva?”

Eva raises her head to look at me, shifting her ears backwards. I wonder if she understood me, and is now silently asking me why she would possibly need looking after.

“Yeah, we’ll be fine.”

I head towards the door. As the door is halfway shut behind me, I hear Aisling shout:

“No kissing Zhao!”

“Didn’t hear you!” I yell back, walking down the stairs.

“We have a treaty!”

…

Zhao Jun De is a friend of ours. He visits the Sassy Sparrow regularly, and we frequent his shop. He is a chemist, who found that the people of Etherbury were as, if not more, fascinated by exotic medicines of the Orient than they were of standard remedies. His shop, Eastern Treatments and Cures, caters to anyone looking for any kind of medicinal value. Also, despite being a well-studied chemist who came to England as a child, he really amps up the Far East feel. He says it makes people feel exotic, whimsical, and more apt to spend money.

I have to walk quite a few miles to get to Zhao’s shop, which is strategically placed in a dark alley in Chinatown, the largest part of the Dirifall borough. It is large, with red paper lanterns hanging around the outside, and a wooden sign with Eastern Treatments and Cures painted in red, written in both English and Chinese. The inside is dark, with dust sparkling in the few rays of light that make their way through the windows. Tall wooden shelves are stacked with fruits I’ve never seen before, dried herbs, and jars that I haven’t asked Zhao about quite yet. The shop is cluttered, and it makes me laugh to myself every time I see it; Zhao’s flat looks nothing like the shop. It is bright and clean and painstakingly organized. His shop is detailed in a specific way, so that he can put off the image he wants.

“Huan ying! Ni hao!” I hear a shout from the back of the shop. I reveal myself from behind a stack of wooden boxes full of gingko. Zhao smiles and drops his customer service face. “Oh, hi Em.” He also drops his put on Chinese accent. As he has told me in the past, he only spent about seven years in China before coming to England. His accent is somewhere in between a British and Chinese accent, but he knows Mandarin fluently and uses it for the benefit of his Chinese patrons, as well as for confusing his British ones.

“Hi Zhao, slow day?”

He raises a perfect, dark eyebrow at me. “It’s still early. People tend to seek my guidance a little later in the day. What brings you here so urgently after breakfast?”

Zhao is… I’m just going to say it, reader. Zhao is attractive. Not a passing attractive, like, wow that gentleman was handsome, let me watch him walk down the street a ways. No, he is built very well. He is overtly attractive, which I will admit is one of the reasons Aisling and I pass three Chemists to get here. Before we knew him, we were enamored with him, and now that we are friendly, his appearance just gets better the more we know about him. He is genuinely one of my closest friends, but also, I would ravage him limb from limb if the opportunity presented itself.

I’m sorry, reader. Generally, my prose is far more poetic, and I shall try to compose myself to tell the rest of the story. But the details of his handsomeness absolutely cannot be overstated.

“I’m here because of a case.” I drum my fingers on the counter at the front of the store, full of nervous energy.

“Oh, you need the back room,” he gives me a half smile that I would have hyper-focused on in a usual day.

“I do, but… not opium this time. I need to remember something. Something specific from my case.”

Zhao runs a hand through his shiny black hair, thinking.

“Is this a case from a long time ago?”

“No, just last night.” He narrows his eyes at me. “It was something I saw, something very small, and I think it was familiar to me. But I can’t… I just can’t remember it. I keep trying and trying to fixate on it, but the more I think about it, the more images just keep crowding my mind and…”

Zhao puts his hands on mine to stop my fingers from drumming, and it stops me mid-sentence. He smells good enough to eat, like ginger and vanilla. I take a deep breath. He gives me a calm smile.

“How about some tea?”

Zhao leads me to the room behind the counter of his shop. I’ve been to this room many times before, for various reasons, mostly pleasure with a sprinkling of medication. Zhao prefers his friends to reach altered states under his supervision. Medicinal tinctures or syrups, he will gladly send home with us, and small doses of cannabis for body aches or general relaxation. But when forgetting is required, or a complete escape from reality, Zhao will offer something particular in his back room.

It is warm, the light is low, and the room smells sweet. It’s a small room, but it’s only meant to hold two to four people at a time, and it does so comfortably. There is no furniture in the room, save for a low table along the wall, but the floor is almost entirely covered in large cushions and thick blankets.

“I want you relaxed, Em. I’m going to make the tea, but you should make yourself as comfortable as you can. Take off your shoes, remove your corset, even. I’ll knock before I come back in.”

Always respectful. What a shame.

Once the door is shut, I remove the beetle pin and the scarf, untuck my shirt and unbutton it. I unclasp my corset, bask momentarily in the glory of letting my breasts loose, and then button my shirt back up and let it hang loosely around the waist of my skirt. I’m not genteel enough to hide my corset beneath a blanket or cushion. Not around Zhao anyway. Then I take a seat in my favorite corner of the room, with my favorite puffy cushion.

There’s a soft knock at the door.

“Come in,” I call back. Zhao comes in carrying a small stoneware cup, steam rising from the top.

“This tea is a mixture of gingko, ginseng, and mescaline. The gingko and ginseng are known to improve memory function, and the mescaline should help you relax, and really isolate your memories so you can... flip through them, carefully, like you would with a photograph album. The experience will be intense, probably very unpleasant, depending on what you’re trying to remember, but I promise you, you’ll be safe. Are you sure about this?”

I smile up at him as he carefully hands the mug to me. “Yes, I need to do it.”

“I warn you,” he says as I blow on it gently to cool it, “it will probably be disgusting. I put some honey in it, but there’s only so much that can do. I do need you to drink all of it, though.”

The smell, earthy and bitter, hits my nose and I wince. “It smells like dirt!” I take a small sip. “Agh, it tastes like dirt!”

Zhao laughs. “I told you!”

“Are you not drinking with me?”

“I’ll get myself some cannabis tea while you drink, but I really need to keep an eye on you with this mixture. I’ve made the mescaline rather strong. You seem like you need it.”

Apparently, I’m a little more jittery than usual.

As Zhao boils his cannabis tea, I let mine cool to the point when I can get large gulps. I figure drinking it as quickly as possible is probably the easiest way to get it down.

When Zhao returns, he sits in the corner next to mine, just a few feet away from me. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and unbuttons the top few buttons of his vest, letting his collar hang open. It is getting hot in here, I think to myself. Maybe it’s time for a change of state. That thought didn’t make sense, and I understand that, but I don’t understand why.

“Ah, you seem to be settling in, that’s good.” Zhao looks me in the eyes, and while normally I would gladly stare back into his, I feel like I’m looking inside him. “You need to lay back, lay all the way down, and stare at the ceiling. Don’t close your eyes, just stare at the flat ceiling, and try to picture everything you’re trying to recall. I’ll be right here,” he grabs my hand and holds it in his, while he sips tea with the other.

I don’t know when, but at some point, I did as he told me and laid all the way down. The ceiling is tan, or off white perhaps, and there is nothing on it. I want to close my eyes, and I do.

“No, no Em, no closing your eyes. Just keep staring.” Zhao squeezes my hand and I pry my eyes open, smiling.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” I tease, and my voice sounds different, distant, and slurred.

Zhao laughs gently, “I know that much to be true, but you need to just trust me on this one.”

I focus again on the ceiling, trying not to let myself blink, and as my eyes get droopier, and my vision gets blurrier, I start to see images, like a projection machine, being cast from my brain.

It’s like a moving picture, one of those fantastical shadow shows, with me as the main character, and I’m walking through the door of The Magic Four. It’s not exactly as I remember it though. For one, it’s in black and white. Also, I look... I guess I look like myself, but if I were an actress playing myself. The small gentleman at the door smiles back at me this time, and the camera focuses in on him as he watches me walk past. That definitely didn’t happen. Can Zhao see this too? No, of course not, that wouldn’t make sense. Or would it?

Now, the camera is positioned at the end of the bar, several seats away from myself as I watch Nehemiah Archer. I order a drink, and the bartender puts the bourbon through the same machine, though instead of being a small tankard, it is a wondrous contraption that takes up the whole bar, the size of the massive automatic organs in the backs of churches. It whirs and steams and massive gears grind until it spits my drink back out into the cup.

The sallow man comes in, and he is now monstrous in appearance. He is tall and slender, with a skeletal-like face and long, gangly limbs. In my head, I can hear dramatic music playing as he sits at the table. He and Nehemiah talk, and I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can see myself comically leaning over, with my hand cupped around my ear to listen in, like a caricature of myself.

The scene focuses on the table as the sallow man slides the card to Nehemiah, and my character puts her hand to her mouth and gasps as she sees the card. Nehemiah puts the card into his pocket and... wait, stop! I couldn’t see it! No, this isn’t helping, stop it, go back!

I feel another gentle squeeze on my hand. I must’ve been struggling or breathing rapidly. Zhao’s hand grounds me, and for a moment, the moving picture pauses and all I feel is his hand.

Wait, the picture is paused. I can control the picture.

I want the projection to go backwards, and it does. Everything goes in reverse, and I stop it as Nehemiah is sliding the card back to the sallow man. I’m not really sure how to pause, so I do so by squeezing Zhao’s hand again. It stops, and the card is lying flat on the table, centered between two sets of fingers. The camera focuses on it, but it doesn’t move. I can’t get a better look.

Suddenly, I am inside myself again, and I am looking at them from my seat at the bar. I can move my hands, I can move my feet, I can even feel Evaki breathing around my neck. I could get up, if I wanted to, and walk over to the table and stare at the card.

But I’m afraid.

I stare at the back of Nehemiah’s head, willing myself to get up. I feel the room shaking, like an earthquake, all the glasses in the room rattling, all the metal on the cooling machine groaning. Zhao squeezes my hand again, tight, and I can feel myself breathing hard. I slow my breath down, feel my heart rate drop, and the room stops shaking.

You’re safe, I can hear Zhao’s words in my head, or perhaps he actually said it again.

I get up out of my barstool and move towards the table. Everything around me is frozen, the moving picture still paused, but I am a free agent within it.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and stare down at the card. There is... nothing on it. Nothing distinguishable at least. No swan, no spear, just a strange, oblong shape with curves and points. It is not at all what I know I saw on that card, and yet it is somehow familiar to me.

I stare at it for what seems like days. It has captured me entirely, until it becomes the whole ceiling. That oblong image is the entire focus of my mind, until I realize exactly what it is.

It is the outline of a body.

The scene fills itself in. A body, crooked and broken, lay in the dark and rain. A bridge looms 30 feet overhead, but looks like a creeping and grotesque monster above. I can only see the body from a distance, but I can picture every detail. Golden hair, wet from the rain, but matted and brown from the growing pool of blood, long white dressing gown, lifeless skin, bare feet. Her eyes are open, but there is no light of wonder, nor even the tinge of sadness.

I walk to the body, closer than I had been able to get in real life, and suddenly she jumps and gasps. Her eyes have light in them again, but they are shadowed with pain. Cornelia looks at me, reaches a broken and twisted arm out to me.

“Emilia, help!”

The picture broadens and Cornelia is suspended in the air, as if by invisible rope, and a spear is stuck through her chest, her blood dripping off the point of it.

I want to come out of this.

She is still alive though, constantly gasping for breath, struggling to reach me.

“Sister! Help me!”

I want to get out of here.

“Please! Why won’t you help me!”

I need this to stop, I want to leave!

Zhao squeezes my hand again, but I can’t go anywhere, I can’t stop it. I just sit and panic and watch as my sister tries to live, or die, but she’s not allowed to do either one. I am trapped, and losing my sister again, until it fades to black.