“We don’t know how she did it. We don’t know what to do with her.

  I’ve read stories. Stories of Kepts who broke the Keeping. Always through magic spells and unborn children and swearing oaths in toadstool rings. Nobody ever believed them. Why would they? We were all Kepts, once. Surely we would have found it, if there was ever another way out.

  But Lindsay, I've seen it now. Horace’s blood smeared across his drawing room, his husked-out head in the firepit, and her. Standing there. The spear in her hands held so tight that the metal had bent. Steam rising from her nose.

  Where? Who can say? You know the dhaoine rosín. They worship the Predecessors. She could have learned from them! Or the Scots who seem so close to her, or those freaks she meets in the Reich. It doesn’t matter. She was dangerous before. No Nocturni is closer to Mosley. No Courtwoman speaks louder to the proles. WE SAW WHAT SHE DID IN CABLE STREET.

  THE UNBOUND BARELY STOPPED HER

  Lianna Stirling is a Nazi. Lianna Stirling is a traitor. But God help me, she could turn her army against us. She could make peace with Keaton. She could join Berlin.

  I have no choice.

  We’ll forgive her murder of Horace, and I will make her Sovereign.”

  Letter by Davison Wynter, then Juliet, acting Reeve of North London, to their deputy, Lindsay Barton. Dated October 5th, 1936.

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  2004

  Lianna’s face is fascist. Harriet doesn’t know how a face becomes fascist, but Lianna Stirling’s has.

  It’s a face made for posters. Sharp jaw, chiselled cheeks, a resting expression straight from a Riefenstahl film. They’ve never actually seen each other up close, Harriet realises. But one doesn’t need to meet Lianna Stirling to know of her. Freckled fingers pick at a crab leg, memories pushing through her mind. Black flags and batons and Aisling sobbing her heart out in the back of a crumbling Tube shelter. Sirens overhead.

  They feel like ancient pains. Pains she barely remembers. Pains she could never forget.

  “I didn’t steal Traynor,” Soteris cuts through the fog. “I hired her.”

  Lianna gives a look of quiet fury. “We are not pawns to be bought out like-”

  “I can be a pawn!”

  “HARCOURT!"

  Spencer has grappled the woman, squeezing her chest and pressing his face into her shoulder. The woman growls like an animal.

  "Get off me, Spencer."

  “But I can help! This Traynor person, I don’t know what it is they did, but you can hire me instead!” He back and forth. "I’m quite the bargain~”

  Lianna is perfectly still. A dullness in her that indicates that her un-life is flashing over. Harriet watches blankly. She's heard that the dhaoine rosín can charm their mortal prey, but-

  “Heheheh!” Spencer giggles and squeezes even tighter.

  … something tells her this isn’t the woman's magic.

  Lianna turns to her, studying with those hawkish eyes. At once, Harriet knows she isn’t recognised, and thanks God for the relief that brings. If the rumours are true, the Curator Britannica, more than anyone, can get her out of this mess. But good Lord, the costs.

  Ask any Unbound, and they will tell you that Lianna is either the Court incarnate, or something, somehow, worse.

  "That's not necessary, Spence," Soteris hardens his scowl. "We're talking about matters that I'd rather keep private."

  Lianna catches the cue, and the mask slips back on. “Yes. Soteris hired a PT out from under me, hurt the margins of my fitness club.

  “Fitness club?” Soteris chuckle. “Is that seriously what you're calling-”

  She gives him a look that leaves nothing for debate. Harriet slides closer to Soteris. Trying to make herself look as much like an object as possible.

  “Can I join!?” Spencer's eyes spark. “You keep telling me that I should get ‘Spartan’!”

  “No."

  “Why not?”

  Because it's the fucking Albion Guard, you buffoon, and the moment they smell a target, you're bound for some private-care ambulance. Why the Court allows that abomination of a 'militant group,' Harriet can only guess. They've probably shot more cops than half the Unbound put together. But Spencer doesn't seem to know, and it's not like Jessica Connolly, the dumbass, is going to keep her cover by telling him.

  What was Astrid ever even doing with this lot? The dhaoine rosín were cleaner once. Artists and songwriters and Egyptologists. But that was back when she was mortal. Before the Eighth Revolt gutted them. Before Lianna.

  "But if I go to the gym,” Spencer's nasally voice brings her back. “We can hang out more!”

  “We hang out enough," Lianna retorts.

  “Not for me~”

  “You would staple yourself to me, given half a chance.”

  He giggles. “It’s true!”

  “I’m more surprised you’re here at all,” Soteris replies. “Lianna Stirling. In the den of lions known as New Labour.”

  “Somebody has to defend Britain,” she says, pushing Spencer off. “It’s not going to be Blair. It’s not going to be you.”

  Soteris frowns at that. “I will never understand some of you people. I bring wealth to your island, employ thousands of its people, lived here most of my life. And still you question my loyalty. As if I haven’t just developed a weapon to keep our people safe."

  “Ares, yes? Spencer told me of it.” Lianna rolls her eyes. “A typical bourgeois largesse. Buttons and screens and expenses all designed to dazzle your buyers from the simpler solutions.”

  Harriet bristles. She can’t use ‘bourgeois.’ That’s their word.

  “There’s nothing simple about screening flight passengers,” Soteris scowls.

  “Not for Blair.”

  His face shifts. “Then what would you have us do? Round up everyone who speaks Arabic? Wears a turban? Or maybe you'll do it by colour-slider. Sure I'd fit in, then."

  "If these matters were up to me, we wouldn't have to be screening people in the first place. They would simply not be there."

  "Ah," Soteris laughs. "Mmm, then it's a good thing these matters aren't up to you, isn't it? I can't imagine what world you'd want to create."

  “No.” She smiles. “You can.”

  Spencer’s been watching her since he was pushed off, waiting for the chance to hug her again. As Soteris retreats, he makes his pounce. “Lee-Lee! We talked about this! You’re not to bring up migrants while we’re talking with my friends!”

  “If you call me ‘Lee-Lee' again, I will drive a fork into your eye socket.”

  Spencer giggles. “You're always saying that~!"

  “No.”

  “Yes!”

  “I'm not a child."

  He tilts his head at Soteris. “Sorry. She can get like this. It’s not just you! I had to take a DNA test before we could start dating!”

  "Do you have any idea how much of your country's innovation, its creativity, come from foreign hands?" Soteris asks. "It is a gift. A rare thing, that gives it advantage over the-"

  "You would say something like that," Lianna shakes her head. "But then, you've actually adopted our work ethic, thank God. Our fitness community has bumbling fools enough. It doesn’t need a Mediterranean sloth.”

  Spencer brightens. “There, see? That was almost a compliment!”

  “Well, if Harcourt insists, we can argue while seated. Jessica, didn't you say you were starving?"

  “Jessica.” Those eyes flit back to Harriet. “Is that her name?”

  She’s looking at her less like a person, more like a meal. It makes Harriet shrivel, but she manages a wave. “H-Hi.”

  She’d rather pick at the crab leg. Let the windchimes slowly claim her. And so she's barely present as the rest take their seats. Spencer, with a bottle of sherry; Lianna, a glass of water.

  “I’m curious,” Soteris starts. “Was there something in particular that Blair vexed you with, or is your attendance here just some exercise in self-flagellation?”

  “She’s here to support me! From boredom!” Spencer beams, before cupping his mouth and whispering. “I’m trying to get her drunk.”

  “I do not drink, Spencer.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “It is unchristian, contrary to the ideals of Spartanism, and its widespread use in Europe is a hindrance to the development of the Atlantean superethnos.”

  “Urghhh,” Spencer leans back in his chair, groaning. “I hate the Atlantean superethnos!”

  “If you must know, Chrysanthou, I did have concerns to share with the government. Namely, their new bill legalising mutilation.”

  “Muti-” Soteris stops, frowning. “You mean the Gender Recognition Act?”

  “Gender Recognition,” Lianna snickers. “As if their confusion was somehow our fault. It’s beastly, Chrysanthou. Making people hermaphrodites, in a Christian country. I’m told they’ll soon allow homosexual unions, as well. Unnatural.”

  “Actually, if you look at the animal kingdom, it’s perfectly natural!” Spencer pushes into the table, chiming in. “Even sex change! I could name a dozen insect species off the top of my head that-”

  Lianna slowly turns, her eyes starting to blaze as they meet Spencer’s. He shrinks back.

  “I’mshuttingupnow!”

  “I’m impressed at how fast you work, Ms. Stirling,” Soteris smirks. “You’ve found a new minority to bash before most people have even heard of them! Are the Zionists involved in this as well?"

  Lianna's eyebrows lift, and Spencer’s head sinks into his hands. “Oh no…”

  “Oh, who knows? It could be coincidental. Perhaps it’s unrelated to the migrants swarming our shores. The drugs swarming our streets, the criminals who grow ever bolder. Perhaps its unrelated to the blind eye we give Palestine, or the war we started at their behest. A war, we learn, where the weapons we sought were never there. A war we call a ‘Crusade,’ when only Christ-Killers seem to benefit. Perhaps it is all unrelated."

  Soteris snickers. “You sound like you’re half-ready to join Saddam.”

  “At least he knew how to run a strong nation. At least no man can deny that he acted independently.” Lianna juts her chin. “Though I suppose that’s why businessmen like yourself wanted him gone. In strong, independent nations, parasites are dealt with.”

  Krrrrk!

  Everyone stops. Turning to see that Harriet has split her crab dish in half.

  “S-Sorry.”

  Spencer suddenly springs up. “What if we talked about, uh, less controversial politics? Like gun control!”

  “Gun control!?” Lianna and Harriet both sound horrified.

  "Surely, you're joking."

  “No, no! One of my last essays was a white paper on AirSoft regulations. It’s really interesting!”

  Soteris tilts his eyes. Harriet is white as a ghost. Teeth grit. Making strange breathing sounds. “I-I’m not sure Jessica would be-”

  “We already have gun control!” she interrupts. And it’s been an absolute disaster. They just banned all of Harriet’s real guns. Are they going after the fake ones now, too!?

  “Well, compared to the Americans, we have some! But AirSoft is entirely undocumented! You don’t need a license, you can order them by mail, they’re being sold to children! And these are real firearms! People can die. People can get hurt! Think about it from the crime angle. If a mugger pulls anything that looks like a gun on you, does it matter if it’s real or not?”

  No. It wouldn’t matter at all if you GAVE PEOPLE GUNS! THEN THEY COULD SHOOT FUCKING FIRST! But she can’t find a Jessica way to phrase that thought, so instead Harriet just stares at him. Gripping the table.

  “This is crass, Spencer,” Lianna chides. “What about farmers?”

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  Yes, exactly. You're dicking over farmers, Spencer! At least Lianna can- oh, wait, no, no, NO. She’s agreeing with her!? That’s worse!

  "Well, the farmers have their own candidates. I have mine!"

  Harriet’s still breathing strangely. After hundreds of snobbish dates, she has formed a counter for every so-called ‘gun control’ argument these city boys can ever think of. Arming far-right militias? Better load up first! Risk of school shootings? Put a pistol in their packs! Suicide risks?

  ...

  … Okay, maybe. But Harriet always feels better when she buys more guns. Maybe they should try it out.

  She fired her first round at age four, killed her first target at age six, and she turned out fine, right? If someone’s too stupid to know which end of the gun to use, that’s called Darwinism, and she thought capitalists liked that.

  But Jessica Connolly is never going to make these arguments. Jessica Connolly is a cog of the system. Jessica Connolly is a liberal.

  And judging by how giddy he looks in his seat, Soteris knows it.

  “I think you’re making great points, Spence. And you still insist you’re not cut out for politics.”

  Chair scratching. Wine glasses rattling. Everyone’s head slowly tilts up as Harriet towers before them. Her hands on the table, curled into fists. She’s taking deep, furious breaths.

  Spencer’s mouth hangs open. “... Jess? Was it something I said?”

  Harriet blinks. Soteris is smouldering to her left, but she’s paying more attention to the dhaoine rosín. Still watching her in that calculating manner…

  … but suddenly, a lot less like food.

  Harriet freezes, then bites her lip, then laughs. A cute laugh, like Soteris suggested. “My apologies,” she sets herself back down. “I suppose I’m... still… very hungry!"

  She pulls a few more plates of food closer. Sits down. Picks at the crab. Lianna still watches, but Soteris has calmed down.

  "Let’s say you're right, Lianna, and these hermaphrodites, as you call them, are a Jewish plant. Why? Why go through all that effort?”

  “To make Britain weak.”

  “Is Britain weak?”

  “A century ago, we controlled a quarter of this Earth. Now, we yip around like American lapdogs.”

  “Can we get a lapdog, Lee-Lee?"

  “No!”

  “That quarter of the Earth once included my country, Stirling.” Soteris frowns.

  “And if I recall correctly, that was to save you from the Turks.” Her eyes narrow. “Remind us, Soteris, what happened to that island the moment we left it?”

  Harriet prickles. His hand is back on her arm. Rubbing tightly.

  Lianna smirks. “Sometimes, I wonder why you don't share my concerns of invasion and erasure. One would hope that island gave enough experience."

  The rubbing becomes a squeeze.

  “Do you truly want my opinion on this, Ms. Stirling?”

  She opens her palms.

  “It doesn’t matter to me if the flag over my head is British or Turkish or Greek. It could be Mozambican. It could be Taiwanese. They’re all just lines on a map. Lines that people like you spend far too much time worshipping.”

  Lianna scowls at him. Spencer raises a finger. “Ah, that’s a rather reductive view of nationalism, Sotie. Usually, they’re also built around language and ethnicity-”

  “In the end, we all find new ways to say the same things." Soteris looks back "I know how you all think. Like your country's on top, best in the world. But truly, what makes so different from mine? Iraq? Israel?"

  "If Britain wasn't special, why are you here?"

  "Because Britain does what I need it to." He shrugs. "It stays out of my way."

  For a moment, Lianna is silent. Staring at him. The soft gilded glow of his eyes. "How interesting, Chrysanthou." She rises, suddenly, ignoring Spencer’s grasp for her arm. “My people want the same."

  Spencer reaches out. "Lee-Lee!"

  She thrusts his hand away, marching back to the crowds. It’s an odd combination. That horrible dress and combat boots.

  Harriet turns, watching Soteris. He’s making a strange face she’s only seen once before, when he was mocked by Kurakawa Hajime.

  “You should stay away from her,” he quietly tells Spencer. “That woman has a history."

  “Oh, I can handle her! Sure, she’s a little bigoted, but that’s not a problem.” Harriet double takes, and several moments later, Spencer realises the error. “I-I mean… it is a problem, don’t get me wrong, I don’t encourage any of that. But I used to be a Tory! Now I’m not! Maybe I can fix her!”

  A scoff leaves Harriet's lips. Even Jessica thinks the idea's ridiculous, but Soteris pounces at the chance. "You know what would impress her, Spence? A seat in Parliament-"

  “Oh, cram it!" Spencer shouts back. "You don't understand. I love her. Love her like I've never loved anyone else! Opinions can't get in the way of that!"

  “Really?" Harriet asks. "What if she was a Communist?"

  Soteris whispers in her ear. "That was the last one."

  She stares at him with wide eyes.

  “Honestly, the whole Christian thing is a much bigger fuss. She gets so stiff when I’m not sober! Bible this, Bible that, and it’s like, Good Lord, woman! We’re not in the States! She says it not ‘Spartan.’” He says it with a flourish. “Do you know what ‘Spartan’ means?”

  “Maybe she wants you to be more laconic,” Harriet suggests.

  “Oh! She does! She says that all the time! But I don’t know what it means.”

  She figured.

  She swipes the napkin from before and the pen still hanging from Soteris’ vest. Scribbling down before he can stop her.

  ‘Thought you Court types claimed your politicians?’

  His voice rattles inside her head. We do.

  She blinks. Alright, that’s not invasive at all! She keeps writing.

  ‘Why is Lianna…???’

  A second passes. He doesn’t respond. She underlines it three times, but that only gives her a tight glare.

  You haven’t earned that.

  She frowns, and scribbles a final bit in the corner.

  ‘Youngest Sov = smallest fish?'

  Silence again, and that’s how she knows the right of it.

  Soteris starts to stand. “Spencer, I think we've done our part. Would now be a good time to speak with your father?”

  “Sure, sure! So long as I get to, heh, top up first!” Spencer taps his coat pocket. “You game?”

  Soteris shakes his head. “Don't wanna touch it."

  “Why? You bought it for me!”

  Spencer stops when he sees how Soteris hardens. Both their eyes falling on her.

  “I… I don’t mind!" For once, her and Jessica feel the same.

  “It’s not about you.”

  But it is, and everyone knows it. "If it makes you a little looser, I-"

  He reaches out, tightly squeezing her hand. She gives him a confused glare, but he only stares back.

  They stay like that for a beat too long, before Soteris lets go and loops an arm around Spencer. "Come on. I need this to be productive."

  “Wait!" She shouts after them. "What about me!?”

  Soteris turns back. “Mingle. Explore. You can entertain yourself.”

  She gives him her most desperate, 'don't-leave-me-with-these-people' look, but he moves into the crowds, ignoring her.

  "Speaking of business… does your father still own that mansion in Kensington?"

  "He wouldn't sell it."

  "Then listen close. We're developing a new product, and you might be just the sort of market we're looking for..."

  Grumbling, Harriet sits down and watches those around her. MPs sipping from studded glasses; men with arms looped around much younger wives. She hears only snippets of their conversations, and understands even less. Rivieras and chiropractors, jockeys and private jets. They talk of war like they talk of gambling, show the same enthusiasm towards policies and types of cheese. There’s snaps of cameras, scents from new foods, and Harriet’s turning back, to the crab, to the table, to the only thing that feels real.

  A chair creaks across the tile floor, and Lianna has returned, sitting across from her.

  “Jessica,” she says, with a voice Harriet knows well. Contempt barely tied down.

  “M-Miss Stirling.”

  Lianna breathes through her nose, searching the crowd through a sneer. “How much did he pay you?”

  "Pardon?"

  "The Greek. You don't need to make excuses to defend him. He won't defend you."

  Jessica should probably feign offense, but instead, Harriet looks at her. “Tell me first. How much are you paying him?"

  “Harcourt?” That gets a snicker. “If only he accepted payment. It would make my job easier."

  “What does the Albion Guard need him for?”

  “Albion Guard? I have no idea what you’re-”

  “You don't need to make excuses," Harriet uses the woman's RP. "Miss Stirling."

  Lianna shifts, with an expression that nears pride. She looks into her water glass. “Eighty years ago, this country defeated the strongest force Earth had ever known. Now, it huddles, terrified, against Moslems it can’t see. Now, it can barely keep Baghdad. Britain is weak, and in weakness, opportunity. Opportunity for whoever is strong enough to take her."

  Harriet frowns. “And Spencer's father agrees?"

  "Among others."

  "Are you sure?" Harriet splits the crab in half again. "Parliament rejected Mosley before. What makes you think this time will be any different?"

  "Because Mosley told them the truth too early before. But this time?" Lianna’s tone is suddenly grave. “...This time, the truth is here. Ten million foreign eyes staring back at them.”

  “It wasn’t the migrants or the sodomites that killed Britain.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But in the face of such decline…” Lianna shrugs. “... Is there really much to lose?”

  Harriet rises. Thankful that the spell is stalling the words that come to mind. “... Riveting conversation, Miss Stirling, but I think I should find my partner. After all, you weren’t the one that paid me to-”

  “You see it, too.”

  Harriet stops, looking at her.

  “The filthier streets, the tightening pockets. The hands growing tighter as they wring around our necks.” Lianna matches the gaze. “You probably think it’s the same problem. That it requires the same solutions. Funny, isn’t that? They call me old-fashioned, but I’m the only one here willing to try something new.”

  Harriet freezes. Lianna’s stare is getting more intense. "I-I'm sorry? How would you know what I-"

  “You haven’t eaten.”

  Lianna nods to croquette, and Harriet looks down. The snack’s been demolished. Nothing but a mash of white meat and breading.

  “You said you were starving, twice, but you haven’t had a bite."

  Harriet knows she’s pausing for too long. Desperate for an excuse. Searching, searching - “A-Allergies.” She manages in that Kentish accent. “I-I... have allergies!”

  “To shellfish?”

  Harriet nods. Lianna’s face turns cross. “And you don’t think that’s a problem?”

  “Why would that be a problem?”

  “Your partner bringing a girl with seafood allergies to a seafood restaurant?

  It’s a tiny sound in her mind. A squeak, a squeal. But it’s enough to make her rise from her seat, storm into the crowd, and keep the Nazi guessing. The space is tight. Bodies and fabrics and perfumes. She pushes through them, her breath hitched, her eyes wandering desperately for an exit, or an ally.

  She needs to get out. Quickly.

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  “I’ll look into it, Harv. But from what I recall, the contract was handed to the Americans because they could produce more quickly.”

  “W-We have solutions to that! New supply chains. I-If you’ll look at these charts…”

  Cyril Harcourt, sitting Member of Parliament for Halsey and acting Secretary of State for Defense, is one of the rare members of either esteemed body to actually enjoy fundraisers.

  This wasn’t always the case. He remembers his first few, when he was a young blood, stuffed in small rooms filled with the likes of Maudling and Heath and Whitelaw. How dreadful those evenings were. The poor lighting. The scent of hundreds of cigars. And the way these people drone on and on.

  But the older he gets, the less their drivel bothers him. Not because it’s gotten any more tolerable, no, no. These fools will never stop pouting about this law or that tariff or those competitors. But there’s something calming about the white noise that settles over him when he pretends to listen.

  It’s the only time he has to plan.

  “... the only other manufacturer of these treads is in France, and you know how they feel about the war. They’re not reliable…”

  “I’ll consider.” Cyril lifts his hand, and the lobbyist instantly closes his mouth, shuffles away like he hadn’t just paid to speak with him. It’s his boy, red in the cheeks and bloodshot eyes. A foreigner walks beside him, with an untucked suit, unkempt hair, and a typical businessman smile. Cyril knows him. He made the Ares Gate. Chris... was it Cristiano?

  The Minister flexes his shoulders. Hopefully this friend will be less ridiculous.

  “Lord Harcourt." the Boy offers his hand. “A pleasure to speak with-”

  Cyril matches the grip with his own, then pulls him in, letting him sniff the bourbon in the air. “Yes, yes, I've been hoping to speak with you. That contract of yours was astounding. We have twenty gates in Gatwick, forty in Heathrow, and more in Luton and Stansted next year. All on time. All within budget.”

  Soteris bows. “My people understood the importance of our work.”

  “Curious! Because the Ares Gates haven’t been very good at finding terrorists.” Cyril frowns as the boy's face collapses. “Eight al-Qaeda flitted their way to Nairobi through our airport. Your technology spotted two.”

  “The Gates require a large dataset to make accurate readings. Larger than we had, I’ll be the first to admit. But even spotting two is better than what London had twelve months-”

  “Stop. I didn’t mention it for your apologies."

  Soteris nods quickly. "Of course, Minister."

  You’re here to weasel out of Blair’s audit, I presume?”

  Soteris is not a man very accustomed to being speechless, Cyril realises. That smoothness he pretends to have evaporates much too quickly. "I..."

  "S-Soteris can be our future, Fuh-Father.” Cyril scowls. Spencer came to the defense, which was no surprise. But already he's started stuttering. “P-puh-Polyphron itself i-is already a PR duh-darling. A Veh-veh-valley company right on our-”

  “Did he pay you to say that?"

  Spencer closes his mouth, even as Soteris recomposes himself.

  “I am building something that will change the face of Britain. But if your government intervenes-"

  “Labour's government, not mine. And all this squawking about audits, it does nothing to help your reputation. Makes it seem like you'e got something to hide."

  “Every pioneer does.”

  Cyril laughs, looking at his son and nodding to the side.

  “Leave us.”

  The boy dutifully files out. At least he gets some things right. The Greek, though, immediately starts blathering. "Excuse me for the observation, Minister, but from the crowd outside, making more enemies doesn't seem like Blair's best perog-"

  "Chrysanthou, I know what you are."

  Cyril turns to watch the shock on the boy’s face. The silence on his lips. He's surprised. Normally, when members of that esteemed body are confronted, they pull out a mass of drilled excuses. "... when do they tell you?"

  "Cabinet. You people aren't very good at hiding. With a Minister's information, it becomes too great to ignore."

  "And you let us cavort with your son?"

  "My son?" Cyril chuckles. "Well, of course. He needs all the help he can get. And if that blonde woman tries to kill him, I'd have your Reeves rip her tongue out with hot pincers."

  He downs the glass of whiskey in his hands and holds it out for Soteris. After a few hesitant moments, the boy takes it. Complies.

  "You're on thinner ice than you know. That stunt with the Orientals, I'm sure it made you a nice fortune, but the Foreign Office has been burning alive with angry calls."

  “I apologise that so many were so easily outwitted.”

  “You’re breaking our laws. Openly, and flagrantly. And that might work in your homeland, or America, but this is a civilised place. You can’t expect us to not look."

  "What's the phrase, Minister? 'Move fast and break things?'"

  Another chuckle. "I almost admire your worldview. You think green numbers make men like you kings. So romantic. So naive."

  Suddenly, Soteris is leaning back. The Minister is in his face, towering over him with blonde-grey hair, piercing blue eyes, and a hawkish scowl.

  "Perhaps you think your membership in that esteemed institution keeps you safe," he continues. "But I know better. We know better. You're a small fish in that pond, Chrysanthou. And every other fish is bigger and wealthier and older."

  Silence. Cyril watches him the way he'd watch his own son. Flaring nose. Blinking eyes. Soteris is furious, and not good at hiding it.

  "Here's the game we're playing, Chrysanthou. You have two minutes to make an offer. If it's good, you can continue your stunts, with our permission. If not..."

  "I came to Britain because it would be good for my business. I could always leave."

  "You can try."

  He watches the boy's mind spin, a soft smile on his lips. It's always the same with these businessmen. Thinking themselves geniuses for being applauded by the people they pay for.

  "I can get your son into power."

  Cyril chorts. “The boy isn’t ready.”

  “That isn’t what’s stopping you.”

  Cyril pauses. Sniffing. Red wine. Cinnamon. Hints of human blood. The Cypriot gets closer, his face set.

  "Three months, and he will be the most talked-about name in London. Three months, and I will propel his name to the top of the candidate list faster than anyone before."

  "Let's say I agree. How will you do it?"

  "So you can run off and tell the bigger fish?"

  Cyril smiles at that. Soteris gets closer. Close enough for Cyril to tell that his body's still warm.

  "Just give me three months of peace. Three months of green lines."

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  She’s still working her way through the room. Wants nothing more than to wander outside, to feel cold air, to get out of this swirling mass of body heat and faces that are supposed to be different, but all look the same to her.

  He called it different. He called it a new world. But as she forces herself between guests, interrupts them to ask for his whereabouts, Harriet finds less and less to attach herself to, an ever-growing list of words sailing over her head. Leopards and Arbiters and stock tips and deep seas. Platinum cards, dresses in season. Hundreds and thousands of things.

  Eventually, she stops listening. Let's the windchimes take her as she wanders the maze-like crowds. Perhaps Soteris was lying. Perhaps he’s gone insane. Perhaps all his riches have done what riches always do, poisoned his brain to the point that-

  “Bam! Bam bam!”

  “Hahahah!”

  Harriet spins around, the noises piercing through the wall, searching for where they started. A few feet away, from the back of the room, two children. One in a little dark dress, the other in an equally small suit. They hide behind pillars, peep themselves out, point fingers. Firing away their imaginary guns beneath a chorus of laughter.

  “I shot first!”

  “No, I did!”

  “You always say that!”

  “‘Cause it’s always true!”

  They’re accents are crisp and posh. Their faces full of freckles, their hands lathered in ketchup stains. Harriet can’t stop watching them, even as she backs away. Especially the girl.

  And the curly red hair bundling down her shoulders.

  Her throat turns stiff. Aether pummels through her chest. She can feel the pain of each step, heels clacking on tile, as her skull starts to burst and her fangs start to grow and-

  crash!

  Her body stumbles, careening into fabric that now soaks with red wine. The man she backed into pushes her away, not ungently, and Harriet wraps herself around a pillar until she can stabilise.

  “Sorry, sorry!”

  “No, no worries. It’s no great-”

  “No, lemme help, I-”

  She turns, and her eyes go wide.

  The man stares back at her, tall and broad-shouldered, armed pressed against a fountain. Short-cut black hair. An unkempt dark stubble on a firm and square jaw. His uniform’s a blue as royal as the pool’s waters. Joined by white gloves, gold tassels, clean and polished leather shoes.

  They watch each other for far too long. His eyes scanning downward. Studying the dress. “My-” He stops as quickly as he starts. The memories clear on his face.

  Her hands tremble. She can’t open her mouth. Her heart seems ready to burst.

  The sounds of the fountain punctuate the silence between them. On one side, casting the reflection of a scared little girl, and on the other, nothing at all.

  Edward Archibald Morris calls out her name. Not Jessica. Not Fireside. Her real name. The one she was given.

  The one she once gave him.

  barely tolerate Spencer. She has a much smaller role in this story than in my other projects, so she'll probably come across as a bit less complex. Fireside's a gargantuan story already ^^'.