Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Pain lanced through Lea's chest. Her heart stuttered. Each step, each thrust of her blade, tightened the Petrification Disease's vice grip around her organs.

Not now! she screamed at her own body. Not when I'm so close!

Arlecchino's sawblades lashed out like striking vipers. She ducked away from one and deflected the other in a dazzling shower of sparks. Her shoulder revolted under the strain. Numbness shot down her arm, her fingers nearly slackening on her sword's hilt, while the cold sweat of nausea skittered up the back of her neck.

She reeled back and coughed a wheezing breath into her gloved hand. Bright red blood flecked with bluish-gray spittle stained the supple white leather. Her eyes began to drift to the trellis at the back of the garden, but she ripped her attention back to the fight. A moment's loss of focus was not one she could afford, even as the strange gray-haired Stalker slammed into Arlecchino's side with the force of rabid dog.

Arlecchino hissed and groaned at the intrusion, but he couldn't ignore the flurry of well-placed blows descending upon him. The Stalker pressed his attack with expressionless persistence, slashing at the weak point at the puppet's knees and elbows. It would have been a good technique for any other automaton, but Arlecchino was too aware to allow such an obvious strategy.

He feinted to draw the Stalker's blade in, then hooked his bladed hand under the Stalker's hilt and twisted. The Stalker's arm bent well past the limit of either its shoulder or elbow joints, though he didn't cry out or even whimper. Arlecchino cackled as he raised his other scythe for the killing blow.

Gritting her teeth and slapping a modicum of sensation back into her sword arm, Lea exploded into action. She whipped the Rose Sword up in a crescent arc, aiming for the middle of the scythe's curve. The combined momentum of their opposing attacks rent the tip of Arlecchino's blade from his body and sent it careening into the snow as useless scrap metal.

She pivoted on a needlepoint, pouring all her strength into a single downward stab straight into his fetid, corrupted heart. It should have struck true. It should have been faster than anyone—or anything—could have reacted, either to block or evade. But where she expected steel, she met only air.

Missing so completely threw her off-balance, and she teetered forward. The jagged edge of a ruined scythe tore through her shoulder. The Stalker returned the favor of her rescue and knocked the blade off before it cut clean through.

She fell to her knees, both from the force of the hit and the searing agony blooming across the wound. Whatever Arlecchino's red aura was, it felt like acid had chewed through her skin and dripped onto the exposed bone. Dark spots swam across her vision as her lungs struggled to keep pace. It hardly mattered. She'd already been fighting blind for a while, the Rose Garden melting into a grim watercolor of red and white through the disease's haze.

Arlecchino hopped back. "Lucky, lucky, Lady Lea," he chuckled to himself.

She hated to admit how right he was. That hit should have cleaved her sword arm from her body, if not for the mysterious Stalker. He stood over her, weapon at the ready, but even his almost machine-like vigor seemed to be waning.

This was it. Their final push. If they couldn't rally now, all would be lost.

Her lungs contracted, and she spewed more blue bile and blood into the crimson pool beneath her. As her own blood mingled with and dispersed into that of the Rose Estate, Lea staggered to her feet and drew up her sword in front of her.

Arlecchino sloshed toward them with the unhurried confidence of a predator with its jaws already clamped around its prey's throat. Maybe that was true. Maybe they had already lost. But Lea wouldn't go down without fighting to her last breath. She owed it to the students of the Estate who died long before their time, to Romeo who might still be alive despite all odds, and to Carlo who she wouldn't fail again.

Never again.

She launched herself into a final assault. Her blade flew from strike to strike, though few made contact with Arlecchino's frame. A deep, guttural growl of frustration bubbled up from inside her. She was the Legendary fucking Stalker, whatever the hell that meant. She could kill one puppet, no matter how deranged or augmented.

A low whine emanated from deep in Arlecchino's core, only barely audible at first but building fast. Another wave of blood-gorged Ergo. She could take it, as could the Stalker. They'd survived his first assault in this new form.

Her heart dropped as she noticed out of the corner of her eye where they were. Arlecchino had let them come at him while he had inched further and further back toward the garden's far edge. Far enough that an attack like that would catch Romeo, limp and defenseless, in its radius.

Never again, she told herself again. She would never allow someone she loved to be hurt ever again.

Almost as though he had read her mind, the gray-haired Stalker wheeled back on his heels in tandem with Lea. They had to pull Arlecchino back to the center of the garden before his core reached critical mass.

Arlecchino wheezed a laugh. Lea's eyes widened. Still mid-step, she couldn't bring her sword up in time to stop the scythe's edge from ripping through her throat.

Her hand shot up instinctively to stem the tide, but the cut was deep and final. She stumbled, then crashed backwards into the snow. The Rose Sword fell to the ground next to her with a pathetic thump.

He had known they would do that. He had lured them back there because he knew they would prioritize Romeo's safety over their own. It seemed obvious now, lying in a growing pool of her own blood.

Of all her many regrets, she could not find it in her to regret that. If she had fought with the reckless abandon of her youth, she might have emerged victorious. But at what cost? What was she fighting for if Romeo was an acceptable loss? Though she regretted that she had once again failed her apprentice, at least she would die having done everything in her power to save him.

Arlecchino's taunts grew muffled through the rapidly descending veil of death. The black dots dancing before her eyes morphed and grew. With the last of her strength, she turned her head, hoping to see the strange Stalker standing. Then there would be hope that her death hadn't been entirely in vain.

He laid a few feet from her, twitching and writhing in his own death throes. Where Arlecchino's blade had sliced him clean through, his midsection sparked, not bled. A puppet… That certainly explained a few things while raising many other questions. Surely, there was an explanation for why a puppet was fighting another puppet, but Lea couldn't muster the strength to care. He had fought valiantly to save Romeo and that was enough for her.

The world descended into darkness. The leaden heaviness of her limbs fell away into a numb weightlessness. She was slipping away, along with any chance of saving Romeo.

Please, she pleaded with any god or angel or star that would listen. Please save him. I don't want him to suffer ever again. Never again.

Never…

Sound returned first. A lark chirped a cheerful tune somewhere above her. Wind rustled the boughs of a tree laden with leaves. In the distance, someone laughed, carefree and jovial.

Darkness gave way to soft grays, then bright white as dappled light flickered across her eyelids. Her body felt heavy again, no longer floating in the space between life and death, but neither did it feel burdened by the choking pressure of the Petrification Disease. She flexed her fingers and found that, past the numbness, it required almost no effort at all.

Hesitantly, she cracked an eye open, but quickly shut it against the blinding sun. Trying again, she shielded herself with a hand and blinked until the scene came into focus before her.

Colibri Park bustled with activity. Families strolled along the paved paths. Couples floated lazily in gondolas along the pond's glass-like surface, stealing kisses under the bridge where they thought no one else could see them. Children traipsed through the grass and flowers to catch insects or each other.

The sight nearly stole her breath. She hadn't seen Krat like this in so long. Though it was perhaps more accurate to say she hadn't seen anything so clearly since the disease had begun its slow theft of her sight. Between that and the cold snap, the park's greens and pinks and blues seemed positively gaudy.

She sat up, pushing off from the tree she had been napping against. It must have been just past noon, as the sun was still high in the cloudless sky but already leaning west. The sweat beading on her brow and the airy clothing of passersby indicated that it was summer.

One question loomed over the pleasant scene. How did she go from bleeding out in the snow to napping in the summer sun?

She thought, for a moment, that she must be dead. If heaven existed, then this could be it for her. But the roughness of the bark, the warm breeze on her face, it all felt so real. In fact, the longer she sat there, the more real it felt and the less tangible the battle became.

Could that have truly been a dream? Years of misery and tragedy, all concocted by her subconscious mind and played out over the course of a few minutes as she dozed in the shade? It didn't seem possible, and yet here she was. A body unmarred by either Arlecchino's blades or the Petrification Disease. A city healthy and thriving.

The rhythmic thump of footsteps on grass drew her attention behind her. Her hand fell to her hip but found no hilt. Icy panic climbing in her throat, she looked around only to find her sword laying, still sheathed, on top of her coat. On her other side, two other jackets sat in a crumpled heap on the grass.

A figure crested the top of the hill, red-faced and breathing heavily. His flaxen hair shone in the afternoon sun as he jogged toward the shaded copse. Stopping just before Lea, he clasped his hands behind his head and gulped several lungfuls of fresh air.

"First," Romeo wheezed.

Romeo. Alive and well and all in one piece. His cheeks were a bit rounder, hair a little shorter, shoulders less broad, but it was him all the same. She couldn't explain how she was suddenly staring at a younger version of her apprentice, but she had no desire to question it either.

The only thing she wanted was to throw her arms around him, to feel his blood pulsing through his veins rather than staining the Rose Estate's stone. Before she had the chance to stand, another figure trotted up beside Romeo. Lea was glad, then, that she was still sitting because she would have collapsed otherwise.

Huffing and puffing and cursing up a storm, Carlo ground to a halt next to Romeo. He doubled over, supporting himself with his hands on his knees.

"That's not fair," he whined through heaving breaths.

Romeo laughed, a sound that made Lea's heart flutter. "What's not fair? That you have short little legs?"

Carlo shot him a withering look. "No, that you're freakishly tall. Normal people don't stand a chance." He turned an equally sour expression onto Lea. "And were you seriously napping while— Are you alright?"

Tears slipped down Lea's face. She sprang up and pulled him into a rib-crushing hug. Despite his groans of protestation and the sweat plastering his shirt to his skin, she buried her face in the crook of his neck and let out a shuddering sob.

Carlo, her dearest Carlo, alive and here in her arms. A cascade of emotions flowed through her all at once. Elation, guilt, relief, and a whole host of other conflicting feelings muddled together into a confusing jumble. The only thing she knew was that she didn't ever want to let him go again. She squeezed him tighter, eliciting a soft oomph. His hands rested hesitantly on her back.

"Hey, who died?" Romeo asked jokingly, though an undercurrent of worry ran through his words.

Lea loosened her grip but didn't back away. Instead, she tucked Carlo's damp dark hair behind his ears and cupped his cheeks. Warmth radiated from his skin, and not just from the exertion. The gentle glow of life filled him fit to bursting. This, to Lea, seemed far more real, more true, than the frigid, waxy corpse she'd held far beneath the earth's surface.

Carlo smiled back at her, crooked and charming but unsure of this bizarre situation.

"No one," she finally replied. "No one died. I'm just happy to see you. Both of you."

"We've only been gone an hour," Carlo said. He shrugged out of her embrace and retrieved a canteen hung on a low branch. "So, are we still practicing disarming today? Because I need a minute."

Already the strangeness of her outburst washed off of him like water off a duck's back. The mutability of youth was enviable. Though, Lea supposed, an unexpected show of affection was more welcome to Carlo than to many others simply due to the deficit of such things from his father. Carlo himself was prone to random acts of kindness and outpourings of emotions for the very same reason.

Lea clapped her hands together. "We can practice swordplay another day. I have a much better idea."

Ten minutes later, they were all basking in the frigid glory of Bellamy's Ice Cream Parlor. It was small shop about a block north of Colibri Park and, in Lea's opinion, one of the city's best kept secrets. Though its proximity to the park provided the shop with a steady stream of customers, the horde of fashionable ladies and gentlemen hadn't yet descended upon it like vultures to carrion. This was due mostly to Bellamy's never having been featured in Rousseau's food column, which dictated trends with an iron fist.

Today, Bellamy's was moderately busy. Two young woman chatted at one of the iron latticework tables outside while a mother wrangled her three children with the help of a nanny puppet inside. Taking advantage of the wait, Romeo and Carlo pressed themselves up against the glass case to let it leach the heat from their bodies and view the various flavors.

Romeo, ever the pragmatist, opted for a scoop of vanilla but, after some gentle ribbing, added fresh strawberries. In sharp contrast, Carlo ordered a decadent chocolate sundae, complete with hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry. Lea landed somewhere between them, favoring the freshness of a scoop of orange swirl.

They took their treat outside, shaded by one of the blue and white striped umbrellas mounted on the shop's tables. Carlo wolfed his down with a ferocity only a teenage boy could muster and which turned Lea's stomach to imagine eating that much. How banal, how perfectly ordinary, it felt to sit there listening to the distant click of hooves on cobblestone and worry only that Carlo would be ill tomorrow from overindulgence. The thought made her smile.

When Carlo finished, he dropped his spoon into the glass bowl with a satisfied clink. "So, was this a test or do we actually have the rest of the day off?"

"If this were a test," she drawled, "you would have failed. But no, it wasn't. You're free for the day. Why, do you have plans?"

He scrunched his nose in a way that sent a pang through Lea's heart. God, she had missed him. "Antonia is always asking me to come over, so I thought I'd stop in for tea."

Antonia Cerasani. Another person Lea hadn't seen in quite some time, though not because some horrific fate had befallen her. After Carlo's death, society lost whatever scrap of appeal it still held for Lea. She still attended the odd event here and there—mostly for Romeo's sake, who didn't deserve to be cooped up inside their small apartment on her account—but not since she'd caught the Petrification Disease.

"Why don't we all call on her for dinner? I'm sure she'd love to have us."

"If that's the plan," Romeo said, sitting back in his chair, "then I need a bath first. And a nap, maybe."

"Tired already?" Carlo teased. "We only ran around the entire city."

Romeo rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed his amusement. "No, I just know how you get at dinner parties. I'll need my rest to haul your drunken self to bed."

"Hey! That was one time!"

"And that house plant will never forget it."

Carlo flicked his cherry stem at Romeo.

"Alright," Lea interjected before they got too rowdy. "We'd better head home then. I need to ring Antonia, and we all need to freshen up a bit before stepping foot near the Cerasani household."

"Yes, Lea," they said in unison. Though they grumbled a bit, they collected their coats and weapons and left the dishes to the busboy. That was another reason Lea preferred Bellamy's over every other ice cream parlor—no puppets.

Lea's apartment, now shared by the three of them, was located south of Colibri. Instead of taking the main roads crammed with people and carriages, they cut through the park again. Lengthening shadows striped the lawn with the afternoon's waning light. Most of the families had either left or were in the process of packing their picnic baskets and carrying groggy children home for a late afternoon respite. Even with fewer people, the park teemed with life in its swaying flowers and buzzing insects.

As soon as Lea unlocked the door, both boys barreled past her to claim the bathtub first. Carlo emerged victorious this time, leaving Romeo to prepare afternoon tea. The kettle began to boil as Lea dialed Antonia's number.

The telephone had been a gift from Sophia, who had insisted on it to keep in touch after Lea had moved out of the Rose Estate. Besides a few calls to her sister, it had, for the most part, remained decorative since domestic telephones were still few and far between. That hadn't stopped Carlo's wistful looks at it as he waited for a call that would never come.

Antonia's cheerful voice crackled through the receiver after the third ring. She was, of course, delighted to host the three of them that evening. Not only did she wish to see them, but they were also perfect to round out her half-assembled party.

By the time Lea hung up, Romeo had finished pouring the tea. They chatted amiably about nothing in particular, Lea happy simply to bask in the rays of his presence, until Carlo emerged in a cloud of steam. Romeo scampered off to bathe, and Carlo replaced him at the table to take own tea. Once Romeo had finished scouring the day's grime off too, they both retired to their cramped bedroom opposite Lea's to preen and fuss over each other.

Lea slipped into the bathroom and filled the tub. Predictably, the water ran ice cold. It had been enough for her when she'd moved in that the building had running water that was often hot. Her apprentices burned through hot water like they'd never see it again. She might have been angry about that, once, but now she rolled her eyes fondly as she climbed into the frigid water.

A few hours after they had arrived home and after copious amounts of bathing, brushing, lacing, and buttoning, they descended the stairs to meet a carriage. Light still lingered in the sky, filtering through the gossamer clouds and glinting off shop windows and passing coaches. The sun likely wouldn't set until they'd already sat down to eat. It was those precious extra hours of light that Lea missed most during Krat's winters.

The city melted away as the carriage conveyed them to the Cerasani summer home. It seemed like years since Lea had been there last, but she reminded herself that the other world—the world of death and disease—had been nothing but a nightmare. Though she couldn't remember exactly when, she was sure she'd visited Antonia recently. Her lapse in memory was nothing but a temporary confusion brought on by the disturbing nature of that dream.

Carlo and Romeo chattered between themselves, fingers intertwined and lips nearly touching. Lea often felt like a spare watching those two. They had something that she'd never been able to find. Not really, anyway. Dalliances were different than the easy yet stalwart devotion present in Carlo's soft gaze and the necklace hanging from Romeo's throat.

As the coach clattered to a stop at the top of the drive, Romeo adjusted his cuffs and smoothed a loose lock of hair back into place. If he had been born Romeo Monad or Romeo Cerasani, the young ladies out for their first season would have clawed each other's eyes out just for a chance to flutter their eyelashes at him. Carlo too had a roguish, impish charm that would have driven girls mad had he shown anything but utter disdain for courtship.

The boys exited first, then offered her a hand down which she appreciated greatly. She was by no means uncoordinated, but the weight of an evening gown's beaded train was quite different from her Stalker gear.

Antonia's automated butler, Polendina, greeted them at the front door and ushered them inside with a mechanical sweep of the arm. The Cerasani household was a grand one. Its foyer dripped with antique elegance from the gilded coats of arms lining the walls to its gleaming marble floors. It was the exact type of place Lea would usually hate, except it was home to one of the kindest people in Krat.

The clicking of heels echoing through the vaulted chamber announced her presence. "Lea, my dear, I haven't seen you in quite some time. I'd grown worried, you know," Antonia said as she approached. The grace of her gait gave the appearance of gliding across the polished floor.

"Well," Lea replied, "I'm not dead yet."

Antonia took her hands. "Oh, not about that. Nothing so grim. I was merely worried you'd forgotten how to use that telephone I know you have installed."

Lea flushed bright crimson. Her apprentices, the traitors, snickered behind her. She attempted to stammer out an explanation, but Antonia simply pressed a kiss to her cheek and breezed past her.

"Ah Romeo, either you're still growing taller or I'm shrinking," she said with a chuckle.

He leaned down to receive the same greeting Lea had. "Lady Antonia, always a pleasure."

Finally, she turned to Carlo. Cupping his cheeks in her hands, she looked him over with nothing but dazzling adoration in her eyes. "My darling boy," she said before kissing him on both sides of his face. "You laugh at your mentor, but I've not heard a peep from you either. You are perfectly capable of calling me too. Unless you've disassembled that telephone as you did my cuckoo clock when you were a boy. Even still, you could write me."

It was Carlo's turn to blush. "Antonia! I put it back together," he protested.

"Yes, eventually." She slid her hands down to clasp him at the elbow. "Shall we? I'd hate to keep my other guests waiting."

Lea threaded her arm through Romeo's, who smiled and squeezed her hand. She wasn't sure if he was comforting her or himself. This sort of event, with its casual extravagance, set him on edge. No matter how well the Rose Estate cared for him or how many dinner parties he attended, the specter of hunger would always haunt him. Lea understood, but it still pained her to see it in him.

Four other guests waited in the drawing room. A man and a young woman shared the divan. They must have been siblings, as they shared the same olive skin, glossy black hair, and sloping nose. Another young man, probably around Carlo and Romeo's age, stood with a drink in hand, examining a landscape painting. The last guest sat with her back to the door, but Lea recognized her husky voice and the faint scent of ink.

As they entered, the man on the couch stood and said, "Leave it to Lady Cerasani to fill out a party with the Legendary Stalker herself."

Lea clenched her jaw. "You have me at a disadvantage."

"The Honorable Mr. Taddeo Savelli," Antonia said from behind her, "and his darling sister, Mariella. I've known their father quite some time."

Behind Taddeo, Mariella rose to her feet. Her sumptuous yellow gown swirled around her ankles, its golden beads softly rattling. She looked of an age to make her formal debut into society, and Lea had no doubt it would be a successful one.

"Forgive my brother, he often speaks without thinking." Her voice was smooth and cool with a glimmer of mirth.

"It's alright. He's hardly the first to call me that." Nor would he be the last, regardless of how Lea felt about her acquired moniker.

"Well, I have no doubt," Antonia continued, "that you all know Lea, but let me introduce her apprentices, Romeo and Carlo, who is also my godson. Romeo, Carlo, these are the Savellis—as I said—Ms. Esme Tulard, and Lord Bastien de la Roche."

Esme twisted in her chair to look them over. A snide comment formed on her lips, but Carlo beat her to it.

"Bastien de la Roche? Bas? I haven't seen you in ages."

The young man smiled. "I wasn't sure you'd remember. We were both so little back then."

Carlo slipped out of Antonia's grasp to cross the room. He caught Romeo's arm as he passed, and Lea acquiesced.

"Romeo, you have to meet him. Bas was my playmate before I was sent to the Rose Estate. His family owns a literal gold mine. Isn't that the richest thing you've ever heard?"

The boys jabbered on about schooling and weapons and a great many other things in rapid succession. Eventually, Ms. Mariella wandered over to join them, to escape her brother if nothing else.

Lea blinked back tears as she listened to the four of them talk and laugh. Romeo's deep, mellow voice balanced Carlo's erratic cadence in a perfect duet. The thought of them separated, mutilated, dead was almost too much to bear. It didn't matter if that other time had just been a nightmare concocted from her deepest fears. She would protect them both, here in this world, so they could continue to be as carefree as they were in that moment.

Esme tapped the back of her chair with her hand fan. "You know, Lea, I've read all sorts of torrid rumors about you and those boys."

Lea balled her fists so tightly she could feel her nails digging into her palms through her satin gloves. "Oh? And do you believe everything your company publishes?"

She laughed, a low, breathy sound. The string of pearls in her hair swayed with the movement. "Not my company, darling. We deal in literature, not salacious gossip. But to answer your question, no, I don't believe them. You're far too boring for a scandalous affair."

Lea rolled her eyes. "You should ask Lord Valentinus about how scandalous he thinks I am. Or Geppetto for that matter. That man wants to wring my neck, I swear."

"The price of forging your own path," she said as she snapped her fan open. "Some people would kill to have your bravery."

Lea didn't respond. She didn't have to. They both knew Esme was referring to herself. Back when they were both much younger, before Lea was the Legendary Stalker, they had both dreamed of joining the Tower. Then Esme's brothers perished at sea, leaving her the sole successor of the family name and business. Her parents didn't entertain any notions of becoming a Stalker after that, nor did Esme have the desire to forsake her family altogether.

Lea had no such compunctions.

Antonia clapped her hands together, gently but firmly drawing everyone's attention back to her. "Now that we're all acquainted, let us go through. Polendina has informed me dinner is ready."

They sauntered into the dining room like a pack of ravenous yet well-behaved wolves. Lea was seated at one of the table's ends, with Carlo to her left and Taddeo to her right. While Carlo was safely tucked away between her and Antonia, Romeo was stranded on the other side of the table between Ms. Tulard and Ms. Savelli. He shot a pleading look at Lea and Carlo, but even they were powerless in the face of Antonia's carefully crafted seating charts.

As it turned out, he needn't have worried. The evening was a relatively informal one. Conversation spanned the table, rather than remain confined within the bounds of one's partners to each side. Wine flowed, courses came and went, and finally the meal began to wind down.

"I suppose," Antonia said, "we should retire. We're only getting in the way here."

"Hold on," Lea interjected. "I have a better idea than playing bridge or sipping whiskey. Why don't you play for us?" She looked at Carlo who blinked back at her.

"Where did that come from?"

Lea downed the dregs of her wine. "It's been awhile since I've heard you play. I thought you might indulge me."

She had no idea how true that actually was. It might have only seemed like forever for her because of that damn dream. She'd lived a whole life from which Carlo, and any hope of hearing him play again, had long been absent. For all she knew, they could have played together last week here in reality. It was unlikely, though, since their apartment above the tailor shop was far too small to jam a piano into. If Carlo wanted to play, he had to visit Antonia or the Rose Estate, both of which he was unlikely to do on any given day.

"I think that's a wonderful idea," Antonia chimed in. "A bit of dancing helps settle a large meal, and I never get to hear you play anymore."

Carlo cocked his head as though debating his options, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Alright, if it's what the people want, I have no choice."

They filed out of the dining room, leaving the staff to clear away the dishes, and made their way to the salon where Antonia kept her grand piano. During the day, sunlight streamed through the wide windows. At night, the same windows became dark mirrors in the light of the incandescent bulbs. Anything could be beyond the room's walls and she wouldn't know it unless she pressed her face to the glass and shielded her eyes. A chill shot down her spine. She wasn't scared of most things, but she didn't enjoy the thought of being watched.

Carlo plopped down on the piano bench, stretching his neck and shaking out his wrists. He played a few scales, whether to check if the instrument was tuned or to reacquaint himself with the keys, Lea did not know.

No sheet music laid on the stand, nor did he look for any. He didn't need it. When he wasn't improvising new melodies, Carlo possessed the uncanny ability to replicate any piece he'd heard near perfectly. It was a sign of true genius in Lea's opinion, though he hardly ever used it for anything besides making the other students shriek with laughter over lewd parodies of popular songs.

He launched into a quick rhythm, fit more for a two-step than a traditional waltz or quadrille. Mariella clapped in delight, and Bastien swept her onto the floor. Taddeo tutted his disapproval but changed his tune when Esme offered him her own hand.

"Oh, no need to be polite," Antonia said with a pat on Romeo's shoulder. "Dance with your mentor, and come find me when there's a waltz." With that, she found a seat on one of the couches against the wall.

Romeo turned to Lea and held out his hand. She hesitated. Sweat prickled her palms, and her mouth ran dry. Images of his hands dangling from the Rose Estate's ceiling, pale and bloody, sprung unbidden into her mind. They'd been so cold when she'd pressed them to her forehead. When she'd begged for forgiveness and mourned her failures and resolved to rip out that damn puppet's heart all at once.

She thought she might be sick right there on Antonia's imported tile floor, but she forced the bile down with a smile and took his hand. He led her out, and they fell into step with the other couples.

"Are you alright?" Romeo asked her after a few turns. His voice was low enough that no one besides Lea could hear him over the music.

"Of course I am. Why do you ask?"

His brows knitted together in a worried frown. Lea hated when he did that.

She and Carlo had tempers like gunpowder. They flared up quickly, bright and hot, but died down just as fast. Romeo, on the other hand, was quiet and inscrutable. She'd never seen him truly angry, or she hadn't known it if she had. Instead, he would fix her with a look somewhere between hurt and disappointment, and she would feel like a foolish little girl again.

"I'll be fine," she conceded under his stare.

"You seemed quite shaken at the park. You hugged Carlo like he'd just returned from war, not a jog around town."

He spun her out and released her into the center of the floor. The loss of contact felt like suffocation, like the Petrification Disease squeezing the air from her lungs. She hurried by the other dancers, though no one seemed to mind how wildly off-beat she was. They came back together on the opposite side of the floor, and she clutched at him. Her heart slowed as she felt his pulse thrum beneath her fingers.

"I imagined something awful had befallen both of you and it frightened me, that's all. It's silly. It shouldn't have affected me as much as it has."

"It's not silly," he said softly. "If you ever want to talk about—"

"Romeo," she cut him off. "You don't need to worry. It's my job to worry about and protect you." She smirked at him. "I am the Legendary Stalker, after all. I can handle it."

His frown melted into a grin. "You hate that name."

"Yes, well, it is a bit gaudy, isn't it? That's probably why the Honorable Mr. Savelli relishes in saying it. He's probably got embroidered drawers too."

They both snickered like schoolchildren.

"That's nothing compared to Lord Gold Mine over there. Any one of his rings could pay the entire Malum District's rent for a month."

Lea hummed. "Am I detecting a hint of jealousy, my dear apprentice?"

He colored crimson. "No, I—That's not what I meant!"

"I don't think you have anything to fear," she cooed. "Carlo isn't the type to marry for money."

Lea laughed as Romeo stammered out an explanation. Again she felt that this was right. This was how it was meant to be, dancing with Romeo and listening to Carlo hammer away at the keys, instead of chasing after their corpses.

The impromptu party lasted well into the night. Lea had danced several two-steps and a few waltz before the siblings announced their intention to retire for the night. Carlo attempted to protest—saying he'd only made it through a small portion of his repertoire—but interrupted himself with a yawn that told Lea it was time for them to head home too.

Just after midnight, they exited the front door as the driver pulled the carriage around. Antonia pulled Lea into a hug and kissed Carlo on the forehead while insisting that they should visit more often. Once Carlo had promised to at least write every so often, she bid them a good night and went back inside.

Esme stepped forward then, out of the shadow of the great house and next to Lea. Her black and white beaded dress was swathed in a plum-colored shawl, which she wrapped tighter around her shoulders to ward off the night's chill.

"It was nice seeing you again," she said to Lea.

Romeo had already climbed into the coach, pulling Carlo after him. Lea couldn't see them inside the darkened cab, but the sound of them murmuring back and forth calmed her.

"You too. I can't remember the last time we talked."

Esme smiled sadly. "I do. Rarely a day goes by without me thinking of it." She dug the toe of her boot into the drive's gravel. "You don't need me to tell you this, but take care of those boys. They're lucky to have you."

"I intend to," Lea said. Her voice was as hard and sharp as steel.

"Woe to anyone who crosses you, Lea Florence Monad." She leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on Lea's cheek.

Lea's chest tightened. Not with fear, but with longing. If things had turned out differently, that kiss might have been like the one they shared so long ago in the darkened gardens of the Rose Estate. That one was quick and fumbling but sweet with the scent of Esme's honeysuckle perfume. Perhaps if Esme's brothers had survived, she'd be climbing into the carriage alongside Lea, so that Lea could breathe in that heady aroma all night. But Lea couldn't change the past, could she? What was done, was done.

The distant snap of a twig brought her out of her reverie. It had been a little ways off, just past the treeline bordering Antonia's property. It could have been any number of nocturnal creature, hunting for its next meal while the rest of the world slumbered. She could have believed that—wanted to, in fact—if it weren't for the nagging feeling of being watched.

Lea gazed into the darkness. Leaf-laden branches shifted in the breeze. With the light streaming from the house's windows behind her, her eyes could not fully adjust to the darkness, and all she could make out were flitting amorphous shadows. Even if she couldn't see it, something was out there. It stared back at her as surely as she stared at it.

"Lea, come on!" Carlo called from the carriage. He had poked his head out around the side and was resting an arm on the open door. "Romeo is complaining about it being past his bedtime like he's a grandpa."

Romeo muttered something Lea couldn't hear. Carlo obviously could because he retreated back inside with an offended gasp.

Lea took one last look at the treeline, but the forest remained the same enigmatic void. The feeling had lessened, though not entirely vanished. Perhaps whatever, or whoever, it was had fled upon scrutiny.

Her mind snagged on a vision of Arlecchino, blades slick with blood, watching and waiting for his revenge. She pushed that away. It wasn't possible. She had destroyed that wretched puppet years ago, and no one in their right mind would actually want to rebuild that murderous fiend.

She climbed the carriage's steps and slammed the door behind her.

Dawn broke, painting golds and pinks and oranges across her bedroom wall, and Lea awoke to the same world. A part of her had expected this to be a dream or hallucination, a desperate fantasy concocted by her dying brain as she bled out in the Rose Garden, that would fade the next time she closed her eyes. But she was still here, and more importantly, so were the boys.

Romeo shuffled around the small kitchen to fix breakfast. He closed each cabinet door softly so as not to wake her and Carlo who were nowhere near the morning people he was. Lea smiled and rolled over, basking in the sounds of a completely ordinary morning.

The next few days were almost blissful. They trained in the mornings and afternoons, with an extended break at midday to escape the worst of the summer heat. The only black spot on those sun-drenched days was that same chill she'd felt outside of Antonia's house.

At first, she had tried to brush it off as a lingering symptom of her strange nightmare. The vision was still fresh in her mind, and so her mind conjured a threat where there were none. As the days wore on, its presence became more difficult to ignore. Harder still when she realized that Carlo, not she, was the object of their observation.

That revelation had come about when Lea had decided to confront the watcher once and for all, only to find the feeling gone once she had dismissed her charges. She'd tried to spend time with each of them one-on-one then, to narrow down who the true target was. Once she had, she made sure Carlo was never alone.

On the fifth day, after their evening training session, Lea dismissed Carlo and Romeo, saying she had several errands to run and not to wait up for her. They exchanged sly glances between them, which they somehow believed she would not see, and Lea knew they would be heading home and staying there for the rest of the night. Why, she refused to think about as their senior and mentor, but she could take advantage just this once.

Romeo and Carlo left the park one way while Lea headed in the other direction. When she reached the edge, she looped around to head south. The rooftops offered a clearer perspective and a path unobstructed by curious passersby, aside from the occasional surprised pigeon.

Her plan was to tail her apprentices at a distance where she might notice anyone else doing the same. The first step was to locate Carlo and Romeo again, which, to her dismay as a teacher, proved an easy task from her vantage point. They visited a stand selling fried fish, then a small pastry shop where Carlo purchased numerous confections—Lea envied the iron stomach of a teenager—before they began the trek home.

With the identity of the watcher still a mystery, she was at a disadvantage. Every man, woman, and puppet was a potential suspect, so she had to somehow keep an eye on everyone in the vicinity while scanning for others hiding in the shadows. Not for the first time, Lea was thankful that she hadn't taken up residence in one of the busier neighborhoods. The crowds thinned as the boys approached the apartment, making it more apparent if someone was indeed following them.

They turned a corner. Lea hopped over the narrow gap between tenement buildings. A flash of movement in the alleyway beneath caught her eye. Perching on the cornice, she peered down into the shadowy corridor.

They wore a black jacket and a mask like many of the Stalkers employed by the Tower tied around their gray hair. From her perspective, Lea couldn't make out what animal their mask represented. She didn't know every active Stalker personally, but a person's chosen—or assigned—animal could say a lot about which faction they belonged to and how dangerous they were. If they were a Sweeper looking to make some money, they could be scared off easily with a bit of rough handling. If they were a Bastard, however, she'd be paying a visit to either the Rose Estate or the Workshop Union.

She climbed down the side of the building to a lower ledge and positioned herself directly above the mysterious Stalker. Her sword barely made a sound as she slid it out of its scabbard. Gravity would do most of the work at this height, if she had wanted to plunge her blade through their throat and be done with it. Luckily for them, she had some questions for them.

She kicked off the windowsill and crashed down on their back, planting a boot directly between their shoulder blades. The Stalker buckled like a sack of potatoes and hit the ground with a dull clang. Without pausing, Lea hooked their right arm by the elbow and pulled, using the momentum to flip them off their stomach and onto their back.

The mask that stared back at her sent a different sort of chill down her spine. The spindly, creeping kind that turned her stomach and froze her blood. The vibrant blue butterfly atop a white base had been a gift from her to her sister, Sophia. She'd never worn it, of course, and it had decorated her bedroom wall ever since. Not only was this stranger following Carlo, they had violated Sophia's privacy too.

She jammed the Rose Sword against their throat and spat, "Who are you?"

A faint whining began to build, a sound she recognized as an electrical charge. The Stalker's left arm, the one not pinned beneath them, shook with the gathering current. Her right leg lashed out at the Legion arm's wrist. There was often an emergency release lever located in the mechanism's forearm, used to prevent damage to the prosthetic and wielder in case of malfunctions. Sure enough, her heel connected with the switch and the charge dissipated harmlessly into the air.

She grabbed the Stalker's lapels and slammed them into the ground, pressing her blade ever closer. "Do you take me for a fool? Who are you?" she demanded again. "Why are you following my apprentice? And what have you done to Sophia?" The words sounded desperate even to her, but she was powerless to stop them tumbling out.

They didn't react, didn't move. They just looked at her placidly through the unblinking eyes of the stolen mask.

White-hot anger flashed through her. How dare they threaten her loved ones? How dare they ruin everything she thought she had lost once before? Seizing the bottom edge of the mask, she yanked it up and off their face.

With one look, her anger melted into shock. She had expected to see a stranger, someone horrible and unknown and therefore easy to deal with however necessary. She hadn't expected Carlo.

But he wasn't Carlo, was he? Carlo didn't have long gray hair and freckles and eyes as blue as crystallized Ergo. He had his face, though. A bit rounder and softer, but unmistakeably Carlo's. It didn't seem possible—it wasn't possible—until something clicked in Lea's mind.

The dream. The fight. She hadn't faced Arlecchino alone. The Stalker whose face she hadn't seen clearly due to the Petrification Disease razing her eyesight. He had had gray hair, hadn't he? The Stalker who seemed so familiar, yet she couldn't put a finger on why. The Stalker who was very much real and not a figment of her lurid imagination.

The mask fell from her trembling fingers and clacked against the stone. She stood and backed away, drawing up her sword between them as though it would protect her. As though it would make any of it as false as she wished so desperately it had been.

She exhaled a shaky breath and whispered, "It's you."

Chapter Text

The last thing P remembered was a wish.

Lea had been beside him in the snow, her whole front soaked red; her lips moved soundlessly, her voice ripped out along with her throat. Arlecchino was laughing. Blue strings flickered in P's fading periphery.

But those weren’t the important parts. The important part was the wish.

Not just a wish for Romeo, though he was at its heart. Save him, Lea’s heart pleaded in unison with P’s, and with every beat, that wish grew. Save him. Don't let this happen again. Never again. Never. Never.

And something heard them. Something listened.

That was the last thing P remembered — the wish. Never. There was a pool of blood and oil cooling in the snow, an agony so strong it turned the world black, and never, and then there was nothing.

And then he woke up.

The sky was much bluer than he remembered it being. The breeze was warm and gentle, more floral than copper-iron, like he was lying in a flower garden and not a killing field. He shifted his hand to his belt out of instinct, where Gemini usually hung.

It was empty. Gemini was gone, along with the moonphase watch.

The flip-squeeze of his heart in his chest took him a moment to identify as anxiety: a body unsure of where it was and whether or not it was in danger. A body that was alone.

“Gemini?” he forced himself to murmur aloud. There was no reply but the shush, shush of the wind through the leaves.

Leaves?

He sat up. What had been a stark portrait in reds and whites was now an explosion of color. All around him, roses bloomed from a vivid green backdrop of leaves and vines, blood-red petals interspersed with cheerful pinks and whites and yellows. Formerly empty trellises blossomed with life. The pool Arlecchino had filled with the Rose Estate’s blood was filled instead with flowers; as if by magnetism, P’s eyes were drawn to the archway above it.

Nothing dangled from its apex but a cheerful knot of flowering vines.

The question, then, was not where he was. Almost unrecognizable as it might have been, this was the Rose Garden. The question was when. After? How long after? His weapon was missing, and though he still had Fulminis attached, it was almost completely depleted of charge. A quick survey of his surroundings yielded nothing obvious he could use to defend himself.

“Carlo?”

His shoulders jumped at the sudden voice, heart drumming against his chest. He was still on the ground, half-covered by a rose bush, and so his eyes had to wander up and up and up to see who had found him. The rabbit-quick rhythm of his heart stuttered at the sight.

This, too, was something long gone that had returned in full bloom.

“Is that you, Carlo?” Sophia asked softly, moving a branch aside with a gentle hand. “I thought you were training with Lea today…”

She trailed off, staring at him. He stared back.

This was a face he’d seen every day. This was a face he’d only ever seen in portraits. Sophia’s eyes — her brown eyes — peered down at him from a face framed by soft brown hair, and as she studied him, they creased in confusion.

“Your hair,” she said.

P lifted a hand to touch his hair. It was coming loose from the ponytail Lea had helped him scrape it into, messy gray strands tumbling down in front of his eyes. A little self-consciously, he tucked the worst of it behind his ear.

Sophia’s face was unreadable. “And your eyes…”

There were so many things he should say. I’m not Carlo, for one. When is this, for another. But words were things that came hard-learned, and they were always quick to abandon him.

“Sophia?” an unfamiliar voice called from the other side of the garden. “Is everything alright?”

Sophia jolted as if awoken from sleep. “I’m fine, Father,” she called back, her eyes not leaving P’s. “I thought I saw someone, but it was only a rabbit.”

“Chase it off before it eats any of the flowers,” the voice advised. “And don’t stay out too long.”

Sophia exhaled, just loud enough for P to call it a sigh. “Yes, Father.”

Footsteps, then the sound of a door closing. Sophia and P were alone.

That voice. She’d called the man Father. The garden was in bloom, Sophia was at the Rose Estate, and Valentinus Monad was alive. More importantly—

More importantly, when Sophia said the name “Carlo,” she hadn’t sounded like she was talking to a ghost. Something heard them. Something listened. Something sent them back.

Carlo was alive. And, with the wish beating alongside his still-new heart, P realized he could keep it that way.

Sophia cleared her throat gently, snapping P’s wandering attention back to her. “Now that we have some privacy,” she said, folding her dress over her knees to kneel beside him, “perhaps you can explain how you found yourself here, little rabbit.”

Little rabbit. It wasn’t the same as clever one, but it settled over him just as warmly. “Sophia,” he whispered.

Her eyebrows arched. “You know me,” she said. “Perhaps that should frighten me?”

P’s heart stuttered. Countless words scrambled up his throat in protest, but the only one that managed to make it out was, “No.”

Sophia hummed in agreement. “No, I suppose it shouldn’t.” She laid her hands in her lap, neatly folded. “You feel… familiar. But you aren’t the Carlo I know, are you?”

Mutely, P shook his head.

“Yes, I thought as much.” Sophia nodded. “You feel similar, but not the same. Just how did you come to be here, little rabbit?”

“A wish,” was the only explanation P could muster. He wasn’t sure he fully understood it himself, just as he hadn’t understood the force that pulled him back to Lea’s side originally, but that— that felt correct. As close to correct as he could explain, in any case.

Sophia studied his face. Whatever she saw there, it tightened her expression into something troubled and sad. It made her look so much like the Sophia he knew that his breath caught in his throat.

“You know, I'm reminded of a fairy tale,” Sophia said slowly. “The story of the weeping widow.”

P blinked, tilting his head. That one wasn't in the book Antonia kept in the hotel library.

“A series of tragedies befell a woman’s family,” she continued. “A hunter’s stray arrow killed her husband. Her eldest child died of an illness, and her youngest was mauled to death by an animal. Her middle children went on a fishing expedition and never returned.”

There was something soothing about Sophia’s voice, even when it was describing something so macabre. P found himself leaning in to listen.

“When the woman discovered that her only surviving children had died, she wept for three days and three nights.” Sophia’s eyes focused on P more intently. “And at the end of the third night, a star took pity on her. It told her that her family’s deaths were no accidents. A former lover had resented her happiness and sought to take it from her.”

“And she made a wish,” P said.

“She made a wish,” Sophia confirmed. “She wished she could go back. She wished she could change things. The star was moved, and it carried her wish through time.” Sophia's gaze was soft but searching. “It sent her back.”

P didn’t speak. He just returned her stare, solemn and silent.

“It’s just a fairy tale,” Sophia said. “But you… there’s something about you…”

He never knew what to do or say when Sophia looked at him like that. It didn’t matter that this wasn’t the Sophia he knew. He broke her gaze, looking instead at the little green shoots poking from the dirt beside him.

“What happened?” Sophia whispered. “What tragedy was terrible enough to carry a wish this far?”

P could not reply.

“Little rabbit… will you tell me your name?” Sophia sounded like she already knew the answer.

Still, P shook his head. He wasn’t Carlo. Not then, and not now. If he succeeded, if he fixed things, then P would never even exist. There was no need for anyone to call him anything.

“I thought not.” Sophia frowned, but it was a gentle expression, more troubled than disappointed. “But… something tells me I can trust you.”

P nodded. There were words for this, he was sure, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to find them.

“In any case,” Sophia said, brushing off her dress as she rose gracefully to her feet, “I suppose this means you don’t have anywhere to stay?”

“I…” P’s voice died in his throat. I’ll go to the Hotel, he almost said, but the Hotel as he knew it was years from opening. And Antonia—

There was that awful squeezing around his heart again, those feelings so strong that they hurt. He clenched a fist over his chest, right where the necklace pressed Romeo’s name against his heart.

Sophia’s lips thinned. She offered a hand to help him up. “Allow me to offer you the Rose Estate’s hospitality, then.”

P stared, first at the hand and then at her face. It struck him that the only time he’d ever touched Sophia was the day she died.

Several long moments passed before Sophia withdrew her hand, expression unreadable. “It needn’t be permanent,” she said. “But—”

“No,” P blurted out. “No, I—” I want to stay. I don’t want to be alone. I miss you. I miss everyone. I’m tired of being by myself. Please don’t leave me here. The words got stuck. The only one he could fit around them was, “Please.”

Sophia always had a way of understanding him even when he couldn’t speak, and it seemed like this Sophia wasn’t any different. Her face softened. “Let’s go, then,” she said, taking a step back to give him space to stand on his own. “We’ll find a room for you.”

Unsteadily, P eased himself to his feet. Whatever magic had put him here unwound the worst of his injuries — his legs were still attached to his body, for one — but the final push to the Rose Estate had offered no respite, and he ached. He felt like Venigni looked when he tried to stand after too long hunched over his workbench.

“Ah…” Sophia paused, eyeing him up and down. “Perhaps a bath first…?”

P blinked at her, then glanced down at himself. However long he’d been lying in the garden, it was long enough for the blood on him to stiffen and dry. He wouldn’t drip on the floors.

“Yes,” Sophia said slowly. “I think a bath is a good idea.”

Resigned, P nodded. It would be nice to get the grime off, he supposed, even if he wasn’t looking forward to the cold water.

“I’ll make sure Father is gone first,” Sophia said as they made their way across the garden to the Estate’s entrance. “Then I can show you to one of the guest rooms. Oh, will you need any help with the bath?”

Was there anything complicated about turning on the water and rinsing himself off? P shook his head.

“Perfect. I’ll find you something to wear while you wash up.” Sophia held up a hand, wordlessly telling P to wait, and opened the estate doors a crack to peer through. After a moment, she swung the door the rest of the way open. “Come along. Let’s hurry.”

Hurrying, in P’s experience, meant running at full tilt, usually because something was chasing him. Sophia’s definition was closer to walking at a clip. P supposed they were trying to be subtle, and it gave him the opportunity to look at the Rose Estate’s interior as it was supposed to be.

Unstained carpets, unblemished walls, uncrooked art, unbroken vases. It smelled faintly floral in here, too, even though they’d shut the garden door behind them. The low voices that filtered through the walls were calm, and what little movement he could hear was quiet and untroubled.

He pressed a hand over his heart, which had grown heavy in his chest all of a sudden.

“Are you alright?”

Belatedly, he realized he had stopped in the middle of the hall; a few paces ahead of him, Sophia had half-turned to look at him, a frown on her face. She was standing next to a little decorative table, one of many that lined the hallways of the estate.

The first time he was at the Rose Estate, he’d found half of a child’s body under one of those tables.

The child had good instincts, he thought faintly, even if it hadn’t saved them. They’d wrapped their arms around their little head and curled their body up like a pill bug, keeping as many of their soft insides safe as possible. The scythe that had cleaved through their midsection and unspooled their guts across the hallway hadn’t cared.

P was used to bodies. He’d seen so many, fought so many, that the child’s corpse shouldn’t have even registered. But that one was just…

They were so small. Their tattered coat looked like it belonged to a doll. A single shoe the size of his fist sat upturned in a pool of blood. Whatever their name was, whoever they were — nothing remained of it but their body, left to lie where it fell like the butt of a cigarette.

“Little rabbit,” Sophia said, her voice suddenly much closer. She had taken a few steps back towards him, brow wrinkled with concern and hand half-raised as if to touch him.

P startled. There was no one in the hallway but Sophia. No blood on the carpet, no body under the table. He shook his head and took another step forward. After a beat, Sophia dropped her hand and moved to take the lead, though she cast another troubled look over her shoulder as she did.

“This is the guest wing,” Sophia explained as they kept walking. She was staying closer to P now, as if worried she would lose him in the winding hallways. “Well… not formally, I suppose. Father’s colleagues used to stay here when they visited, but he doesn’t do much business at the Estate anymore.”

Valentinus’s colleagues. The Alchemists. Whenever this was, Valentinus was already trying to put distance between his organization and the Estate, not knowing it was doomed to end in tragedy.

Not this time, P vowed silently. Not ever again.

“Here, this one should be prepared,” Sophia said, stopping in front of one of the ornately-carved doors. “There’s a washroom attached, so you needn't worry about privacy. I’ll fetch a change of clothes for you while you bathe.”

She opened the door for him and waved him inside. The room was tidy and well-kept, if a little dusty; a fully-dressed bed sat ready for guests, and gauzy drapes half-shrouded the clear glass of the window. P was afraid to touch anything.

Sophia’s insistence on a bath made sense now.

“Take your time,” Sophia told him. The door pulled shut behind her with a gentle click, and P was alone.

The washroom was a small but well-appointed space, separated from the bedroom by a narrow door. A bar of soap sat atop a folded towel next to the tub, along with a straight razor and two bottles P couldn’t immediately identify. The bath itself was an elegant clawfoot thing with a faucet attached to the wall behind it. Upon twisting the handles on the spigot, P was relieved to discover it functioned identically to the ones at the hotel.

As he waited for the tub to fill, he peeled off his clothes, which had long since gone stiff with blood and oil; his fur-lined coat creaked as he folded it into a square. Bits of blue-red blood flaked off its quilted surface, and he frowned, hoping Sophia wouldn’t ask him to dispose of it. The necklace stayed on, Romeo’s memory as always beside his heart.

Once the bathwater was high enough and he switched off the faucet to lower himself in, he realized that this tub and the hotel’s had one crucial difference.

The water was warm.

His hands slipped at the surprise, dropping him the remaining distance into the tub with an unceremonious splash. With utter bafflement and a faintly throbbing behind, he stared at the spigot, wondering if that was how the ones at the hotel were supposed to work.

No wonder Sophia told him to take his time. The warmth could trick a person into lingering.

The soap was pleasantly fragrant, as were the mystery toiletries beside it on the towel. (P didn’t know they made soap specifically for hair.) The washcloth was luxuriously soft and didn’t scratch the softer parts of his skin, even when some particularly stubborn grime needed focused scrubbing to remove. It was— decadent. Unnecessary. He’d made do with cold water and empty communal showers until now. He wasn’t delicate enough, human enough, to need anything else.

(Sometimes, though, people had treated him like he was. “You look cold,” Gemini had worried a lifetime ago in that strange, snowy forest. “You’re shivering. Look, check the wagons. They probably have some winter gear you can borrow.”

A trunk in one of the wagons had yielded a soft blue coat lined with fur and a matching hat. Putting them on felt like the time Venigni had clapped both hands down on his shoulders and given his arms an affectionate rub. The cold was almost more unpleasant in its absence, like relief from suffering was all it took to make the suffering less endurable.)

It was decadent, it was unnecessary, and it made him bathe so inefficiently that he was only just starting to towel himself off when Sophia knocked on the door.

“I’ll leave the clothes outside the washroom,” Sophia told him. “I’ll be in the hall, alright?”

P hummed out an affirmative.

The clothes were simple but sturdy. The sleeves of the black Stalker coat were a little long and the pants were a little short, but for clothes that Sophia presumably pulled out of storage or someone else’s closet, they fit surprisingly well. The left sleeve even had enough extra give to accommodate Fulminis. The straight razor would make a decent weapon in a pinch — certainly better than no weapon at all — so he slipped it into one of the coat’s many pockets.

He tucked his face into the collar of the jacket and inhaled, closing his eyes at the pleasant smell of clean laundry. Just for a moment, he let himself enjoy it. The clean, the warm, the dry. The floral scent of perfumed soap. The quiet. Just for a moment, he let himself grieve the weightless places on his belt where Gemini and the moonphase watch should have hung.

Just for a moment. And then he let the moment go, straightened his back, and opened the door.

“Oh, much better,” Sophia said as P emerged into the hallway. “I have something else to offer you. Forgive the presumption, but…”

She held something out to him. A mask, he realized after a moment — a polished white Stalker mask, with straps for the head and chin. A silver-painted pair of lips gave its bottom half an expression of disinterest. Spreading its wings across the eyes in a colorful colombina was an iridescent blue butterfly.

“To hide your face,” Sophia explained, almost hesitantly. “You needn’t use it, of course. But it may prevent… questions.”

He stared at it. It wasn’t quite as sophisticated as the Bastard-make masks he’d seen before, but it wasn’t built like a Sweeper’s either. It also didn’t look like it had a filter installed.

“It’s not quite Stalker-grade, so you’ll need to make do without a filter for now,” Sophia continued. “My sister made it for me when she became a Stalker.” A soft laugh. “She wanted us to match.”

P thought about the necklace against his heart — the necklace he couldn’t bear to part with, even if it was more of a stolen memory than a gift. He thought about what it would take to entrust a gift from someone precious to a stranger, and to do so with Sophia’s easy kindness. His lips parted. No words came.

Something in Sophia’s face softened. She held the mask out further, gently encouraging. “It’s alright,” she assured him. “I certainly won’t have occasion to wear it. I’d rather you use it, little rabbit.”

Little rabbit wasn’t the same as clever one, and a mask wasn’t the same as a pocket watch, but the ease with which Sophia gave P these priceless gifts was unchanged.

“Thank you,” P mouthed more than said aloud as Sophia laid the mask in his hands.

Sophia nodded. “Return whenever you need rest,” she told him, giving the mask a gentle pat. “I left a key in the inner pocket of your jacket. If you use one of the service entrances, no one should bother you when you come and go.”

A little helplessly, P blinked at her. She covered her mouth with her hand just a little too late to hide her smile.

“I’ll remind you where the closest one is,” she said. “Follow me.”

It wasn’t far. P carefully tracked the turns Sophia took and which paintings hung where, silently mapping the route to the room he was staying in.

“Ah,” Sophia said, stooping down to examine something by the doorframe. “It’s still here.”

She pried a baseboard loose and wiggled something out from behind it. She held it up for P to see: a flat rectangle of scrap metal about the length of his thumb.

“Carlo used to slip this in the doorframe to keep it from latching when he snuck out,” she said fondly. “Romeo always fretted about it.” Her thumb traced the metal’s dull edge. “Never enough for him to stay behind, of course. It was always the two of them when it came to mischief.”

“Was?” P asked, more sharply than he meant to.

Sophia glanced up at him as she tucked the metal back into its hiding place. “They moved in with their mentor after they graduated,” she said with an odd inflection P couldn’t place. “They visit, of course, but they’re almost grown.”

Surprise. That was the inflection. Surprise, and maybe a little confusion. These were things Sophia expected him to know. Things, P realized with numb resignation, that Carlo would have known. P was a ghost even now, haunting a stolen life with a stolen face.

He slipped the mask’s straps over his head and tightened them.

It gave him an idea of where to start, at least. The final turning point, the nail in Krat’s coffin — it was Carlo’s death.

P had no idea where the Alchemists were in their research. No real resources, no way in, no grand plans to stop them. But whatever they were doing, he knew it killed Carlo in the end. For now, he had to keep Carlo safe. Keep Carlo alive. He could figure it out from there.

He had to.

He nodded to Sophia, pushed the door open, and slipped outside.

“Please return safely,” Sophia’s soft voice called after him. He paused for a moment, but ultimately, he didn’t reply. He kept walking.

A little while ago, P learned what a dream was.

Ever since he had killed— ever since the fight at the Opera House, he’d begun to see things when he went into standby. Unsettling visions. Familiar voices saying unfamiliar words. Bubbles of an almost-reality that burst and vanished when he woke. He’d dismissed them as strange but harmless, but he’d grown concerned when they became more frequent and vivid.

When he finally brought his concerns to Eugénie, hoping she could fix whatever was wrong with him, she’d laughed and told him that humans had these dreams almost every night. Sometimes wonderful, sometimes frightening, and almost always strange.

Walking through the grounds of the Rose Estate, following the footpaths along the neat cobblestone roads, emerging into a city intact and unbloodied and teeming with people — it felt like a dream.

So many people lived in Krat.

Logically, he’d known. He’d known that all the bodies he’d seen were people once — that the carcasses he fought were people once, too. He’d known, but knowing was different from seeing.

So many people. People walking, people sitting, people talking, people laughing. Colorful dresses fluttering unbloodied around the ankles of cheerful women holding parasols. Elegant coattails accenting the waists of well-groomed men with slicked-back hair. Children tottering along hand-in-hand with their minders.

Not just people, either. Animals. Round gray birds with iridescent throats waddling indifferently through the sea of moving feet. Dogs, ostensibly leashed, trotting with seeming placidity beside their owners. (These, P gave a wide berth, wary of their teeth.)

And there were horses.

He’d only ever seen dead ones. Alive, they were so much taller than he thought they were, and they came in so many different colors. Blacks and browns and grays and whites in every combination decorated their glossy coats. Some of them, it looked like, had feathers on their feet.

“Pardon me,” came a voice from behind him, distinctly irritated.

His hand flew to the razor in his pocket as he turned to face the speaker, a well-dressed man with a scowl on his face. The man’s frown only deepened as P stared.

“You’re in the way,” the man clarified shortly. “Kindly stand to the side if you’re going to loiter.”

Oh. P had stopped in the middle of the walkway when he saw the horses. He gave a shallow nod, letting go of the razor and moving towards the benches lining the walkway.

“Ridiculous,” the man muttered, shaking his head as he strode away. A few passers-by tittered. The way they looked at P was foreign to him, furtive and sidelong like they didn’t think he could see them.

As he watched the stream of people resume as if never interrupted in the first place, it struck him: how was he going to find Carlo?

He had no idea where Carlo lived, no idea what his routines were. Sophia said that Carlo visited the Estate sometimes, but how often? Did P have enough time to wait?

Standing here watching the people go by wasn’t getting him anywhere. He would look around first and see what he could find. Careful not to bump into anyone, he slipped back into the stream of people and followed the current.

It was surreal, seeing Krat as it was before. Where P had seen nothing but shattered windows and water-stained shop signs, glittering storefronts proudly displayed their wares through smooth, clear glass. Overturned tables with corpses trapped beneath them were now upright and surrounded by chattering patrons, sheltering from the sun beneath colorful umbrellas.

Just like the horses, Krat’s carcass did no justice to its living, breathing form.

No wonder everyone at the hotel had always seemed so sad.

The road eventually ended, leaving nothing but the footpath beneath a wrought iron archway declaring itself the entrance to Colibri Park. Once through the gate, P had to calmly, deliberately set himself to the side of the path so as not to loiter in anyone’s way as he stared.

It was like the garden at the hotel, only bigger and brighter. Across the expanse grew sprawling green grass, oceans of flowers, and countless trees with shady canopies to shelter the people beneath them. The glass-like water of the pond was disturbed only by lazy gondolas and busy waterfowl.

“Ducks,” P whispered aloud in realization as he watched them. “And… swans.”

He drifted towards the pond as if pulled by a string. As he got closer, he realized that some of the smaller birds weren’t ducks at all, but little swans — cygnets, he remembered, like the Ugly Duckling turned out to be in Antonia’s book of fairy tales.

They looked like big, beady-eyed dust bunnies. They weren’t ugly at all.

Every moment that passed was a moment P should have been moving on. He had a job to do. He was here for a reason. Watching the birds was for the parkgoers lounging in the shade by the water.

But he lingered, just for a moment. One moment turned into two, and then three, and then he lost count of the moments. The area around the pond was littered with curiosities, and he couldn't help but fill his pockets with treasures — smooth rocks of varying sizes, an iridescent feather that looked like it came from one of the ducks with green heads, an empty pen with the faded name of an atelier etched in gold on the barrel. All the while, his eyes kept straying back to the birds.

He returned to himself only when he heard the voice.

He’d never heard the voice before, but he knew it. He knew it like he knew himself, like he knew the heart that beat in him and the face that stared back at him; knew it as surely as he knew the pain of holding Romeo’s bloodstained amulet and knew the ache of seeing Lea’s weary, anguished face. Like called to like, the abyss called to the abyss, and a soul in two places would nonetheless know itself anywhere.

“It was one houseplant, one time,” Carlo was saying irritably. “I didn’t even get any on the rug.”

P stared.

Three people ambled along the footpath leading back to the gate: a redheaded woman, a boy with brown hair, and a lanky blond towering over them both. It was like looking at the Rose Garden. Like looking at Sophia. P knew these people, but not as they were now.

Lea looked… healthy. Bright. Her eyes were clear and alert, her face unmarred by the blue veins of the Petrification Disease. She carried herself so easily here that the agony she had been in became obvious in hindsight. A few paces in front of her, Romeo was whole and human, his carefree smile directed down at the boy he’d tucked under his (uninjured, flesh and blood, attached) arm. And that boy—

That boy, flushed and pouting but allowing the touch, was Carlo. The pout broke in an instant when Romeo tousled his hair, splitting into a laughing smile that shone brighter than the waning afternoon sun.

It was like the horses. Like the city. A corpse could only give a pale impression of what something was like when it was alive, and the mirror had never shown P anything like this sun-bright boy.

“You got a little on the rug,” Romeo teased Carlo. “Your aim wasn’t that good.”

Carlo elbowed Romeo hard enough to turn Romeo’s laugh into a wheeze. “All I had in my stomach was wine! It would have stained!”

Romeo retaliated with a kick to the back of Carlo’s knee, though he also caught Carlo around the waist when he stumbled. “Oh, you went back to check?”

“No,” Carlo said, visibly sulking. “But Antonia never would have let me hear the end of it.”

Trailing behind them, Lea shook her head, unmistakably fond. The group almost made it to the park gate before P realized that he should be following them.

He didn’t have much practice being subtle. The trio didn’t have any reason to be vigilant and the other pedestrians offered P some cover, but the crowds were already thinning as evening approached, and they only grew sparser as the group navigated onto smaller side roads. By the time they disappeared into a narrow doorway beside the entrance to a tailor’s shop, P was one of the only other people on the street.

A moment passed. The lights flickered on in the second floor windows. P exhaled, noted the address, and slipped into the alley beside the shop to wait.

He sank into a sitting position behind a metal waste bin, out of sight from the street. Voices drifted from an open window above him, indistinct but cheerful. He thought about a bloodstained locket with a photograph of three smiling faces.

My family. My everything.

He laid his palm over Romeo’s necklace, pressing it against his heart. It didn’t matter what he had to do. He would protect that family.

As he waited, he slipped into an almost-sleep, closing his eyes and letting most of his systems power down. He remained conscious enough to listen while conserving as much energy as he could. When he blinked back awake at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, the sun was low enough to cast an orange glow over the city. Cautiously, he peered over the wastebin, trusting the long evening shadows to keep him out of sight.

It was like an illustration from a storybook had walked off the page and onto the street. The embroidery on Lea's deep green dress shimmered as she moved. On either side of her were a sharply-dressed Carlo and Romeo, their shiny shoes clicking on the cobblestones as they helped Lea up into the carriage. Two sleek brown horses with white feet waited patiently under the supervision of the driver.

Romeo swept into an exaggerated bow to usher Carlo into the carriage. The immaculate tailoring of his tailcoat flattered his trim waist, and the smile that bloomed on his handsome face was all the more visible with the careful styling of his flaxen hair. P tugged uncertainly at the collar of his shirt, not sure why his clothes felt so stuffy all of a sudden.

The carriage doors closed. The driver urged the horses onward. With a sinking feeling, P realized that wherever it was going, he would have to follow it there.

It was easy enough to keep up in the city; traffic couldn't move very quickly on the narrow, pedestrian-filled streets, and enough people were on their way to attend some social function or another that P's presence was hardly conspicuous. It was when the carriage left the city that things got a little more difficult. After all, it was hardly subtle to run after a carriage in the middle of the open road.

In what turned out to be both a blessing and a curse, the road they took was lined with trees and undergrowth. P didn't think the driver or the carriage's occupants noticed anything amiss by the time they arrived at their destination, but he was also so distracted by the leaves in his mouth and the burrs on his coat that he couldn't say for sure.

It was an estate of some kind, one of those summer residences Venigni talked about having three of. Romeo and Carlo helped Lea out of the carriage, and the driver tipped his hat at them before directing his horses further onto the grounds. The butler puppet that met the trio at the door looked so much like Polendina that P flinched.

The butler welcomed them inside. P ducked into the decorative vegetation surrounding the grounds as he peered through the foyer windows; hopefully, the leaves combined with the night's encroaching darkness would keep him hidden from any wandering eyes. Movement from inside pulled his attention.

He swore his heart stopped when he saw the figure floating gracefully across the marble.

It was Polendina at the door. It had to be, because the woman who had come out to the foyer to greet Lea, Carlo, and Romeo was achingly familiar. She was younger, her movements uninhibited, her face unmarred and her eyes clear and bright. In this kinder time, the Petrification Disease that took her legs and sight had yet to touch her.

Antonia, P mouthed.

He couldn’t hear her through the window, but her smile was just as warm as he remembered. Antonia took Lea’s hands in her own, said something that made Romeo and Carlo laugh, and pressed a kiss to Lea’s slightly red cheek. Romeo leaned down to accept a similar greeting. And Carlo—

She cupped Carlo’s face, turning it this way and that. Whatever she said to him, it had Romeo and Lea covering their mouths with their hands as Carlo flushed red. She laughed and kissed both of his cheeks before releasing him.

P touched his mask. Antonia had held him like that, too, but only once. When her sight returned, she had beckoned him down so she could look at him; she’d held his face in both hands, the cool skin of her palms gentle against his cheeks, and her voice had cracked when she called him a handsome young man.

It hadn’t taken long for the scent of cherries to fade from the letter she left him. He’d kept taking it out anyway, pressing it against his face and breathing deep. With a pain so sharp he could have mistaken it for an injury, he wondered if this Antonia wore the same perfume.

Warm, wet pressure squeezed his eyes and stung his nose. He held his breath until the feeling passed.

The group moved towards the drawing room, and P moved with them, keeping to the long shadows cast by the estate's greenery. It kept him a fair distance from the building, but still close enough that he could watch the room's occupants, and certainly close enough to intervene in a timely manner if things got violent. Large, decorative windows like these were easy to break.

In the drawing room, a man and a woman who looked like a matching set were perched side-by-side on a sumptuous couch. A second woman sat closer to the door, the pearls in her hair swaying lazily as she fanned herself with her elegant lacework hand fan; a second man stood by one of Antonia's many paintings, wearing a frown that melted quickly into a smile when he saw the guests at the door.

P recognized none of them. Antonia trusted them enough to welcome them into her home, but that might not mean much at this point; she'd admitted to him that she had worked with the Alchemists for some time before realizing the extent of their crimes, but she had never told him when. Was this how Carlo died? Was this how Antonia learned of the Alchemists' true intentions?

Tense and uneasy, he darted his eyes from person to person, wondering what could hide behind those easy smiles and well-tailored clothes. All he truly knew about Carlo's death was that Lea wasn't there for it, so as long as she stayed close, he wouldn't need to intervene.

The night crept on, shifting the party from the drawing room to the dining room. P was relieved to note that Carlo was bracketed on either side by Antonia and Lea, who would certainly notice if anyone tampered with Carlo's food. With some of his anxieties eased, P was able to study the dinner itself — the courses coming and going, the abundance of wine, the leftover food the diners didn't hesitate to leave on their plates.

It was… strange. Even Venigni, who had lived so luxuriously before Krat's fall, hesitated to waste something as precious as a warm meal. The nights Antonia arranged a proper meal at the hotel had been celebratory things.

Watching the guests talk and laugh and drink, P felt hollow. Eugénie used take great big gulps whenever she drank the wine P had salvaged from the cellars of Lorenzini Arcade. She told P that she did it on purpose to upset Venigni's sensibilities. It's La Bleiweis, not cheap liquor! he'd splutter. You didn't even smell it first! Were you raised in a barn?!

Here, though, everyone took proper sips like proper socialites. The high society that P had only witnessed remnants of was alive and well, alien to no one but him.

He had to circle the building again when the partygoers moved from the dining room to the salon. The windows offered a wide, unimpeded view of the room, giving P a clear line of sight to the grand piano. His fingers twitched.

As if echoing P's desire to play, Carlo slid onto the bench. He shook out both his hands before lowering them to the keys, as if making sure his wrists were loose enough to play, and— P knew that motion. He’d seen it in his own hands, though he’d never known why he did it. Why it felt like part of the process just as much as curving his fingers and resting his feet flat.

Whatever song Carlo started to play, it was meant for dancing. Antonia settled on one of the room's couches to watch while the remainder of the guests swept each other up in a lively two-step. P's eyes followed the dancers' feet, the placements of their hands, the steps and turns and twirls, and with his arms around an imaginary partner, he mirrored their movements, first leading and then following.

The jaunty two-step gave way to a slower waltz. This, too, P watched and imitated, learning both sides of the dance step by step. Maybe he'd never have the occasion to use it, but some wistful part of him couldn't help but wonder what it was like to dance with someone.

Dance by dance, the guests whiled the night away. The moon was high by the time the party wound to a close, and P was halfway convinced that Carlo would be spending the night before he, Lea, and Romeo began to say their goodbyes and move towards the door.

The detritus beneath the trees was dry and noisy to walk on. P grimaced as he picked his way back to the front of the estate. He'd never seen this many loose sticks in his life, let alone stepped on this many. It was a wonder the trees still had anything left on them. He stopped beside one of the larger trunks at the treeline as the driver pulled the carriage around.

Carlo and Romeo were cheerful and carefree, laughing their way into the carriage, but Lea seemed distracted. After a brief conversation with the woman in black and white, she lingered, gaze searching the treeline as if aware that someone was watching her.

And for a moment, P swore her eyes met his. He froze.

The moment hung suspended between them, silent and tense. Surely it was too dark for her to see him? Surely…

But her stare was fixed and unwavering, and P felt very much like the little rabbit Sophia had called him. His heartbeat thundered a frantic drumbeat in his ears, drowning out the faint murmur of the night creatures around him. He couldn't help but remember Lea's terrifying skill and efficiency in that other time. He couldn't help but remember that the Lea of that time had been halfway blind and dying, and this Lea was at her full, unimpeded strength.

Then Carlo's voice sliced cheerfully through the tension, pulling Lea's attention away. It was only for a moment, but it was a long enough moment for P to duck away into the trees, heart still beating rabbit-fast in his chest.

Lea was with Carlo and Romeo. She would see them home safely. P knew where they were going, and it wouldn't be a problem if he got a head start.

In the days following the dinner party, P developed a routine. The routine was to follow Carlo’s routine, inasmuch as he had one.

Training started early — to Carlo’s despair, judging by his vocal complaints — and ended before the worst of the midday heat. After a few hours of rest, training would begin again and end before dinner in the evening. The things Carlo did in his off hours seemed driven entirely by his whims and often involved Romeo’s company, though thankfully not Lea’s; P had been wary of her watchful eyes since the night at Antonia's.

Carlo’s spontaneity led him, and therefore P, to what felt like every corner of Krat. A walk down Rosa Isabelle Street to a small, elegant luthier's workshop, where he purchased a set of cello strings. An hour spent talking to the owner of a clockmaker’s shop on the very outskirts of Elysion Boulevard. A trip to an ostentatious hattery in Lorenzini Arcade cut short by the aggravated owner, who ushered Carlo out after the fourth hat he tried to balance on Romeo’s head. Sometimes he wandered seemingly without any destination at all.

It was overwhelming. When Lea took her leave for an evening and Carlo stayed home with Romeo for the remainder of the night, it was a welcome relief. P slumped against the wall and closed his eyes.

How long would it take? When would he know Carlo was safe?

The days dragged on. With no source of Ergo and no access to a Stargazer, P could rely only on his nightly shutdowns to keep up his strength. Long days tailing Carlo combined with nights spent just awake enough to listen for threats meant that he was slowly but surely burning more power than he could regenerate, especially since Lea's routine had shifted after that single night's reprieve; she'd begun to rarely if ever leave Carlo alone, and dodging her attention was much more work than dodging Carlo's.

It didn’t matter. P would figure something out. He always had.

The next day was more of the same. Carlo complained about the early hour to a cheerful Romeo and an unsympathetic Lea, then spent the uncomfortably warm midday hours sprawled in the shade with his waterskin and a fan. Afternoon training passed quickly and without incident, and in the slanted orange light of evening, Lea dismissed Carlo and Romeo with a wave of her hand and told them she had errands to run.

About halfway back to the apartment, things suddenly became quite different. P ducked into an alleyway to avoid Carlo’s wandering gaze, and as he lingered out of sight, he heard a noise from above him.

He tensed. He didn’t have time to do anything else.

A weight crashed into his back and slammed his chest to the pavement. His right hand, just quick enough to catch him before his face hit the ground, was swept out from under him as his assailant wrenched his wrist behind him. With effortless momentum, his attacker kicked him onto his back, pinning his arm beneath his own weight and pressing a blade against his throat.

“Who are you?” a woman’s cold voice demanded.

He flexed his left arm and sparked Fulminis to life, but a booted heel slammed down on his wrist to keep it still. The blade pushed closer, a thin line of steel against his thundering pulse.

“Do you take me for a fool?” the woman snapped. “Who are you? Why are you following my apprentice? And what have you done to Sophia?”

The voice— he knew that voice. His eyes flickered upwards, first to the boot, then to the sword, and finally, to the woman’s bright, furious eyes.

Lea, he mouthed soundlessly.

With an impatient snarl, Lea grabbed the edge of the mask and wrenched it off P’s face. She made as if to toss it aside, but when her gaze met P’s, she froze with her hand still aloft, lips parted in shock. Several long, tense moments stretched between them, realization dawning on her face with every one that passed.

The mask dropped from her hand and clattered onto the cobblestones. Her sword trembled as she withdrew it, stumbling to her feet. “It’s you,” she whispered.

P’s heart sank at the lifetime’s worth of grief in her voice. It's you — not who are you, not Carlo, but it's you. He thought he had been sent back alone, but it hadn’t been his wish, had it? Not entirely.

“Lea,” he managed to say. It wasn’t quite a question, but her choked noise of grief was more than enough of an answer.

"It can't be you," she said desperately. "It was only a dream. None of that could possibly—" She clapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head. As he stood, her wild eyes darted up to meet his, alight with fury. "What did you do?"

He stared back at her, frozen. He still didn't know what had led him to Lea in the first place, let alone what pushed them back even farther. Had he done something?

But just as suddenly as her anger rose, it died. She dropped her shoulders, dragging a hand over her eyes and down her face. "No, of course it wasn't you," she muttered, more to herself than to P. "But how…"

"Ergo is time," he said, repeating what Sophia told him two lifetimes ago. "And it can move." All he could offer at Lea's sharp look was a helpless shake of his head. "I don't know. I didn't move it. The wish did."

"The wish," Lea echoed. "Whose?"

P tilted his head. "Yours?" he said, more of a question. "Maybe mine. I don't remember much."

"This makes no sense." Lea tugged at her hair as she paced. "This isn't— I'm not some widow in a fairy tale. You don't get to just start over when… when…"

"When you're too late," P said. He realized only after she flinched that it had been unkind.

Lea pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and took a breath. When she dropped her hands from her face, all the anguish and grief had vanished, stowed away behind a steely mask. "We shouldn't speak here," she said. "An associate of mine has a safehouse close by." She jerked her head towards the street. "Follow me."

Wordlessly, P followed.

Chapter Text

The walk was long and painfully quiet. Lea didn't have anything to say. Rather, she had too much to say, but a public street wasn't the place to have the impending conversation.

Alidoro's safehouse was located in the clock tower of a small college. He had befriended its keeper with that infuriatingly genuine charm of his and had been granted its use so long as he didn't attract too much attention. That was what he had told Lea—perhaps not in those words—when he'd extended his hospitality to her.

They ascended the spiral staircase in darkness. A few shafts of light shone weakly through the clock face's warped and yellowed glass but could not puncture the tower's gloom. There were no incandescent bulbs to illuminate the space, it being an older building on a modest campus. She wouldn't have used them anyway, since flicking on the lights would have been tantamount to announcing the safehouse's location.

When they reached the small room tucked away within the clock's mechanism, it looked the same as it had the first—and only—time Lea had ever used it. Two wooden chairs flanked a small table with an unlit oil lamp sitting atop it. A cabinet full of tools and weapons stood against the adjacent wall. On the other side of the room, a neatly bundled bedroll laid in a lump next to an open crate of canned foods. Not the most glamorous accommodations, but they would do in a pinch.

"Sit," Lea commanded and motioned toward one of the chairs. The boy obeyed without hesitation or complaint.

She searched through the cabinet's drawers for a match, then lit the lamp. It spluttered to life, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls. She took her own seat and finally looked at this strange figure with calm, clear eyes.

He sat stock-still with his back straight, knees together, and hands in his lap. His eyes darted around the space as though searching for exits or places where enemies could be hiding. Beyond the obvious similarities, the way he held himself reminded her of Carlo. Not as he was now, but as he had been when he'd first arrived at the Rose Estate. Scared, alone, unsure of himself and his surroundings.

Lea clenched her fists, then splayed her fingers across her knees. This was not her Carlo. They had fought together briefly in that bleaker time, but that did not mean she knew his true intentions. Or the intentions of his creator. He was still a puppet, after all. Her eyes may have been failing her, but she hadn't been entirely blind to how he had not bled but sparked when Arlecchino cut him down.

"So," she began. "What exactly are you?"

He stared at her boots for so long that she thought he might not answer. "Geppetto made me after Carlo died. He wanted his son back."

Lea clicked her tongue. "The only one later than I," she said bitterly. "Then at the Rose Garden, did he send you?"

He shook his head. "No, I—" The corners of his lips turned down into a small frown. "It's difficult to explain."

"I've just learned that I traveled through time with a wish. Try me."

"Well, it's that. Again. Or for the first time, I suppose. You called me to that time with your wish to save Romeo. Then, together, we wished ourselves further back." He paused before adding, "I think."

Lea massaged the bridge of her nose. None of this made sense. Magic wasn't real. It was something only found in stories. But how else could she explain any of this?

"If you came from a future farther than the one we just came from to save Romeo, does that mean he…" She trailed off, unable to finish that terrible thought out loud.

The boy's hand flew to his throat. Through his shirt's fabric, he traced the edges of a circular pendent. It could have been a cameo or an amulet, but somehow Lea knew it was neither. It was a Monad Charity House graduation necklace, Carlo's more specifically. Engraved and given to Romeo as a gift, she had never seen him without it.

A vice clamped around her heart. Not only had she failed Carlo, but Romeo too. Some mentor she was. Some Stalker, for that matter. All the times she'd been called legendary, yet she shouldn't protect two of the only people who actually mattered to her. She'd always hated that stupid title, but now it stung like salt water on an open wound.

She stood and turned away. The clock's pendulum swung back and forth above their heads. "Fuck," she muttered.

A thought occurred to Lea that she wasn't sure what to make of at first. The necklace had been precious to Romeo, a sign of his deep bond with Carlo. None of that should matter to a puppet, however much he resembled Carlo. Puppets weren't built to feel, though their programmed language could create the illusion of compassion and warmth.

Despite those intentions, Lea had seen another side to puppets. There were those who, for one reason or another, broke free of their assignments and acted of their own accord. Arlecchino's taste for violence was unique, but he was by no means the only puppet of his kind.

When she was young and naive, Lea had chalked these anomalies up to individual faults. Some error had occurred along the assembly line, but it was no more indicative of a fundamental flaw with the process than a misprinted silk panel. Now, she knew better. The day she resolved to leave the Monad family was the day she discovered the nature of Ergo.

The most obvious answer as to why this puppet acted and felt like Carlo was also the most ghoulish. Geppetto had implanted his own son's Ergo into a lookalike in an attempt to reclaim what he had lost, first through neglect, then the Alchemists. Somewhere along the line, however, his Ergo had clearly awoken. That would have made her smile, the idea of Carlo defying his father even in death, if she were not keenly aware of the danger awakened puppets posed. Even those who didn't want to hurt anyone could lash out in confusion.

She slid back into her seat. "How much do you remember?"

He blinked at her and cocked his head to the right. "What do you mean?"

"Before you..." she searched for the right words before settling on, "woke up in this body. Obviously, you've retained some knowledge. You knew where to find our apartment. But how much?"

She could have sworn he blushed, but it must have been a trick of the dim light. Puppets didn't have blood.

"That was an accident. I happened to see you in the park and followed." His Legion arm's knuckles clicked as he flexed his fingers. "I don't remember anything, but his Ergo does. I can feel it, sometimes, when things were important to him." His hand drifted back up to the necklace. "It causes...reactions."

"You said his. Are you not Carlo?"

He cast his eyes down and hesitated again. When he finally spoke, he only said, "No."

"Then I suppose I can't call you Carlo, though I will need some way to refer to you."

He recoiled as though kicked. "Please, don't. You can call me P."

"Is that what Geppetto called you?"

"In his notes, yes."

Lea inhaled sharply. In his notes implied he hadn't bothered to call him that—or anything, most likely—aloud. Leave it Geppetto to ignore one child, build a replacement, then neglect that one too. She'd like to have a word with the head of the Workshop Union. Privately.

"Is that the name you prefer?"

He shrugged. "It feels like it's mine."

"P it is." Lea managed a small, tight smile which P returned. "Alright, well, I suppose we should discuss what we're going to do now. Did you have a plan?"

P sat back in the chair. Tension seeped out of his limbs. The shift in conversation away from him and onto the task at hand seemed to relax and embolden him. Lea could relate. Having a tangible goal to accomplish comforted her. Plus, she never liked talking about herself either.

"My only plan was to protect Carlo," he explained. "In my future, his death was sort of the beginning of the end. I thought if I could prevent it, I could stop everything else too. But I don't know how or when he died, so…"

"So you followed him," she finished his thought. "Everywhere he went, every hour of the day. I understand."

P shrugged in an embarrassed admission. He'd planned to solve everything through sheer brute force, then. That too was reminiscent of Carlo. Never thinking farther ahead than the current moment, even when it would significant time and effort. It would be endearing if it weren't causing her gray hairs.

As for what he'd planned to stop… Lea worked her jaw. The bitter taste of failure bit at her tongue. It pained her to speak of, even now that Carlo was whole and well. It was only fair, though, that she share her own knowledge after asking so much of P only moments before.

"I know when he died. I wasn't," she faltered. "I wasn't there, so I couldn't tell you precisely what happened, but it was the Alchemists. They arranged some type of meeting with a few influential members of Krat society. I haven't the faintest clue why Carlo was invited, or why he chose to go, but it was too late for any of them by the time I arrived."

She stared up at the swinging pendulum. P wasn't Carlo, but he bore him enough resemblance that she couldn't stand to see pain or pity or anger on his face. He had every right to any of those sentiments as a fragment of Carlo's will. Lea couldn't begrudge him that. She did, however, selfishly wish to avoid the crushing weight of guilt that Carlo's—or P's—wide, melancholic eyes could inflict.

"The Devil's Pit," he said softly. "I saw the invitation, but it didn't have a date."

Lea laughed without humor. "It seems time, at least, is on our side. We've almost a year. It would have been exact if we'd had this conversation five days ago."

He paused, then made a small sound of recognition. "The day we traveled back to."

Lea nodded.

P's chair scraped against the floor with a bone-rattling screech as he shot up. Lea looked at him now, out of instinct more than anything else. Instead of pity or resentment, his crystalline eyes glittered with hope.

"Then, we're meant to save them! Carlo, Romeo, Antonia, Sophia, even you. We can save everyone." His voice quivered but never broke, a testament to his conviction. "We just have to stop the Alchemists."

Each name was like a knife to the gut. Everyone she'd ever loved was dead and buried in P's future from the sound of it. Not knowing how almost made it worse. Had Antonia withered away from the same disease that had killed Carlo and ravaged Lea's body. Or had the Alchemists deemed her a nuisance and dumped her body in a trash heap outside of town? And what of her sister? Her blood boiled at the thought of Simon fucking Manus with his hands on Sophia.

Whatever had happened or, she supposed, was going to happen would not come to pass if Lea had any say in the matter. Carlo and Romeo deserved to grow up together, to make each other laugh and exasperate her. Sophia deserved more than her father and mother ever gave her. And P… Lea resolved not only to protect him, but care for him. This simulacrum of her dear apprentice had already shown more humanity than any Alchemist, and she would fight and die for him to simply exist in a Krat much more alive than the grim picture he painted.

"That won't be easy," she said as she rose. His expression dimmed ever so slightly but shone again as she grasped his shoulders. "But together, we're mad enough to bring those bastards down. Now, we need an actual plan."

She searched the small room but found nothing to write on or with. Instead, she opted for a random assortment of cans, tools, and loose screws which she deposited on the table. If P were anything like Carlo, a visual representation would keep him focused better than talking alone.

"This," she said, stacking cans of tomato soup, "is the Isle of the Alchemists. Impenetrable and hidden, even I don't know where it is."

"I do," P chimed in. "I've been there."

Lea opened her mouth, then closed it again. "Alright, that's one problem solved. How did you get there?"

He shrugged. "Submarine. Venigni told me how to use it. It's docked in the Relic below the hotel."

A thousand questions danced on her tongue, but none that were relevant at the moment.

"Regardless, we can't go straight there. The Alchemists are too powerful, and we're only two people." She held up two small screws and placed them in the corner opposite the can tower. "Not to mention that we don't know anything about what they're currently doing, only what they will do. So, I propose—" A can of pea soup slammed down on the table between the two corners. "—we hit a smaller target first. The Zelator facility. It's their main hub in the city, so whatever we find there will be indicative of their latest developments."

P leaned over the table, expression entirely unreadable. For a moment, he reminded her not of Carlo, but Romeo. "They might have the arm too."

Lea furrowed her brow. "What arm?"

"The Arm of God? It's the relic they use in their experiments, or some of them. I don't know if it's there. It might already be at the Rose Estate. Either way, we need to get it away from them." He spoke in a flat, even tone, as though he hadn't delivered world-shattering information.

She didn't know what the Arm of God was, but the thought of it being housed near children soured her stomach. Anything the Alchemists coveted and studied was sure to be unpredictable and dangerous, and the Order weren't exactly known for minimizing collateral damage. Lord Valentinus's talk of helping Krat's orphans had already lost most of its luster, but now it all rang grotesquely hollow.

"That will be our priority," she said stiffly. "If we find the thing itself, we take it. Otherwise, we'll search for any word of its whereabouts and go from there. Now, our other problems are Manus and his right-hand woman, as well as Lumacchio." A pair of pliers and a screwdriver joined the pea soup. "Their presence would compromise the endeavor, so we'll need to wait for them to be elsewhere." She moved the tools to the stack instead.

P raised an eyebrow. "How will we know whether they're there or not?"

"You said you'd been to the Isle and that you left from beneath the hotel, yes? Could you find your way to those tunnels from the outside?"

He thought for a moment, then nodded.

"Excellent. I can't spend a month staking out their dock to learn their routines, but I have a friend with a vested interest in bringing the Alchemists to justice who might be able to. In the meantime, I want you to sketch what you remember of Zelator's floor plan. We'll need to determine which areas to investigate and how to get there once inside."

P nodded again, but his attention was not entirely on the discussion. His fingers worked at a loose thread on his worn jacket, and his eyes kept drifting between her and the table.

"Do you have anything to add?" she asked.

"Oh, well, I was wondering if you knew where I could get a weapon. I'll probably need one if we're fighting Alchemists."

Lea nearly laughed at the absurdity inherent in that statement. He'd been following Carlo for days with the express purpose of protecting him from some nebulous harm, and yet he hadn't thought to acquire a weapon. Not to mention his noncommittal use of probably. Fighting Alchemists would only probably require being armed. She couldn't decide if it was self-assured confidence in his ability or good old cockiness, though the way he'd fought in the Rose Garden gave credence to the former.

"Hold on," she said as she returned to the cabinet. "What's your preference?"

When she didn't receive an answer, she turned around to see P staring at her in shocked horror.

"Alidoro won't mind donating to a good cause, P. We're all on the same side. Plus, I'm sure he owes me for something."

He hemmed and hawed for a moment more before relenting. "Something quick and light, but not too light."

Scanning the scant selection, Lea landed on a falchion. Its curved blade had a bronzy luster which complimented the two deep blue gems inlaid on either side of the pommel. Sloping lines across the handle gave the impression of a bird in flight grasping the jewels in its talons.

"How's this?" She presented it to him handle first.

He took it from her and swung it a few times first in wide arcs, then quick slashes. It must have pleased him because he shrugged and said simply, "It's fine."

"Good. One final order of business, you've spoken to my sister, yes?"

He slid the blade through an empty belt loop. "Yes, I appeared in the Rose Garden and she happened to be there. She gave me the mask and offered to let me stay at the Estate."

"I want you to take her up on that offer and get some rest. You've been tailing Carlo for days now, so I doubt you've gotten much, if any."

Lea had no idea if puppets strictly needed rest, but P seemed human enough that he would benefit from it. Rest wasn't only for the body, after all, but also the mind. That held true for her too. This conversation had exhausted her. She needed time to think and grieve in solitude.

"I presume we'll have about a month to learn the Alchemists' routines and plan our assault," she continued. "As I said, I want you to focus on drawing out as much of the facility as you can remember. I'll contact you when I'm able to meet again."

"What about Carlo?"

"He's safe when he's with me, I promise you that. But I can't be with him all the time." She rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed. "If you are careful, then I would appreciate you continuing to keep an eye on him and Romeo."

He brightened and flashed her a dimpled smile. Lea set about cleaning up the space, returning the pieces of her makeshift diagram to their rightful places. When she finished, she wiped her dusty hands on her pants, then placed one on P's shoulder.

"Oh, and if you're returning to the Estate, could you tell Sophia I wish to speak with her?"

He agreed, then bounded down the stairs like she'd just released him for afternoon recess.

Alone, Lea returned to her chair and watched the lantern's flame dance. It was near the end of its oil supply which caused the fire to flicker and dim intermittently. Distantly, she thought that she would need to bring some oil with her next time, both so they could continue using this and so Alidoro wouldn't be left without light next time he sought refuge here.

Lantern oil was far from the front of her mind, however. She ran through the conversation again. Much of it was terribly hard to believe, and she wouldn't have had she not lived it herself. Time travel, puppet doppelgangers, and this mysterious Arm of God… Lea scarcely knew what to make of it all. She preferred problems she could solve with a blade and her own two hands, not magic and fairy stories.

Beyond all that, one thought kept clawing its way to the surface. She had truly failed her apprentices. That horrid, bleak world where Carlo had laid dead beneath the city and Romeo's mangled body had decorated the Rose Estate had been real, no matter how much she had tried to delude herself. She couldn't protect them. She couldn't protect anyone, according to what P had said.

The light sputtered a final, desperate gasp, then plunged the room into darkness. Moonlight fared even worse than the sun in breaking through the clock's clouded glass, only providing enough to cast the space in a ghostly gray pallor.

The cramped chamber became a sepulcher, the air suddenly cool yet stifling. A chill shot up Lea's spine. Though similar to the sensation she'd felt for days, this was vastly different. Before, she'd somehow known that there wasn't any real danger. But here, the shadows threatened to choke her.

Each click of the clock's massive gears sent ripples of unease through her. As she sat, frozen and listening, the rhythmic, tinny sound became not gears, but drips. Hot, wet blood sliding down slickened skin and pooling on the floorboards. She dared not turn around because, if she did, she knew the macabre spectacle of Romeo's arms would be dangling from the ceiling.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and yet she heard too the whispers echoing from the void. They called her name, at first. A chorus of her loved ones. Carlo, Romeo, Sophia, those lost to the horror of the other world.

Lea, Lea, Lea

Past the slowly growing pool, in a darker still corner of the room, a ghastly specter rose to its feet. It shambled toward her, arms outstretched for an embrace.

Join us, Lea. Lay your head down to rest and join us in the ground where you belong.

She knew without looking that it was Carlo. Not as he was in life, but in death. Clammy and bloated, oozing with same bluish-gray ichor as the unfortunate souls in the Zelator facility. He inched closer. Her every instinct told her to run, but she couldn't move, couldn't speak, could only wait.

The apparition stopped behind her, and she swore she could feel his breath on the crown of her head. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, his hand, deathly cold and poisonous, drifted toward her right cheek.

The moment it would have touched her, she exploded into action. She swung around, unsheathing her sword in one smooth motion, and sliced through nothing but air. The room was empty. No corpses, no blood, nothing out of the ordinary at all.

A few pigeons fluttered in the rafters as she fled from that place. She ran all the way across town, lungs burning and heart threatening to burst from her chest. As she approached the tailor's shop, she slowed.

The lights were off in their apartment which, she admitted, was normal for this time of night. Yet still, it brought her no comfort. She had to see Romeo and Carlo alive.

She climbed the stairs quietly. Her hand rested on the hilt of the Rose Sword until she reached the top. The door was locked, which was a good sign, she told herself. She retrieved her key from its chain around her neck, then slipped quietly into the apartment. Pushing the door closed, she clicked the handle lock and the deadbolt into place with a satisfied grunt.

Inside, the house was silent, save for the distant sounds of the city floating through the open windows. Gauzy curtains, limp in the absence of a breeze, did little to dampen the noise—though they were far enough away that it hardly ever kept them awake—nor the light. Both the silvery hues of the moon and the golden glow of the streetlamps kept the space bright, even late into the night.

She padded towards the boys' bedroom door, then cracked it the smallest bit she could manage while still being able to peer through. Though they had their curtains drawn, slivers of light sneaked in to paint the room a dusky gray. Romeo slept on his back, one arm slung around Carlo who laid sprawled across Romeo's chest. Their chest and back rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and Lea found her own breathing returning to the same, slow tempo.

The proof of their well-being calmed her, though she longed to hold them close and feel their heartbeats for herself. Carlo mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep and rolled over. Lea took that as her cue and silently shut the door.

Tomorrow, the real work would begin. Tonight, she needed rest.

"Carlo, stop flailing. Elbows in!" Lea shouted over the clanging of metal. "Romeo, watch your legs! They're a big enough target without you overextending."

Romeo swept his scythe in a wide arc as he stepped back. Carlo was undeterred. Spinning against the momentum of the blade, he dodged the blow and brought his sword down at Romeo's chest. The scythe's length worked to Romeo's advantage, however, as he caught the attack with its shaft, then twisted to counter Carlo's other saber as it flashed up from the left.

Their weapons screeched in protest as they remained locked in a stalemate. Suddenly, Carlo released his pressure, and Romeo stumbled forward, thrown off balance by the abrupt absence of a counterforce. That small misstep was enough to turn the tide. Carlo surged forward again, shoving Romeo back and crossing his blades over his throat.

Lea huffed. "Match to Carlo. Although you still need to work on your form."

A gust rippled through the tall grass. They were outside of town today, at the foot of the slope beneath St. Frangelico. Full steel sparring was far too disruptive and dangerous to be held in their usual spot, but Lea did not have access to the Estate's training grounds anymore. They made do in this field, though she would have preferred somewhere even more private. She spent most of their sessions trying not to glance back at the ridge where townsfolk gathered, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Legendary Stalker in action.

Carlo grimaced and sheathed his sabers. "I don't understand why I need perfect form if I'm already winning fights. Why does it matter?"

"If all you want is to scrape by in a street brawl, then you should have joined the Black Rabbit Brotherhood. Since you asked—no, begged—me to teach you, you will learn to be an expert swordsman, not a child with a sharp stick."

She drew the Rose Sword slowly, deliberately. Its polished steel gleamed in the morning sun. The weight of it sat so comfortably in her hand that it almost felt like nothing at all. It was, in the truest sense, an extension of herself. When it wasn't at her hip or in her hand, she felt as though she'd gone outside in just her chemise and corset.

"It's about control," she as she she pressed the hilt to her breast in the Stalker's salute. "And efficiency."

Her sword lashed out, slicing through some wildflowers as they swayed toward her. The blooms toppled from their stems onto the waiting blade, which she held straight and steady beneath them. With a flick, they volleyed into the air, only to be cleaved in half midair. Their pastel remains showered the surrounding grass.

She was, perhaps, showing off, but the fluidity of her movements was a precious gift after the ravages of the Petrification Disease. It had restricted her muscles and dimmed her sight to the point where breathing alone had been an agonizing challenge, let alone spectacles of this sort. Painkillers and desperation had been the only things pushing her forward toward Arlecchino.

"Awareness of your body, including your weapon, is the most vital skill you bring to any engagement. Not only will your strikes be more accurate, you'll expend less effort in the process. While your opponents are wasting their breath on unnecessary movements, you're saving yours and waiting for an opening. Do you understand the importance of proper form now?"

Carlo and Romeo nodded vigorously.

"Good, now—"

"Still as intense as ever, I see," Sophia called from halfway up the hill.

Dressed in lavender silk and crisp white lace, she picked her way down the overgrown slope as carefully as she could with a parasol in one hand and oversized wicker basket in the other. Romeo—ever the gentleman—surged past Lea to scoop up Sophia's cargo and offer her an arm, which she gratefully accepted. Soon after, she alighted next to Lea with the grace of a nymph stepping down from her cloud.

"She used to be like this when we were girls, too," she told Romeo and Carlo. "You'd have thought our dolls were a regiment the way she spoke to them."

All three of them cracked smiles as Lea pursed her lips. "I'm not about to be teased by the woman who once cried because she imagined the rose bushes were cold during the winter."

Sophia chuckled. "It's good to see you, sister."

Lea scooped her up into a tight hug and twirled her around in a circle. Sophia squawked in surprise, an inelegant sound that brought a smile to Lea's face. It was rare to see cracks in her facade, especially outside of the house, but Lea liked to remind her that Sophia was much more than the expectations placed upon her. She could have a bit of fun every now and then like other women her age.

"It's good to see you too," Lea murmured into Sophia's shoulder. "It's been far too long. How did you find us out here? I thought you would call at the apartment."

Sophia glanced up at the small crowd of spectators. "You aren't a difficult woman to find, you know."

"Touché. Hey!" she snapped at Romeo, who was sneaking a peek at the contents of the picnic basket. He slammed the top closed in a jolt, and Carlo snickered. "There's still plenty of time before luncheon. Lunges, all the way to the fence and back, then run through your stances."

The promise of a picnic courtesy of the Rose Estate kitchens must have put them in a good mood because they didn't grumble before setting off.

"I'm sorry, I should have asked first," Sophia said, casting her eyes down.

"Nonsense," Lea replied sharply. "You're always welcome. I would have stayed closer to the city if I'd known you were coming today."

She waved a hand. "Oh, please, it's nice to get out of the house and the city for once. Usually, I'm just trading one for the other. It might also be prudent to have some…privacy for this discussion."

Lea waited until she was certain the boys were out of earshot. "What do you make of him?"

"I don't know," Sophia said haltingly. "At first, I thought he was Carlo causing mischief in the garden. Looking into his eyes, however, I saw a vast wellspring of sorrow like—like—"

"Like he'd never known kindness or joy," Lea offered.

Sophia nodded. "He's not Carlo—at least not the Carlo I know—but I feel drawn to him in a way I can't explain, really. It's as though we've met in a dream or another life. I know you think me too trusting, but I feel safer when he's near."

For once, Lea had no clever retort to Sophia's mystical musings. How could she deny some unspoken bond across time and space when she'd wished herself here? It would be hypocritical, even if Sophia didn't know the truth. Though, she still didn't like the idea of Sophia readily approaching any strange character who appeared in the garden.

"Have you told your parents about him?"

Sophia scowled. "God, no. Father would whisk him away to that wretched Isle before I could do anything about it. And Mother tells Father everything. Unless you've told anyone, we're the only two who know."

A small bead of tension seeped out of Lea. Sending P back to the Charity House had really been her only option at the time, but possibly subjecting him to the scrutiny of Lord Valentinus had worried her. Sophia would look out for him, she knew, but if push came to shove, Valentinus would get what he wanted like always.

"Sophia," Lea said after a beat. "You don't have to stay at the Estate. As I said, you are always welcome with me. Or, if you don't want to live with them—" she hiked a thumb at Romeo and Carlo further down the hill "—then I'm sure Antonia would take you in."

"I can't leave, Lea. I have a responsibility to the children." She sighed. "Mother would never hear of it anyway, not unless I were married."

Lea scoffed. "She's not on about that again, is she?"

"No, not recently." Not since you left was unsaid but felt. As the eldest daughter, even adopted as she was, she had been expected to marry first. It had remained contentious up until Lea had cut ties with the family. Perhaps with her gone, Lady Isabelle was reticent to force the matter again with her far more marriageable daughter.

"Where is all this coming from?" Sophia continued. "You aren't planning something foolish, are you?"

Perceptive as ever, she cut straight to the heart of the issue.

"I'll do what I must to protect the people of Krat, including your charges and mine."

"I see," she said primly. "Does this plan of yours include our guest?"

Lea sighed and rubbed her temple. "Yes, it does. I dare say he's even more eager than I. He'd do it without me, and I— I feel responsible for him."

Sophia's expression softened. She took Lea's hands in hers and squeezed. "I know you'll take care of him. I just want you to look out for yourself too. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Die, the ghosts haunting the back of Lea's mind whispered. Or worse. Who knows what P refuses to tell you to spare your feelings?

Lea shook those wretched thoughts away. That wasn't going to happen, not again. Not ever again.

"Promise me you'll do the same," she said, a note of desperation coloring her voice. "Promise me that if it comes to it, you'll get yourself and the children out of harm's way."

"I promise I'll try, but I'm not as strong as you."

"Nonsense," Lea repeated. "You're the strongest woman I know."

Sophia smiled bashfully and turned back to Carlo and Romeo trudging back up the hill. They watched them in companionable silence for a few moments.

"I don't have another way to contact P," Lea continued. "So I'll call you to pass along the message."

Sophia hummed. "Yes, that's alright. I assume you haven't told your apprentices either. Shall I invite them to the Estate some day soon? The children do love when they visit."

Lea stared at her sister. Beneath the placid veneer of gentility, Sophia had surprisingly sharp edges. Her skills did not lie in combat, but she could wield a social engagement like a finely honed blade.

"That sounds amenable, yes. Thank you."

"That's what sisters are for," she preened.

Romeo arrived back at their makeshift training ground first by a single stride, meaning he had purposefully kept his pace slow. The boys ran through stances several times with Lea correcting posture and placement when they drifted away from the proper lines. When she mercifully released them for luncheon, they collapsed onto the red and white striped blanket Sophia had laid out in an area with shorter grass.

Lea sat down next to them while Sophia unpacked biscuits, sandwiches, fruit, and an entire strawberry cake. The townsfolk still observed from the top of the hill, as though watching her party eat was equally as wonderful as watching them train. She had half a mind to shoo them away, in case anyone up there was more than just an ordinary villager. It would do more harm than good, she decided, if the wrong people got wind of her acting paranoid.

The meal passed with amiable chatter. Carlo and Romeo discussed their training and the latest news from the city. Sophia subtly planted the idea of visiting the Charity House sometime soon. Once their plates had been polished off, Sophia gathered up her basket again and headed off.

Lea watched her go, a faint pang of guilt echoing in her heart. When was the last time she saw her sister in the other time? She couldn't remember. Even before Carlo's death, Lea hadn't seen her often. It had seemed her family would always be there, for better or worse, so making time for Sophia hadn't been a priority amongst all her other preoccupations.

How wrong she had been. Something horrible had happened to her, to the whole Estate, and Lea had had no idea until it was far too late. If she had been a better sister, would she have seen the signs? Could she have stopped it all before it happened? She didn't know, but she had to try.

She would be a better sister, a better mentor, just better. Everyone's lives depended on it.

Chapter Text

A troublingly peaceful week went by before Lea arranged another meeting at the clock tower.

P was almost devastatingly relieved to have something tangible to do again. Once the maps were done, he'd been suspended in a restless state of inactivity, unable to go far in case Lea asked for him but unable to do much of anything within the walls of the estate. Lea occasionally recruited P to keep an eye on Carlo and Romeo, which helped, but…

Watching Carlo and Romeo together was reassuring, yes, but it was also unsettling. There was an easy physicality to them, a comfort with each other that almost made it seem like they were the ones sharing a soul between two bodies instead of P and Carlo; every touch P witnessed ached like a memory against his skin, like the sting of winter after he'd known the warmth of a jacket. All had to hold onto was the necklace, its edges digging into his palm while Romeo traced the lines on Carlo's.

Somehow, it was still easier to swallow than the queasy anxiety that followed him through the halls of the Charity House. The room Sophia let him use was usually fine, especially after he'd dusted all the surfaces and arranged some of his treasures on the windowsill, but the first time he saw the children in their little Monad uniforms—

(an upturned shoe in a red puddle, a doll's coat with ropy guts unraveled)

—he'd never felt his heart beat so quickly, so fearfully, at something that wasn't trying to kill him. The smiling portraits on the walls were suddenly looming specters in his periphery, creeping up and over him like a reaching hand. For the rest of the day, he'd been uneasy; the shadows at the Rose Estate seemed longer than before.

(Later that evening, Sophia pulled him aside to ask if he had time to sit with her. She had, much to P's shock and delight, bothered to salvage the old fur coat from that unhappier time; after presenting it to him, she'd sat him down to teach him how to sew. The left sleeve was "functional," as she diplomatically described it, but it would last longer if he hemmed it properly. The haphazard tear he'd put it in to allow the use of his Legion arm was already fraying.

Each evening after, Sophia made time for another project. One night, they removed the Stalker coat's left arm; another, they let down the bottom hem of his borrowed pants. Listening to Sophia's quiet, affectionate stories about the children in her care settled something in P. The Rose Estate never quite felt safe, but with Sophia's voice in its halls, it at least felt less like a tomb.)

When the day of the meeting finally arrived, P arrived at the clock tower an hour early, anxious to be punctual and unable to think of anything else all afternoon. Just the act of crossing the city to get to the tower had settled some of the uneasiness from being idle for so long.

The small room inside the mechanism was unchanged from his last visit. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the yellowed glass of the old clock face, casting the room in a faint glow and throwing the pendulum's swinging shadow onto the wall. The unlit oil lamp stood on the table.

Careful not to disturb anything, P set down the floor plans he'd drawn beside the lamp, placed the pen Sophia lent him atop the folded sheets, and settled against the wall opposite the clock face to count the swings of the pendulum as he waited.

After several silent minutes, a few gray birds like the ones he'd seen on the streets fluttered down from the rafters. There was an almost expectant look about them, a hungry glint in their beady eyes. As they cocked their tiny heads at him, P remembered that people had been feeding them at the park; maybe they were hoping P would feed them, too.

"Sorry," he said to the closest one. Almost as if it could understand him, it flitted back up to the rafters, followed quickly by its companions. Wistfully, P watched them go, eyes following their silhouettes into the gloom. He wondered what it was they were hoping he'd brought them to eat.

He was still watching them when light footsteps on the creaky staircase pulled his attention to the door. Moments later, it opened, and Lea stopped with her hand still on the knob to blink at P.

"You're early," she said as she pulled the door shut behind her. Not sure how to reply, P just nodded, standing up to make his way to chair he'd sat in before. He stuttered to a halt when Lea slid into it instead. She offered no explanation, not even a look, as she sorted through her bag to pull out a bottle of lantern oil.

Somewhat off-balance but ultimately unbothered, he sat opposite her with his back to the door. He watched the oil rise in the lamp as she carefully poured it in.

"Those are the floor plans, I presume?" Lea broke the silence after a moment, gesturing at the papers with her head as she withdrew the bottle. At P's nod, she slid the lantern aside to give him room to unfold them.

"I didn't see every room," P said as he smoothed the creases out of the topmost page. "But I drew as much as I could."

Across from him, Lea was silent. She stared at the paper with slightly parted lips, eyebrows furrowed in an expression P couldn't identify; suddenly self-conscious, he plucked at one of the corners.

"I can guess," he tried to assure her. "If you need me to."

"No, that's— this is fine," Lea said with a tiny shake of her head. "You just… have a remarkable eye for detail."

P glanced down at the sketch. The paper Sophia had given him was only big enough to fit a floor or two per page. This one was the entry level, its wide rooms and hallways cut through by catwalks and snaking lines of coolant pipes.

"This is the entrance under the hotel, then?" Lea tapped the pen on the gate in front of the square labeled HK Lift.

"Yes."

"What does this mean?" Lea asked, indicating the jumble of lines below it alongside a single letter i.

"I don't know," P said. "It's just what was on the sign." At Lea's stare, he clarified, "It was broken. That's what the letters looked like."

"I… see." She squinted at it a moment longer before shaking her head again. "My memory of Zelator isn't all that clear, so let's start from there."

Room by room, they went through what P remembered of the layout — not just the corridors and rooms, but the labyrinthine maintenance hallways and whichever pipes were big enough for a person to fit through. As they did, Lea marked locations of interest with stars or circles. By the end of it, the table was covered corner to corner by sheets of paper, P's neat lines contrasted against Lea's sharp, efficient shorthand, along with a few metal scraps Lea retrieved to keep the papers flat.

"Alright," Lea said finally. "We'll reevaluate if necessary once we get inside, but our main targets should be the warden's office" — she set a screw atop an office by one of the lifts — "the lower laboratory" — one near the coolant control room — "and the elixir research zone." She used a can for this one, setting it atop that entire floor, and rapped a knuckle on its lid. "If the arm is there, this is where they'll be keeping it."

P nodded, eyes tracing potential routes between the places she'd flagged. "How do we get inside?"

"If we enter from the hotel lift, the Monad master key will get us into the facility itself." Lea tapped the pen against the page labeled Floor 1. "Lower-level Alchemists aren't likely to question our presence on the upper floors if we act like we have the authority to be there, but that won't work when we hit the security area."

"Do we fight?" P asked.

Lea pursed her lips and shook her head. "It's too risky," she said, though reluctantly. "Zelator as we saw it was not Zelator at its most dangerous. The infighting consumed many of their resources, not to mention Véronique." She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "We won't know how outnumbered we are until we're already inside."

Zelator as P saw it had been plenty dangerous already, but it had been a chaotic, disorganized kind of dangerous. Carcasses weren't strategic types, and the few remaining Alchemists had seemed either uninterested in or incapable of regaining control of the situation. A more coordinated Zelator had the potential to be a much greater threat.

"We could sneak in," P suggested. At the skeptical look Lea gave him in response, he glanced away, cheeks faintly warm. She hadn't been impressed with his performance when he was tailing Carlo.

"The coolant system," Lea said after a moment of thought. "All else aside, that part of Véronique's plan worked. It turned Zelator into a death trap." She drew another circle around the coolant control room. "She disabled the intercoms beforehand to prevent an effective evacuation, but we just need to give ourselves room to investigate. An evacuation would actually work in our favor."

"I can operate the controls," P offered. "I figured them out when I had to turn it off."

Lea gave him another one of those inscrutable looks. "Would you be able to replicate whatever Véronique did?" she asked after a moment.

P blinked, tilting his head in thought. Véronique hadn't done anything complicated; she'd just cranked the coolant system up past survivable human levels and killed anyone who walked in to turn it off again. That wouldn't work on its own for his and Lea's purposes. But if he tampered with the console…

He clicked the fingers on his Legion arm. A precise enough application of electricity to the control panel's inner workings would damage their responsiveness without shutting down the system itself. The emergency shutoff lever would be similarly easy to sabotage.

"Yes," he said finally.

Lea nodded. "Then we can use that to trigger an evacuation." Her knee bounced with restless energy. "Once most of the facility has cleared out, we'll see what we can find."

P watched the movement of her leg, feeling a frown tug at his lips. "You'll freeze." P had felt like he was freezing in Zelator, and his body was far less susceptible to the cold than a human's.

"They have engineers and scientists that have to work in the colder temperatures. This is a locker room, you said?" Lea circled one of the rooms on the entry floor. "I'd put money on finding an exposure suit or two that we can borrow."

P brightened. "And we'll look like engineers, not trespassers."

"At first glance." Lea stood with her palms on the table. "It won't stand up to scrutiny and we'll need to move fast, but with any luck, it'll get us to the coolant chamber." She set her jaw. "And that's all we need to do. We can take care of any stragglers or engineers trying to perform repairs."

"So we are sneaking in," P said, a little petulantly.

Lea's stoic expression cracked somewhat. "By hiding in plain sight," she said. "Not by doing whatever it was you were doing."

There was that strange warmth in his cheeks again. "Carlo never noticed."

Lea huffed out a short laugh. "That says more about him than it does about you."

P stared at the table, feeling strangely wrong-footed. He pressed the cold metal fingers of his left hand against the hot skin of his cheek.

"It's not my area of expertise, either, but I'll teach you a few tricks when we have the time," Lea said in a gentler voice. "If that's something you would want."

That was strange too, though in a different, much warmer way. Her dissatisfaction with his capabilities didn't seem to be affecting how she saw him, and she was offering to teach him as soon as the price of failure wasn't steep enough to hurt him. Rarely had he been afforded that kind of leniency when he was learning. His Krat had been a thorough teacher, but it had never been kind.

"Alright," he mouthed more than said, his voice a whisper in this throat.

Lea's expression flickered with an emotion P couldn't name before she corralled it into a tight smile. "Then we have a plan," she said. "We'll steal a pair of exposure suits, make our way to the coolant controls, and trigger an evacuation. Once the facility's clear, we'll investigate." She gathered the papers and tapped them into a pile. "Do you have anything to add? Any questions you need to ask?"

P thought for a moment. He didn't have anything about Zelator, but… "What do the gray birds eat?"

Lea blinked at him, openly baffled. He cast his gaze up to where he could still see their plump shadows in the rafters, and she followed it, her eyebrows shooting up in realization.

"The pigeons?" she asked incredulously.

"Pigeons," he echoed, pleased to have a name for them. "Yes. What do the pigeons eat?"

There was another one of those inscrutable expressions on Lea's face, her lips parted and her brow furrowed. "Anything," she said after a long, long moment. "They eat anything."

"Not anything," P said, a small frown tugging on his lips. "Not carrion." If they'd been carrion-eaters like the crows, he would have seen them before.

Lea's jaw tightened, the line between her brows deepening even further. "No, I suppose not." She glanced back up at the birds. "Seeds," she suggested. "Bread, if you tear it into small enough pieces. But," she said, lifting a finger as P brightened, "you are not to feed them inside the safehouse. Understand?"

"Outside's fine?" P clarified.

"Outside is fine," Lea said. "In the park, perhaps."

P nodded, satisfied.

"In any case," Lea continued as she returned the scraps to the cabinet, "my colleague has been monitoring the harbor. Manus and Lumacchio recently returned from a trip to the Isle." She rolled the floor plans up into a tight scroll and tucked the end of it into the oil lamp. "With any luck, they'll have business to attend to before the month is up. Once we've received word that they've gone…"

The fire lapped at the roll of papers, hesitantly at first and then with a voracious hunger. Lea lifted the bundle from the glass and held it as it burned.

"…we'll have our chance," she finished. She released the paper with an elegant flick of her fingers as the fire consumed the last of it, barely a smudge of ash left on her skin.

Two lifetimes ago, Eugénie introduced P to the concept of "tempting fate."

He didn't remember exactly what he'd said to her, but whatever it was, she had gasped and rapped her knuckles against her wooden workbench. Don't say things like that, she'd scolded him. You're just tempting fate.

His confusion had been visible enough that she stopped to explain it to him. Fate, she alleged, did not take kindly to overconfidence in one's impending success; when such a thing was said by mistake, one must touch wood to ward off any misfortune that might result. It hadn't made any sense to P back then, so he'd simply nodded and filed it away with all the other human idiosyncrasies he didn't understand.

Standing in front of the locked door to the coolant control room, he wondered if Eugénie was onto something.

This is going well, he remembered thinking in the locker room, when they'd found two exposure suits close enough to their sizes to fit. This is simple, he remembered thinking as they navigated the facility unbothered by the Alchemists on duty. We're going to be fine, he'd thought just as Lea put the key into the door to the control room and tried to turn it. And tried. And tried.

"The master key isn't working," Lea hissed.

It really was a shame, P thought faintly. Even if it had occurred to him to touch wood when he'd had those thoughts, there wasn't anything wooden in Zelator to touch.

"I could break the door," P offered.

Lea turned her head sharply. "Keep your voice down. And no. I just… need a moment to think."

With the key still in the lock and still very much unturned, Lea took a step back from the door to eye it up and down. P followed suit. No solutions were forthcoming.

"I'll try again," Lea said finally. She grasped the key again, shifting and wiggling it around in the lock as if hoping it would catch with a little adjustment. It did not turn. The tension in her shoulders was becoming visible, and it made P tense, too.

"Hey!" a voice called from down the hall, making both of them jerk in surprise.

"Shit," Lea bit out quietly, wrenching the key from the door and whipping around. A single wary hand rested on the bag with the Rose Sword in it, though the blade remained sheathed for now. Trusting her judgment, P turned to face the newcomer without visibly arming himself.

An Alchemist woman half-walked, half-jogged the remaining distance to them. She was wearing an unbuttoned lab coat, leaving the faintly blueish skin of her throat and face visible. "Hey," she said again, half a smile quirking up her eerily pale lips. "They haven't replaced your key yet, have they?"

"No," Lea said immediately, though she couldn't have known what the woman was talking about any more than P did.

"Thought so." The woman crossed her arms. Something in her bones and ligaments crackled at the movement, like crumbling crystal. "It was so very kind of management to change the protocol and the locks at the same time, wasn't it? They updated the clearance necessary to get into the coolant controls earlier this week. Something about an incident with the inspector."

"I… wasn't aware," Lea said, somewhat awkwardly.

"You and half the engineering team, I swear." The woman rolled her eyes. "The supervisor should be able to give you a new key. He's in his office, last I checked."

"Thank you," Lea said with a nod. P gave her a subtle nudge in the right direction, and she set off with such confidence that P almost thought she had already known where it was. The Alchemist woman wiggled her fingers and wandered off in the direction of the research zone.

Thankfully, P had been correct when he identified the small, windowless room as an office the first time he visited Zelator. A harried-looking man missing most of his hair sat hunched over a narrow desk inside, scribbling numbers into a ledger and muttering to himself. He barely glanced up when Lea tapped her knuckles on the frame of the open door.

"Sir," Lea started.

"Ugh, you engineers!" the man interrupted testily, waving a pen. "Take your damn mask off when you talk to me! I can't understand a word with that filter on you!"

Beside P, Lea stiffened. "…of course, sir," she said after a long, hesitant moment, evidently deciding the risks of disobeying outweighed the risks of revealing her face; she unclasped the exposure suit's mask and slid it off her head. "We've been locked out of the coolant room."

"What a circus. Oh, I wish they'd let me go back to the research floor." The man heaved a long-suffering sigh. "All this fuss, and for what? Security breach this, flammability risk that. Universal access has never been a problem before. It's not as though anyone but Pistris's brain-dead inspector is foolish enough to bring explosives into the coolant chamber."

"Explosives," Lea echoed incredulously.

"Said he forgot he had them." The man threw a hand up in exasperation as he rustled through one of his drawers, tossing a metal object onto the desk. "Just take the damn key. If I wasted time making every engineer fill out the clearance paperwork, the coolant system would explode all on its own before anyone could get in there to maintain it."

Lea blinked, her eyes sliding over to P for a brief moment before she approached the desk. She kept her head down as if to limit how clearly the man could see her face, but he was already back to his ledgers; he didn't even spare her a nod as she picked up the key and hurried to leave.

Whatever stroke of misfortune had visited them, it now seemed content to leave them be. The key got them into the coolant control room without issue, and the room itself was empty other than an engineer who was packing their things up to leave; the moment the door shut behind the straggler, P descended upon the controls and got to work.

P and Lea ducked away from the controls and out of sight as the system creaked and whirred to life. Several minutes passed as the coolant system slowly, silently plunged the temperature lower and lower. Some kind of alarm must have triggered, because the supervisor stumbled into the room cursing shortly after. He fumbled with the controls, irritated at first, and then with increasing panic; he glanced up at the core and yanked the emergency shutoff lever.

Nothing happened. The supervisor waited a moment longer. He glanced between the lever, the controls, and the core, and as the machine continued to grind into overdrive, he let out another curse and fled the room. Seconds later, P jumped as an alarm blared to life and a voice crackled over the intercoms to "follow standard evacuation procedure."

"That went well," Lea breathed as footsteps thundered audibly outside the door and faded away down the halls. P wondered if she had anything made of wood that he could touch.

The lower laboratory was closest to the coolant chamber, so they made their way there first. As soon as the door shut behind them, the wail of the alarms dropped to a muffled shout, though the flashing lights were still achingly bright and frequent.

It was more of a supply room, now that P was seeing it intact. Neat rows of empty tubes and beakers lined the shelves, and most of the drawers contained nothing but pipettes, vials, and other miscellany P didn't recognize but seemed scientific. Aside from what seemed to be a set of empty flower pots, he found nothing unusual.

"Look at this," Lea said from beside the door leading to the research zone. "They're certainly keeping the pressure up."

P sidled up behind her, peering over her shoulder to read the prominently-placed notice. In bold, neat handwriting, it read:

A Reminder To All Employees

12 hr/6 day work schedule in effect until further notice

For Arm access: Applications must be submitted at least 2 WEEKS in advance of scheduled experiment date

Precision experiments are NOT to be conducted when Devil's Pit blasting is scheduled

Awaken, Evolve, Ascend. The path to immortality will be shaped by your hands.

"Applications?" P read aloud. He wasn't sure what he had been picturing the Alchemists doing with the Arm of God, but it hadn't involved submitting paperwork to get permission to touch it.

"Two weeks in advance," Lea said. She tapped her boot against the metal floor in thought. "Supposedly, Zelator is full of the Alchemists' best scientific minds. Why would they limit their own access to something that vital to their experiments?"

"Simon didn't approve of how Valentinus handled the Arm," P offered. Simon had certainly written about it enough in his directives to his followers. "Maybe this is what he meant." He paused, tilting his head in thought. "Or Valentinus is restricting access to the Arm because he doesn't trust Simon."

"Or both," Lea said. "If Valentinus suspects Manus's influence in Zelator, he very well could be trying to limit Manus's control over the Arm by dictating who has access and when." Her frown was audible. "And any Alchemist chafing under the stricter policies is all the more likely to listen when Manus's silver tongue starts spinning stories about Valentinus's incompetent leadership."

"Then the Arm's not here," P concluded.

Lea shook her head. "It seems unlikely," she said. "But we can't be sure until we look." She jerked her head towards the door. "Let's keep moving. We don't have time to dawdle." She shouldered open the door to the elixir research zone.

There were several workstations scattered throughout the floor, often but not always near clusters of empty cells. Each bench offered brief windows into the Alchemists' current experiments and little else — grotesque arrays of crystallized organs, vials of blue blood, and anatomical diagrams, all labeled in a clinical hand.

…surgical removal of crystalline tumors is viable but costly. Subjects exhibiting mid to low crystal metastasis preferable for later stage testing…

Various jars of various sizes littered several of the benches. Fleshy chunks suspended in blue-green liquid were visible through the clouded glass; all but a few fingers and eyes were unrecognizable as anything human.

…samples extracted from high-resistance subjects show promising results as components… mass injection of less promising candidates in hopes of developing subjects with high tolerance for physical symptoms if nothing else…

Upon a bench near the zone's perimeter was a dissected rat, the skin peeled back from its glistening organs; a closer look revealed that the head attached to its body wasn't its own, but a weasel's. The table beneath it shone with fresh blood, smeared onto the metal by the last desperate struggle of its twitching limbs.

…potential for attachment of asymptomatic brain to high-resistance body parts impeded by body seemingly retaining some sense of self or autonomy independent of its brain… further experimentation necessary…

A note in different handwriting — a laboratory assistant, perhaps — sat crumpled and torn beside the rat's body. The damage to the paper left only pieces of it legible.

…the man now known as the Overseer was baptized with the flesh of the Ancient One… if the body retains its previous will, then the desires of the Ancient One…

P frowned. The remainder of the note had been torn off, and there didn't seem to be any scraps on or around the table. He was just moving on from the search when Lea called him over to the final workstation; he jogged over to where she was flipping through a notebook.

"This seems to be the lead researcher's station," Lea said, raising her voice to be audible over the still-wailing alarm. "I can't decipher whatever code they used for the bulk of it, but…" She tilted the journal towards P.

The Devil's Pit team likes to remind us how much progress they're making. All they're doing is digging, and it's the puppets doing the digging at that! I'd like to see a puppet do what we do in Zelator.

Promising results so far, but only promising. Promising won't open doors and purses where we need them opened. When we unveil the Pit, we need something incredible.

We can't make progress like this. I'm submitting another petition to the Warden to get the Arm back on-site. There's only so much we can do with the cattle they send us from the city — even a body touched by the Arm is nothing compared to the Arm itself, and the subjects are dying off faster than we can harvest usable samples. It's unthinkable that they won't even tell us where they're storing it.

Updating storage to liquid-based has been a drain on resources, though one well-spent if it prevents another accident like Goddard's. It would be easier to decipher a child's drawing than some of the diagrams I'm presented with…

"The Arm isn't here," Lea said as she thumbed through the rest of the pages for anything legible. "And its location is undisclosed even to Zelator's highest ranks."

"The Rose Estate?" P offered.

Lea's hands twitched as she set the journal back down. "Perhaps," she said. "Though if Valentinus is trying to conceal it from his own colleagues, it doesn't seem the most prudent choice."

At some point in its history, the Arm had been kept in the Monad Charity House. The question of when was unfortunately impossible to answer; all P had found was its broken, empty case.

Lea pushed away from the workstation. "We should keep moving," she said stiffly. "We still have to investigate the warden's office."

The trip to the warden's office was slow and tense. Distant footsteps thudded rapidly through the facility halls, muffled voices carrying through the vents as people shouted back and forth. The echoed noises blended with the wail of the alarm, becoming a directionless wall of noise that had P glancing over his shoulder at every new sound for fear of glimpsing an Alchemist behind him.

Whoever was making the noise, they didn't interrupt P and Lea on their way to the lift or the brief walk to the warden's office. Inside, the metal desk was in slight disarray, as if the evacuation alarm had interrupted the warden mid-task. Hung in a prominent place on the wall beside the desk was a list penned in a sharp hand:

Approved proposals:

• HIGH PRIORITY — Spore storage infrastructure overhaul: Leaks in aerosolized spore transport mediums have caused Petrification Disease outbreaks among employees. Spores suspended in liquid maintain efficacy and infectiousness while presenting a much lower risk of unintentional exposure. Transition to liquid storage is mandatory effective immediately.

Rejected proposals:

• Request for higher-powered explosives for excavation site: Vibrations from excavation site blasting already cause significant disruption to delicate scientific work; additional firepower is both unnecessary and impractical.

• Reinstatement of on-site availability of restricted materials for laboratory use: Third appeal rejected. Further requests not advised per VM.

Under review:

• Zoo management overhaul

• Termination of Alexander Goodman

To submit a new proposal, appeal a rejected proposal, or request status on a pending proposal, please fill out the required form and leave in the basket. Please review above document before requesting an update from the Warden on any submissions.

P glanced down. There was, indeed, a slim wire basket mounted below the notice, though it was currently empty.

"Three requests for restricted materials rejected," Lea said as she read through the list. "That must mean the Arm. Valentinus isn't interested in negotiating, it seems."

As far as P knew, the Zelator facility had been built in large part to study the Arm specifically. The sudden pivot must have generated a lot of questions about Valentinus's intentions, which Simon likely encouraged to bolster his own bid for power.

The desk drawers offered nothing of interest, or at least nothing they had the time to parse: expense reports in neat but indecipherable shorthand, lists of numbers, and a single dog-eared romance novel tucked beneath a stack of papers. Just as P was about to close the last drawer and move on, he spied a letter peeking out of an unsealed envelope. In the same handwriting as the other documents, it read:

SM—

Luka asking questions. Ears underground. Silence and vigilance are the defenders of Truth; we must exercise both.

—The Silent Evangelist

"Luka…" Lea plucked the note from P's hand to study it. "Valentinus had an apprentice by that name."

In that other time, there had been a letter in the Charity House signed with Luka's name, too: an indictment of Simon Manus and a call for an assembly to discuss the accusations. The blood splattered across the paper suggested that the assembly had never come to pass.

The Alchemists hadn't fractured yet, but the cracks were already widening. People were taking sides, and the warden had taken Simon's.

"Internal conflict breeds paranoia on both sides," Lea said as she set the note down, clearly having reached the same conclusion. "It could work in our favor if we find a way to leverage it, but it could also make them unpredictable."

A crash from somewhere in the depths of the facility made both P and Lea's shoulders jump. Lea clicked her tongue, pushing the desk drawer shut.

"Let's not press our luck," she said. "It will be too conspicuous if we leave through the hotel lift. You said there was a service exit near the research zone?"

"Yes." There was, even if the route they would need to take through the facility to get there was unpleasant. "Through the containment area."

Lea's grimace was audible in her voice when she repeated, "Containment area. Right." She rolled her shoulders. "Let's hurry. We've gotten lucky so far, but we won't be able to avoid a conflict forever."

The exit tunnel was on a floor about halfway between the office and the lower laboratories, and the fastest route there cut across one of the cell blocks designated for containing research subjects. The rest of the facility was devoid of life, and P expected the same of the containment area; the current scale of Zelator's operations didn't suggest anything else.

He and Lea descended the ladder down to the containment level. Lea shoved the door open and took a step forward, but halfway through the frame, she stopped short. Peering over her suddenly rigid shoulder to look, P couldn't help but stiffen as well. They'd misjudged the current scale of Zelator's operations.

The containment area wasn't empty.

Chapter Text

The one constant throughout Lea and P's investigation of Zelator had been this: none of the cell blocks had any people in them.

Not just the cells. The majority of the animal cages had been empty, too. Any living subjects had been evacuated along with the personnel; the Alchemists valued their research and resources, even if they didn't value the lives they sacrificed to it. P had thought the same would be true of the containment area.

But there was a woman in the cell across from the door.

She sat shivering with her back to the tiled wall, knees to her chest, one frail shoulder pressed to the bars. She rolled her head to face at them as they approached, but she didn't react to the unusual sight they made. Her eyes, P realized, were almost completely clouded by the early stages of Petrification Disease; he doubted she could see anything more than blurry shapes approaching her cell.

"It's so cold," the woman rasped through chattering teeth. "Are you here to get us out?"

"Us?" Lea echoed, surveying their surroundings. Her body stiffened.

P didn't have to look to know. He did anyway.

The two-storied hall stretched on for a small eternity. Metal catwalks crisscrossed the gap between the upper walkways, providing a clear line of sight to the lower cells for any patrolling guard. Each holding cell had at least one person in it, sometimes two or three; P could see their hands reaching through the bars and hear the distant wail of a frightened child, quickly shushed. There were six cells on the upper level, ten on the lower.

He knew because he'd counted them. Not this time, but before.

Most of the people in them had been dead or worse than dead. Straitjacketed monstrosities, screaming, crying, smashing their own blue brains out against the bars like they were trying to die but couldn't. P had counted them — each cell he'd descended upon like a reaper, each life he'd ended. Six cells on the upper floor, and ten on the lower. Twenty-six people died here, eleven of them by his hand.

"If you aren't going to take everyone," the woman said, her voice wobbling, "if you aren't— then— my son. Please. Just take my baby."

Twenty-six corpses in sixteen cells. P had counted them. Of those corpses, three had been children.

"I— I don't need to see him," the woman babbled. "I won't ask to see him. He's better than I am, you said he was. He's stronger. He'll survive, he'll heal, you just need to give him a chance."

The children had been in a cell together. Two dead. One alive, for whatever measure of alive a carcass was. It sat hunched over its fallen companions, weeping and tearing into them with its teeth in turns, and it hadn't noticed P leveling Falcon-Eyes to its bulging head until he fired.

"No one's getting left behind," Lea said tightly. As P's mind wandered, she had dropped to one knee by the cell to speak to the trembling woman. "Where is your son?"

The woman sobbed. "I don't know. I don't know. Please just get him out. He'll freeze. You can leave me here, I don't mind, just get him out."

"We aren't leaving you here!" Lea's fist thudded against the bars in emphasis. She turned her masked face to P, as if daring him to argue.

Twenty-six corpses. Three had been children. One had been this woman's son.

"The office," P said through the sudden ache in his chest. "The keys."

Lea nodded shortly. "What's your name?" she asked the woman.

"G-Gemma."

"Alright, Gemma." Lea pushed herself to her feet. "We're getting the keys. You and your son aren't staying here a moment longer."

"Get my baby first," Gemma insisted. "Make sure my Eric is safe."

"We will," P said. His voice rubbed strangely along the inside of his throat, like he was swallowing sandpaper.

Whatever look Lea gave him, it was impossible to parse with the mask over her face. He led the way to the floor's supervisory office without a word.

In that other lifetime, this office had been a mess of overturned furniture and splattered blood; in this one, it was neat and unassuming, like its owner had stepped out for a break and could return at any moment. The keys hung by the door on a hook, undisturbed.

The supervisor of this cell block had never intended to let anyone out. Everyone dying in those cells was dying by design.

It was no more grotesque than anything else the Alchemists had done. There was no reason for P's heart to feel so heavy. Were these the less promising candidates the researchers had written about so dispassionately? Had Gemma begged the Alchemists for help as they evacuated the facility without her? Had Eric?

"This is beyond foolish," Lea muttered as she snatched the keys and stalked out of the office. She didn't sound upset; more like she was making an observation. "We'll begin on the lower level. The coolant fog accumulates closer to the ground, so the people downstairs are in more danger."

"I'll get Eric," P blurted out.

Lea turned her head to face him. "Gemma's son?"

"He's… up here," P said weakly. "I can break the locks. You go downstairs."

A moment passed, and P was almost sure Lea was going to ask more questions before she shook her head. "We'll reconvene at Gemma's cell." She hesitated before adding, "If they can move and speak coherently, we can try to help them. But…"

P swallowed, his throat still sandpaper-rough. He nodded.

"Right." Lea nodded back, sharp and quick. "Let's hurry."

The children had been in the sixth cell from the ladder. Numbly, P retraced the same steps he'd walked that lifetime ago. The wailing alarms, the wailing people, the disconnect from his body; without Lea beside him, it almost felt like he'd wandered back into that same nightmare.

He looked into the cell. Two sets of frightened eyes looked back.

One of the children was already dead, he noted faintly. A little pile of rags, hair matted with blue viscera, the soles of their unmoving feet black with blood and grime. A blanket was draped over their tiny body, as if to keep them warm.

Even before P overrode the coolant controls, the children must have been cold in here, but they'd still given their dead friend a blanket. Even now with the temperatures plummeting, the blanket remained.

P's chest ached. He clenched a fist over his trembling heart.

The two surviving children watched him warily. They didn't speak. Neither did P, though he spent a few long moments trying. Instead, he gripped the door in his Legion hand and pried it open inch by screeching inch; with a final groan, the door gave way and crashed open.

"We're leaving," he said to the children. He couldn't tell if they were boys or girls. Couldn't tell how old they were. Couldn't even tell if they could understand him, really, until they took a few hesitant steps towards the door. Looking more closely, P saw that one of them was missing an eye; the tentative hand the other reached out to P was missing three of its fingers.

"Up?" the child with their hand out asked. Their tiny voice was almost completely swallowed by the peals of the alarm.

The one-eyed child shot their companion a panicked look. This child, P thought, was a little taller, maybe a little older. They hissed the beseeching child's name — "Eric!" — and P's heart stuttered, this time less painfully.

Gemma's baby, her Eric, trembled and began to withdraw his hand. Before P realized what he was doing, he was already leaning down to scoop the child's shivering form into the crook of his right arm.

There were five cells remaining. P went to each, Eric still bundled against him with his little face tucked against the rough material of the exposure suit. He only released Eric to hand him to Gemma, who clutched the shaking, crying boy so close and sobbed so terribly that P was sure, for a single dumbstruck moment, that the love and agony would be enough to kill her.

Lea returned upstairs with a small contingent of five people, all dazed and delirious and somehow still alive. Blue veins snaked beneath their waxy skin; some of them them had begun to grow crystalline scales from their shoulders and faces. Several had to lean on each other to stay upright. But they were alive. They were alive. Seven survivors on the upper level, five on the lower. Twelve people, alive.

"You aren't Alchemists," Gemma whispered, sightless eyes nonetheless still fixed on her child. "Are you?"

Lea hesitated, but with a glance at P, she said, "No."

Gemma nodded jerkily, one hand buried in Eric's matted hair, the other clutching his trembling back. At P's hip, the older child watched wistfully. Their single eye darted between Eric and P's now-empty arms.

"Do you want…" P said. He hesitated, then finished uncertainly, "Up?"

The child, gaze carefully averted, gave him a tiny, shallow nod. Whatever bizarre impulse drove P to pick Eric up was clearly alive and well, because without another thought, P leaned down to gather the child into his right arm.

P was unused to holding and the child was clearly unused to being held, but a moment's fumbling later, the child was settled comfortably on P's hip with their arms around his neck. Lea watched them silently. Whatever her expression, the exposure suit's mask kept it hidden; she turned back to the group a moment later regardless.

"Those of you who have your sight," Lea said, raising her voice to be audible to the larger group, "keep hold of those who don't. We don't want to lose anyone, but we need to hurry." She glanced at P. "I'll bring up the rear and ensure no one falls behind. You lead the way out."

With a nod, P sidled around the group to take the lead. The containment area wasn't far from the tunnel exit, but progress was slow despite Lea's warning; the survivors were weak, frightened, and halfway blind. Every noise, crash, and footstep from the facility's depths seemed closer than the last. By the time the service exit became visible through the fog, P felt like they had been walking for hours rather than several tense minutes.

The door clicked open with a turn of the Monad master key. Their ragtag group poured out into the narrow service tunnel — slowly at first, then much more rapidly as the survivors realized how much warmer it was outside, even this far underground. The door hissed as it sealed behind them. The alarms, the billowing coolant, the flashing lights: Zelator's unyielding walls swallowed all of them, the door closing over them like a jaw slamming shut.

The group started to trickle down the small, winding tunnel. The child wriggled in P's grasp; at their silent request, he set them down, and he watched as they scurried after the rest of the survivors.

P couldn't move. The survivors felt their way along the tunnel walls ahead of him, energy renewed in their battered bodies at the prospect of freedom. As P watched them, a single thought coalesced.

This could never be allowed to happen again.

When Lea grabbed P's arm to tug him along, he planted his feet and refused to move.

"We can't leave," he said.

Lea tilted her head, slackening but not releasing her grip on him. Ahead of them, the group had stopped, glancing back at them uncertainly. "What do you mean?"

"Zelator." He swallowed around something that felt like a lump in his throat. Little shoes, little dresses, little guts from little bodies. Blue crystals and blue blood and a blue fairy weeping in a birdcage. Those nightmares weren't born in Zelator, but they'd grown in its halls. They'd festered. "We need to destroy it."

With a glance at the huddled survivors, Lea moved closer and lowered her voice. "I don't disagree with you," she said. "But that wasn't the plan. We could be causing more trouble than we're equipped to deal with."

"The data is here." P set his jaw. "The experiments. The samples. If we destroy it, they'll need to redo all their progress."

When P had seen it in that other time, Zelator had already become a manufacturing plant for living weapons; the things he'd fought in its halls, as terrifying as they were, were merely the things Simon hadn't bothered bring with him as troops. Removing it from the equation hobbled the Alchemists' potential manpower and blocked off their route to the Hotel. And…

"The Devil's Pit," P added softly. "Whatever they did there, it started here."

A subtle flinch tightened Lea's shoulders. P wondered if he'd gone too far.

Whether he did or he didn't, Lea was already turning away to face the door to the facility again, tapping her heel against the ground in thought. "Any damage to Zelator is unlikely to impact the foundations of the Hotel or the city," she muttered, as if thinking aloud. "It's built to withstand almost anything."

"Like an explosion?"

"Or several." Lea shot a look at the survivors, then at P. "It's not as simple as just setting a fire and leaving. This place is built like a fortress. We'd need to go room by room to destroy everything."

"The coolant system," P realized aloud. "The pipes go through every room."

"And the supervisor warned us that the coolant is volatile. Potentially explosive." Lea's back straightened. "The whole network connects back to the central chamber. With enough heat at the core…"

P wiggled his fingers. "Boom."

"Boom," Lea agreed with a vicious smile in her voice.

With a nod, P glanced back at the huddled group of survivors hugging the wall of the tunnel. "You take them outside," he said. "I'll go."

"What?" Lea's frown was audible. "No. You aren't going back in there alone."

"I can do it," he reassured her. "I was alone the first time."

"That's not—" Lea's voice sharpened. "I'm not worried about whether or not you can do it. I'm worried about you getting hurt."

P stared at her. From beneath the inscrutable eyes of her mask, he felt her staring back. A long moment passed, then two; as soon as the fist clenching around P's heart loosened enough for him to talk, he managed a quiet, "Oh."

Lea's gaze remained fixed on him for a second longer before she turned away with a sharp nod. "Keep following this tunnel out," she told the survivors. "When you reach the end, don't go outside. Wait for us."

"What if you don't come back?" one of them fretted.

"We will." Lea clicked her tongue and hesitated. "If too much time passes, follow the coastline north until you reach a fishing village. Tell the mayor you're looking for the Tracker. He'll help you."

"Don't talk to the lighthouse keeper," P added. Lea's head twitched in his direction, but the mask hid her reaction otherwise.

"Be careful," Gemma whispered, clutching her son's hand in a white-knuckled grip.

Lea nodded. "You as well." She jerked her head at P as she moved back towards the brushed metal door. "Let's make this quick, shall we?"

Their second journey to the coolant chamber was much swifter than the first. The ever-thickening fog of coolant lit up red with every flash of the evacuation alarm as they navigated the now-familiar hallways. "How are we going to overheat the core?" Lea shouted above the wailing siren.

P pursed his lips. Enough tampering with the settings could certainly overwork the system enough to generate the kind of heat they needed, but the window was too hard to estimate, and there could be failsafes built into the core that P didn't know about. They needed something more like—

"Mining puppets," P blurted out, veering down a different hallway.

Lea cursed as she skidded to a halt, scrambling to catch up to him. "Warn me next time," she snapped. "Where are we going?"

"Supply room." He scanned the doors as he ran, counting them in his head and stopping on the fifth. "They're excavating."

"And excavation means—"

"Blasting," P finished, slamming his Legion arm into the door to force it open. The room was dark and overflowing with items, but P ignored the scraps scattered on the floor and shelves as he beelined to the crates stacked against the wall.

THIS WAY UP, the topmost crate read. HIGH EXPLOSIVES — DANGEROUS.

"Perfect," Lea said with vicious satisfaction.

The weight of a single crate was barely enough to register to P. Cargo secure, he nodded to Lea. The remainder of the journey was hurried but much more deliberate, P careful not to jostle the explosives too much as they navigated the labyrinthine hallways.

When they reached the door to the control room, it was ajar.

P stuttered to a halt at the sight of two blurry silhouettes through the gap, but Lea didn't even break her stride as she barreled inside. The first Alchemist was dead on the floor before he could even turn his head. The second scrambled to escape and ran directly into P's falchion as soon as they got to the door.

P eyed the body as it slid off the blade. Engineers, by the looks of it, sent to repair the faulty system. Luckily, it seemed they hadn't gotten very far. He nudged the door shut behind him to block out some of the siren's noise.

"What now?" Lea asked, shoving the first Alchemist's body away from the console with her foot.

Setting the crate down near the core and prying the top open, P considered the neat rows of slender explosives inside. Standard make for puppet use, with electrically-activated metal fuses. A plan pieced itself together in his mind.

"The console," P said to Lea. As he talked, he dropped to his knees beside one of the dead engineers to rifle through their pockets. "Rip some wires out. Live ones. Need electricity."

"Live wires," Lea echoed. "Understood."

The screech of metal echoed through the chamber as Lea ripped into the control panel. P made a soft noise of triumph as he found what he needed in the engineer's jacket: an old pocket watch, careworn and tarnished but crucially, still ticking.

"Done," Lea said. A handful of insulated wires snaked out of the twisted metal of the console beside her, their raw ends humming with energy. "What's next?"

"Fuses," P replied, not looking up as he used one of Fulminis's narrower edges to disassemble the watch. The tiny screws clattered through the grated floor and vanished. "Need a long fuse." He pried the watch back off, revealing the pulse of its tiny clockwork heart.

They worked in silence for several tense moments, Lea twisting fuses into a longer chain and P reworking the watch's insides. Very delicately, P attached the insulated sheath of a live wire to the watch, right above the XII on the clock face.

"What are you doing?" Lea asked as he warped the metal to keep the wire in place.

"Time bomb." P cradled the watch in Fulminis's palm and gave the minute hand a delicate nudge with his thumb. The wire's raw end lit the watch up with electricity as soon as the minute hand touched it, humming through the metal and into Fulminis. Satisfied, P shifted the minute hand back to break the current. "Minute hand completes the circuit."

"And if we attach the fuse to the watch," Lea realized, "we'll have until the minute hand hits twelve before it lights the fuse."

P used a quick burst from of heat from Fulminis to solder the fuse to the clock face. Once the minute hand touched the live wire, the current would travel through the watch to set off the fuse. "Time bomb," he repeated. "How long do we need to get out?"

With a calculating glance between the controls and the door, Lea said, "Give us ten minutes."

"Ten minutes," P repeated, sliding the minute hand over the X. The tick, tick of the clockwork began to move it immediately after he let it go. After setting the watch carefully on the crate's wooden lid, he stood and met Lea's eyes.

As one, they bolted for the door.

The light and noise of the hallway slammed into P's senses as Lea flung the door open. The haze of coolant was even thicker now, swallowing the light of the flashing alarms and scattering it into a faint red glow; P could barely see the shape of Lea running beside him as they plunged into the fog.

Lea cursed in surprise as she careened into a startled engineer, who wheeled away at her blood-splattered uniform and staggered down a side hallway in a clear panic. P instinctively moved to follow their fleeing form, but stumbled back when Lea yanked his arm with a barked, "Leave him!"

They retraced their steps through the facility, the wail of the alarms swallowing the sound of their rapid footsteps drumming against the metal floors. The cacophony was a living, writhing mass of sound, consuming every noise it touched.

Thud. Thud.

Lea didn't stop, but she slowed her pace, casting an uneasy glance in P's direction.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It was like a furious rumble of thunder, cutting through the din with bone-shaking magnitude. It was getting closer, but through the chaos, it was almost impossible to tell from where.

Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud—

"Move!" Lea cried, and P barely reacted in time. He flung his body into a clumsy somersault just as a massive object slammed into the grated floor where he'd been standing.

The metal floors shrieked in protest as the object was ripped up and out. From his half-prone position, P craned his neck to look.

A colossal silhouette, its bulky head haloed in a hazy green glow, looked back.

Lea's voice rose above the noise. "What is that?!"

The thing moved closer. Every footfall was equal parts sound and vibration, shuddering up through the floor and into P's body. Its form became clearer with every step it took, indistinct shapes consolidating into something horrifyingly familiar. It had one meaty hand clutched around the bony haft of a bloody battleaxe; the other dragged a dripping mass of rags behind it.

The rags hit the floor with a heavy, wet slap, splattering something red and viscous through the grates. Numbly, P recognized the remains of an exposure suit, along with the person inside.

The engineer hadn't been running from Lea after all.

"Come on!" Lea shouted as she grabbed a handful of P's suit and hauled him to his feet. She dragged him a few stumbling steps until he regained his footing enough to run.

Behind them, the Two-Faced Overseer roared. The billowing coolant lit up an eerie red as its fury surged, and its axe sliced through the fog in wild arcs as it gave chase.

The hallway spilled out onto a narrow catwalk. The metal vibrated beneath Lea and P's footsteps, and a mere heartbeat later, it shuddered beneath the Overseer's. Lea's curse was indistinct but audible as a furious swing of the Overseer's axe severed one of the trusses. Then another.

"It's trying to bring it down!" Lea shouted, catching herself on the railing as the catwalk swayed at the loss of support. "Hurry!"

The metal buckled and undulated under their feet as they staggered across the bridge. The distance to the other side was shrinking—five strides left, then four, then three, then—

—with a final chorus of metallic shrieks, the remaining trusses snapped one after another, sending the catwalk plunging uncontrollably downwards.

P made a desperate leap for the other side of the catwalk, chest colliding with the collapsing floor and hands scrambling for purchase as he began to slide down. Lea, clinging to an intact baluster on the crumpling railing, managed to snag his flailing wrist; she cried out in pain as his weight yanked her arm down.

The swinging momentum of his body almost broke her grip on him. Her feet scrabbled against the slippery metal of the grates for traction as she strained against his substantial weight, grunting in effort as she tried to haul him upward. In the desperate grip of her other hand, the railing groaned in protest at the added burden.

"Shit," she hissed through her teeth, "shit, shit, shit—"

The baluster gave way. Lea screamed. The world twirled on its axis as P tumbled down, fog and lights and Lea's free-falling body all spinning in and out of his vision until he slammed into the floor below.

"Fuck," Lea wheezed beside him. She was sprawled on her back, chest heaving visibly beneath the thick suit as she gasped for breath. P staggered to his feet and swept his gaze across their surroundings.

They'd dropped down into one of the labs. Sterile equipment gleamed through the swirling fog, and liquid bubbled in neat rows of canisters against the walls. His mind raced through what he remembered of the floor plan. Ladder—there was a ladder back up to the catwalk level. They'd need to exit through the south door and turn right—

A crash and a roar ripped through the billowing clouds of coolant. P drew his falchion and scanned the room for the Overseer's hulking silhouette.

"Which way?" Lea asked, still breathless but wobbling to her feet. She gripped her left shoulder, arm dangling loosely at her side.

P jerked his head in the direction of the roar. "Door, right turn, ladder."

"Of course," Lea hissed in frustration. "A moment, please." She stalked over to the wall and pressed her left side to it. P blinked in confusion as she braced her feet and took a breath, and inhaled in surprise when she slammed her weight against it with a bang.

Something in her shoulder popped. She grunted in pain, rolling the joint in its socket and shaking out her suddenly much livelier arm. As she drew her sword in one hand, she grabbed P by the bicep with the other and yanked him forward. "Let's move. We're running out of time."

The Overseer finally seemed to realize where they were as they hurried towards the south door. The fall had jostled it out of its blind rage, but it was no less dangerous for it; as it caught their movements through the fog, it howled and swung its axe in a swift, deadly arc.

The ladder—they just had to make it to the ladder. Even if the Overseer knew how to use one, P doubted that it could. He caught one of the axe's bony vertebrae on his falchion and redirected the momentum of the swing, sending it careening into a workbench instead. The Overseer roared as it tried to yank the embedded blade from the burnished surface, metal screeching on metal as it dragged the bench along the floor.

Mere steps from the door, a shadow moved in P's periphery. He turned with his falchion raised, expecting another blow from the Overseer.

The lab table, flung from the end of Overseer's axe, slammed into him instead.

"P!" Lea cried as the impact sent him crashing to the floor. His body spasmed beneath the metal slab he struggled to kick it off his legs, rabbit heart thundering against his ribs in a desperate drumbeat. He wiggled one leg free, then the other. He rolled over. He braced his arms to shove himself to his feet.

One of his legs was still stuck.

He pulled again. Something sharper than the dull pain of impact screamed back at him from his thigh.

"Shit! Hold on!" Lea sounded scared. Why did she sound scared? P twisted his head, glancing over his shoulder, and—

He wasn't stuck under the table. The bladed haft of the Overseer's battleaxe was pierced through his leg like a pin through a butterfly's wing. P swallowed a gasp of agony as the Overseer began to drag him backwards.

"Get away from him, you filthy beast!" Lea roared. The Rose Sword flashed through the fog above P, blending with the strobes of the evacuation alarm still wailing through the halls. With a shriek of rage, the Overseer tore the axe from P's leg to take a swing at Lea instead.

P's chest heaved with silent gasps of pain as he scrambled away on his stomach. His leg dragged uselessly for a few excruciating heartbeats before he managed to force it under his body and push himself to his feet. As he stumbled, he craned his neck to seek out Lea.

Their eyes met through the haze. She had both hands braced against her sword, pressing back against the Overseer's massive axe; when she saw him upright, she gave a sharp nod and moved to disengage. With a twist of the Rose Sword and her own body weight, she sidestepped the Overseer's assault and let the sudden lack of counterweight topple it forward.

As it went, it flung one massive hand towards Lea, either out of instinct or in an attempt to attack. Either way, Lea's stance was unbalanced from maneuvering around it, and from something that large, even a glancing blow would land with devastating force.

P's breath caught as the force of the impact almost sent Lea airborne, flinging her body like a doll and smashing it into a tank by the door. The liquid inside surged through the shattered glass, the force of it raking Lea over the jagged edges of the hole she'd created as it spat her back out.

"Lea," he croaked as she toppled from the tank to the floor. Bright red blood swirled through the bubbling blue-green of the spilled liquid. He took an aborted step towards her as she rolled onto her hands and knees, coughing.

"I'm fine," she wheezed, lurching to her feet. One hand clung to the Rose Sword; the other she clenched over the bloody tears in her exposure suit. "I'm fine! We need to move!"

P nodded, feeling faintly ill. She grabbed his arm as they staggered the short distance to the door. He couldn't tell if she was supporting him or the other way around.

The rest of their flight from Zelator was a blur. The Overseer, determined but dazed, missed every swing it took as Lea and P limped from the door, to the right turn, to the ladder; as P suspected, it couldn't follow, the ladder buckling under its weight as it tried. The foggy hallways, the screaming sirens, the flashing lights—it was like a bad dream, and it only ended when they reached the tunnel exit and slammed the door shut behind them.

Moments after the door sealed, it began to vibrate. P and Lea hurled themselves away from it as the earth trembled, great explosions rocking the laboratory one after another in crescendoing quakes. Dirt rained down from the tunnel ceiling as a particularly violent tremor sent P stumbling into a wall.

But just as Lea thought it would, the door held. The laboratory held. The earth shook, but it didn't fall; after a few long, shuddering moments, it stilled.

In the deafening silence that followed, Lea slumped against the rocky tunnel wall. "Fuck," she breathed, squeezing an arm against her abdomen. The exposure suit was dark and slick beneath her grip.

P opened his mouth, but at the sight of Lea's blood splattering into the dust at her feet, his words abandoned him. He took an uncertain step towards her.

She shook her head, free hand fumbling to remove her mask. She gasped in the comparatively fresh air of the tunnel as soon as she bared her face. "I'm fine," she managed between gulping breaths. "I'm fine. I only need a moment."

Without the mask, her grimace of pain was all too visible. Her jaw tightened as she peeled the top half of the exposure suit from her bloody torso, and a small noise of pain squeezed from her throat as she bent to slide it off her legs.

"Get that off," she rasped, waving in P's general direction as she kicked her discarded suit to the side. Still staring at the blood painting Lea's front, P undid his suit's clasps and buckles with numb, clumsy fingers.

The suit, which had been large on his frame to begin with, dropped easily to his ankles when he shrugged it off his shoulders. When he shifted his weight to kick the suit off his uninjured leg, the injured one buckled beneath him and sent him crashing to the ground.

"Are you alright?" Lea demanded, stumbling to his side. She dropped to her knees with a grunt of pain.

"It's fine," P said quietly, shifting away from her reaching hands. The sharp agony of the Overseer's blow had faded into a more manageable throb, though it was twinging from the fall. The damage to his leg's internal structures had just become too extensive to support his full body weight.

He leaned down to study the wound. Clean, more or less. It would have been far worse if the Overseer had managed to drag him anywhere with it. As it was, there was a hole punched through his thigh about the width of two fingers, internal mechanisms sparking and whining as he gave his leg an experimental flex; a fresh dribble of reddish-brown liquid seeped through the tear in his trousers as he moved.

"Stop that!" Lea scolded him. "Let me—" Again, she reached for the injury, and again, P shook his head.

"It's alright. I can walk." Leaning heavily on the wall, P eased himself into a standing position. As long as he was careful with it, his leg would bear him back to the Rose Estate, at least. The pain was unpleasant, but it was secondary.

Lea pushed herself to her feet before P could think to offer a hand. Her expression creased with visible pain before she smoothed it into something tight and neutral. With a final disapproving glance at P's leg, she shook her head, seeming too exhausted to argue. "Let's go, then," she said, beginning the long limp to the end of the tunnel.

She was still clutching her abdomen. She left a trail of blood behind her, drips of red speckling the dust like rose petals. As P followed, he wondered what made his injuries more pressing than hers.

The tunnel opened onto a small, disused coastal path. Above the restless black waves of the ocean below, the starry sky was just starting to lighten with the promise of dawn. The survivors hadn't remained in the tunnel as Lea ordered, though they'd stayed close to the mouth of the cave. As P watched them spread their arms in the coastal breeze and tip their faces to the glittering mosaic of constellations above, he wondered how long it had been since they'd been outside.

"Lea."

P's heart leapt and Lea's shoulders seized in surprise. They turned to face the man who'd spoken, who stood against the wall by the tunnel entrance with folded arms.

A familiar dog mask stared back at them. Despite its lack of expression, it somehow conveyed a sense of judgment.

"Tracker," Lea said through gritted teeth. P had heard her call him Alidoro before, but the listening survivors probably hadn't; maybe Tracker was how he kept his alias private. "What a surprise."

Alidoro cocked his head, gesturing to the group of survivors eyeing their exchange with naked curiosity. "I could say the same."

Belatedly, P fumbled for his mask. Alidoro shot Lea a silent glance.

"A friend," Lea said by way of explanation. "He values his privacy."

Alidoro merely nodded. "You came here for…" His head tilted in the direction of the survivors, then towards the tunnel back to Zelator's ruins. "Reconnaissance, was it?"

Lea set her jaw. "Plans change. Why are you here?"

"You informed me that you were going to break into the largest Alchemist facility in Krat," Alidoro said, voice pitched lower than the eavesdropping survivors could overhear. "Forgive me for having a few concerns for your safety."

"You were watching."

"Monitoring, perhaps," Alidoro allowed. "This way into Zelator is often forgotten, even by its faculty. I was prepared to provide assistance if needed." He tilted his head. "Imagine my surprise when a group of escaped test subjects emerged, claiming that their rescuers had broken them out and were planning to destroy the facility."

Lea's eyes narrowed. "You of all people shouldn't be arguing about this."

"Don't misunderstand me," Alidoro said. "I'm glad to see Zelator in ruins. The only thing I question is the wisdom of provoking the Alchemists."

"It had to be destroyed," Lea said. She was beginning to list a little, both arms cradling her bloody abdomen. "I'll bear the consequences, whatever they may be."

Alidoro studied her. "Your injuries look severe," he said softly. "I don't suppose you'd let me take a look."

"No, I don't suppose I would." With a glance at the survivors, Lea grimaced. "I hate to impose upon you even more," she started.

With a dry huff of laughter, Alidoro shook his head. In a voice equal parts incredulous and fond, he said, "You rescued a dozen people with nowhere to bring them."

Lea scoffed. "I suppose I was to leave them to the Alchemists' tender mercies, then?"

"Of course not." Alidoro thought for a moment. "I have a camp in the Hermit's Cave. Perhaps not the most luxurious accommodations, but there's enough space for everyone, and I doubt the swamp would be the first place anyone would look for them."

Lea's shoulders slumped. "Thank you," she whispered.

"I should be thanking you," Alidoro said with a shake of his head. "As concerned as I am about the consequences, I can't say I'm anything but relieved that Zelator has fallen." He hesitated. "The relic?"

"Not here," P told him.

Alidoro's inscrutable gaze fell on him. "A shame," he said. "And the Overseer?"

"Dead."

A gusty sigh from beneath the mask. "That, at least, is a mercy." With a final lingering look at both Lea and P, Alidoro padded over to the group of survivors. "As I've told you, you can call me the Tracker," he said to them. "I understand that you have little reason to trust me…"

P had the faint thought that Alidoro's voice was reason enough to trust him. He had a way of putting people at ease that Parrot had never been able to imitate. As Alidoro continued to reassure the survivors, P turned to Lea, who was leaning against the bluff with her eyes squeezed shut.

"Are you…" P started. Lea lifted her hand to cut him off.

"I'm fine," she said, pushing herself upright. "Alidoro will take care of them. You don't need to worry."

He knew. It wasn't the survivors he was worried about. But Lea was already limping up the footpath back towards the city, and P helplessly trailed after her.

"You don't need to follow me," Lea bit out. A bit more gently, she added, "Go back to the Estate. Get some rest. We both need it."

P opened his mouth. Despite the squirming ache in his chest, no words came to him.

"We shouldn't linger." Lea jerked her head in the direction of the Estate, the opposite direction from where she was going. "Go on. I'll be alright." A crooked smile. "I always am."

Despite Lea's words, P lingered. He watched the shadows of the sleeping city swallow her unsteady form. He watched Alidoro gently corral the survivors down the coastline towards the swamp. With one final glance at the night sky slowly graying into an approaching dawn, he wondered if the star that sent him here was proud of him.

Chapter Text

On a good day, the trek back to Lea's apartment from the ruins of the Zelator facility would have taken half an hour at the most. Considering it was early enough—or late, for those like her who had been up all night—that the lamps still cast their golden glow over the cobblestones, likely closer to twenty minutes. Today was not a good day.

Dozens of razor-like shards of glass sliced new paths through the tender meat of her ribs and stomach with each step. Her shoulder throbbed. Her back ached. She would never wash that brute's putrid stench from her mind or the viscous bluish fluid from her clothes.

Despite it all, a handful of the Alchemists' victims had made it out. That alone made everything worth it.

She sucked in a breath and limped up the stairs one at a time. The narrow staircase was both a blessing and a curse. It kept the banister within arm's reach, but its sharp angles made it impossible to hold her torso steady. Waves of pain and feverish heat radiated from her stomach every time she raised her leg until, finally, she arrived at the top.

After fumbling with the key for an embarrassing length of time, the door creaked open. The empty apartment greeted her like an old friend. A nigh irresistible siren song of promised rest emanated from the overstuffed couch, but the notion of accidentally pushing the glass deeper kept her resolutely upright. Instead, she shuffled to the kitchen and procured a nearly full bottle of clear liquor from the back of a cabinet. It was the sole survivor of her former habits, due to its absurdly high proof that burned even her blistered palate. Bottle in hand, she retired to the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

The small kit in the medicine cabinet was rarely used anymore. The older she got, the less desire she had to throw herself into reckless matches for nothing but the lust of battle. Not that she regretted her past, far from it. She had defeated Arlecchino—though not sound enough, she now knew—and earned a reputation that afforded her significant liberty from nearly all social conventions due to her youthful abandon. It had also taught her other useful skills, ones that were unfortunately likely to remain relevant for the foreseeable future.

First taking a swig for courage, she filled a small dish with alcohol and dropped in a curved needle. While it soaked, she began to carefully remove her clothes. Her jacket had escaped with only easily mended holes from the glass. The rest of her garments hadn't been so lucky. Each layer—chemise, corset, shirt, and vest—had been shredded and caked with blood. Loose scraps of fabric melded with her skin where they had dried into a cut.

She shook her head as she snipped away the ruined cloth. Stained silk and coutil were hardly the greatest tragedies of the night, only another symbol of the Alchemists' wasteful belligerence. They created monsters like the Overseer with little regard for cost or consequences and threw away human life like she disposed of her blood-soaked clothes.

Once the tattered pieces had been separated from the intact garments, she could slip them off and assess the full extent of her injuries.

A river of black and blue mottled her left shoulder and fed into the bruised sea washing across her entire back. Glass shards, some nearly three fingers wide and others as minuscule as grains of sand, decorated the right side of her torso. The shimmering field stretched from her hip to just under her breast, above which she must have inadvertently shielded with the thick leather gloves of the exposure suit. It was lucky, all things considered, that the tank was as weak as it was. Had the glass been thicker and shattered into larger pieces, one could have punctured a lung or sliced her clean in half. She repeated this thought to herself several times as she gripped a shard with forceps and tugged.

The agony was immediate, shooting up and down the right side of her body like a bolt of lightning. She winced but held firm. The shard slid out of its sheathe with little resistance, though Lea could not tell if the piece had been loose to start or if it had simply cut a new exit path. Grayish-blue fluid oozed from the open wound alongside a gush of fresh blood. She mopped up both with the remains of her undershirt, then doused the area with a splash of alcohol. The tingling, fiery sting nearly sent her foot through the porcelain tub.

She hated this, this second, prolonged battle with her own body after all her enemies were gone. Taking a beating during a fight was one thing. The rush of combat kept the worst of the pain at bay, and any that did poke through felt worthwhile. It signified the fulfillment of a greater purpose, whether that was protecting someone or eliminating an imminent threat.

But after the fact, when she sat alone on a cold tile floor and prodded at her wounds, the pain was just…painful. It wasn't glorious or glamorous or legendary. Yes, it was worth it to see even a small number of people walk free under the starlight again, and she would rather it be her to bear the brunt of the damage. Acknowledging that fact couldn't dull the throbbing in her shoulder nor would it remove the glass biting at her ribs.

She gritted her teeth and dug back in. The process was slow and tedious, owing to frequent breaks for prolific cursing and the occasional spell of lightheadedness. Once the sizeable chunks were all removed, she flushed the area with water to remove the finer grains and clear away the blood. Then, she threaded the needle, threw in another emphatic curse for good measure, and pressed it to the first gash.

The point slid in and out of her skin with merely a pinch. She'd felt worse, had just experienced it moments before, in fact. Drawing the trailing thread through, however, caused bile to rise in the back of her throat. Each inch chafed against raw flesh as she spiraled the thread around the cut. The discomfort was almost enough to make her regret not taking Alidoro up on his offer.

Stitching, too, was a lengthy endeavor. The longer it continued, the more her fingers shook from exhaustion. A sheen of sweat coated her forehead yet goosebumps pimpled her exposed skin. Eventually, she tied off and trimmed the last of the thread, then wrapped her abdomen with soft, clean bandages.

Due to a tremendous amount of foresight or, more likely, pure luck, the bloody mess she'd made had remained confined to a single area beside the tub. She selected a sacrificial towel to soak up the congealing purplish-brown fluid and swept the glass shards onto it. The whole parcel would be deposited into the garbage later after she had rested, but at least for now, the bathroom was clear of hazards.

She hobbled to her room and gingerly pulled on her night clothes, careful not to jostle the stitches. Sitting on the edge of her bed, her entire body throbbed. Her head pounded, whether from a lack of sleep or blood loss she could not tell. Either way, there would be no rest like this.

She sighed and shuffled out to the kitchen, setting a pot on the stove to boil, then again to the bathroom where she kept an envelope of powdered medicine for pain. It was for emergencies only, as the medical kit had been, but this, of all times, qualified in her mind. Mixing it with some alcohol in a vial, she downed the tincture and returned to the kitchen to pour her tea and rid herself of its bitter aftertaste. Collecting her steaming cup, Lea sat on the couch.

Dawn bloomed outside the window. Pinkish-orange clouds swirled lazily in the sky, as though they too had been roused from slumber by the sun's rising. A pleasant haze dulled her pain and blurred the edges of the room as the tincture settled into her limbs.

P should be back at the Estate by now, she thought distantly. The thought comforted her, P safe with Sophia. Seeing him pinned and helpless at the end of that creature's axe had frightened her more than she liked to admit. It was every horror she'd allowed to befall Romeo and Carlo playing out again before her eyes. This time, though… This time she'd stopped it. She'd saved him. Though he was a bit worse for wear, he was alive. She would cling to that word, that hope, until someone pried it from her cold, bloody fingers.

Her thoughts sank into an incoherent jumble of vague shapes and half-recalled memories as her eyes slipped closed.

A noise at the door jerked her from sleep. Though it only felt like a moment, the noon sun streamed through the gauzy curtains. Her full cup of tea, cold and neglected, stared at her disapprovingly from the low table.

She attempted to lift herself with her left arm, but a twinge of sharp pain forced her to abort that plan in favor of lying as still as possible. Her head swam from the effort combined with the dregs of the tincture. It felt as though someone had shoved wads of cotton up through her nose and into her skull, dampening her mind and senses.

The door opened after the rattle of a key in the lock. Carlo barked a laugh as he entered. Romeo followed, recounting something from their visit to the Estate, no doubt. The words were still distant and muffled to Lea's ears. Their conversation came to an abrupt halt when they reached the sitting room.

"You look like hell," Carlo said.

"Thank you," Lea replied flatly. She rubbed her temples. Sucking in a breath, she braced herself and managed to right herself. "I got into a bit of a scrap last night."

Carlo snorted. "With what? A rhinoceros?"

"Whatever it was, it won," Romeo chimed in, and they both dissolved into snickers.

She shot them a withering look. "As a matter of fact, it did not." The Overseer was, hopefully, no more than a pile of ash and viscera. "Like it or not, this is often the price of victory. You'd do well to learn that if you intend to follow in my footsteps."

Carlo pursed his lips, but Romeo, at least, had the decency to look properly chastised.

"Do you need anything?" Romeo asked. "More tea? Some ice?" He paused, then added reticently, "A doctor, maybe?"

Lea waved a hand. "I've already patched myself up. Tea would be lovely, though."

He nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Carlo plopped down into the chair across from Lea. His expression was painted with concern and suspicion. Romeo was perceptive, but Carlo had a sixth sense for when something was being hidden from him, specifically.

"So, what was it, actually? Get into a bar fight? It certainly smells like the Red Lobster in here."

Lea clicked her tongue. "I'm not some drunken brawler, Carlo." He quirked an eyebrow, and she amended, "Anymore."

"Was it a rogue puppet?"

"No—"

"Another Stalker?"

"No, I—"

He gasped. "Was it a rhinoceros? Did it escape from the zoo? I bet you could beat one."

"It was not a rhinoceros, Carlo," she said, rubbing her temples. "Look, trust me when I say, you're better off not knowing."

She wouldn't wish the horrors of the Zelator facility on anyone, especially not on her apprentices. They didn't need to witness Krat's underbelly. Not this time, not if she could help it.

"You're really not going to tell us," he stated more than asked. His mouth curled into a tight pout of disappointment.

Lea softened under the weight of his doe-like eyes but remained firm. "Perhaps some day, but not now."

"I wish you wouldn't run off on your own like that," Romeo fretted as he set the tea tray down between them. He took a seat next to Lea on the couch, and she began to pour a new cup. "We could come with you. We're not children anymore."

Lea froze. Her blood turned to ice in her veins. I'm not a child anymore. Those words were seared into her mind and soul. Romeo couldn't know the words he wrote, hopefully would never write, nor how wrong he had been. But Lea knew. Lea remembered, and she would not let it happen again.

"Yes," she replied coolly. "You are. I will not unnecessarily risk your lives while you still have so much to learn."

The clock ticked above the mantle. Carlo shifted in his seat. "We don't want you to risk your life either," he said softly.

Lea's heart nearly shattered. She would not—could not—fail them again.

"You don't need to worry. I have everything under control." She handed a cup and saucer to Romeo. "Now, why don't you tell me what my sister's been up to?"

Recovery was as sluggish as her amateur operation had been. For the first few days, she was barely able to get out of bed without something to numb the pain. Even after the worst of it had past, the soreness remained.

After a week cooped up in their tiny apartment, Lea couldn't stand it anymore. She announced that they would continue their training and promptly shambled down the stairs early the next morning. Romeo and Carlo took to it with a renewed fervor, as though Lea would change her mind if only she saw how capable they were in a fight.

As the midday heat set in, and they prepared to retire until late afternoon, a voice called out after them.

"Excuse me, Miss, I think you dropped this."

It was a girl, no more than sixteen, with frizzy brown hair and a mosaic of freckles speckling her face. Her clothes were plain and beginning to thin from wear, but not quite to the point of threadbare. She held out a cream-colored handkerchief. When Lea made no move to take it, the girl thrust it forward, nudging a corner with her thumb to reveal a glimpse of the folded paper hidden within.

"Thank you," Lea said haltingly as she took the bundle and shoved it into her belt pouch. "That's quite considerate."

The girl smiled, and a faint pink hue dusted her cheeks. "S'no problem, ma'am. You're, uh, well, you're a legend." Having delivered her messages, she turned and scurried off.

"Aww, you've got a fan club, Lea," Carlo teased. Romeo cracked a smile but had the good sense to try to hide it behind a hand.

Lea raised an eyebrow. "What's that? Did you ask for more laps? Well, I don't see why I should deprive you. Go ahead, three more around the park. Both of you."

Carlo groaned but complied with Romeo fast on his heels and gaining. Lea waited until they had crossed the foot bridge before she pulled the slip of paper from her bag. It was a short note, only three sentences and an initial.

Zelator deserved it. Meet me at Venigni Works, midnight 2 days from now. We can help each other.
V

Lea crumpled the note into a tight ball. If she were a gambling woman, she would bet good money that V was Véronique, the volatile leader of the Sweepers. Why she was suddenly interested in partnership, Lea did not know.

Their relationship had always been fraught, to say the least. The first time they had met, Véronique had challenged the newly minted Legendary Stalker to a duel in the hopes of solidifying her own reputation. Lea had thoroughly trounced her without breaking a sweat, and, since she had been young and impetuous, she had bragged about it. Véronique's reputation had recovered—no doubt due to her indomitable will as much as her combat prowess—but the bruise on her ego had never faded.

Yet the memory of Véronique's sacrifice in the other time lodged itself in Lea's mind. She'd led her people into hell on a suicide mission to stop the Alchemists from unleashing Zelator on Krat. If she were willing to do that, why wouldn't she be willing to work with a rival? Maybe Lea and P's meddling with time was already bearing fruit.

Of course, the other option—the far more likely option—was that this was a trap. Of what nature, again Lea did not know. She didn't even know how Véronique had discovered her involvement with the Zelator incident. Only two other people should have been aware of that, and neither were friendly with the leader of the Sweepers.

Lea exhaled sharply and stuffed the wadded note back into her pouch. Either way, she couldn't ignore the invitation. The prospect of allies, no matter how tenuous, was appealing with the phantoms of the lab disaster still lingering in Lea's ribs. And if it were a trap? Her condition wasn't dire enough that a few scavengers and bodyguards posed a threat. She could handle herself and perhaps learn a thing or two in the process.

The moment the light clicked off in the boy's room, Lea vaulted from her bedroom window. A twinge of pain flashed through her chest as her heels hit the pavement, and she muffled a cough with her sleeve. The intervening days hadn't returned her to perfect form, though the worst of the wounds had healed enough not to reopen.

She scanned the rooftops before landing on a speck of gray peeking over a ledge. P waved as she nodded to him. With him standing watch over the apartment, Carlo and Romeo were as safe as they could be without her there.

The walk to Venigni Works was long and lonely. With the factory's workers long departed for either bars or beds, an eerie quiet hung over its streets and yards. A chill had likewise crept into the night air, a sign that summer was rapidly drawing to a close. If Lea weren't here to presumably be mugged in an alleyway, it would have made for a pleasant evening outing.

Clinging to the buildings' shadows, she skirted around open spaces as she picked her way through the campus. In true Sweeper fashion, Véronique had provided nothing past the time and general area. Lea was almost sure she did it on purpose just to infuriate her. Punctuality was a virtue to her, one quite difficult to achieve when she didn't know where she needed to be. Though another part of her found it equally probable that Véronique simply hadn't considered the need for further detail. Regardless of the intentionality, it frustrated Lea to no end.

Her fortunes improved as she approached a massive processing plant near the far edge of the grounds. Faint snippets of voices drifted out of the cracked door, though the whistle of the wind between buildings obscured their words. Varying timbres indicated multiple speakers, but she wouldn't know the exact number until she was inside. The plant was huge and likely stuffed to the brim with all sorts of equipment, a perfect place to conceal combatants.

Lea's hand slid down to the Rose Sword on her hip. She hesitated, though, before drawing it.

The presence of other Stalkers screamed that this was, indeed, a trap. The smartest option would be to go back the way she came. Alternatively, she could rush them so hard and fast they'd hit the floor before they could think of drawing their own weapons. However, neither of those would accomplish anything useful. If she couldn't gain allies from this meeting, she at least wanted some kind of information.

Her fingers reluctantly peeled off the hilt, and she instead rested her wrist on the crossguard. Walking into a trap was foolish, but she would need to be a bit foolish to have the chance to gain. Lea sucked in a breath, pulled back her shoulders, and marched inside.

Despite its neat rows of tall windows, the factory was dark. Dark enough that Lea blinked as she transitioned from the relatively bright light of the waning moon to its dingy interior. The reason became apparent as her eyes adjusted. A thick film of greasy, ashy grime adhered to the glass, a byproduct of whatever chemicals they used here. As for why it had been allowed to fester, Lea couldn't say. She thought Venigini would take more pride in his property considering how boisterously he bragged about his factories.

Rows of vats made up the majority of the factory floor. Metal stairwells to either side led to an iron lattice above her head like the ribcage of some massive automaton whale. A concave basin was carved into the center of the floor and covered with a grate. Grooves radiated from it, extending under the vats and presumably to the walls. At the circle's middle, a gaping void descended into pitch blackness. An emergency drain, Lea assumed, in case of a chemical spill.

She had little time to take in the details of the space before the door slammed shut behind her. Boar, a hulking Sweeper with a wicked greataxe strapped to his back, wordlessly wrapped a length of chain around the handles. Lea quirked an eyebrow behind her mask. The chain wasn't a problem. She could easily break it and escape. It was the gravity of the situation that it symbolized that worried her. They really meant to kill her here and now.

"You're late," Badger said as he rose from his seat on the stairs. He was smaller than Boar, but no less dangerous. The net he carried on his belt could immobilize an enemy, leaving them no more than a pincushion at the tip of his spear.

Lea pursed her lips. "You can take that up with your boss," she replied primly.

Badger led them deeper into the plant while Boar breathed down the back of her neck. As she walked, the space shrouded in the vats' shadows became visible. Workbenches surrounded the containers, each equipped with smaller tanks and a spigot to draw down the contents of the larger vat. Inert puppets stood silent vigil over their work stations. When the horn sounded again tomorrow morning, they'd power up and resume scrubbing at the chunks of rock scattered on the tables, refining it into a resource to make others of their kind. The thought made Lea faintly ill.

Their destination at the center of the building came into view. On either side of another grated basin, the catwalks dipped to form small landings connected to the ground floor with wide staircases. The platform to her right led to an exterior door, no doubt fastened with chains too.

Her steps slowed. The Stalkers standing guard at that door were not Sweepers, but Bastards. Their sharp suits and polished black boots would have given them away even if she hadn't recognized their masks. The yellow and black visage of Oriole and the white and brown of Osprey were notable members of the Flock, an exclusive sub-faction within the Bastards who took the names of birds and were known for their grace as much as their swordsmanship.

Two more patrolled the upper level, along with another Sweeper. Though Lea couldn't identify them shrouded in shadows as they were, she was confident they belonged to the same group. Half the Flock was roosting in the warehouse tonight, and they weren't nearly as friendly as the clock tower's pigeons.

Questions raced through her mind. It was rare to see so many Bastards and Sweepers together outside of the Tower. Rarer still to see them together and not at each other's throats. As she looked to the left, some of those questions were answered while others sprouted like twisting, gnarled ivy.

Véronique, arms crossed, stood next to Lumacchio. The leader of the Bastards seemed absurdly out of place in his golden brocade and plush white fur against the filthy windows and industrial equipment. Yet, somehow, it was more absurd to see him next to, and seemingly in league with, Véronique. They were natural enemies, a lion and a lamb. Or, more aptly, a lion and a second, much more irritating lion.

A huge hand shoved Lea's shoulder gruffly, shooting a bolt of pain down her arm. "Get moving," Boar growled.

She shot him a nasty look that she hoped he could feel through her mask. Dusting off her epaulette, she strode forward onto the grate and faced the collective head of the Stalkers.

"What is this, Véronique?"

Véronique leaned forward, grasping the railing. "Isn't it obvious?"

Lea sighed. "Well, yes, it is evidently a trap, which I expected. The Bastards were a surprise, however. Have you two healed the divide without telling anyone? If so, I must congratulate you on your patent maturity."

Véronique groaned as Lumacchio tittered. "Witty to the end," he said airily. "I suppose I admire that."

"I wasn't talking to you," Lea lashed back.

"You should be. I'm the one who arranged this little soiree." He punctuated his statement with a flick of his wrist.

"Is that so? Then perhaps you could explain why your colleague is here. Could you not gather the courage to face me alone?"

The railing shuddered under the force of Véronique's fists. "You killed my people."

"Your people?" Lea asked incredulously. "I assure you, I fought no Sweepers, nor were—"

"Not the Sweepers, Lea," she spat. "My people. The citizens of Krat who don't have a fancy title or an aristocratic family." She squeezed the handrail so hard Lea thought it might bend. "You stormed a medical facility. You killed almost a hundred patients. And for what? Because you're having a squabble with your daddy?"

The number slapped Lea across the face. Nearly one hundred was a far cry from the twelve they'd managed to escort out. Either the Alchemists had lied or… The other eighty, the ones who had been evacuated, the Alchemists didn't transfer them anywhere nor could they return them to their cells. Bile climbed in Lea's throat.

"No," she managed to croak out. "That was no medical facility, Véronique." The memory of frigid mist bit at her skin. Images flashed through her mind. Gemma pressed against the bars of her cell. Mutilated children shivering in their rags. "They weren't helping anyone."

Véronique clicked her tongue. "Yeah, and that's all you do, right? Help people? Tell me, do you remember what you said about the Stalkers who fell to the Blood Artist?" When Lea didn't respond, she continued, "You said they should have tried harder, been better. That's how you survive."

Lea cursed her own impetuousness, not for the first or last time. She didn't remember saying that, nor did she believe it. But she was sure she had said it. There were many things she'd said or done when she was young and thought herself invincible that she regretted now.

"Oh dear," Lumacchio cooed. "The rags would run absolutely rampant with that morsel. Can I quote you on that?"

Anger swelled to replacing Lea's rising despair at the sound of his voice. "How do you fit into all this? I doubt you care for the lives of a few commoners."

He shook his head, and Lea could feel the condescending smile behind his mask. "I get to finally be rid of you, who has been a thorn in my side for as long as I can remember. One I have been unable to pluck, thanks to your father's protection. Plus, once you're nothing but a few locks of that atrocious orange mop clogging up the pipes, I'll be able to guide your apprentice to his rightful place. The relevant one, that is. His father's been hounding me for months to recruit him. The other one…" He chuckled. "Well, Véronique can do whatever she wants with that gutter trash. If she survives."

Véronique shot him a look that, even through her mask, had him raising his hands in surrender. "You'd better not interfere, you snake. We had a deal."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good," she said as she stuck her hand out behind her. Another Stalker with a bulbous mask of a frog's head thrust her oversized hammer into it. She hefted it over her shoulder and turned back to Lea. "Because a Sweeper always repays what's owed, and you're about to get what's coming to you."

Lea drew her sword, slowly and deliberately. "You don't have to do this," she said as Véronique stomped down the stairs.

"No, I know," Véronique sneered. "It would be much easier to sic everyone on you and be done with it. But where's the honor in that? Besides, I'm going to enjoy this."

She launched herself into the air and crashed down like a meteor. Lea deftly sidestepped the predictable attack, the grate reverberating beneath her feet. Before she could raise her blade to retaliate, the hammer's head belched a ring of flame, forcing her back.

"This only benefits him!" Lea yelled as she thrust the tip of her sword at Lumacchio. "He's hoping one of us will kill the other, then he'll dispose of the victor himself."

"Don't worry, I can handle him," Véronique growled.

She swung her hammer up, spinning it around her head, before slamming it back down twice in rapid succession. Her movements were deceptively quick for such an unwieldy weapon, but still leagues behind Arlecchino's whirlwind of blades. Lea darted away, smacking Véronique's ankles with the flat of her blade as she went. It was a warning shot, the only one the Sweeper would get if she kept this madness up. Lea didn't want to kill her, but she wouldn't allow Véronique to cave in her skull either.

Véronique snarled and whirled around, dragging her weapon along the ground in a flourish of sparks. Lea leapt into the air and delivered a swift kick between the horns, sending Véronique staggering backwards.

"You don't even know what they were doing in Zelator, do you?" Her voice cracked under the weight of the memories. The experiments, the clinical brutality, the children. How many more children died that night that Lea would never know?

Véronique shook off the hit and jammed her handle into one of the grate's gaps. Its head glowed and sparked before spewing a roiling wave of flames. Lea's hand instinctively shot up to block the sudden burst of light and heat.

As the fire died down, Véronique exploded through the floating embers. Her fist connected with Lea's jaw, knocking the whole world briefly off its axis.

"I—" Another punch. "Don't—" A kick to the shin. "Care!" She swung again, but Lea was ready this time. She slapped aside the blow and returned the favor with a crack to the same spot she'd kicked. Véronique recoiled, blood dribbling from her broken nose.

"Yes," Lea hissed. "You do. I know you do. If you would just listen—"

Véronique lunged and seized Lea by the midsection. The factory smeared into blurs as she tossed her like a sack of flour across the makeshift ring. Lea braced herself to hit the ground but could not prepare for the needle-sharp pain stabbing into her back. She yelped and brushed a hand across her upper back. Small iron caltrops clattered to the ground. One clinked off the grate and plummeted into the basin below.

For the first time since the fight began, she sneaked a glance at the factory floor. The Sweeper who had been positioned in the rafters had come down to observe the spectacle more closely, as had one of the Bastards guarding the door. She knew Osprey, but she didn't recognize the rodent-like mask of the Sweeper. Regardless, there was no telling which of them had laid the trap, nor did it really matter. Stalkers were an opportunistic and brutal lot. If they wanted her dead, they wouldn't let something so petty as Véronique's sense of honor stand in the way.

Lea sprung out of the way as the hammer struck behind her. Véronique hadn't noticed the intrusion on their duel, then. That, or she wasn't as opposed to cheating as she claimed. Another Bastard—Demoiselle, by the looks of her white-streaked gray mask—swooped down from above, but Véronique didn't know or care. Her focus was locked on Lea with the single-mindedness of a mining puppet on an earthen vein.

Lea's eyes narrowed. This was not the Véronique she'd hoped for or the one she needed. She was a ram charging headfirst at a wall, ready and willing to harm itself so long as it hit its target. That level of liability wouldn't do, not with the fate of her apprentices and the city on the line.

She shook another caltrop loose and flung it at her opponent. "One on one, eh? Well, fool me twice, I suppose."

Lea charged. Her blade flashed out in a Z-pattern. One slash across Véronique's thighs, another scraping the front of her breastplate, then the last, aimed for her throat, finally meeting resistance as Véronique caught up. Her ribs burned and constricted under the force of the blow, but she persisted. Pressing in and down, she twisted their weapons until Véronique's wrist sat at an awkward, acute angle. Then, with an echoing crunch, a swift knee shattered Véronique's elbow.

Véronique howled and released the hammer's handle which toppled to the ground with a clank. She made to retreat, and Lea let her go. Her attention fell again to the spectators. Osprey moved his hand to the handle of his rapier. Badger's fingers twitched toward his net. Lea tightened her grip on her own weapon and tensed for the inevitable strike.

"No!" Véronique yelled. "Next one who interferes dies too!" She spun to glare at the assembled Stalkers as she spoke. Even with a limp arm cradled to her chest, she managed to convey an ironclad promise to make good on that threat.

The others shrank back while Lea advanced. She only took one step before stopping dead in her tracks. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Something felt off, wrong, like the static charge before lightning struck.

The door on the landing exploded. Shrapnel peppered the Stalker standing guard, who collided the railing and slumped to the floor. The blast's echo bounced around the cavernous chamber, and likely half the campus, but the worker puppets remained dormant.

Lea coughed reflexively watching the smoke dissipate into curling wisps. Through the gap, two figures appeared. Her heart plunged into her stomach.

"Look, we already know what you're going to say," Carlo called to her. He wore a mask carved and painted to resemble a stag and wielded both halves of his dual blade, one in each hand. Behind him, face similarly concealed with a lion mask, Romeo loomed. The curve of his scythe hung over Carlo's head, silhouetted in the dim moonlight.

Lea's pulse thundered in her ears. Her breaths came in shaky gasps. Everything she'd done, everything she was working towards, was all to secure a future for them. Yet here they were, traipsing into a kill box with the confidence only teenage boys assured of their own invulnerability could muster. She would have been proud if she were not stricken with an entirely novel strain of terror.

"What," she asked, voice quivering but strengthening by the word, "the hell are you doing here?"

"That's about what I expected. But we should talk later." He pointed behind her with the tip of one blade.

Lumacchio, who had ducked behind the open railing, stood upright and dusted off his brocade jacket. "Well, what are you all staring at? Kill them!"

The room descended into chaos. Badger charged, flinging his net into the air. The Rose Sword sliced through the weighted ropes like they were made of paper. Osprey dashed through their remains and thrust his sword at Lea's head. She dodged to the left, caught his arm with her elbow, and pivoted sharply on her heels. The momentum carried him into Badger, and they tumbled to the grate in a heap, narrowly avoiding the caltrop field.

Clanging metal snatched Lea's attention back to her apprentices. Carlo crossed swords with the rodent-like Sweeper at the top of the stairs. Moonlight glinted off the silvery filigree as he worked his blades in rapid rhythm. The two halves of the dual sword fell on the Sweeper, both together and apart, and shredded her pitiful, unkempt polearm.

Rushing past Carlo, Romeo kicked off the banister and sailed through the air, landing with a roll next to Lea. Sweeping up with his scythe, he met Boar's greataxe in a flash of sparks. Their blades screeched against each other, locked in stasis, until Romeo relented. He feinted back, throwing his opponent off balance, then sunk his scythe's head into the tender meat of Boar's right ankle to sever the tendon. The Sweeper cried out in pain and doubled over, frantically pressing a hand to the bloody ravine.

Lea huffed, halfway between incredulity and pride. She recognized that move. She'd used it herself and taught it to Carlo to help him deal with his frequent height disadvantage. Seeing Romeo use it sent a pang of affection through her heart. No matter how furious she'd been to see them here in this dreadful situation, she couldn't stay angry. Not when they were proving themselves to be not only accomplished students but fine young men.

She couldn't linger on her feelings for long, however. Pulling her blade up in front of her, she positioned herself back-to-back with Romeo and surveyed the field.

The last Bastard joined the fray on the stairs. He and the rodent Stalker pinned Carlo down against the wall next to the sundered door. Carlo was holding his own for now, but he wouldn't last forever with it being two-on-one in such a cramped space.

On the floor, Badger and Osprey had recovered and squared up with Lea and Romeo respectively. She'd have to get through the Sweeper before aiding Carlo, but Badger wasn't the only obstacle. Demoiselle paced a wide circle around them all. Her mask rendered her expressionless but not inscrutable. She was observing the fight, waiting for a weakness to present itself before she struck.

Though she had her back to the other landing, she knew Lumacchio and the frog remained too. They were already outnumbered. If Lumacchio decided to get his hands dirty, the situation would quickly become dire. Véronique had been easy enough, but the bout had reignited the shooting pain in Lea's side. Her lungs heaved under the stress of the injury and the exertion.

There was really only one option to ensure they all escaped this unharmed. It was a box that, once opened, could not be neatly closed again. Its contents would spill out, exposing half-truths and buried secrets to the bright light of day. She bit her lip, and the tangy taste of iron coated her tongue.

"So, what's the plan?" Romeo asked over his shoulder.

"Stay close to me," Lea replied. "We'll clear out these three, but keep an eye on Lumacchio. If he tries anything, leave him to me."

"What about Carlo?" His voice was tight as a bowstring.

"Just…trust me. We'll discuss this later." She inhaled deeply and bellowed, "P! I know you're here! Protect Carlo!"

For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was Véronique's quiet, pained moaning.

Lumacchio laughed. "What, do you have another boy stashed away somewhere? Seems he didn't hear you. Perhaps you should—"

The grease-stained window behind Lumacchio exploded into a thousand droplets of jagged rain. P hurtled onto the walkway at a speed that would have pulverized any human's ankles. Before Lumacchio had time to think or cower, P brandished his falchion, carving a thin red furrow into the Bastard's back.

Lumacchio yelped and crashed to the platform. Though his gaudy weapon flashed out behind him a moment later, it was still too slow to catch P as he sprinted away. The Bastards' leader was an afterthought so long as he didn't pose a direct threat to Carlo.

P rounded the catwalk's corners at full tilt and launched off the top step. He collided with the blue-masked Bastard at the same time Badger lunged toward Lea again.

Badger's spear went wide as it met the steel of her blade, and she pressed forward to strike at his exposed torso. He leaned back to narrowly avoid the swipe but, in doing so, left himself vulnerable in a different way. Lea pivoted her wrist and jammed the Rose Sword between the plates of his poleyn into his knee.

The Stalkers by the door fared no better than Badger. In a panic, The Bastard turned to counter P's furious assault. Carlo deflected the Sweeper's blade, staggering her just long enough to carve parallel lines into the Bastard's back. He winced, and P did not hesitate to bury his falchion in the man's chest. Sliding the blade from the limp body, he flicked the excess blood off and readied his weapon to face the Sweeper. Carlo mimicked the sentiment, lifting one of his swords onto his shoulder in preparation.

Behind Lea, Osprey assailed Romeo with a barrage of needle-quick jabs. Despite his best effort, the weight of Romeo's scythe worked against him when faced with such swift attacks. One found its mark on his shoulder, and he stumbled back onto one knee. Osprey stepped forward, but Demoiselle descended like her namesake. Before Lea could come to his rescue, Romeo swept into a whirlwind of legs and steel. He sent Demoiselle sprawling onto the caltrops, then knocked the rapier from Osprey's hand. It skittered across the grate alongside its owner's thumb.

It had been a ruse, a feint. The logical extension of the unbalancing trick, this move used not an opponent's own strength against them, but their expectations. Clever, if a bit over embellished.

Carlo and P finished off the rodent Sweeper in a dual flourish. A grin pulled at the corners of Lea's mouth. Ten to one had become four to none near effortlessly. Carlo and Romeo were safe, both Lumacchio and Véronique were in hand, and, although she was dreading the conversation to come, Lea had come out mostly unscathed as well.

A streak of movement caught the corner of her eye. She lashed out instinctively, and her sword lopped an eye off the mask of the frog Stalker. They careened to the ground, jostling another portion of the patchwork mask loose.

Lea glared down at them. A frightened tadpole stared back.

It was the girl from the park, the one who had delivered Véronique's invitation. The one who had blushed when Lea merely spoke to her. She was so young, no older than Carlo, and yet the look in her eyes was that of pure, animalistic terror, as though she really believed that Lea would kill her.

The Rose Sword fell limp to her side. Lea stepped back, once, twice. This wasn't right. This wasn't what she'd come here to do.

She walked into this trap hoping against hope that she would walk out with allies at her back. It hadn't been a bluff, as much as she'd tried to justify it with talk of strategy. She'd simply wanted to believe that, given the chance, Véronique would do the right thing.

Instead, Véronique sat battered and dazed, broken by Lea's hands at the barest provocation. Yes, she'd picked the fight, but had Lea really tried to stop it? And what of the others? Badger and Boar were grievously wounded. The rodent—who Lea didn't even recognize, let alone know—laid dead or dying. Who was Lea to consign them to such cruel fates? For all she knew, they could have simply been following the demands of an overbearing boss due to lack of recourse. Or worse, they could have been like Frog, an impressionable youth under that same boss's sway.

A sharp whistle broke Lea from her trance. It was a strangely familiar sound, but not one she could place before seeing Lumacchio lurching to his feet, silver whistle in hand.

Lea cursed under her breath. "He's calling reinforcements."

"More?" Carlo said incredulously. "Did they bring the entire Tower with them?"

Lumacchio wheezed a laugh. "Let's see you and your spoiled brats get out of this one, Legendary Stalker," he hissed, punctuating the statement by spitting blood in their direction.

Romeo moved to attack Lumacchio, but Lea threw out a hand. "Leave him. He's not worth it. We need to move, now."

They clambered through the ruined door one after another. Lea took point, surveying the roads spreading out from the factory like the rays of a star. The path to the east lead back the way she'd come, but an echoing chorus of footsteps on pavement heralded a veritable battalion arriving from the same direction. Two of the other paths were equally as unappealing. Stalkers in crisply tailored suits and masks of whites, browns, reds, and blues appeared from inside buildings and around corners. Lea had been wrong in her estimation; Lumacchio hadn't brought half the Flock after all.

One path remained relatively unguarded. Lea fought the urge to sigh deeply as she saw where it lead. Instead, she turned to Carlo.

"Can you get that train running?" she asked and pointed to the northwest corridor.

"Oh yes," he replied eagerly, a grin almost audible in his voice. "Yes, I absolutely can."

"Then we'll head for the controls. Romeo, P, keep them off our backs and watch each other's. When it starts moving, climb on. Our goal is escape, not wiping out the Bastards." She hesitated. The image of Frog's terror lingered like the sweet smell of decay. "In fact, try not to kill anyone if you don't need to. I have the feeling someone lied to these people."

The boys assented—Carlo and Romeo verbally, P with a silent nod—and they all took off down the path. The two Stalkers stationed at the mouth of the intersection were easily incapacitated with blows from Lea and Carlo's hilts. Behind them, shouts intermingled with the clatter of boot heels.

When they emerged from between the buildings into the train yard, Lea and Carlo took a sharp right toward the control tower while Romeo and P continued down the sloping path toward the tracks. The tower rose several stories and stretched across the four parallel tracks, only two of which currently held locomotives.

As they climbed, the contents of the nearest car came into view. Puppets, some whole while others merely piles of rusted limbs, sat in disused heaps under a shoddy canvas cover. Lea shuddered as their unblinking eyes seemed to trace her spiraling trail upward. Despite her discomfort, she had to admit it was fortuitous. Venigni Works' garbage was no doubt headed for the Barren Swamp under the cover of darkness anyway. A few extra passengers wouldn't cause a stir. Or rather, any more of a stir than they already had.

Carlo burst into the control room and upon finding no one inside, sheathed his blades at his hip. He muttered to himself as he scanned the panel filled with a dizzying number of levers, switches, and buttons.

"What do you need?" Lea asked. She wasn't sure she could help, but neither could she bear to stand around doing nothing.

"The transmitter," he replied distantly, only half listening to her. "It should be— Ah, here!" He flipped a switch, then grunted in frustration as nothing happened. "The station's off. I need power."

Lea searched the walls and located a large breaker next to the door. As she tossed it, the station flared to life. Lights flickered on overhead, buttons glowed, and a faint but growing buzzing drone filled the air. Lea assumed it was the machinery whirring to life until the train yard flooded with bright, incandescent light.

On the ground, Romeo and P cringed away from the sudden illumination. Their pursuers didn't give them time to recover before they descended, pushing their backs up against the train car. They fought in tandem like they'd done it one hundred times before which, Lea supposed, they had in a certain sense. P didn't carry Carlo's conscious memories, but the way he fought, his moves and tactics, were so obviously direct descendants of Carlo's style that Lea was almost embarrassed she hadn't recognized it immediately.

Romeo was shouting, though from the tower, Lea couldn't make out the words. When he pointed at the ladder built into the car's side, her mouth dried out. He was trying to play the hero, telling P to get to safety while he stayed behind. There would be no point to any of this, not traveling back in time nor coming here tonight, if Romeo didn't survive.

P kicked away a Stalker, grabbed Romeo by the scruff, and tossed him halfway up the ladder. Though thoroughly shocked, Romeo managed to grab hold and climbed the rest of the way to perch on the car's lip. Lea breathed a sigh of relief. P knew what she did and more, she reminded herself. He wouldn't let either of her apprentices throw their lives away on a whim any more than she would.

"Carlo, how much longer?" she asked impatiently.

He didn't look up as he tapped a sequence on a telegraph key. "Just a moment… Alright, I input the coordinates, so just hit that red button labeled 'Eject,' and we can be on our way."

Lea hammered a fist onto the button. The train hissed in response, kicking up a cloud of dust and steam. Its wheels screeched as they slowly began to spin.

Carlo darted past her back out the door they'd come from. Lea pursued hot on his heels. He'd gotten their escape vehicle up and running, but it would do them no good if they weren't on it. They'd need to hurry if they were to make it, especially with the murder of Stalkers swarming the yard.

Lea rounded another corner and nearly pitched both Carlo and herself over the railing. He had stopped dead on the top step of the next flight, transfixed by something—or rather, someone—at the bottom. Véronique stood, one arm limp at her side and a knife clutched in her other hand.

The spotlight beams overhead cast her mask in strange, ghoulish shadows. Lea could hardly make her out in the darkness, let alone read her expressions, but her stillness sent shivers down Lea's spine. Véronique was not known for her serenity nor patience. She was an adder ready to sink its fangs into anything that moved, and right now, her nearest target was Carlo.

Lea swallowed hard. The train was steadily gaining speed. Down below, P had lifted himself onto the ladder with some assistance from well-aimed projectile limbs, but the Flock still nipped at his heels. She had no time for Véronique's intricate rituals of self-flagellation if she, and more importantly Carlo, were to board the train too.

"I should kill you both," Véronique said, as though in a daze.

"That," Lea snapped, "would be unwise. Take your loss with honor, and be grateful that I am more merciful than your employers."

She tilted her head up, searching for something she couldn't quite find. "I should kill you," she repeated. The knife clattered to the platform. Véronique stepped to the side, cradling her broken arm to her chest.

Lea reeled, too stunned to speak. Véronique had let her go once before in the belly of the Zelator facility. They'd both been dying, each on their own pointless crusade against the inevitable. She'd longed to see that same woman again, but the Bastards and the fight had dashed that hope. Now she didn't know what to think, nor did she have time to do so.

Shaking off the peculiar exchange, Lea nudged Carlo forward. They both eyed Véronique as they ran past, but the Sweeper made no move to stop them. A rhythmic clatter from further down announced the presence of yet another Stalker come to test their luck.

Lea clicked her tongue. They wouldn't make it, not if they had to fight their way through every Bastard left standing. There was only one option.

"We have to jump," she said as she grabbed Carlo's shoulder. The train chugged by a few feet over and down from the platform where they stood.

He stared at her in what was surely pure shock beneath the mask but allowed her to boost him onto the railing. With a sharp whistle, he caught the attention of Romeo, who opened his arms to catch Carlo as he fell. Once he was secured, Romeo motioned for Lea to follow.

Before she could jump, Kestrel bounded up the last few steps to join her on the landing. He lashed out with his rapier, nearly piercing her thigh as she flattened herself against the guardrail. The narrow space made it difficult to draw her sword and favored his thrusting weapon anyway, so Lea chose a different tack. She surged forward, grabbed him by the wrist, and pulled. The movement was so sudden and unexpected to the Bastard, who surely expected a gentlemanly crossing of swords, that he lost his footing. Using his momentum, Lea swung him around, smashing his head into the railing. She was up on the banister and leaping to the garbage bin's lip before he hit the ground.

As she landed, a shout pulled her focus to the back of the train. Stalkers had clambered onto the trailing cars and were closing the distance with cautious hops.

Lea glanced down at her apprentices. "Stay here," she commanded. Hoisting P up the rest of the way, she added, "Watch them. Take care of any that get through."

Without waiting for an answer, she rushed along the edge and launched herself across the breach. The black-masked Bastard finding her footing atop the train barely had time to reach for her blade before Lea slammed into her. She skidded back, sliding down and off the curved roof of the covered car. Lea whirled around and lashed out at another Stalker with a mask resembling a quail. Three quick strikes with her sword sent him tumbling over the side too, though he caught the roof's edge with his fingertips.

With the car clear, Lea dropped down to the lower platform and returned to the previous section. Grasping the release lever, she yanked at it. White-hot pain lanced through her left shoulder, and for a moment, she thought it might have popped out again. Her fingers buzzed with prickly numbness as she breathed a few wheezing, shaky breaths. Then we do this the hard way, she thought before gripping her sword with both hands.

She brought the Rose Sword down on the coupling. Steel upon steel rang and rattled and sent another wave of pain shooting up her arm, but the pinion held fast. Another Stalker crested the top of the roof, eying the gap above her. A bead of sweat slipped down her forehead inside her mask, and she gritted her teeth.

Raising the blade above her head, she struck again. This time, its tip seemed to blur into a line of red light, and it cut through the metal as easily as butter. The coupling creaked and groaned, then split along the diagonal slash.

The Stalker, realizing that the gap was widening, attempted a last ditch effort to cross. He was denied safe footing by P, who shoved him into the dirt unceremoniously. Others appeared along the sides and top of the shrinking boxcar, but none were determined, or foolish, enough to continue the pursuit. They likely knew where the train was headed anyway. Any advantage Lea and the boys would have in getting to the swamp would be short-lived if they couldn't find a place to lie low afterwards.

But that was a problem for later. Tension seeped out of her as Venigni Works vanished into the distance. The dull throb in her shoulder became much more insistent as the high of battle subsided. She sank to the floor and leaned against the cool metal of the garbage bin. P stared down at her, head cocked to one side. She managed a thumbs-up to let him know she was alright before her eyes fluttered closed.

Romeo and Carlo were both safe. That was all that really mattered, though they would be getting an earful the moment the train stopped. Stupid, reckless, they'd endangered themselves all for what? Curiosity? Frustration at them, at Véronique, at herself simmered inside her, but she'd expended too much energy in the fight to let it boil over yet. Instead, she hugged her arm to her chest and breathed deeply, allowing the gentle rocking of train to soothe her.

Chapter Text

P had limited experience with trains, but the ones he'd ridden had all been intended for passengers. They moved smoothly and comfortably. They made some kind of noise to indicate when they'd reached a stop. When the doors opened, it was only a hazard if one was leaning up against them by mistake.

A train intended to transport waste did none of those things. When the boxcar reached the end of its rattling journey, it screeched to a halt so abrupt it almost flung Carlo off the front before the wide cargo doors on its side slammed open. There was a moment of weightlessness as the detritus began to waterfall out from beneath them, and before P knew it, all three of them were swept down into the swamp by a surging current of puppet parts and scrap metal.

Since they'd been atop the heap to start with, they only ended up partially buried at worst. P, dazed, leg still twinging from the messy weld job he'd done to repair it, stared at the hazy night sky.

"Ow," Carlo's voice floated from elsewhere in the pile. "Romeo?"

"I'm alright," Romeo assured him. "Are you? Your mask—"

"I'm fine. I think something hooked it and carried it off. I'll look for it."

Footsteps thumped from the direction of the boxcar. P picked up his head just enough to watch as Lea hopped off the back platform to start the careful descent down the garbage heap.

She was already rounding on Carlo and Romeo when she reached the bottom, finger raised as she splashed towards them through the mud and scrap. "Have you two gone absolutely mad?" she demanded. "You could have been killed!"

"We could have been killed?" Romeo's voice was angrier than P had ever heard it. "You're the one stumbling home half-dead and walking into traps in the middle of the night! At least we brought backup!"

As Carlo and Romeo's footsteps rose to join Lea's, P touched a hand to his face to ensure the butterfly mask was still in place. His fingers met bare skin.

Whatever Lea said next, P's ears reduced it to a buzz of noise. The mask. He needed to put the mask back on. He rolled onto his knees and shoved his hands wrist-deep into the mud and debris, desperately feeling for the edges of the butterfly wings.

"Hey, are you looking for—"

Without thinking, P turned to look at the person who spoke. The mask was the first thing he saw. It was grimy and scratched, but blessedly intact; gripping its edge was a fair-skinned hand with chipped nails and callused fingers. His eyes trailed upward from the mask, to the hand, and finally, to the boy's sun-bright eyes.

"…this…" Carlo's voice died in his throat. The mask trembled between them, suddenly clutched white-knuckled in Carlo's shaking grip. Neither of them moved. P didn't think he could move. He certainly couldn't speak; his lips parted around words that wouldn't come as he stared into the honey-brown eyes of the boy he was built to die for.

Romeo and Lea were still yelling, he thought faintly, but across from P, Carlo did not speak. They knelt together in the filth and scrap, as still and silent as the discarded husks surrounding them. With the rushing in his ears muffling everything, P could almost mistake the tomblike silence for that place beneath the Abbey, his the only heartbeat between three bodies sprawled in the dirt.

"…lo?"

Distantly, P noted that Carlo had a scar on the right side of his mouth. A small white furrow, faint with age, sliced through the plush pink of his upper lip. P touched his fingers to his own unblemished lips, feeling the intact skin where the divot should have been.

"Carlo…"

Carlo's eyes flickered to the movement of P's hand, tracing the same path across those unscarred lips as P's fingers. Something stormy darkened his sunny eyes. It wasn't an expression P had ever seen on a face like theirs.

"Carlo!"

Both P and Carlo jerked awake at Lea's sharp bark of Carlo's name. The mask splashed into the shallow puddle between them. A few paces away, Lea and Romeo had fallen into worried silence, watching P and Carlo from beneath their masks.

"Carlo, what's…" Romeo trailed off as he studied P's bare face more closely. The lion mask hid his expression, but P shrank back from him regardless, training his eyes on the ground.

Lea took a hesitant step closer. "Carlo," she said carefully. "I know you're probably confused…"

"Probably," Carlo echoed.

Lea winced. "It's difficult to explain."

"So there is something to explain, then." Carlo's voice was flat and toneless. He hadn't stopped staring at P. "And you knew about it."

Romeo glanced between them. His gaze landed on P intermittently, heavy and inscrutable under the mask. "Listen," he started. "Let's just…"

"Just what?" Carlo asked, finally whipping his head away from P to level Romeo with a furious glare. "Just move on? Just ignore that whoever Lea's been hiring to supervise us has my face?"

The weight of Carlo's stare shifting elsewhere gave P the strength he needed to move. He fumbled for the mask, scrubbing the worst of the mud off with his sleeve and lifting it up to his face with a shaking hand.

"No!" Carlo snatched his wrist, wrenching the mask down. "No, you are not putting that thing back on and acting like you don't look exactly like me!" Eyes bright with both fury and tears, he yanked on P's arm hard enough to send the mask tumbling back down into the mud. "What, did Papa finally get sick of me and build a new son? Is that what you are?" He barked out a hysterical, humorless laugh. "He always told me a puppet would make a better child, but I never thought he meant it!"

"Carlo," Lea said, an uncharacteristic edge of pleading to her voice. "You know I wouldn't—"

"No!" Carlo sprung to his feet in an explosion of movement that made P flinch. "No, I don't know! I don't know anything, clearly!" He yanked at his hair, brown strands in white-knuckled fists. "I don't know where you go at night, I don't know what you're doing! I didn't know that you've been spending more time with my replacement than me!"

"That's not," P managed to say before his throat snapped shut on the words. He wobbled to his feet, eyes desperately seeking Lea's.

"Oh, it's not?" Carlo rounded on him again. "It's not, is it? Then what the fuck are you? Is this what he'd rather I look like?" He waved a hand up and down, gesturing to P's face, his eyes, his hair. "When did he make you, huh? What was the last straw? Was it when I moved in with my roommate?" He bit out the word with vicious spite. "Or was it before that? When I graduated? When I—"

"It was when you died!"

P's voice ripped from his chest at a volume that startled even him. He and Carlo both reeled backwards from the words, silence once again dropping over them like a pall.

"You died," P struggled to repeat after a few long moments of quiet. "You died. He made me because you died."

P might have been the puppet, but Carlo was the one slumping like all his strings had been cut. "I… died," he echoed. "What do you mean I…"

"Like I said," Lea said, more softly than before. "It's difficult to explain."

"Why don't we all sit down?" Romeo said, though the tone of his voice made it clear that it wasn't a question. "I think we have a lot to talk about."

Carlo's gaze landed back on P. It was still a heavy weight, but with some of the helpless grief fading from Carlo's expression, it was an easier one to bear. "Fine," Carlo said.

P nodded shallowly, stooping to pick up the butterfly mask. His foot nudged something loose from the rubble as he moved to stand; from between two discarded puppets, a stag mask clattered out onto the muddy ground. He picked it up, wordlessly holding it out to Carlo.

"Oh," Carlo whispered. He hesitated for a moment, but when he plucked the mask from P's outstretched hand, he didn't flinch when their fingers brushed like P thought he might. "…Thanks."

P couldn't have spoken if he tried. He just nodded again, turning to follow Romeo as he picked his way up one of the muddy banks.

Nowhere in the swamp was pleasant enough to be called comfortable, but the rocky hilltop was about as close to it as someone could find. It was free of debris, relatively dry, and dotted with boulders that could provide a place to rest. Carlo took advantage of this immediately, brushing off the flat ledge of one of the rocks and hopping up to sit.

Romeo slid his lion mask off, shaking out his mane of blonde hair and combing his fingers through the sweaty strands. He leaned back against the rock and pressed his hip against Carlo's thigh. P didn't realize how closely he was watching them until Romeo met his eyes; suddenly self-conscious, he ducked his head, palm pressed over the outline of the necklace beneath his shirt.

Neither Lea nor P opted to sit, though Lea at least removed her mask and tucked it under her arm. The silence between the four of them stretched for one long moment, then two, before Romeo broke it with a clap of his hands.

"I'll start with the obvious question, then," Romeo said. He turned to P. "What do you mean, Carlo died?"

P thought he'd had enough time to adjust to Romeo's magnetic presence and easy charisma. Evidently, watching Romeo from afar was a different beast entirely than experiencing the full weight and attention of that clear blue gaze. When P opened his mouth to reply, all he managed was a faint sound of distress.

Thankfully, Lea caught his desperate glance, and she stepped in with a muffled cough into her fist. "I know this is hard to believe," she said. "But he's from the future." She pursed her lips. "A possible future, in any case. One we aim to prevent. Together."

"That's insane," Carlo blurted out. "You realize that's insane, right?"

"I realize," Lea said wryly. "It's… difficult to process. But I trust him, and I trust his intentions."

"So a puppet that looks exactly like me shows up and tells you that he's from a terrible future, and it's your job to keep it from happening." Carlo narrowed his eyes. "And whenever you go where he tells you to, you almost end up dead."

"That's not…" Lea sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I know what you're thinking, Carlo, and I promise you, it's not true."

With an incoherent noise of frustration, Carlo lurched forward as if to spring off the rock, only stopping when Romeo planted a hand on his knee.

"Hey, shh, hey," Romeo soothed him, rubbing his thumb across Carlo's kneecap. "Take a breath. Listen." He turned to Lea, hand remaining firmly on Carlo's leg. "Lea wouldn't believe something like this without good reason."

P still couldn't speak, his voice tied up somewhere in the knot of anxiety in his chest, but he could at least offer tangible proof of his claims. He fumbled for the chain around his neck, unclasping it with shaking fingers and pulling the necklace out of his shirt. With the pendant cradled in the palm of his right hand, he took a hesitant step towards Carlo and Romeo and held it out like an offering.

Both Carlo and Romeo's expressions shifted. Confusion at first, then realization.

"That's… mine," Carlo said softly. "Isn't it?"

He reached out, clearly intending to take it. P slammed a lid down on the impulse to flinch away. The necklace wasn't his, not really, and he had no right to cling to it when its rightful owners wanted it back.

Still, a queasy shiver ran through him as the pendant's weight left his palm. Like something had been torn out from inside of him along with it.

Carlo was, at least, gentle with the necklace. He turned it over in his hands, his fingers tracing the same path that P's had taken so many times over the letters on the back. To Romeo, Your Friend C., P read from the movement of Carlo's thumb, following the messy curve of each engraved letter.

Beside Carlo, Romeo was silent, one hand drifting up to rest on his chest; beneath his palm, a small length of a familiar golden chain peeked out from the top of his breast pocket. At a glance from Carlo, he pulled the necklace out.

With the pendants side by side, it was as though Romeo's necklace had been held up to a tired, timeworn mirror.

The necklace from P's time was dull with age and damage, dents and scratches scored into its surface from the violence inflicted on its owner. Its seams and crevices were dark with grime that P had never quite been able to scrub clean. The engraving on the back was starting to wear away beneath P's nervous touch.

"If you have this," Romeo murmured. "Then in the future you're from, I must be…"

"No," Carlo interrupted him sharply. "No, that's not— this is a trick."

"It's the same necklace, Carlo." Romeo's voice was gentle, though tight with an unmistakable undercurrent of pain. The hand on Carlo's knee slid up his body to loop around his waist instead, pulling Carlo closer.

"That's not possible," Carlo stressed, face flushing with imminent tears. "My father—he must have—"

Romeo pressed a kiss to the corner of one of Carlo's bright, red-rimmed eyes. "Carlo," he said. "He wouldn't. And even if he did, how would he know what you wrote on the necklace?"

"He has to be lying," Carlo insisted. He glared at P. "Tell him you're lying!"

P's heartbeat thrummed rabbit-quick. Mutely, he shook his head. His words were gone, swallowed by the aching chasm in his chest. He couldn't tell where Carlo's despair ended and his own began.

Carlo choked on a sob, shoving his face into the crook of Romeo's neck as if to hide there. P grasped at the empty place around his throat, reaching instinctively for the anchor the necklace usually provided. Adrift, he could only watch as Romeo stroked a hand up and down Carlo's back with grief furrowing the lines of his handsome face.

"The necklace," Romeo said with a frown. Still holding Carlo, he shifted to look at P. "Did Geppetto… give it to you?"

P froze. All he managed to force out around the tangle of emotions crowding up his throat was, "No."

"Then why…" Romeo trailed off, but P heard the unspoken question regardless. Why did P have it? Why did P care? The answer was both terribly simple and impossible for P to explain, and he cast another pleading glance in Lea's direction.

Lea cleared her throat. "After Carlo died, Geppetto implanted his Ergo into a puppet body," she said with a glance at P. "Is that correct?"

P nodded. It wasn't the entire story, but it was close enough. Explaining that thing beneath the Abbey, skin sloughing off bone and metal, soundless mouth moving around incomprehensible words, the hate—

The hand at his throat clenched into a fist, clutching uselessly at the collar of his shirt. He was never built to be Carlo, only to incubate his heart, but it was easier for everyone if that was the story they heard.

"And Carlo's Ergo… woke up inside him, so to speak," Lea continued. "He doesn't have Carlo's memories, but things that were important to Carlo are often important to him regardless." Her eyes flickered to the necklace.

"Wait," Carlo interrupted. "What do you mean, my Ergo?"

Lea grimaced. "I never meant to keep this from you forever. Just until you were older," she told him. "Ergo is… at its simplest, it's a person's life essence, crystallized upon their death. It's immensely powerful, but its nature can make it rather unpredictable."

Carlo's eyes widened. "Anomalous puppets," he realized aloud. "It's not a manufacturing defect or a programming error. It's whoever's inside them waking up."

"Put simply, yes, though it's a little more complicated in practice," Lea said. "The Ergo used to manufacture puppets is an amalgam. From what I understand, it takes specific circumstances to awaken an ego within it." A troubled crease furrowed her brow. "The process is… rarely clean or complete. Memories are fractured, if present at all. They're often confused. Sometimes violent."

"Like Arlecchino was," Romeo said.

Lea's flinch was subtle — just a twitch of her face. "…Yes." Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "But in this case, Geppetto only used Carlo's Ergo."

Carlo studied P, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "So you're… me?"

It was a genuine question born mostly of curiosity, but P winced anyway. "No," he said. "I…" He tried to find the words to elaborate, but none were forthcoming. He wasn't Carlo, but it also wasn't that simple. "You can call me P."

Carlo snorted. "Like the shorthand my father uses for puppet?" He waved a finger, tracing the messy shape of Geppetto's cursive P in the air.

"Yes," P said. "That's what he called me in his notes."

Beside him, Lea clicked her tongue. Carlo stared for a few incredulous moments. "You're serious," he said, strained. "That's— that's all he called you? Seriously?"

Not all. My son. Good boy. Puppet. "Yes," P said anyway.

Carlo burst out laughing. It wasn't a happy sound—wheezing, high, and painful, like he was seconds away from sobbing instead. "Of course he did! Of course he—" His voice cracked. "Why would he name you, right? You were supposed to come out exactly like he wanted, but you didn't. What's he got to say to you after that?"

"Carlo," Romeo whispered.

"No, that's incredible," Carlo interrupted, halfway to hysteria. "Isn't that incredible? He missed me enough to replace me, but not enough to name the replacement! What, you woke up without any memories, so he couldn't pretend you were me? Or, wait—" He leaned forward with a manic grin. "Let me guess, you were too much like me, right?"

Something about Romeo and Lea's faces told P that he wasn't supposed to think this was funny, but he felt his lips quirking up anyway. "He said I inherited your…" He dropped his voice to mimic Geppetto's, low and contemptuous. "Personality."

Carlo cackled, kicking his legs against the rock. "He said it just like that, didn't he? My personality?" He slid off his perch to stand closer to P, reaching up to tug on a stray lock of silvery hair. "If he was trying to replace me, he can't have made you with this. Bet he hated it, huh?"

The quirk of P's lips curved into a full smile. "Asked if someone had done something to me." The King of Puppets more specifically, though P shoved that thought down as soon as it came to him.

Carlo laughed. It was still rough, a little wet, but it was a much more genuine sound than his earlier bark. "How'd you get it long, anyway?" he asked, curious fingers wandering up to P's scalp and running along the roots. "And change the color? It's not threaded like a puppet's. It just feels like… hair."

"Yes," P said, placidly letting Carlo turn his head this way and that. The touch was simultaneously overwhelming and delightful; he'd never been handled with this sort of easy familiarity. "It's hair."

Carlo gave his hair a reproving yank, too light to actually hurt. "That doesn't answer my question."

"It grew," P said serenely. The truth was that he didn't know how his body worked any more than Carlo did, but teasing Carlo like this was— light and fizzy, like a bottle of champagne bubbling in his chest. The opposite of the ache he felt watching Carlo and Romeo wrestle around like playful cats. "I liked it. So I kept it."

"You're impossible," Carlo said, squeezing P's face between his hands and giving it a shake. "This must be why our father doesn't like you either." He grinned, eyes bright and laughing, like he and P were in on the same joke. The champagne bottle in P's chest felt close to bubbling over.

"So," Romeo said. "This future that P comes from. How did he… well, come back?"

"A wish," P said, voice muffled by Carlo's grip on his cheeks. "I think." Very carefully, he used his right hand to pry one of Carlo's off his face. "We wanted to save everyone. Something let us try."

"The how isn't as important as the why," Lea cut in as Romeo's brows furrowed. "Now that he's here, we have insight into what's going to happen and how to prevent it."

Across from P, Carlo's eyes darkened as he shot Lea a sideways look. He dropped his hands and stepped back from P. "It would have been great to know that something was going to happen at all, considering it apparently kills both of us."

"I didn't think it necessary," Lea said crisply. Her voice was firm but uncharacteristically tight. "It was to keep you both safe. If there's a future where you're both gone, it's because I failed to protect you."

"Oh, so we're children, then?" Carlo rolled his eyes, pulling his sword a few inches out of its sheath. "Why bother teaching us to fight if you're just going to act like we're made of glass anyway?" He gestured at the visible part of the blade. "Is this decorative or something? Better tell all the people trying to murder you, considering how many times I stabbed them with it!"

P had seen the sword in Venigni Works. He'd seen Carlo wield it. He knew what to expect when Carlo reached for the sheath, but it still made his heart thud just as fearfully as it did in the factory when the blade was bared. He took a few measured steps back, looking carefully aside; Carlo wasn't that thing under the Abbey, and the sword wasn't pointed at P, but he still felt more comfortable more than a blade's length away from it.

Lea set her jaw, meeting Carlo's fiery gaze with her chin raised. "I didn't ask for your help," she said stonily. "Nor did I need it."

"Didn't need it!" Carlo scoffed. "I'm just a child, so maybe I don't know how to count, but I think you were a little outnumbered!"

"I didn't teach you to be so reckless!"

"Maybe we're just learning from your example, then!"

"That's enough!" Romeo raised his voice. Lea and Carlo both fell mutinously silent; once it became clear that the temporary peace would hold, Romeo continued. "While I agree with Carlo" —Romeo looked at Lea— "we have bigger things to worry about right now."

"Romeo is right," Lea said briskly, turning away from Carlo and Romeo's heavy stares and slipping her mask back on. "The swamp isn't the safest place, but that will work to our advantage if we can find somewhere to hide. I have an associate who keeps a campsite here."

"Is this one from the future, too?" Carlo asked. At Romeo's pointed look, he rolled his eyes but didn't pursue the fight.

P shifted uneasily at the lingering tension, gripping the collar of his shirt. Carlo's gaze flickered over to him, first to his face and then to his hand, and blinked as if in realization.

"Oh, you need this back," Carlo said. He unwound the necklace from one of his wrists as he trotted over to P. "Here."

He stepped into P's personal space as if it were his own, looping the chain around P's neck and leaning in to fasten the clasp. P blinked at him, baffled by both the proximity and the action.

"It's yours," P tried to say as Carlo straightened the pendant. "Or Romeo's."

Carlo cocked his head. Their faces were so close that their noses were almost touching; P realized for the first time that Carlo was just a little shorter than him, like he'd done one last bit of growing before P had been made in his image.

"No," Carlo said slowly, as if explaining something obvious. He pressed a palm flat over the pendant. "It's yours."

P's heart stuttered. He'd never dared to think of the necklace as his. It was a gift Carlo had given to Romeo, and P had only ever clung to the stolen memory for the vestiges of comfort it brought him. It was the only anchor for all the love and grief he felt without knowing why.

Carlo's eyes were soft and sad. "It's all you have left of him, isn't it?" he asked, too quietly to be overheard. "Especially since you don't remember."

Throat closing with an emotion he didn't know how to name, P laid a trembling hand over Carlo's on the pendant. Having no memory of the boy his soul had loved had always been a reason to resent himself for clinging so desperately to the necklace. Especially after he—at the Opera House, he'd—

But there was nothing but sympathy on Carlo's sorrowful face. Like P's lack of memory was all the more reason to grieve, not the reason he had no right to. Like not remembering was the cruelest part of all.

"Whether it's mine or it's Romeo's," Carlo continued, "we both want you to have it." He patted the pendant one last time before stepping away, attention shifting to putting his stag mask back on. Just like Sophia when she had given P the mask, Carlo didn't seem to realize the depth of the kindness he'd shown.

P wrapped a hand around the pendant. Its familiar edges dug into his palm. When he tucked it back into his shirt, the metal was warm against his skin with the lingering memory of touch.

He put the butterfly mask back on as their group of four set off into the swamp. Though he didn't need to protect himself from infection like the other three, it felt strange to be the only one with his face bare, especially with the tension still crackling in the atmosphere.

"Our destination is the Hermit's Cave," Lea told them as they waded back into the muddy debris. "The closest landmarks are the old watchtowers. As long as we keep moving towards them, we shouldn't lose our way."

"Are you sure you don't want to hold our hands?" Carlo asked. "Seeing as we're infants, and all. We might get lost."

Lea clicked her tongue but didn't rise to the bait. Romeo let out an audible sigh. Visibly sulking, Carlo kicked a loose piece of garbage and fell silent.

P was used to traveling in silence. Somehow, he still got the feeling this was going to be a long walk.

Mercifully, the swamp was years from its complete transformation into the hazardous wasteland that had menaced P so thoroughly the first time he visited. It wasn't a safe or comfortable hike by any means, but the few puppets that were functional enough to move had very little inclination to do so without orders. Their watchful eyes were placid as they followed P across their sightlines.

Carlo muttered that it was "creepy." Romeo hummed in agreement. Lea said nothing, but the wary tilt of her face towards any moving puppets spoke for itself. P, with a fond memory of the broken puppet from that faraway future in the back of his mind, waved.

The trip was otherwise silent and still somewhat tense. Carlo was refusing to engage in conversation with Lea beyond grunted acknowledgements, and Romeo seemed too exhausted to risk tipping the uneasy balance. When Lea paused to brace herself on a rock and catch her breath, P glanced between her and the lightening sky and realized that she and the boys had gone an entire night without sleeping.

The pervasive silence followed them all the way to the bridge, where it was finally broken by Carlo's voice.

"There's someone there."

Lea's whole body stiffened as she followed her apprentice's gaze. P cocked his head and studied the form on the opposite side of the chasm. A too-big jacket hung off their lanky frame, and they wore the Stalker mask of some kind of pointy-eared animal. There was something large and lumpy clutched against their chest. They looked strangely familiar, though P couldn't quite place them.

"Stay alert," Lea said, hand on her sword. "And stay close. They could damage the bridge if we try to cross it." Carlo and Romeo nodded, eyes fixed on the stranger, all their spite evaporating in the face of a potential threat.

The individual stared back at them from the other side of the bridge, seeming equally tense. They wavered a moment, bundle flexing in their arms as if they were thinking about dropping it, before they darted in the direction of the Hermit's Cave.

Lea's hand twitched on the hilt of the Rose Sword, though she didn't draw it. "Let's get across the bridge before whoever that is decides to come back," she said tightly. "We could end up stranded over here if we aren't careful."

Romeo and Carlo crossed first, Lea and P close on their heels. They had just stepped over the last plank of the bridge when two forms emerged from the open portcullis of the Hermit's Cave. One of them was the stranger from before, but the sight of the other had Lea's hand dropping from her sword.

"It's just you," she said, audibly relieved.

Alidoro nodded to Lea, one hand on the stranger's shoulder. "My apologies if Hugo alarmed you. I've had more need of supplies from the city lately, and I found that I required some outside help. I had intended to inform you before you called on me next."

"Sorry," the stranger—Hugo—said. His voice was young, more like a teenager's than an adult's. "I wasn't sure if you were, um. Friendly."

Hugo. That's why he was familiar. His mask was cruder than P remembered, but now that it was close enough to look at properly, the doglike shape of it was obvious. Unvoiced curiosity flickered across P's mind. Admiration aside, the Hugo of his time had never even met Alidoro, let alone worked with him.

"It's just wonderful that you two know each other," Carlo said, the petty edge returning to his voice now that the perceived danger had passed. "But can we get an introduction, too?"

Alidoro tilted his head. "Many know me as the Tracker," he said. "But closer associates call me Alidoro." He turned to Lea. "It's a pleasure to see you in one piece, though I worry about the circumstances that led you here."

"Oh, so you're a friend of Lea's," Carlo said. "We don't usually get to meet those. Mostly because she doesn't have any."

"Carlo!" Romeo hissed.

"Forgive my apprentice's disrespect," Lea said tiredly. "I'm afraid it's been a long night."

Alidoro's inscrutable masked gaze moved to Carlo. "Forgiven," he said smoothly, "though I don't believe an apology is warranted on my behalf."

Carlo shrank back, and at Alidoro's continued stare, he looked away outright, turning his attention to his boots. He muttered halfhearted sorry without picking up his head.

Seemingly satisfied, Alidoro turned back to Lea. "In any case, I'm glad to offer you my hospitality, such as it is." He gestured them through the gate. "Come. Stay close. The cave entrance is far less treacherous with a guide."

As Alidoro lowered the portcullis behind them, P took in his surroundings. The layout of the Hermit's Cave seemed more or less unchanged, but the air was less oppressive somehow. It was also far quieter; rather than the moans and shrieks of the mutated carcasses wandering the old mining structures, there was only the distant rush of water.

"Do not be alarmed if you see a figure roaming the scaffolds," Alidoro said as he led them through the stone hallways and out onto the wooden frames. "The Hermit dwells in these tunnels still, though I only see them rarely."

"So it's not just a rumor," Romeo said, somewhat wonderingly.

Alidoro nodded, directing them around two tripwires and a rotting patch of wood. "They grant me use of the upper areas of the mine. They ask only for peace and solitude in return."

"I think they're demanding more than asking," Carlo commented, eyeing a few scattered bones that looked to be human. Beside Alidoro, Hugo let out a muffled laugh.

"As I said," Alidoro told him. "The cave entrance is safest with a guide."

He led them across the upper levels of the structure using a route P didn't recognize. Perhaps the wood had rotted away by the time P had seen it, or the creatures inside the cave had destroyed it; either way, it was a much quicker and easier journey to the back chambers of the cave than the one P had taken.

Alidoro stopped them at the narrow stone entrance. "It may be somewhat crowded," he cautioned them quietly. "The survivors have formed a settlement of sorts in the front chamber. You may rest with myself and my associates in the back, though you'll need to forgive the close quarters."

"Survivors," Romeo echoed with a glance at Lea. "Of what?"

Lea hesitated, glancing between Alidoro and Hugo.

"Hugo," Alidoro said. "Why don't you let everyone know we have guests? You can help distribute the supplies you brought, as well."

"Right away, sir!" Hugo chirped. If he cared about the abrupt dismissal, he certainly didn't show it; he trotted into the tunnel cheerfully and without protest.

"The survivors are from the Zelator facility," Lea said once Hugo was out of earshot. "The Alchemists' main hub within the city. Perhaps you remember the morning I returned home somewhat indisposed."

Carlo spluttered. "Perhaps? Somewhat?"

"You went to the Zelator facility the night before," Romeo concluded.

Alidoro let out a delicate huff of amusement. "That's something of an understatement."

Lea sighed behind her mask. "Yes. We triggered an evacuation and extracted the surviving test subjects the Alchemists left behind. Afterwards, we destroyed their research to impede their progress."

"We blew it up," P said.

"The research?" Carlo asked.

"The facility." At Carlo's long, incredulous pause, P added, "The coolant was flammable."

"You blew up an entire facility. Using the coolant system. Without me." Carlo's voice was flat as he turned to Lea. "You never take me anywhere fun."

"We just fought off an army's worth of Stalkers together," Lea reminded him. "You rigged a door to explode."

"Well, you didn't invite me." Carlo scuffed a boot on the ground, audibly sulking. "Next time something explodes, I want to be there."

"It'll probably be you blowing something up, anyway," Romeo said, nudging Carlo with his shoulder.

"It better be."

"Regardless," Lea said, raising her voice just enough to talk over them, "the survivors are taking refuge with Alidoro. Be mindful, and take care not to come into contact with any of their bodily fluids."

"Ew," Carlo whispered.

"Though their circumstances are regretful, these people are infected," Lea said sharply. "Their risk of transmitting the disease to you is low, but it's a risk nonetheless."

"Whatever the Alchemists did, it seems to have rendered their sickness mostly noncommunicable," Alidoro added. "But we are taking precautions and ensuring any scales or sores are covered at all times. We cannot be careless." He turned towards the entrance, gesturing them along. "I was lucky enough to obtain a Stargazer, so if you would like to remove your masks in the encampment, you are free to do so."

The large chamber beyond the narrow entrance tunnel was a murmuring hub of activity. P barely remembered to step to the side of the pathway before he stopped to stare. Bedrolls clustered in groups of three or four laid beneath makeshift tents along the walls. A fire with a cooking pot crackled in the middle of the room, not far from the soothing blue glow of the Stargazer. The railings of the staircase leading up to the back room had been repurposed for hanging laundry.

And the people. Twelve people, alive, sitting by the fire or lying on their bedrolls or attending to their chores. Crisp white bandages were wrapped carefully around their sunken faces and trembling limbs. Even in the low light, it was clear that not a one of them was entirely whole.

"Oh," Carlo whispered, so faintly that P barely heard it.

The wary eyes of the sighted survivors followed them as they trickled into the room. It was only when Lea slipped her mask off her head that a few of their faces relaxed and brightened; one woman reached excitedly into the tent behind her to shake someone awake. At Lea's example, Carlo and Romeo followed suit.

P hesitated, but ultimately, he left the butterfly mask where it was. He'd answered enough questions for one day.

"Eric! It's the babau!" a voice too excited to whisper carried across the cavern. "Look!"

P turned towards the voice, less because he thought it was addressing him and more out of instinct. He was greeted by a curious one-eyed stare peering out from inside a tent, fixed unmistakably on his masked face.

It was the older child from the containment area. The one P had carried down the tunnel.

She was a girl, P noted. Someone had combed her hair and washed her face. Her single green eye widened when she realized he'd noticed her, but she didn't hide like P expected. Instead, she visibly steeled herself and marched boldly towards him.

She stopped a few feet away, jaw set, fists clenched at her sides. The scarf tied around her head kept her scraggly red hair out of her flushed, freckled face. Her navy blue dress was oversized and timeworn, bundled up around her waist with a makeshift belt to keep it from dragging around her tiny feet. Bandages peeked out from her wrists and ankles.

"Hello," P said uncertainly as the silence continued. He cast a pleading glance in Lea's direction, but she was speaking with Alidoro and didn't notice. He thought he heard Carlo snicker behind him.

But it seemed hello was all the child wanted, because her face broke out into a sunny smile. She was missing one of her front teeth. Faintly, P wondered if the Alchemists had taken it or if it had fallen out on its own. The child didn't give him much time to think about it, pattering across the gap between them and crashing into him for a hug.

"Hello, babau," she said, pressing her face into his ribs. "You smell bad."

"Swamp," P explained. Hesitantly, he laid his right hand on her head; at an encouraging look from Romeo, he used it to tuck her more firmly against his body.

Her little fists balled up the back of his jacket, clinging. "It's fine," she said with the air of someone offering a great deal of leniency, though the way she burrowed against P suggested that she wasn't as upset as she was trying to sound.

"Who's your friend?" Carlo asked P amusedly. P could only blink at him.

"I'm Soleil," the child answered for him, unpeeling herself from P's front. "Do you wanna see my tent?" She bounced on her toes. "It's got a bed. With blankets and everything."

"A bed," Romeo echoed, tone light but a little strangled. "Yes. Of course. Why don't you show us?"

Soleil reached for P's left hand. On instinct, he wrenched it away before she could touch the gleaming metal, though he regretted the reflex at her expression of blatant hurt.

"Sorry," P said. He gave Soleil's head one last clumsy pat with his right hand before he stepped away, which smoothed some of the sadness from her face. "I… can't. I need to… do something." He cast his gaze about the room for the something, and settled on, "Need to talk to the Tracker. And Lea."

After a long, thoughtful glance at P, Romeo turned to Soleil. "I'm sure he'll get the chance to see your tent when he's a little less busy," he told her gently. "Why don't you show my friend Carlo and me for now?"

Though Soleil didn't seem entirely happy, she was at least appeased, leading Romeo and Carlo to one of the tents against the wall. P laid a hand on his chest, breathing out long and slow, before he walked towards Lea and Alidoro. A third person had joined them, face covered by a colorful feathered mask.

"…ridiculous," the bird-man was in the middle of saying. "We don't have the money to keep taking in strays."

"The Legendary Stalker and her apprentices are hardly strays," Alidoro said. "And regardless, you know that profit is hardly my priority."

"Yes, yes, your bleeding heart is a wonder and a treasure," the man said, almost audibly rolling his eyes. His voice was familiar in a way that made P uneasy. "Unfortunately, good deeds and dying refugees don't pay for themselves."

"Parrot," Alidoro chided him. P's uneasiness curdled into dread.

The colorful bird mask, the arguments about money. Alidoro was standing beside the man who would murder him.

"Oh, fine," Parrot said, his voice barely audible through the sudden buzz of anxiety in P's ears. "It should be your name on the cathedral instead of Saint Frangelico's." He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "I suppose I should count myself lucky it's only you here, not that insufferable mutt you plucked from that Malum District wastebin. Every time I so much as breathe a word about money, he's yapping up a storm."

"I hired Hugo," Alidoro corrected tiredly. "He's hardworking and discreet, and he was quick to offer when he learned who was asking. As misplaced as his admiration may be, it isn't a crime."

"No," Parrot agreed. "What's a crime is how often he ropes me into helping with all the disgusting laundry your little charity generates."

"None of this is impacting your cut," Alidoro reminded him.

"Not yet, it's not." Parrot threw up his hands, openly exasperated. "Have fun playing house with the Legendary Stalker, I suppose. We'll speak later."

"Charming man," Lea said dryly as Parrot strode away.

"He's… a business associate," Alidoro said. "We have an understanding, though we don't always see eye to eye."

An understatement. P felt like he was vibrating out of his skin. This Parrot hadn't done anything yet. There was no guarantee that he would, if Krat didn't deteriorate as far as it had. But his presence was like sandpaper on P's senses, a constant low-level threat that made it impossible to fully relax.

"In any case, I suspect we have much to discuss," Alidoro said to Lea, though P felt the weight of that masked gaze flicker to him as well. "But rest comes first. You and your apprentices…" He paused, eyes still on P, though he added no qualifiers as he continued, "…can rest in the back room. It should be quiet enough to sleep."

"Thank you," Lea said. It spoke to how tired she was that her exhausted relief bled into her voice. "I'll fetch Romeo and Carlo."

Despite the implied dismissal, P didn't climb the stairs, instead electing to remain in the outer chamber and watch as Lea pulled the boys away from a protesting Soleil and Eric. He only followed them into the back room when they'd all walked through the door ahead of him.

Even then, he lingered a moment, watching an exasperated Parrot wave off an enthusiastic Hugo. The uneasiness didn't leave him, even when he ducked through the door and put Parrot out of his sight.

With the presence of the Stargazer, P had little need for rest, though he tucked himself against the wall in a facsimile of it as the remainder of the group bedded down for a much-needed nap.

Lea, Romeo, and Carlo had laid their borrowed bedrolls in a row along the wall, Lea closest to the door and Carlo farthest. P settled on the floor across from them and counted their breaths through lidded eyes; Carlo slept deeply, Lea fitfully, and Romeo not at all.

P was starting to wonder if he should ask Romeo if he was alright, or maybe wake Lea so she could ask him instead, when Romeo sat up.

Carefully, gently, Romeo untangled himself from Carlo's clinging hands and unfolded his lanky body from the bedroll. Despite his size, his steps were quiet and catlike as he picked his way to the door; not a soul sleeping in the room stirred as he left.

Carlo murmured unhappily in his sleep, rolling onto Romeo's empty bedroll without waking up. The exhausted lines of Lea's face twitched uneasily, the dim light making the shadows beneath her eyes look like bruises. P hesitated. Lea would know what to do, and Carlo was far better equipped to comfort Romeo if he needed it.

But Romeo hadn't asked for either of them. Romeo had waited until they'd fallen asleep, then stolen out of the room alone.

Alone. He was alone.

A frisson of anxiety ran up P's spine. The cave was safe, he told himself. Alidoro was awake, and Parrot had no reason to resort to violence yet. Romeo surely knew that he shouldn't wander too far. Nothing would happen.

A tense heartbeat passed, then two. P got to his feet and crept towards the door.

He would just keep an eye out, he swore as he scanned the camp for that shock of blond hair. He wouldn't impose, wouldn't inflict his presence where it wasn't welcome. He would just make sure Romeo was safe.

Predictably, the campsite was devoid of Romeo's presence. When P padded out onto the scaffolds to continue his search, he spotted a hunched form silhouetted against the gloom, back pressed to the rocky wall. As he'd thought, Romeo knew better than to stray too far.

He was about to leave. He was about to give Romeo his privacy, retreat into the narrow corridor and listen for danger and impose no further than that. But then those broad shoulders hitched and trembled, and that voice cracked on a muffled sob, and P barely had time to think Romeo is crying before his body was moving towards Romeo almost on its own.

The wood creaked beneath his feet. Romeo's head shot up.

"Oh," Romeo whispered hoarsely. He ducked his head and swiped the heel of his palm across one red-rimmed eye. "Sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't." P studied him from a few paces away, unwilling to leave now that Romeo had seen him but completely adrift otherwise. "You're crying," he managed to say.

"No, I…" Romeo sighed, thumping the back of his head against the wall of the cavern. "A little," he admitted. "It's just been a long day. You can go back to bed." He offered P a wobbly smile. "You don't need to worry about me."

You don't need to worry about me. It was the first time Romeo had said it aloud, but he'd been saying it for hours. When Carlo lost his composure at the sight of P's face, Romeo's own fear and anger had vanished as if by magic; he'd held Carlo close, smoothed over the tension between him and Lea, stowed all that fear and grief behind that sunny smile and didn't let it show. Until now. Alone on the scaffolds, apologizing for the perceived intrusion of his feelings onto P's rest.

The ache squeezed around P's heart like a fist.

"I don't sleep," he said. "Not really."

Romeo blinked at him.

"Sort of," P amended. "But the Stargazer helps. I don't need to rest right now." Hesitantly, he slipped off his mask. "So you didn't wake me. And you aren't keeping me awake."

"Oh," Romeo said again.

"So I can…" P faltered, but rallied at the sight of tears still gleaming on Romeo's flushed cheeks. "I can stay with you. I don't mind."

It wasn't quite what he wanted to say, but he wasn't sure there were any words for the soul-deep wound the sight of Romeo's tears was carving into him. The idea of walking away and pretending he'd never seen it was unthinkable.

"If… if it really isn't an imposition," Romeo said haltingly. "Then…"

That was a yes. P closed the remaining distance between them, dropping down to sit beside Romeo with his right shoulder mere inches from Romeo's left. The warmth of Romeo's body was almost physical, pressing up against P's arm like a cat. He still smelled faintly of sweat and swamp water.

"Thank you, by the way," Romeo said abruptly. "For what you did at the train."

P blinked. For… throwing him? It hadn't been P's most graceful moment, but he'd panicked and nothing else had occurred to him. Romeo wasn't that heavy, anyway.

"I get it now," Romeo continued, picking at a loose thread on his trousers. "Why you didn't want to go first."

Not sure what else to say, P hummed an affirmative. Romeo picked up his head, bright eyes studying P in his periphery.

Romeo's scrutinizing stare prickled warmly against P's cheeks. He held himself still, letting Romeo look for whatever it was he was looking for.

"You barely look older than him," Romeo said finally, voice low and hoarse. "He must have… when he died, he must have been…"

A lump of emotion swelled in P's throat. Shallowly, he nodded.

Romeo pursed his lips against what looked like a fresh wave of tears. "Can you tell me something?" he asked haltingly. "I… I made him a promise. I just— I want to know if I—" His voice broke. "I promised him," he choked out, "I promised him I wouldn't leave him alone. Did he—did I…"

There was a crushing weight in P's chest. Like ice, like stone, like every vertiginous heartbeat that tilted the world on its axis when he picked up the necklace for the first time. Romeo hadn't left. After everything, he hadn't left.

I'm Romeo. Remember?

He hadn't left. His voice had followed P long after he was gone, begging him to hear the truth. Carlo, or whatever was left of Carlo — Romeo hadn't left him, not for a moment.

We're best friends.

"You didn't," P managed to say. I'm Romeo… I'm Carlo's best friend… "You didn't leave him."

It was Carlo who left Romeo. And it was P who…

Romeo muffled a sob into the palm of one trembling hand. "Good," he whispered shakily. "That's good. I—I know that sounds terrible, but he's so scared of being alone."

P wasn't Carlo, but the reverberations of that kind of loneliness lasted long after death. He'd never liked being by himself in the hotel; even when he was new, he would linger wherever the people were, haunting the corners like a clockwork ghost. That the soul-deep fear of isolation remained even when the memories didn't was telling.

"Carlo and I… it always felt like we were invincible," Romeo continued. "Lea's always telling us to take it seriously, that it isn't a game, but it never felt real. Really, what's the worst that could happen?" His voice cracked on a humorless laugh. "God, if we were the ones who got her killed—"

P swallowed, trying not to think about the red smile carved into Lea's throat or the blue veins clouding her eyes. The answer wasn't as simple as yes, but he didn't trust himself to explain it in a way that wouldn't hurt Romeo more, and Lea would never forgive him besides.

"She could have died tonight." Romeo sniffled. "She could have died doing whatever she was doing to keep us safe, and we never would have—I never would have—"

He was shaking, P noted faintly, back hitching with uneven breaths. Without allowing himself to think too much about it, P closed the gap between them, leaning against Romeo like Romeo had leaned against Carlo to comfort him in the swamp. It was clearly the right answer, because Romeo melted into it, pressing his forehead to P's shoulder.

"God, I'm so angry with her," he said brokenly. "I'm relieved that she's alive. I'm upset that she hid this from us. And I'm just so angry that she always—she always—" His hand balled into a fist and thumped uselessly against the platform. "She always thinks she has to do everything by herself."

P stared at the curl of Romeo's fingers against the wood. Please don't be concerned, Romeo had written with those hands. I'm not a child anymore. Those same hands had been strung from the ceiling of the Rose Estate, dripping old blood onto the words your faithful apprentice until P couldn't read them anymore. It wasn't just combat prowess Romeo had learned from his teacher.

"I'm sorry," P managed to whisper, and he was, though he couldn't articulate exactly for what. There was something so desperately unfair about it all. None of it should have ever happened—not to Carlo, not to Lea, not to Romeo.

At least the stars seemed to agree, P thought faintly, even if they hadn't been able to keep it from happening in the first place.

Romeo was still trembling against him. He was so much bigger than P, but like this, shoulders curled and head down, he seemed almost small. Like someone who needed to be held.

Before P thought the impulse through, he bundled his right arm around Romeo to pull him closer.

It was a clumsy movement. Unpracticed. Nothing like the way Carlo had touched P, or the way Carlo and Romeo touched each other. Romeo's back was stiff under P's arm, and for a moment, P wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake.

But then Romeo breathed out a laugh, tired but genuine. "Are you trying to hug me?"

"Yes," P said, trying not to sound like he was sulking. He thought it was obvious.

"You don't have much practice, do you?" Romeo's voice was soft and amused, though there was a sad undercurrent to it. "Here." He shifted, gripping P's arm to keep it around him as he turned to face P more directly. He lifted his free hand and beckoned with it. "Both arms."

P hesitated. His right arm, his human arm, was one thing, but the Legion arm—

"Relax," Romeo said, laying his hand on the brushed metal casing of P's. "You aren't going to hurt me."

Aren't I? A stage aflame, an empty husk, a tarnished necklace. But the Romeo across from him was warm and alive, limbs of flesh and blood, face intact and smiling. P's rabbit heart thumped. Romeo was beautiful to look at even like this, blotchy-cheeked and still half crying, and P realized with sudden clarity that he'd never really looked at Romeo's face before. Not the real one.

"Alright," P mouthed more than said. Tentatively, he let Romeo guide his Legion hand up and around, tucked over Romeo's shoulders to envelop him in an embrace. His heart jumped at the feeling of Romeo holding him in turn, looping his arms around P to pull their chests together.

"There," Romeo whispered, hooking his chin over P's shoulder. His voice was little more than a puff of warm air fluttering through P's hair. "This is more like a proper hug."

I can feel your heartbeat, P was almost glad he couldn't say. It thumped steadily against P's, a constant two-beat rhythm repeating a-live, a-live, a-live. Belatedly, P wondered if Romeo could feel his heartbeat too.

This touch, this closeness — as P curled his fingers to cling to the back of Romeo's shirt, he swore the memory of it was sinking into him, soothing some old hurt that he hadn't known his soul was carrying. All he'd ever had was his necklace. No one had ever held this body the way Romeo was holding it now, even if the Ergo inside it might have some memory of how it felt.

No wonder Carlo had looked like he was about to cry at the thought of it. His heart held a lifetime's worth of touch that he knew P should be grieving.

"Hey," Romeo said gently as P started to shake. "You're alright."

He shifted one of his big, warm hands off P's waist, tracing a soothing path up and down his spine just like he'd done for Carlo. If Carlo's touch had been overwhelming, then Romeo's was positively devastating. Like all the love and grief and quivering heat were surging up and out, chasing the warmth of Romeo's palm up and down P's body.

Was P crying? He couldn't tell. His shoulders twitched with hitching breaths. He'd only ever cried once before, alone beneath the Abbey with two bodies cooling in the dirt beside him; he'd clapped a hand over his mouth and trembled with the force of keeping the sobs inside of him, tears dripping hot and wet from eyes squeezed shut. By the time he'd clawed his composure back from his grieving heart, his father's body had gone stiff and cold.

"You're alright," Romeo whispered again. His grip tightened around P as if to keep him from shaking apart. His arms were warm and whole and alive. "You're alright."

Maybe Romeo was holding P together. The shaking subsided. The tears never came. Whatever he had to do to protect these warm, living arms—whatever he had to do to keep this precious heart beating—

"I'm going to protect you," P told him in a voice so tight and quiet that he barely recognized it as his own. "You, Carlo, Lea. Everyone. It won't happen like it did before." He swallowed. It was unusually difficult, like a stone had lodged itself in his throat. "Never again."

He tapped his knuckles against the wooden platform. Never, never, never. The wish was still beating alongside his heart. Romeo was right—Lea could have died. Any of them could have died. P had to try harder. The moonphase watch was gone; this was his only chance to make everything right. Being driven to the swamp was a setback, and he had to help Lea plan their next steps as soon as he could.

Surely, though… surely whatever star had cared enough to listen wouldn't begrudge him a few more moments here, heart against heart with the boy his soul had always loved.

Chapter Text

Lea sipped a cup of lukewarm, watery coffee and stared into the yawning abyss below the Hermit's Cave. Her heel tapped a rapid rhythm into the rickety wooden floorboards which trembled and squeaked in tempo.

"Lea," Alidoro lightly chided. "I can hear you thinking from over here. It's distracting."

Their host sat at the back of the cave under the dim glow of a miner's lamp. A map of Krat and its surrounding towns and coastlines stretched across the small circular table in front of him, but his focus rested instead on yesterday's newspaper. Its main headline mocked her with its neat, bold lettering.

LEGEND STILL AT LARGE

Brave Sweepers Search Barren Swamp for Kidnapped Geppetto Heir!

It was a wickedly clever spin on the situation, she conceded. Whoever thought of it would be getting a pay raise and handshake from Simon Manus himself.

"It's been four days," she said tautly.

"So it has." He didn't look up from the paper, or, if he had, the dog's head made no indication of it.

Lea exhaled sharply. "I'm tired of standing around. We need to strike while the iron's hot."

Alidoro took a deliberate sip of his tea. Lea had the urge to stare back at the chasm or up at the cave's ceiling or really anywhere but the exposed strip of skin below his mask. Even with only a tiny amount showing—just his chin and mouth—it felt as though he were dancing the can-can for her, considering how jealously he guarded his identity.

"How will you do that?" he asked after returning his cup to the table. "Where will you strike?"

"The Isle," she said through gritted teeth. "The Alchemists are more vulnerable than they appear. Venigni Works proved that, if nothing else."

The midnight meeting had been somewhat of a disaster. Though she would not admit it yet for fear of encouraging their recklessness, it had only been mitigated by her apprentices' timely arrival. Regardless, the whole affair had solidified the percolating impressions she'd received from the papers in Zelator into tangible facts.

There was a deepening divide within the Alchemists' ranks. Lord Valentinus stood at the helm of one faction, buoyed by his wife's wealth and his friendship with the Workshop Union. Simon Manus lead the other. He disapproved of Valentinus' methods, whether for zealotry, a lust for power, or just a plain desire to inflict cruelty, Lea did not know. What she did know was that Manus was gaining traction among the rank and file. If he were smart, he'd bide his time and continue to foment resentment and frustration for the current regime, then swoop in and remove every vestige of Valentinus' command at once.

Sending the Stalkers after her reeked of uncharacteristic desperation. It was a rush job, hardly considered and poorly executed. In short, it was not the move of someone secure in their position. Simon needed Zelator enough that its destruction warranted Lea's immediate execution. With the facility off the board and the Arm of God still in Valentinus' hands, his ability to pursue his aims was greatly diminished, and he knew it was only a matter of time before his influence within the Order followed suit.

Alidoro sighed and folded the newspaper with a crinkle. "You're underestimating them. It's true that you dealt them a blow by destroying Zelator, but that was only one thread in a grand tapestry. Right now, they have the public's support—" He smoothed a hand over the headline. "—not to mention backing from several wealthy families and an alliance with the Workshop Union. You're just one woman, Lea. It will take time to dismantle what they have built."

Lea pursed her lips. "I am not just anything. Nor am I alone, might I remind you."

He cocked his head and stared at her with the doleful eyes of his canine mask. "Your apprentices are as formidable as their mentor, but two of them aren't even speaking to you right now. That may hinder leaving this swamp alive, let alone an assault on the Alchemists' stronghold."

The words stung, but Lea could not deny them. Carlo barely wanted to look at her, never mind hold a civil conversation. Romeo was hardly any better. Any attempts at cheerfulness were solely for Carlo's benefit, or the children's when they stormed the back room in a fit of giggles. Even P seemed sullen, though the perpetual presence of his butterfly mask made his mood hard to read.

The only shining light to come from this remarkably terrible situation was that they were all getting along much better than expected. After Carlo and Romeo scarfed down their meager breakfast, they had vanished deeper into the caves, P in tow, to fend off restlessness with whatever chores needed doing. Despite the circumstances, it had touched Lea's heart to see them all together. P needed a bit of normalcy, needed friends for God's sake, and who better than the boys who shared his soul and held his heart?

Lea slumped into the chair across from Alidoro and drained the bitter dregs from her mug. "You're right. I can't even handle two teenagers. How am I supposed to save an entire city from itself?"

Alidoro chucked, a melodic, resonant sound. "Knowing teenagers, the city is the easier problem to solve."

Lea snorted. "I'd drink to that, but…" She tipped her empty cup over. Alidoro shrugged and raised his own instead, taking another slow drink. "I still don't like it, though, sitting and waiting for someone to sniff us out."

"It can't be helped," he said with a frown. "With this many Stalkers around, even sending Hugo out for supplies is already a risk. A group of four will not escape notice, especially one matching your descriptions."

Again, Lea could not deny his logic. Alidoro's associates had reported that the Sweepers—only the Sweepers because the Bastards, in typical fashion, didn't wish to soil their gloves with refuse—were out in force, combing through every garbage pile large enough to hide a person. The leaders of the Stalkers and Alchemists alike were obviously none too please with Lea's daring escape from their metaphorical firing squad.

Had it been only Lea, the boys, and Alidoro sheltering in the caves, the Stalkers would have served as only a minor inconvenience. The presence of the Zelator survivors complicated the matter. If she were spotted anywhere near the Hermit's Cave, it would put everyone taking refuge here in serious danger. One Stalker investigating the area and reporting their findings to an Alchemist would bring a swift end to the survivors' freedom or their lives. Lea was not sure which fate was worse.

Regardless, it was not a risk she was willing to take. She had crossed the rivers of time for a second chance, put life and limb on the line to see Zelator razed. She would not let it all be for naught because some sod dressed as a beaver wanted to impress Simon fucking Manus.

She pushed the heels of her palms onto her eyelids until colors danced in the darkness. "I know, but we'll have to leave eventually. We can't defeat the Alchemists from here."

He hummed in agreement. "You'll need allies. Besides myself, of course, though I'm happy to aide in their downfall however I can."

"I appreciate it immensely. But now that the Stalkers are out of the question, where am I going to find the army I'll need to take them on?"

The door flew open. Hugo burst into the room, breathing heavily and shouting, "She's here! She's—she's here."

"Who?" Lea demanded. She shot up, one hand dropping to her sword. Her pulse thrummed in her ears. She could mean any number of people, but from his tone, Lea doubted it was anyone friendly.

Alidoro pulled his cowl over his mouth and rose. "Breathe, Hugo. Tell us what happened, calmly this time."

Hugo gulped down a few breaths before steadying himself. "Véronique. I don't know how she found out, but she's headed right for us."

Lea was out the door before he finished his sentence. Stalkers blindly poking around the swamp were an issue, but one that could be dealt with by lying low. Véronique was a different story. If she were here herself, especially with the injury Lea had granted her, then she knew without a shadow of a doubt that they were here. The question of how hung heavily on Lea's mind, but confronting Véronique before she harmed anyone was the more urgent matter.

"Lea," Alidoro called out after her. "Lea, wait." He fell into step beside her, but she did not slow. "Let me speak with her."

"Why? We know what she wants. I intend to give it to her."

He grunted as he dodged someone carrying an armful of cloth. "We can't be certain. If she were coming here to kill you, she would bring as many Sweepers as she could, yes? Hugo said there was only one other Stalker with her."

"Then she's a fool as I was at Venigni Works," Lea spat. "I won't make that mistake again, nor will I gamble these people's lives on Véronique's whims. She's my problem, and I'm going to solve it today."

Tense silence prevailed for a beat. Alidoro sighed and said, "Fine, but let's do this the right way."

He broke off from the main path, veering into a side corridor. The path darkened and narrowed as they moved farther from camp. Between the lack of lamps embedded in the walls and low, rough ceiling, it was clear this was not a tunnel hewn by miners, but a natural formation of the caves. Alidoro did not waver, however, and squeezed through with practiced ease. Eventually, they emerged into a wide ravine half-filled with trash.

Alidoro pointed toward a passage leading north toward the city. "They'll arrive through there in a few minutes if they keep the pace they're on," he whispered. They had to keep their voices down, as stone could carry careless noises further than intended.

"We'll split up, one to each side," she murmured back. "I'll take Véronique, you handle the other."

He nodded and drew his blade, a finely crafted bit of steel that Lea made no secret of admiring. Under different circumstances, she would have loved to compare it to her own favored weapon. Lea mirrored his draw and positioned herself on one side of the gap. Alidoro flattened himself against the opposite wall.

An uneasy minute passed, then another. A bead of sweat slipped down Lea's brow, trapped as she was between the morning sun and the radiating heat of the nearby garbage pile. Whatever had been tossed in the ravine must have, at one point, been alive. The stench of ripe, rotting decay pervaded the area and threatened to overwhelm all of her senses. She leaned her forehead against the rock to steady the rising nausea and focus on the tunnel instead.

The scuffle of boots echoed through the gully. Two sets of steps composed an arrhythmic beat, a confirmation of Hugo's account. Véronique had only brought a single Stalker as backup. She was either far too arrogant for her own good or suicidal. Or, the more troubling answer, Lea was missing something.

One of the sets of steps slowed, and a paper rustled. "Donkey's note says it should be just up ahead." It was a young girl's voice, definitely not Véronique but still strangely familiar. "At least, I think. Does this look like that rock to you?"

Lea's eyes widened. Véronique hadn't brought just any other Stalker. She'd brought Frog, the girl from the park and the factory. Lea ran through the possibilities in her head. It could be a ploy meant to trip her up. Véronique knew Lea wouldn't kill a young woman without cause and likely not even then. But for all her flaws, Véronique was no coward. She wouldn't hide behind her subordinates like Lumacchio.

"We're in the right place," Véronique replied. Her voice was tight and strained, yet not with irritation. She spoke with assurance, not condescension, the way Lea might talk to her apprentices.

Lea mouthed a curse and flashed a hand sign to Alidoro: nonlethal. He cocked his head ever so slightly but complied, trading his sword for a length of wire from his belt pouch. It could be another link in a chain of costly mistakes, but Lea found she rarely regretted showing mercy. Véronique would have one more chance—one last chance—to prove that she was the woman Lea knew she could be.

The footsteps grew louder and louder until a single boot crossed the threshold. Lea motioned for Alidoro to engage, and they darted onto the path. Véronique and Frog ground to a halt, but they had noticed the ambush too late to counter it. Lea descended on Véronique, grabbing the front lip of her breastplate and twisting around her. As she spun, Lea brought her blade up to rest on the vulnerable flesh of Véronique's throat. The force of the motion carried them both backward into the shade of the tunnel.

Alidoro flung the weighted end of the wire around Frog, pinning her arms to her chest. Before he could close the gap, a row of blades sprung from Frog's left bracer with a soft click and sliced through the restraints. She tumbled out of the way and pulled free the war pick strapped to her back. In response, Alidoro reached for his sword.

"Frog!" Véronique shouted. "Stand down, we're not here to fight. We just want to talk."

Though obscured by her mask, Frog's conflict was apparent. Her grip loosened, then tightened, and loosened again. Uncertainty of whether to obey Véronique or come to her rescue arrested her. Eventually, she relaxed her stance, though she rested her pick against her elbow rather than return it to her back.

Lea did not release her captive, though she became aware of several things in quick succession. First, Véronique's arm hung uselessly in a sling wrapped around her neck. Four days wasn't enough time to heal a break, but she hadn't made any attempts to obfuscate its severity. Second, her ridiculous hammer was absent. Not simply at rest or carried by Frog, but entirely missing. Third, that little maneuver Lea had pulled had been too easy. Even injured and surprised, Véronique should have been able to put up more of a fight. Instead, it almost seemed like she'd surrendered herself to Lea's will.

Despite those three facts, Lea was not naive enough to presume her harmless. She'd erred in that way once before, and it had cost P his privacy. That was not a mistake she cared to repeat.

"Allow me to echo your sentiment, Véronique," Lea snarled. "I should kill you."

Véronique huffed. "You should, I'd deserve it. But you're not going to for the same reason I didn't back there. You know it's not right."

"Right?" Lea pressed the blade until red pinpricks swelled along the steel. "You mean to lecture me about what's right?"

"No, I came here because," she said haltingly. "I was wrong."

The admission hung in the air like a specter. Phantasmal and diaphanous, Lea was certain it would dissolve into nothingness should she acknowledge its presence. She'd given up on hearing that phrase, or anything like it, after Véronique tried to paint the floor of Venigni Works with her innards. Now here she stood, a perfect ally, delivering herself on a silver platter. The abrupt reversal of fortunes was so preposterous that it brought a humorless smile to Lea's face.

"I ought to record that for posterity," she said, sharp and biting. "Véronique admitting her limits. Now why, pray tell, could you not have come to this conclusion five days ago when it would have saved us all a fair bit of trouble?"

"I know!" Véronique snapped, then thought better of it. She cleared her throat and centered herself, which shocked Lea nearly as much as her confession. "I know, I just—" She clicked her tongue. "My judgment becomes clouded when you're involved. I wasn't thinking straight."

"Or at all," Lea muttered. She released Véronique and pushed her forward, though she kept the tip of her blade leveled at her chest. "Why did you believe Lumacchio? You couldn't have thought he suddenly cared."

Véronique shook her head. "It wasn't just him. I asked Sweepers, people I thought I could trust that I knew had been in Zelator, and they told me the same thing. As far as I knew, it was a medical facility where the Alchemists were researching a cure to help miners."

"So what changed? Why do you believe me now?"

"After our fight, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I kept wondering, why did you even come? Showing up to that meeting was reckless and stupid—"

"Thank you," Lea interjected flatly.

"—and you're not stupid," Véronique concluded. "Everything you do has a reason, a purpose. That ambush shouldn't have worked, but it did because something about Zelator was that important to you."

She hesitated. In the pause, she hooked a hand under her mask and wrenched it free. Her short, ashy braid flopped against her shoulder, framing the angular lines of her clenched jaw. A deep scar traced a jagged arc above her right eye, terminating at its corner. Lea could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen Véronique's face. Its curves and edges were not rote to her. But she was certain that she'd never seen her stormy, sea-glass eyes so melancholic.

"I saw it, Lea," Véronique said. "I went there myself, so no one else could feed me more lies. There's not much left of the facility besides its walls, but they were there. Dozens of them, some barely human anymore, piled up inside like the Alchemists didn't think anyone would care to check."

Frog curled in on herself, hugging her weapon tight to her chest. Alidoro balled his hands into fists tight enough to hear the leather squeal in the pervasive silence.

Lea lowered her sword. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She wasn't certain to whom she was apologizing. To Véronique, for having her trust and honor so thoroughly abused. To Frog, for witnessing something so horrible so young. To the victims of the Zelator facility, for costing them their lives with her impulsivity.

Véronique's face shifted from sadness to anger in the blink of an eye. "They have to die. Those Alchemists bastards have to pay for this and everything else they've done to Krat."

"Yes," Lea said. Her grip tightened on the Rose Sword at her side. "I intend to collect on their impressive debt."

"I want to be there when you do." She flexed her fingers as though she itched to take up her hammer again. "I want to make it right."

Lea began to respond but stopped as Alidoro turned his head sharply. He resembled his mask, then, alert to some distant sound Lea hadn't heard. She knew better to doubt his instincts, especially with a host of Stalkers wandering through the swamp. If one strayed near the ravine, they'd overhear everything.

"We shouldn't stay here much longer," he said while scanning the rugged ledges above them. Then, to Véronique, he asked, "Who else knows you're here?"

"Just Donkey, but I trust him. He wouldn't sell us out to the Alchemists, no matter how much they offered. Thinks they're all wizards and mind readers."

Lea sighed. "You don't mean the one they call Mad Donkey, do you? You certainly know how to pick your allies."

Véronique cracked a grin. "I'm choosing you, aren't I?"

Lea groaned but sheathed her blade. They waited under the overhang until Alidoro signaled that it was clear, then climbed back into the tunnel connected to the cave. This trip was slower than their earlier mad dash.

Véronique grumbled as she crammed herself through the narrow rocky gaps. Her armor's bulk and rigidity called for some creative contortion. The process was further complicated by having only one arm with which to steady and propel herself through crevices. Frog trailed behind her the entire time, hands hovering around Véronique's bundled arm.

When they emerged into the Hermit's Cave, however, Véronique's sour attitude fell away. She watched the survivors flit through the wooden structures, hanging laundry and stirring pots and reapplying bandages, with a pensive sort of wistfulness.

"They're alive," she said softly.

"Some of them," Lea replied. "The ones we could save." A pang of guilt struck through her chest. They could have saved more, had that been their intention. But they hadn't gone there to end Zelator that very night, nor had they stopped to consider what might happen to the remaining patients once they'd decided to blow it up.

After a moment, Alidoro swept an arm out toward a wooden walkway. "Come, I have a private place for us to speak."

Lea hung back as Véronique and Frog followed him. At a quizzical look, she waved them on and instead went to retrieve her apprentices scattered about the settlement.

Romeo and P were easy to locate. Gemma pointed her toward the camp's water pump where she found Romeo, coat tossed to the side, filling buckets of water and hanging them in neat rows on P's arms. P seemed undisturbed by the weight, though not entirely unaffected by the situation he'd found himself in. A thin smile ghosted across Lea's lips. She remembered the awkward courting stages of Romeo and Carlo's school days. It would do P good to experience the same follies of youth.

She cleared her throat to recompose herself and call their attention. "You're needed. We have some important matters to discuss."

Romeo eased the pump handle down and wiped his brow with his sleeve. "Is everything alright? They haven't found us, have they?"

"No," Lea said quickly, then amended, "not really. It's complicated. We have…a guest."

One of his eyebrows shot up. He and P glanced at each other with a thousand unspoken questions buzzing between them. They'd certainly come a long way in a short period of time if they were already able to communicate with just a look.

She massaged the bridge of her nose. "Listen, finish your task, then meet us in our quarters. I'll explain everything once we're all together. Speaking of…" She scanned the small, mostly empty room on the off-chance that she missed someone hiding. "Where's Carlo?"

"Down below," Romeo said as he resumed his work. "He was passing out food. Do you want me to get him?"

"I will. It'll be faster. Just—" She hesitated, unsure of how she intended to finish that thought. Eventually, she settled on, "—don't make a fuss. Either of you. We need all the help we can get right now."

Romeo hummed in what Lea hoped was agreement while P, ever amenable, nodded. However, the way his shoulders shifted indicated a level of disquiet. Lea made to leave but lingered longer than strictly necessary, hoping to coax the concern from him.

"Wait!" P called out. Lea stopped and turned back to him. "You said this was important, right? Then, we can't tell Parrot."

Lea narrowed her eyes. "Parrot?" Before a few days ago, she had only known Alidoro's partner through reputation alone. As a friend of a trusted colleague, Lea had assumed him to be relatively dependable and upright. Meeting him had soured that impression like milk left out in the afternoon sun. "Is this about the other time?"

He grimaced and offered only, "Yes."

The vagueness set her teeth on edge. Imagining what could have happened, who he might have killed or sold out or worse, conjured all sorts of ghastly scenarios. She'd rather know for certain what kind of man she was dealing with, but she didn't have the desire or time to press P for details. Either way, she trusted P's judgment more than just about anyone's. If he said Parrot deserved the boot, she'd gladly deliver the kick.

"I'll see to it that he's excused," she said before leaving them to their task.

Despite the number of passageways and inlets bored into the cavern's walls, few were deep and flat enough to reside in comfortably. Fewer still laid within the perimeter granted to Alidoro by the Hermit. While some of the survivors had chosen to distance themselves from the others—Lea couldn't blame them for taking advantage of the space after the cells they'd been confined to—none had dared test that boundary.

She picked her way through most of the livable quarters with no sign of Carlo. As she began to regret not leaving this to Romeo, who surely knew exactly where he was, a sharp voice rang out through the rough-hewn hallway.

"Are you serious?" Carlo hissed.

Lea quickened her pace. Carlo had been in a foul mood since arriving in the swamp. Understandably, of course, Lea could not begrudge him one bit of his fear, frustration, anger, or anything else really. Learning about P, her knowledge of P, and the impending deaths of both himself and Romeo all within an hour's span was not something she expected anyone to shake off so easily. To cap it off, he'd been forced out of his home to sleep on the ground in a filthy swamp.

To say he had his father's temper was both unkind and untrue. He had hers. That was why she'd expected the snide remarks and the silent treatment. However unpleasant, she had resolved to bear the burden without complaint until his anger had run its course. She had lied to him—was still lying to him though he didn't know it—and would accept the consequences thereof. What she could not abide was him turning that ire onto those undeserving.

Another person said something muffled by the cave walls before Carlo continued, "Lea is the only reason you aren't rotting in a cell waiting for the Alchemists to kill you before the disease. You should be thanking her, not insulting her."

Lea stopped dead. Of all the things she'd expected, that hadn't been one. She stood in the corridor just outside the room and listened in stunned silence.

"Listen, kid," a man said. Lea didn't recognize him, but then she hadn't spoken to each survivor personally. "You might be blinded by her hero act, but I saw her after we escaped. She was about ready to keel over."

Carlo scoffed. "So, what? She gets injured saving you and you lose all faith in her ability? She's still human."

"And humans make mistakes," the man replied flippantly. "I'm not sticking 'round here so the not-so-Legendary Stalker can lead her daddy's thugs right to me. Anyone who's smart would do the same."

"How dare—"

Lea had heard enough. She marched into the room to stop Carlo from saying something he'd regret. The man—Amadeo, if she remembered correctly—clamped his wagging jaw shut faster than a sprung bear trap. Carlo tensed at the sudden shift. When he spun to face Lea, he shared a striking resemblance to his deer mask.

"Lea, I—" he began to stammer out before she cut him off.

"You're needed up above. We're discussing our next move." She flicked her gaze to Amadeo. "And you, sir, I do hope that you'll pay our gracious host a visit before you leave. Alidoro will want to know exactly why you mean to endanger the lives of every man, woman, and child here." She flashed him a tight smile. "Good day."

If Amadeo had a response, Lea did not wait to hear it. She swept back out of the room as quickly as she'd entered. Carlo scampered out behind her.

The air between them crackled with anxious agitation. Carlo kept pace a few steps behind her, but the space may as well have been as wide as the adjacent gorge. Numerous unspoken words seemed to flit around him, buzzing with a nervous energy that infected Lea too. She wondered if she should, somehow, break the silence, but did not know what to say nor how well it would be received.

Finally, mercifully, he blurted out, "I'm sorry." His tone was pleading and worried, as though he expected a scolding.

Lea exhaled. If that was all he was concerned about, she could handle it.

Without looking back, she said, "No need. Some people don't know how to be saved. It's part of the job, though I wish it weren't. You've done nothing wrong."

His footsteps came to an abrupt halt. "Yes, I have."

A wretched quiver in his voice set Lea spinning on her heels. A cascade of tears slid down his cheeks, and his breathing hitched with a sharp gasp. His arms wrapped around his midsection, curling in on himself like a frightened animal shying away from a cruel master. Lea's heart thudded in her chest.

"I said such horrible things to you," he sobbed. "I was angry and confused and I— I wasn't thinking clearly. I know I can be tiresome and tedious, and I'm sorry. But I don't want you to leave. I don't want to drive you away, too."

Lea tried to speak but found the ability had traitorously deserted her. Instead, her body spurred itself into action. Crossing the gap in two strides, she cupped his face in her hands. He jolted at the unexpected contact but warmed to the touch just as quickly. Even through her gloves, she could feel the heat of his tears and reddened cheeks. It was a strange comfort that this sign of bitter sadness provided her, but alive and crying was still leagues better than dead.

"Carlo," she said breathily. "I would never abandon you over a few well-deserved jabs. You and Romeo are more precious to me than I can express."

He sniffled and refused to meet her gaze. "You won't even speak to me."

"That's— No, I—" she spluttered. "I was giving you space and time to sort through those revelations on your own. I thought you wouldn't wish to speak with me, so I didn't impose."

"So," he asked softly. His deep brown eyes shone like polished smoky quartz. "You don't hate me?"

The hopeful longing in his voice not only tugged at Lea's heartstrings, but tore them, bloody and raw, from her chest and laid them out before her. He seemed so small, so vulnerable, like the young boy who'd first come to the Rose Estate. Back then, he'd cried so much that Lea was sure he'd run out of tears. Even after Romeo had reached out a hand, it had taken time for Carlo's personality to blossom again.

Tucking his head under her chin, she collected him into a tight hug.

"Of course not," she said. "As I said, you and Romeo are dear to me. So deeply that it frightens me, sometimes. I cannot lose you. I will not, especially not by my own hand."

Again, she did not say. She could not lose him by her own hand again. Because it had been her fault, hadn't it? She could have stopped him from going in the first place, had she been there to do so. Even when she had learned of the gathering, she'd arrived too late. Twice she'd failed him, a third time when she could not protect his beloved, but now she had another chance. She balled her hand into a fist, clutching the back of his shirt between her fingers.

"I apologize. I should have told you everything," she continued. "It was foolish and cruel to keep it from you."

Carlo shifted in her arms, and Lea realized he was shaking his head. "I understand why you did that, too," he said, slightly muffled. "Whatever P went through, it must have been awful. Every time I've asked him about it—out of morbid curiosity, I guess—he clams up. He just holds his necklace and refuses to say another word."

Without breaking the embrace, he leaned back to look at her face-to-face. A certain, nearly indescribable melancholy furrowed his brow. She didn't know exactly what thoughts raced through his mind, but she could guess. To Carlo, a future devoid of Romeo was bleaker than any other.

"You were protecting us, but you were also protecting him," he explained. "You knew revisiting those memories would be painful, so you tried to spare him from reliving a time when he had no one. Not you, or Romeo, or anyone."

Lea exhaled. It was true, in some respects. She had sworn to protect P the first time they met properly, and she hadn't meant just physically. The suffering she'd seen in him, the anguish in his every word, she'd wanted to keep that at bay for as long as possible. The more people who met him, the more questions would be asked of him, and questions often dredged up unpleasant experiences. However, the other time held unfathomable grief for her as well. No matter how much she tried to justify her decisions by saying it was to protect this person or that, she was nothing but a selfish creature in the end.

"I didn't want to overwhelm him, or you, for that matter," she said. "I thought I could put things right first, allow him time to acclimate to this Krat. Then, when circumstances were not so dire, I could broach the subject more tactfully than, well…"

"Nearly getting killed in an industrial plant?" he asked impishly. The splotchy redness had not entirely faded from his face, but a spark of his normal self had returned.

The urge to grin overtook her. "Exactly." She tucked a stray curl behind his ears, and her smile faltered. Of all her mistakes, one haunted her most. Yet it was the easiest to fix. "Carlo, you aren't troublesome or tedious or whatever other aspersions some horrid schoolmarm cast against you."

He opened his mouth—to protest, no doubt—but she pushed on. The words tumbled out her now, like someone had opened an old, cluttered cupboard in desperate need of cleaning. She didn't know why she had kept them hidden away so long. Stubbornness, perhaps, or just the fear of appearing weak and overly sentimental. But as she spoke, she found that she needed to say it just as much as he needed to hear it.

"You are bright and kind and the most wonderful apprentice I could ever hope for. Every day, I am glad that you two begged me to take you on as apprentices because you have taught me just as much as I have taught you. I would not be the woman I am today were it not for your boundless vivacity and wit. So please believe me when I say, I sincerely apologize for worrying you, for not trusting you. I would never wish to bring you harm, nor would I wish to leave you, so long as you'll have me."

Again, tears welled up in his eyes, and he buried his face in her lapel. She rubbed small circles into his back as his shoulders shook. How many times had she told him that? Had anyone told him anything similar? Not enough, never enough. She would remedy that as surely as she would end the Alchemists.

Some time later, after Carlo had dusted himself off and insisted he was fine, they arrived to a scene thick with apprehension. Véronique stood with her back to the crag, shifting her weight from one foot to the other to keep her frenetic energy in check. Across from her, Romeo and P sized her up from their seats at the table. Alidoro and Parrot split the difference, discussing something quietly against far wall.

Romeo shot up as Carlo entered the room behind Lea. Conflict flashed across his face. The desire to comfort Carlo, puffy-eyed and tear-stained, warred with the presence of unfamiliar faces. He couldn't scoop him up and hold him close the way he could at home. Another absence, another thing the Alchemists had taken.

The silent battle ended as Carlo trotted over. Placing a hand on Romeo's shoulder, he gently pulled him down to whisper in his ear. An innocuous gesture, easily written off as nothing more than a friendly touch to those who did not wish to see more. Romeo melted into the touch, his expression softening as Carlo spoke. He flashed Lea a small smile and sank back down into his chair. Carlo leaned against the table next to him.

Lea closed the door behind her. There were no locks in the Hermit's Cave, likely due to some old mining guild rules or a paranoid company owner. Either way, it was an inconvenience for such a sensitive conversation. She'd just have to hope that no one barrelled in as Hugo had that morning.

"Hugo and Frog have stepped out," Alidoro said, as though he'd read her mind. "I thought she might like to see the caves and meet some of our guests."

"Ah, good," Lea replied haltingly. "I wonder if we shouldn't have someone survey the area around the cave, or at least set a watchman, just to ensure Véronique wasn't followed without her knowledge. Perhaps…" She made a show of mulling it over. "Parrot, you know the swamp, and you're the only one here who won't be recognized on sight."

He threw up his arms with a groan. "Volunteering me, are you? Very heroic."

"Lea is right, my friend," Alidoro agreed. "We would not want to be caught off guard should the situation change up above."

Parrot huffed. "Well, I suppose I do prefer trudging through the swamp to playing nanny," he drawled, tipping his head at the trio of boys.

Romeo, unimpressed, simply quirked an eyebrow at the attempted provocation. Carlo met Parrot's look with a nasty one of his own and waited until his back was turned to flash a crude gesture that Lea could not disagree with. P, as always, sat quiet and abstruse behind the emblazoned butterfly. An uncharacteristically icy animosity radiated from him as Parrot sauntered out of room, shutting the door with a bang. Lea suppressed a shiver and made a mental note to ask him just what the hell Parrot had done at a later date.

Lea returned her attention to the entire group assembled and the matter at hand. There would be no simple explanation for any of this, nor any way to soften the blow. She clasped her hands behind her back.

"I assume you all have questions," she said.

"Why are we allying ourselves with the woman who tried to kill you five days ago?" Romeo asked. Sharp as ever, he hit straight to the core of the issue.

"And who didn't even succeed with four of her own people and a small army of Bastards," Carlo added. He was back to himself, it seemed. Lea was glad of that, despite his acerbic tongue.

Véronique made a surly face. "I was supposed to have more, but those damn Rabbits never showed. And clearly, that number was insufficient considering…" She waved her hand in Lea's direction.

"Right," Lea said tartly. "To answer your question, Véronique has had a change of heart after some reflection." Carlo and Romeo both gave her incredulous looks, but she pressed on. "I understand your hesitation, but I ask that you keep an open mind. It takes a tremendous amount of bravery to admit one's faults, and greater fortitude still to right those wrongs."

Carlo softened. Their recent conversation might have put him in a forgiving mood, but he had also witnessed Véronique's strange behavior at the control tower. She'd had the opportunity to attack—however poorly that would have gone for her—but let them go instead. He'd seen her uncertainty, even before she'd had proof of Lumacchio's lies.

Romeo, however, did not waver. He fixed Véronique with a deathly glare and spat, "Fine, but if you ever try something like what happened at Venigni Works again…" He didn't need to finish his thought to convey the implicit threat.

Véronique chuckled mirthlessly. "I doubt I could even if I wanted to. The Sweepers are fractured. Have been for a while, but I didn't want to admit it." She thrust a thumb behind her. "Half the people in that trash heap out there? They're reporting to Lumacchio or one Alchemists or another, it's hard to keep it all straight."

Lea cursed under her breath. The Sweepers of her time had been a mess, it was true, but she'd hoped that Véronique would still have a handle on everyone this far back. The allure of an entire organization at her back, rather than against her, was the only reason she'd walked into that trap in the first place.

"There's no one you can trust? No factions within the Sweepers would oppose the Alchemists?" she asked. Even without the full might of the Tower, a few highly-skilled individuals could make all the difference.

Véronique stared at her, an unreadable expression darkening her features. "Honorable Stalkers are a dying breed, Lea. For most of them, it's not about protecting Krat anymore. It's about lining their pockets."

She clenched her free fist and set her jaw. There was a somberness to her demeanor, like she was delivering the eulogy of a friend. Perhaps, in a way, she was. The Sweepers were Véronique's entire life, and she believed in their creed wholeheartedly. Even as the organization's core rotted out from underneath her, she held firm in her desire to protect the city.

"I trust Frog, but she's just a kid. Donkey, I suppose, when he's not spouting nonsense. A few others, so long as they aren't just better at hiding their own crooked business." She shook her head. "But I thought I could rely on those who had seen Zelator, too. The Sweepers are compromised."

Lea sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I understand. We'll need to alter our plan, then."

"Which is what exactly?" Carlo piped up. "What is our plan?"

"I second that," Véronique said. "I'd also like to know where this sudden urgency came from. It's been years since you split from the Monad family, so why now?"

"I lacked the knowledge and means to face them before," Lea explained. "I knew that they were dangerous, that whatever they were researching was not the cure they claimed it to be, but I had neither proof nor support. Now I have both, and this threat cannot be ignored."

She inhaled sharply. There was no going back now.

"They will unleash the Petrification Disease and those creatures we saw in Zelator onto Krat unless we strike at their heart first. We raid the Isle, excise Simon Manus and his followers, and destroy their accursed relic before any further harm is done. That is the plan. It's the only one that gives this city a fighting chance."

Alidoro crossed his arms but remained silent and contemplative. Véronique raised a questioning eyebrow.

"How the hell do you know all that?" she asked incredulously. "I can't even get the time of day out of an Alchemist half the time, let alone their secret plots for world domination. And I doubt they had this scheme conveniently laid out for anyone to find."

Lea grimaced. She had been dreading this question and its subsequent answer. Outlandish claims about events that had yet to play out in this time warranted evidence if anyone were to believe them. She understood this, yet her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. Carlo and Romeo's stares felt hot and abrading. She'd only just made peace with Carlo; she had no desire to lose their trust again so soon.

"It's happened before," P said, rising from his chair. He and Carlo flanked Romeo, who looked up at him in either surprise or alarm or both.

Véronique narrowed her eyes. "What does that mean? And who are you, anyway? You were at the factory too, but I've never seen that mask before."

P took a few tentative steps forward. His movements and bearing outside of combat were always so meek compared to his confident, graceful strokes and parries. It was a sign of the dire life he'd lived, but not one Lea was entirely unfamiliar with. Talking had never been her strong suit. Lea placed a reassuring hand between his shoulder blades and inclined her head toward his.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I cannot guarantee they'll react as favorably as Romeo and Carlo." She tried to keep the worry from her voice but was not certain she had succeeded.

P nodded. "I'm sure, but maybe you should…"

A strange sense of relief washed over her, chased promptly by utter shame. Coward, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered. She'd had the chance to confess that she, too, was from the same horrible future as P twice now. Both times she'd hidden behind the boy she'd sworn to protect. It was craven, she knew, but she could not speak of that world or the awful things she had witnessed there. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

She slid her hand to squeeze P's shoulder. If she could not speak herself, she would, at least, offer him her total support.

"This is P," she said slowly. "I know this will be difficult to believe, but he's from the future. A version of our future in which the Alchemists have already carried out their vision. He traveled back here to prevent that from happening."

The room fell so deathly silent that Lea could hear the dull, echoing clang of someone dropping a metal pot elsewhere in the chasm. She swallowed hard and wondered if, perhaps, this was too far for her burgeoning alliance.

Véronique laughed dryly, then sobered in an instant. "Sorry, what?"

"I can prove it," P chirped.

"How?" she retorted. "Going to tell me something I've never told anyone else?"

"Yes," he said frankly, as if carrying on the most normal conversation in the world. "The inside of your mask is carved with initials. The last one is V, for you. The one before it is D, and the first is M." He cast his eyes down. "I saw them after you died trying to bring down Zelator. We got the idea to flood the facility with coolant from you. It would have been a good plan, if you hadn't been betrayed."

Véronique recoiled like she'd been slapped. Still reeling, she managed to get out a puzzled, "How the fuck—" but P had already moved on.

"Alidoro, I— I don't want to say it out loud because I know how precious it is to you. But the Workshop Tower—"

"That's enough," Alidoro snapped, cold and cutting. It was the farthest cry from his usual serene and friendly demeanor Lea had ever seen. "I believe you."

"But that's crazy!" Véronique shouted. "That's not possible! How the hell would that even work?"

"Ergo," Alidoro said with dawning realization. "It's been known to exhibit properties relating to temporal manipulation, but nothing to this scale. It would require an unprecedented amount to even attempt."

"That, and a specific, powerful intention," Lea said with a shrug. "In this case, the intention to protect Carlo and Romeo."

"Hold on," Véronique said. "Even if I buy into the ludicrous idea of traveling through time, why would someone do it to save your apprentices? Unless…" Her eyes widened. "Unless he is one of them."

P shifted under Lea's grasp. She cleared her throat to draw Véronique's attention back to her and said, "Not exactly, but you're not too far off. P is special, unique."

He slid the mask off his face, tucking it under his arm for safekeeping. Catching Lea's gaze for just a moment, he gave her a small smile as if she were the one needing reassurance.

Véronique recoiled again, making a guttural noise of some indeterminate emotion.

"A large amount of Ergo, a strong resemblance to Carlo, and the fact that you walked away from Zelator with those injuries," Alidoro said. "You're a puppet, aren't you?"

"Yes," Lea said. "Geppetto created him to fill the void left when Carlo succumbed to the Petrification Disease."

She kept her gaze firmly fixed in front of her. Cold, creeping dread trickled down her spine like condensation dripping from stalactites in a cavern deep underground. Her breathing hitched, and she coughed into her glove. The memories threatened to drown her in sorrow, but she could not let them.

"Carlo's death was just the beginning," P said. "The Rose Estate, the cathedral, the entire city… the Alchemists infected them all. People tried to quarantine, but it didn't help much. The Alchemists had—" He stopped himself and shook his head. "They will have an amplifier of sorts, but not yet."

"So we need to attack now," Lea concluded. "They're more vulnerable now than they have been or will be. It's a golden opportunity."

Alidoro hummed thoughtfully. "More vulnerable does not mean they will make for easy prey. The Isle is still shrouded in mystery and likely to be heavily guarded."

"One of those problems is already solved," Lea said. "P has been there himself. Though the way I understand it, the Order's ranks had thinned considerably by the time he arrived. Due to their own reckless machinations, no doubt. Regardless, yes, their fortifications and manpower are concerns. I had hoped Véronique's Sweepers could provide reinforcements, but that plan is shot."

Véronique blinked rapidly, awoken from a daze by the sound of her name. "Yes? I mean no, the Sweepers can't help. I wouldn't trust most of them not to put a knife in your back while you're fighting an Alchemist, if they thought it would benefit them." She thought for a moment, then said, "Some noble houses employ external mercenary forces. They could be of use."

Lea clicked her tongue. "I considered that as well, but my current situation does not lend itself to begging aristocratic aide."

"You just need to clear your name, then," Romeo said. He and Carlo had been so quiet that Lea had almost forgotten them behind her, watching and waiting. "We can prove you didn't kidnap Carlo, at least."

"It's not a bad thought," Lea acquiesced. "Though I doubt anyone will take Carlo's word for it."

He glanced up at Carlo who shot him a curious look. "I wasn't talking about him," Romeo admitted.

"Wh—" Realization dawned on Carlo's face, accompanied by horror. He pushed off the table to stand over Romeo. "No! Romeo, he won't help us. He's far more likely to make everything worse."

"He's your father," Romeo said. He sat forward like he meant to take Carlo's hands, then thought better of it. "More importantly, he's the head of the Workshop Union. A statement from him would go much further than anything we could do on our own."

Lea clenched her jaw. She had as much affection for Geppetto as he had for her, which was to say absolutely none at all. His treatment of Carlo was irresponsible at best and downright contemptible most other times. Any father who denigrated his son's every scrap of happiness, each one clawed from utter despair, wasn't worth the fish it took to feed him. But this wasn't about Lea's personal gripes with Geppetto's parenting, or lack thereof. It was about Krat's survival.

"I agree," she said. "He doesn't have an army, but Geppetto could easily exonerate me of at least one accusation. That could, in turn, throw doubt on the others. I think it's worth speaking to him."

Carlo stared at her with large, baleful eyes. She almost called it off, would have, had P not become strangely rigid beside her. He muttered something too quiet to hear, and Lea prompted him to speak up.

"That's not true," he said again, louder this time but with a tremor in his timbre. "What you said, it's not true. Geppetto does have an army."

Whatever warmth existed in the air seemed to leach away into the stone, leaving nothing but an ominous chill. The cold seeped into Lea and froze her blood in her veins.

Lea pivoted to hold both his shoulders. "What do you mean? What army?"

P shied away from her gaze, focusing instead on the cave floor. "The puppets—" he began, but Véronique interjected.

"—are bound by the Grand Covenant. They can't harm anyone unless they've gone rogue, and rogue puppets don't take orders from anyone."

P shook his head. "The Covenant binds them, but there's a way to override the other commands. Law Zero: Puppets must obey their creator, Giuseppe Geppetto."

Lea's pulse thundered in her ears. That wasn't an override. It was a kill switch. An image coalesced from the shadows of her mind. A thousand Arlecchinos, blades keen and cutting, prepared to strike at the command of a petty, vindictive man.

"But," Romeo said. "That would mean he put troops on every street corner, in every house and business. Everywhere there's people, there are puppets."

P nodded.

"Merciful Angel," Lea breathed as Carlo said, "I need to sit down."

Romeo was at his side in an instant, guiding him into another chair by his elbow. He muttered something Carlo must not have liked because Carlo shook his head vigorously and grabbed Romeo's wrist. Between the shock and the cave's dim light, his skin took on a sickly, ashy pallor.

Lea's mouth felt dry as sun-baked sand. "Did he use them? Against the Alchemists?"

P still refused to meet her eyes but nodded again. "The puppets tried to fight back the corruption, but it had spread too far by then."

"Right," she said, somewhat distantly. Thoughts zipped through her mind so quickly she barely had time to register them all. There were still so many things she did not know, so many secrets buried in time. She could not allow herself to become mired in the mud of doubt and indecision. "Alright, we can work with that."

"What?" Véronique spat. "You can't be serious. We should be putting him in prison, not working with him."

"I don't disagree, but think about it." She released P's shoulders to address the room at large. "Geppetto commands an army resistant to the Petrification Disease, ill-gotten as it is. If we manage to persuade him, we could put this matter to bed in a number of days, rather than months."

"He won't help," Carlo moaned. "He hates you."

"I know," she said. That much was obvious with every nasty look he'd ever given her over the rim of his monocle. "I am hoping he can look beyond himself, for once, to see the greater good. If that doesn't work, then perhaps you could appeal to him as his son. Though I would understand if you wish to remain here."

Carlo stared at her. Dark circles rimmed his eyes from sleeping on the stone floor, and it still seemed as though he might be sick at any moment. "Fine, I'll do it," he relented but added, "For Krat, not him."

Lea breathed a small sigh of relief. "That's all I ask, Carlo, thank you. We'll lead with you explaining what happened at Venigni Works to gauge his amenability, then propose the simple favor of clearing my name. If that goes well, we ask for an army, I suppose."

The plan sounded ridiculous even to her ears, but what choice did they have? Geppetto had what they needed, whether that was social capital or loyal soldiers. It would shred what little pride she had left in her body into ribbons to beg for his aide, but she would do it if it meant Carlo and Romeo and all of Krat survived.

"How are you planning to arrange this conversation?" Alidoro asked. "You cannot simply walk into the Workshop Tower as things stand."

Lea glanced over at Véronique. "The head of the Sweepers may have some ideas about that."

Véronique huffed. "That's the easiest part of this whole insane scheme. Give me a few days and I can sneak you in through the sewer tunnels, if you're still set on it by then."

Carlo groaned and flopped onto the table, face buried in his arms. Lea would have joined him at the thought of tramping through waste water, but she refused to give Véronique the satisfaction. She opened her mouth to respond, but a gentle knock at the door stopped her.

"Excuse me, sir," a woman said. If Lea's memory served her, it was Noémie, the woman who had taken to guiding Gemma around the treacherous landscape. "I was wondering if you had any clean bandages."

"Just a moment," Alidoro called back, then addressed the room, "My apologies, I have matters I must attend."

Véronique shifted her weight to her other foot. "I think we're done here anyway. I can't linger for too much longer or people will start to wonder where I am."

"Then we reconvene in a few days' time," Lea said with a clap of her hands. "One last thing, Véronique. If you betray us—"

"Yes, yes," she interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. "You've made your point. I wouldn't dream of it, milady."

Lea rolled her eyes and watched the small group disperse. Véronique was incorrigible, yet the thought of working alongside her tugged at the corners of Lea's lips. The woman she'd met in Zelator, the foolishly honorable and selfless one, was still there, though the price paid to draw her out weighed heavily on Lea's mind.

With the room clear of any stragglers, Romeo pressed his lips to Carlo's forehead. Carlo flushed and glanced around before pulling him into a more proper kiss. A strange ache nestled in Lea's chest which compelled her to look away from the intimate scene. They deserved a bit of privacy after the past few days, but more than that, they deserved to live unafraid of impending death.

No more, Lea told herself. No more victims. No more experiments. No more scrounging in the dark for any scrap of information they might use against the Alchemists. They had allies now, with more hopefully on the way. She felt hopeful and light in a way she hadn't since she'd first spoken to P in the clock tower, like all possibilities were unfolding before her.

She returned to the wooden overhang and grasped the railing. Staring into the void, she began to parse through iterations of conversation, determining how best to convince a man who hated her to save his own son.

Chapter Text

Three tense days passed before Véronique returned to the cave with supplies and a plan.

Frog followed in her shadow as always, toting a large bundle on her back alongside her war pick. She hovered fretfully around Véronique's broken arm as they made their way through the tunnels. Véronique tolerated the fussing with minimal exasperation, though she pointed out more than once that she was hardly helpless; she had a one-handed mace strapped to her belt and a functioning arm to swing it with.

Véronique, P decided, reminded him of Lea. After a moment of thought, he also decided that this was a revelation best kept to himself.

The plan, Véronique explained to them as Frog to emptied her bag's contents onto the table, was simple. Unused Stalker masks weren't particularly difficult to come by. Stalkers often switched their animal as a rite of passage from apprenticeship, not to mention the number of Stalkers that died and left their masks behind. The Leader of the Sweepers walking into the Tower with an entourage was hardly unusual, especially with a search operation this large underway; no one would bother checking who was under which mask.

"There was an earwig mask I could have given you," Véronique informed Lea as she shoved a reddish mask in the shape of a wolf across the table. "But I doubt someone of your caliber could pass off as a rookie, even if you tried." Her lips twitched as she added, "As much as I'd like to see someone mistake you for an intern and ask you to fetch their coffee for them."

Lea grimaced, picking up the wolf mask. "I could fetch their coffee," she muttered as she fiddled with the straps, "as long as they were amenable to wearing it after."

"The butterfly mask wasn't mentioned in any of our search orders," Véronique continued. "So P will be fine. But for you two—"

She gestured to Frog, who held out two masks: black with an ominous beak and gleaming goggle-like eyes, and off-white with soft wool and prominent stitching.

"Is it a lamb?" Carlo asked, taking the white one and examining it. His eyes sparkled. "It's sort of cute."

Romeo didn't reply, but his wrinkled nose spoke volumes. He seemed, to P's eyes, somewhat relieved to be assigned the crow by Carlo's flight of fancy.

(Privately, P agreed wtih Carlo. The mask was cute, in a ghoulish sort of way.)

Véronique finished off their temporary disguises with standard-issue Sweeper coats. Frog cheerfully suggested they splatter them with swamp mud to "sell the illusion." Carlo cheerfully told her to jump in the chasm. Véronique, less cheerfully, told them to stop chattering and start moving.

Véronique led them to a large drainage pipe, which was gurgling a steady stream of grimy water into the swamp below through a rusty grate. This, Véronique explained as Frog pried the grate open using her war pick, would lead them directly to the main drainage line—the central artery connecting all the winding paths of Krat's sewer system.

"If you know the sewers, you can get anywhere in Krat," Véronique said solemnly as she handed them headlamps for the dark journey ahead. "Anywhere."

Krat's sewers were a reflection of the city above them. Weathered stone and burnished metal, crumbling brickwork shored up with steel, all the city's filth funneled underground where the people didn't have to look at it. The distant noises echoing through the tunnels could be anything from people to rats to maintenance puppets.

Véronique navigated the dark, confined mirror of Krat's streets like she'd lived there all her life. Her headlamp almost seemed like an afterthought, more for her entourage's benefit than her own. Frog followed close on her heels, at ease with her surroundings even if she couldn't match the effortless confidence of her leader.

P walked a comfortable few steps behind them. He was no stranger to utilizing whatever path forward was the least difficult or dangerous in his own Krat, and sometimes that had been the remnants of the sewer system. Intact like this, the system was almost elegant despite its smell, like bile ducts filtering the waste from the living body around it. He didn't know the layout like Véronique did, but it was a familiar enough experience.

It was not, however, a familiar experience for everyone.

"Oh, no. Oh, I just stepped in something," Carlo said fretfully. He'd been chattering off and on throughout the whole journey, anxious to fill the silence as they got closer to the Tower.

P, appreciative of the distraction from their destination and the person they'd meet there, was happy to indulge Carlo's wandering thoughts. This particular thought was perhaps less sophisticated than his reflections on the sewer ecosystem or the long series of questions about the Ergo wavelength decoder from P's far-off future, but it was a distraction nonetheless; he hummed to let Carlo know he was listening.

"It's squishy!" Carlo's voice pitched with drama now that he knew he had an audience. "It's sticking to my—augh! What is that?!"

"I can take a guess," Romeo offered.

"No, I changed my mind," Carlo said quickly. "I don't want to know."

"Considering where we are, I'm going to say it's probably—"

"I said I don't want to know!"

"Boys," Lea sighed.

P stopped, turning to watch the bobbing lights of their headlamps with a feeling he could now confidently identify as amusement. Ahead of him, Véronique splashed to a halt as well. "You and your boys aren't so used to this part of Sweeper life, huh, Princess?" she called over her shoulder.

Carlo's wheezy whisper of "princess?" was almost entirely drowned out by Lea's irritated, "Don't call me that."

"Well, you don't seem to appreciate Legendary Stalker much, either," Véronique said. The edge to her voice was either playful or spiteful. P couldn't decide which. "So Princess it is."

"You could use my name."

"You could try keeping up." Véronique shrugged her good shoulder and continued her confident stride down the tunnel. "We can't always get what we want."

Lea clicked her tongue in annoyance. P could hear Carlo stifling a laugh behind her.

"In any case," Véronique continued, "don't worry your delicate little heads too much. The storm sewers are the only ones big enough to walk through." She stopped at a junction and gestured Frog over with her head. "Doesn't mean you won't step in anything unpleasant, but it's more watered down, at least."

"You just need to watch out for the ball," Frog added gravely, leaning in to examine whatever Véronique was pointing at.

It was some kind of symbol, P noted. A circle with an arrow slashed through it, etched deeply into the stone wall of the tunnel.

"Um…" Frog hesitated. "…go this way?" She pointed in the direction of the arrow.

"No," Véronique corrected. Her tone was firm, but it was also patient in a way P hadn't expected. "The line of the arrow is going through the circle."

"Oh!" Frog glanced over her shoulder at her audience, seeming a little embarrassed. "So there's nothing that way, and we should go left."

"There you go." Véronique patted her shoulder. "Not the worst mistake to make. It's a dead end, nothing dangerous, so the worst you'd need to do is turn around."

Frog nodded quickly. P studied the symbol again, committing its shape and meaning to memory.

"What's the ball?" Carlo asked as the group sloshed down the leftward tunnel.

Véronique barked a laugh. "Ever wonder how they clean these things out when they get backed up?"

"Well, based on context, I'm guessing they use the ball," Carlo said flatly. "But what is the ball?"

"Not always the ball," Frog jumped in. "There are muckraker puppets that usually keep things moving. But if it's really bad…" She spread her arms out in a wide gesture. "There's this big metal ball they roll through everything."

"It moves surprisingly quickly," Véronique added. She tapped Frog on the shoulder and gestured to another symbol; at Frog's murmured reply, Véronique gave an approving nod and kept moving. "If it catches a person off guard, the consequences aren't pretty."

"You sound far too pleased about that," Lea put in.

"What can I say?" Véronique said. "The sewers are Sweeper turf. Anyone who doesn't know their way around shouldn't be down here alone."

"Should we be… worried?" Romeo asked tentatively. "About the ball?"

"Hm?" Frog peeked over her shoulder, headlamp momentarily blinding P. "Oh! No." She kicked some of the ankle-deep muck at Romeo and Carlo, the latter of whom shrieked and ducked. "There's water, see? If there was a backup, it'd be dryer."

"Thanks for the demonstration," Carlo said sourly, still hunched behind Romeo.

Véronique let out an approving hum. "And?" she prompted Frog.

"And… they only fit in the larger tunnels," Frog continued, more to Véronique than Romeo. "So if you think there's a backup, you can take a side tunnel to be safe." She paused, then added, "Best not to be right next to the main line, though. It splashes."

"That it does," Véronique said with a chuckle. "Good memory."

Frog perked up proudly. She trotted ahead to the next symbol. "Oh!" she said as she studied its shape. "We're near the Union exit." Her fingers followed the lines of a lopsided diamond with an X in its center.

"Hear that? We're almost there, Princess," Véronique said to Lea. "You and your fancy boots won't need to suffer much longer."

"They're not—" Lea started hotly before she cut herself off. "…That's good to hear," she finished, much more stiffly. "Lead the way. And stop calling me that."

"Your wish is my command, Lady Monad."

"Don't you dare—"

Véronique laughed. "See, Princess isn't so bad now, is it?"

Lea made a strangled noise of what P thought was frustration but could have also been embarrassment. With everyone's masks on, it was impossible to study her expression.

"Are they flirting?" Carlo muttered to Romeo, barely audible to even P's sharp senses. "It sounds like they're flirting."

"Shh," Romeo hushed him, though the badly-contained amusement in his voice undermined the intent.

"Whatever you're talking about back there," Lea said sharply, "stop."

"Yes, Lea," Carlo and Romeo chorused.

P was still stuck on the flirting comment. He glanced thoughtfully between Lea, whose shoulders were curling up towards her ears, and Véronique, whose gait had a confident, almost smug sway to it. His brow furrowed.

"And you," Lea interrupted his thoughts, jabbing him in the shoulder with her finger. "You stop, too."

"He's not even doing anything," Carlo chimed in. "P, were you doing anything?"

"No," P replied dutifully. The amusement was back, fizzy and light, as he watched Romeo's shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

"See?" Carlo latched onto P's back, hooking his chin over a shoulder. The lamb shape of his borrowed mask had more of a menacing air than anything owing to its rough construction, but the big eyes and soft coloring were at least attempting to look innocent. "He's not doing anything!"

"You're a bad influence on him," Lea said with a shake of her head. Her tone didn't quite match her words, sounding fond despite her exasperation.

"Am not." Carlo's grip flexed on P's shoulders, and he continued thoughtfully, "Hey, do you think you could carry me—"

"You have two functioning legs," Lea interrupted. "You can walk."

"He could carry you," Romeo muttered, almost to himself. "Maybe one-handed."

As Carlo released P with a laugh and splashed back to Romeo's side, P wondered if he was imagining the flustered tone in Romeo's voice.

The light mood fizzled more and more as they crossed the last short distant to the Workshop Union, and it died entirely when Véronique stopped them beneath a manhole ladder.

"This will spit us out on the street that leads to the Arch Ironworks loading docks," Véronique said. Her biting tone from earlier, whether it was spite or playfulness or neither, had vanished along with the group's levity. This wasn't Véronique, who had called Lea princess and laughed at Carlo's antics; this was the Blue Sheep, Leader of the Sweepers, and she was here on business. "No one should question you as long as you stay close to me and don't make a scene, but let's not linger in the open regardless."

"Don't worry," Carlo told her. "We'll wait to make a scene until we're inside and you're out of the blast radius."

Véronique, unoffended, snorted in response. "Make sure any property damage is Geppetto's fault, not yours."

"No one's damaging any property," Romeo said, a little nervously. "We're just going to talk."

"That's more up to him than us," Carlo muttered. Lea hummed like she didn't quite disagree. P remained silent, unease squirming like a mass of eels right below his heart.

"If you're ready to move," Véronique said, turning to the manhole ladder, "let's move."

With Frog's help, Véronique made climbing a ladder with one working arm look remarkably easy. Her professional demeanor only intensified as they crawled out of the manhole and onto the street, nodding sharply at a curious onlooker like the Leader of the Sweepers wiggling one-armed from a hole in the ground was an everyday occurrence. The onlooker nodded back and looked away, so perhaps it was.

"This is where I leave you," Véronique told them quietly as she led them to the main entrance of the Tower. "I have work to do and appearances to keep up. Just keep climbing the stairs until you find a lift. That's where his office is." She hesitated, expression inscrutable as she studied them from beneath her mask. "…Be careful."

"We will." Lea nodded. "Thank you, Véronique. For everything."

"Save it," Véronique scoffed. "I still think this is insane. But if anyone could make it work…"

Lea's face was hidden beneath the Red Wolf's visage, but P could almost hear the wry smile in her voice as she replied, "I certainly hope so."

Véronique and Frog disappeared into the chaotic buzz of activity in the Stalker wing of the bottom floor. Beside P, Carlo inhaled, deep and uneasy.

"Well," Carlo said, voice wobbling. "Let's get this over with."

"Carlo…" Romeo started quietly.

"It's fine!" Carlo said, too loudly. Lowering his voice, he repeated, "I'm fine. Let's just…" He jerked his head towards the stairway access door.

P caught the subtle motion of Romeo reaching for Carlo's hand to link their pinkies together. It was over in an instant, quick enough to have been an accidental brushing of hands to a casual observer, but the touch leached some of the tension from Carlo's shoulders as they started up the stairs.

"It's going to be alright," Romeo murmured. His face tilted towards P as well when he continued, "You'll see."

P lost count of how many flights they climbed, mind and body buzzing with anxiety as they approached Geppetto's office. The floors for each company's research and development laboratories flickered by, barely acknowledged. Arch Ironworks. Venigni Works. Belford Superior Workshop. LADA Puppet Parts. Technicians murmured and tinkered at glistening metal work stations as supervisors watched from glass-paned offices, whole and alive.

P wondered which floor Eugénie had been on when the tower collapsed. He wondered if any of these people had been her friends. He wondered if anyone had ever found their bodies.

Beside P, Lea took deep, steadying breaths, seeming a little winded by the countless winding flights. By contrast, the exertion of climbing so many stairs didn't seem to dissipate any of Carlo's nervous energy. By the time they reached the landing with a door labeled President's Office, any tension Romeo had managed to dispel in him had crashed back into his body tenfold.

Hesitant, clumsy, P pressed their shoulders together for the moment it took Lea to open the door. Carlo let out a shuddering breath and leaned back.

The room containing the lift to Geppetto's office was almost entirely empty. A single puppet stood sentinel, eerily still until it caught movement in the doorway; when it jerked to life, Lea's shoulders jumped.

"Welcome to the office of the Workshop Union President," it recited in a toneless, mechanical voice. "The President's office hours are not listed at this time. For urgent matters, please report to the Stalker Headquarters on the first floor."

"Can't you tell him we're here?" Carlo asked the puppet, voice high with anxiety. "It's important."

"The Workshop Union President is available by appointment only," the puppet at the lift droned. "Please leave your full name and the purpose of your visit. The President will—"

"Oh, for the love of…" Carlo wrenched his mask off. "Father—" he started to say.

The puppet went rigid at the sight of Carlo's bare face. "Sir Carlo," it tittered, monotone shifting to something much more accommodating. "The son of the Workshop Union President is always welcome. Sir Carlo and guests, please proceed to the President's office at your leisure." It took a mechanical step to the side, gesturing to the lift entrance with a welcoming hand.

Carlo paused, mouth still open. Always welcome, his lips formed soundlessly, a tumultuous mix of emotions flickering across his face. He'd needed the same directions as everyone else to find the office lift, P thought with a pang. Was it a welcome if it was never extended? At the hotel, had P ever felt welcome in Geppetto's office, regardless of the open door?

"Well," Romeo said, somewhat awkwardly. The puppet stood unmoving, its welcoming gesture at odds with its unsmiling face. Romeo glanced away from it after a few uncomfortable moments. "Shall we, then?"

Carlo's mouth snapped shut. He nodded.

As P climbed into the lift, he studied the tight lines of Carlo's face. Geppetto had always kept a careful distance from P, and after the Abbey, P had assumed it was simply due to his nature; he wasn't Carlo, just the eggshell around Carlo's growing heart, and he would be shattered just as surely when it was time for Carlo to emerge. But the gulf between Carlo and Geppetto seemed just as wide as the one that had yawned in front of P.

Perhaps it should have been a comfort that Geppetto was just as unreachable to his real son as he had ever been to P. All it did was ache.

The ascent was silent. Carlo opened his mouth to speak once or twice, hands flexing on his borrowed mask, but words seemed to have abandoned him just as thoroughly as they had P. Even Lea's comforting hand on his back did little to steady him. When the lift finally slid to a halt, Carlo's shoulders went stiff, and he faced the opening doors like a man going to battle instead of a son visiting his father.

Geppetto's office was more of an open penthouse, encompassing the entire uppermost floor of the tower. An enormous circular window filled the space with natural light, illuminating the organized chaos of the workshop below. Mobile boards covered in notes and diagrams stood over workstations full of incomplete projects. Partially-assembled puppets sprawled in work chairs similar to the one P was built in. Overflowing bookshelves lined the perimeter of the room, save for the elevated office area overlooking the workshop.

The desk in the office area was empty, as were the several chairs surrounding it. All the workstations were similarly abandoned. Geppetto had, to P's surprise and unease, come to the lift to greet them personally.

"Carlo!" Geppetto swept forward to grasp Carlo by the shoulders, grip so tight that it creaked the leather of his gloves. "You're safe! Oh, my son, I've been so worried." One gloved hand moved to Carlo's face, smoothing back his hair and cupping his freckled cheek. "Where have you been? There have been all kinds of terrible rumors. I…" His thumb brushed the soft skin beneath Carlo's eye, tender and gentle. "I feared that I would never see you again."

"Papa," Carlo said. He laid one trembling hand over Geppetto's, clutching at it like a lifeline. "I'm alright."

"Of course you are. You're such a strong boy," Geppetto said. His eyes were wet. "We've had all the Stalkers looking for…" His eyes drifted to the window, expression flickering. "Well, I should have known you'd be resourceful enough to find a way here yourself," he said instead, voice softening. "You're my son, after all."

P's chest ached. Those same hands had held his shoulders that same way all those lifetimes ago, tight and worried and warm, though the gleaming blue eyes currently fixed on Carlo's face had always drifted down to P's chest instead. Maybe Romeo was right. Maybe this would work.

Geppetto cleared his throat, gaze finally flickering to the other three people who had emerged from the lift. "And I suppose I have you to thank, as well, for my son's safe return?" he asked. He took a small step back from Carlo, hand sliding from Carlo's cheek to rest firmly on his shoulder.

Taking a deep breath, Carlo squeezed Geppetto's hand again. "Papa," he said steadily. "It's more complicated than that. I need your help, but I…" His fingers flexed nervously. "I need you to listen to me first. Alright?"

Geppetto glanced between Carlo and the three masked figures. A frown creased the lines of his face. "Carlo," he said, tense and quiet. "You're worrying me."

"Whatever they're saying about what happened at Venigni Works, it's not true," Carlo said. "At least not all of it."

Geppetto's frown deepened. "As far as I'm concerned, I know enough." His grip visibly tightened on Carlo's shoulder. "That… woman. She murdered her fellow Stalkers and dragged you into her mess." Gently, he added, "I know she must have tricked you—"

"That's not—" Carlo moved as if to shrug Geppetto's hand off, though he stilled at the last moment. "The Alchemists tried to kill her," he said, voice carefully even. "And when that didn't work, they tried to destroy her reputation instead."

"Carlo…" Geppetto's tone took on a patronizing edge. "You're such a kindhearted boy. I know you don't want to believe such things about—"

"No, I know they tried to kill her, because I was there!" Carlo raised his voice over Geppetto's. He softened it beseechingly as he added, "I need your help. We all do. The Alchemists are the enemy here, not Lea."

Geppetto's face was only closing off more the longer Carlo spoke. He studied the three of them again, this time with more suspicion. "You've brought her here," he said flatly. It wasn't a question. "And that… boy."

Lea took the opportunity to remove her mask, sliding the Red Wolf's visage away to reveal her face. Beside her, Romeo fumbled to follow suit, the Crow falling away to leave only his wide-eyed nervousness behind.

"I see." Geppetto's hand slid off Carlo's shoulder as he took a step back. His expression was just as much of a mask on his face as the Wolf and the Crow had been on Lea and Romeo's.

"Geppetto," Lea started in a carefully controlled voice. "I understand your hesitation—"

Geppetto cut her off with a sharp gesture. "This is a matter better discussed in my office," he said, already turning to walk towards the mezzanine and leaving them scrambling to follow.

As they crossed the organized chaos of Geppetto's workshop, several of his instruments lit up and and chirped, inner workings humming busily as the group approached and calming as they walked away. Geppetto spared them a glance but didn't break his stride.

Despite Geppetto's nonchalance, something about the blinking lights and whirring machinery unnerved P. The stylus on a twitching kymograph jerked and almost skidded off the drum as P walked by it, etching a stark spike pattern onto the paper. Half-built puppets followed P with their gazes, mechanical eyes rolling in hollow sockets.

The office was situated on a mezzanine by the enormous window. Thick, twisting cables leading to the tower below were visible beneath the platform, connecting to a metal workstation along the wall. The desk, a solid oaken piece covered in scattered papers and empty coffee cups, sat between the short flight of stairs and the workstation.

Geppetto, still silent, climbed the stairs and settled in his plush desk chair. He did not offer the other chairs to his guests, and upon cresting the stairs, no one dared to presume permission to sit.

"It is only my son's misplaced respect for you that is keeping me from bringing every Stalker in this tower down on your head," Geppetto said to Lea, almost conversationally. "And my generosity has its limits. You've been accused of a number of crimes, not the least of which is kidnapping my son."

"She didn't—" Carlo started, falling silent at a subtle gesture from Lea.

"You aren't wrong," Lea said. "I've been accused of many things. Some of them might even be true." Her stoic expression was unwavering. "But Carlo's safety is of utmost importance to me. I did not kidnap your son. I didn't intend to involve him at all."

"And yet here he stands," Geppetto said. "Involved."

"I involved myself, Papa," Carlo tried to cut in again. "She told me not to follow her, but I did anyway. She didn't have anything to do with—"

"And he insists on speaking on your behalf," Geppetto interrupted him, eyes still fixed on Lea. "Do you think using my son as a mouthpiece for your arguments will make me more likely to fall for them?"

"Papa, just listen to me!" Carlo pleaded.

Lea let out a long, slow breath. "It's alright, Carlo." She squared her shoulders and unflinchingly met Geppetto's disdainful gaze. "The actions I've taken against the Alchemists have been in defense of Krat and its people, and what happened at Venigni Works was their retaliation. They claim to be seeking a cure for the Petrification Disease, but I saw for myself in Zelator that it wasn't true." She set her jaw. "No scientific pursuit justifies the things they did to the people they'd imprisoned."

"I've heard that the Alchemists' early trials produced some rather gruesome side effects," Geppetto allowed. "But unfortunate missteps are part of the scientific process. To destroy a medical facility because the Alchemists have yet to cure an incurable disease is both thoughtless and unspeakable."

"Zelator wasn't—" Lea's voice sharpened with anger, though she contained it more carefully as she continued, "The Alchemists have no regard for human life. If you want thoughtless and unspeakable, you needn't look further than their experiments."

"Such accusations have been made time and again," Geppetto said dismissively. "You're simply the most prominent figure making them. In times of tragedy, people naturally seek something or someone to blame."

"They do," Lea agreed. "And since I am the most prominent figure speaking against the Alchemists, they've seen fit to paint me as that scapegoat as their corruption grows unchecked."

"The Alchemists are an eccentric group, that I cannot deny," Geppetto said as he shifted his attention to the buttons and switches of his workstation. "I wouldn't dare go so far as to say that I trust them, but to declare war on them as you have?" He shook his head. "Legendary Stalker, what is it that you hope to gain from pleading your case to me? Don't tell me you expect the Workshop Union to become involved in your little coup."

P could almost hear Lea's gritted teeth. "The Workshop Union is the only equivalent power the Alchemists have in Krat," she said. "Even a public statement that Carlo wasn't kidnapped would sow seeds of doubt against their regime. You wouldn't need to take a side. It would cost you nothing."

Geppetto's brow twitched. He turned from his workstation to level Lea with a glare. "Aiding you is taking a side unto itself. I won't be extorted for my reputation."

"Geppetto, please." A raw edge crept into Lea's voice. "I know we've had our differences, but this is bigger than either of us. Today, I come to you not as the Legendary Stalker or as Lea Florence Monad, but as a woman who cares deeply for both your son and this city. Please. Help me protect Krat." Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "Help me protect Carlo."

Genuine anger darkened Geppetto's face, making P flinch. "The only person I need to protect Carlo from is you," Geppetto said lowly. "He is only in danger because you put him there. Whatever vendetta you have against your father and the Alchemists, it has nothing to do with him!"

Carlo seized a desperate handful of Geppetto's sleeve. "You don't need to help her," he pleaded. "All you need to do is tell the truth, Papa. You know I wasn't kidnapped."

"Do I?" Geppetto demanded, wrenching his arm from his son's grip. "Unless she allows you to stay with your father where you belong, I see no reason to believe you weren't!"

Carlo stared at Geppetto, as shocked and hurt as if his father had slapped him. It resonated with the ache in P's chest.

At Carlo's expression, something like regret flickered across Geppetto's face, though he covered it with a disdainful scoff as he returned to his workstation. The motions of his hands across the buttons were jerkier now, less composed. "You take advantage of my son's good nature," he hissed. "You fill his head with lies he believes are worth risking his life for. Tell me, what greater evil have the Alchemists imparted upon me, that I should believe your word over theirs?" His flinty blue eyes darted over his shoulder in a furious glare. "You, who would sacrifice my son on the altar of your vanity?"

He clearly didn't expect an answer, but P had one. It wasn't an answer he should know—not an answer anyone should know, save Geppetto and whoever in the Alchemists witnessed it. But Lea's face was tense and desperate, Carlo's composure was visibly faltering, and Geppetto was beyond reason otherwise.

"Camille," P said.

Geppetto went rigid.

"Ah." The waver in Geppetto's voice was so infinitesimal that it barely existed. He rolled his shoulders, tension seeping from them as if it had never been there, all the fury and grief of the past few moments slid neatly behind a placid mask. "Invoking my departed wife's name is uncouth, even for an associate of the Legendary Stalker."

"P," Carlo whispered, too quietly for Geppetto to overhear. "What are you…"

"The accident that stole my wife from me was tragic," Geppetto said, taking off his monocle and polishing it on his shirt with shaking hands. "But it was just that. An accident. The Alchemists grieved her just as I did."

"The Salamander Division," P continued. "Markiona. The maid puppet."

The tension crept back into Geppetto's form. "You're well-informed," he said tightly. "One might even say suspiciously so."

"They killed her twice," P finished quietly. "Once in the accident, and again when she woke up in the maid puppet." He stared at Geppetto unwaveringly from beneath the mask. "If we don't stop them, they're going to kill Carlo, too."

"Such conviction in your voice," Geppetto said, tone growing sharper. "And yet you don't even allow me to see your face." He was as utterly unreadable as he'd ever been in P's time, analytical eyes scanning P up and down. Regardless of time or memory, nothing made him feel quite as small or flayed open as Geppetto's silent judgment.

P hesitated, eyes darting to Carlo, who was visibly containing his reaction to P's words. The Geppetto of P's time had been beyond help, beyond reason, but even then—even then, he'd regretted it as he died. For the first time, he looked at P's eyes instead of his heart when he called him my son. He'd apologized.

The Geppetto of this kinder time had yet to lose his son. He'd cried at the sight of Carlo, safe and whole. He'd cradled his face like something precious. If the Geppetto that had lost Carlo was willing to go the lengths he did to bring Carlo back, surely this one would do whatever it took to prevent Carlo's fate in the first place.

Lea hissed out a soft warning as P reached for his mask. P didn't heed it, baring his face to the man who would create him.

"We're going to protect Carlo," P said softly as the mask fell. He laid a hand on his chest, pressing his necklace against his beating heart. "You know that the Alchemists are a threat to Krat. You know that." He swallowed. "And you know that they wouldn't hesitate to take him from you, just like they took Camille."

Geppetto's expression was entirely foreign, unsettling and strange on his face. P realized with a start that he had never seen the man genuinely off-balance before. Never seen him so taken aback that he was speechless. Never seen him confronted by something so unanticipated that he couldn't even pretend to know how to react. Not until now.

Not until Geppetto looked at P's face and saw a mirror of his son looking back.

"You," Geppetto said faintly. "You…"

"Please," P whispered. The word Father was on the very edge of his tongue, but he swallowed it before it could escape.

"Why—" Geppetto cut himself off, face shuttering as he contained himself. "Your appearance is… quite striking," he said instead, deliberately mild. "One might even call it familiar."

P fought to keep from shrinking back. Geppetto wasn't in control, only pretending to be; he was trying to bait them into volunteering information without having to admit his own ignorance by asking. He'd played this trick on P before, though it wasn't this Geppetto that had done it.

The silence stretched, long enough that Carlo started to fidget uneasily in P's periphery. P felt the anxiety echoed in his own chest, an uncomfortable squirming in his ribcage begging him to say something, anything, to remove that bland, disappointed look from his father's face.

Geppetto broke the stalemate with a low sigh, ultimately admitting defeat. "Even if I were inclined to support this… mad crusade," he said finally, "you haven't provided anything resembling a plan. Does your strategy begin and end with convincing the city that you have my permission to lead my son to his death?"

"You haven't provided us an opportunity to tell you," Lea snapped. "Right now, the Alchemists control the narrative in Krat. A public denouncement from the Workshop Union would be difficult to survive unscathed, even for them." She took a breath. "With the force of the Union behind us, we could even have a chance to target the Alchemists directly. We could launch an assault on the Isle itself and end this in a matter of days."

Geppetto let out a disbelieving laugh. "Even if I agreed, what makes you believe the rest of the Workshop Union would follow suit?" He spread his hands out. "The Alchemists and the Workshop Union have an enduring friendship, and the Stalkers of the Tower would not take kindly to being forced to choose between their employers. I am the President, but I am also one man."

"One man," Lea allowed. "But it only takes one man to command an army."

"An army," Geppetto scoffed. "What army? One man can command an army, but will his soldiers obey?"

The reply tore from P almost involuntarily, raw and painful in his throat. "Yes."

Stiffening, Geppetto turned his narrow-eyed stare to P. "Pardon me?"

"Yes," P continued, feeling halfway out of his body, like someone else was wrenching the words from his chest to speak them with his tongue. "They'll obey. Because they're programmed to." Because they have to, whether they want to or not. "The First Law of the Grand Covenant: all puppets must obey their creator's commands."

Geppetto's expression flickered, then flattened. Shuttered. His jaw set.

"Law Zero of the Grand Covenant," P continued, voice wobbling. "The creator's name is—"

Geppetto, Romeo's voice echoed. Giuseppe Geppetto. But P's voice couldn't shape the words Romeo had died to bring to him, crumpling beneath the weight of Geppetto's icy stare.

"A fanciful story," Geppetto said. His veneer of calm trembled but did not break. "I'm sure you have proof to back up such a ludicrous claim."

"You didn't leave any," P bit out. "And you killed anyone who knew."

"P," Lea warned him quietly. "Take a breath."

Geppetto's eyebrows jumped towards his hairline. "You storm into my office, hold my son hostage, and now you accuse me of murder?"

"No," P said lowly. His heart galloped against his ribs in a frantic beat. All he could see was Geppetto in the rain outside the Opera House, smiling at the sight of P's oil-splattered hands. "You wouldn't do it yourself. You'd trick someone else into doing it for you."

Carlo gave P's sleeve a nervous tug. "Listen, I get it," he whispered. "But maybe you should—"

"This is outrageous," Geppetto snarled before Carlo could finish speaking. "I won't allow you to threaten my reputation with such a senseless lie."

All this resentment, Geppetto had sighed those two lifetimes ago, looking for all the world like a heartbroken father, with a lie at the root of it.

Be a good boy for me. No resentment. No lies.

"I won't let you threaten Krat!" P's voice clawed from him, barely his own anymore. The Puppet Frenzy would come to an end, if we could only do away with their King. "I won't let you threaten—"

"P!" Lea cut him off sharply, just before Romeo's name could tumble past his trembling lips. "That's enough." She laid a steadying hand on P's shoulder. "We're not here to fight."

"You could have fooled me," Geppetto said coldly.

Lea's grip tightened, as if to ground P. "We're not here to fight," she repeated. "Regardless of the intent behind its creation, Law Zero would be an invaluable resource in confronting the Alchemists. An army invulnerable to their strongest weapon—"

Geppetto's lip curled. "You speak of this ridiculous conspiracy as if it's immutable fact."

"Stop lying!" P's voice broke. He jerked his shoulder from Lea's grip. "I know what you did—I saw what you—"

Lea fumbled to regain her hold on him, using both hands this time. "P—"

But she didn't know. She hadn't seen. All those bodies—so many of them had red blood. People, just people. With a heart trapped in cold steel, Romeo hadn't even been able to cry, just cover his face and shake. That smile Geppetto gave P in the rain—it wasn't just about how Romeo had died, it was how he had been forced to live.

And even then. Even then, Romeo's gentle hands had found ways to use that violence to protect. That gentle voice had found its way to P from beyond the grave.

"Stop lying," P repeated brokenly. He felt raw and hollow, like someone had scraped all his insides out. "Stop lying."

Something flickered across Geppetto's face. Surprise, grief, fear—he schooled it too quickly for P to be sure. His steely gaze shifted between Lea and P, thoughtful and scrutinizing.

"It's truly fascinating," Geppetto said finally. "A puppet with my son's face and an Ergo signature perfectly calibrated to my instruments speaks of my son's death as if it were inevitable."

P went cold. He shouldn't have spoken. He should have known better than to speak. When had Geppetto ever listened to him? He didn't even listen to his real son.

"It has the ear of the Legendary Stalker, imparting knowledge upon her that no one alive should possess. It tells me of things it's witnessed me doing. Things I have never done." His gaze bored into P. "Things I haven't done in this Krat, in any case."

"Does it matter where the information came from?" Lea said tersely. "What matters is that we have the opportunity to protect Krat from a calamity. The opportunity to protect your son from a calamity."

"You think to use Law Zero to blackmail me," Geppetto said. "And yet here you stand, in the heart of the Workshop Union." He shook his head. "Whether it's bravery or foolishness, I couldn't say."

Geppetto had the same cold look of resignation that he'd had beneath the Abbey. He wasn't supposed to look this way. Not with Carlo here. Not when Carlo was alive and in front of him, calling him Papa and pleading for his help. Not when—not when P—

"Since you know that Law Zero exists," Geppetto continued, "you know that I have no need for any of you." A massive shadow crept over the light from the window, darkening his face. "I'll protect my son and the city myself."

Geppetto slammed a fist against a red button on his workstation, and the world exploded into shattered glass.

"Get down!" Lea's voice rose above the din. She wrenched Romeo's head down to shield him with her body; her other hand darted out for Carlo but grabbed nothing but empty air.

The reason became clear immediately. It had just clambered in through the broken window, and it had snatched Carlo up in one massive metal hand. The Scrapped Watchman—perhaps just the Watchman now, if its polished exterior was any indication—leered down with a rictus grin.

"How ruthless of the Legendary Stalker," Geppetto said as he stepped onto the Watchman's open palm, "to cripple her opposition by eliminating the Tower, heedless of the casualties. Such unfeeling pragmatism." He shook his head, settling on the Watchman's shoulder where it placed him. "Thankfully, my son warned me in just enough time for us to make our escape."

Carlo flailed against the Watchman's implacable grip, fists pounding on metal. "Put me down!"

"Let him go, Geppetto!" Lea shouted, drawing her sword. "Have you gone mad?!"

"On the contrary," Geppetto said. "I believe it's you who has gone mad. Blackmailing my son into overriding the Grand Covenant to destroy the tower…" He clicked his tongue. "We knew you were desperate, but we never thought a hero of your standing would stoop to such lows."

"What are you—" Lea's voice was swallowed by a crescendoing rumble, trembling up the tower's foundations all the way to the penthouse. Somewhere below them, people started to scream.

"Papa!" Carlo wailed. "Stop!"

"This is for your own good, Carlo," Geppetto said. He tapped the side of the Watchman's head. "Let's be on our way, shall we?"

"No!" Lea roared as the massive puppet started to move. The Rose Sword flashed in a bright red arc at its spindly ankles, severing a cable with a snap.

The Watchman crumpled sideways, dropping Carlo just close enough for P to grab hold of his wrist; Carlo twisted his hand around to lock his grip around the metal frame of P's Legion Arm in return.

"Don't let go," Carlo was babbling, "don't let go, don't let me—"

The Watchman screeched and shifted its weight to its intact foot, yanking against P's grip. Carlo, forced into the role of the rope in a violent game of tug-of-war, let out a choked cry of pain.

"Carlo!" Lea was a red blur in P's periphery, descending on the Watchman with the speed and ferocity of a wild animal. "I'm coming!"

The Watchman's forced stillness gave Lea the perfect opportunity to strike, darting towards the arm clutching Carlo with single-minded efficiency. Atop the Watchman's shoulder, Geppetto cursed, gaze flying between Lea and Carlo.

"You witless piece of scrap," he hissed at the Watchman. "Get us out of here! Cut the arm off if you have to!"

P barely had time to think about the order or what it implied. The whir of the Watchman's gears reached a fever pitch as the hand not holding Carlo began to spin. Electricity arced across the makeshift drill, heat setting the metal aglow, and P braced for a blow as the Watchman struck.

A scream pierced the air. The resistance vanished, sending P flying backwards. He was still holding Carlo's wrist, and for a single vertiginous moment, he was sure he'd pulled Carlo free.

The scream continued, joined by an agonized chorus of Lea and Romeo's voices shouting Carlo's name. Dazed, P dropped his gaze down to Carlo's arm in his grip.

Carlo's arm, which was no longer attached to Carlo.

"The puppet's arm, you imbecilic—" Geppetto cut himself off with a furious snarl. "No matter. Get us out of here. And do not harm my son again."

Free from P's grip, the Watchman shambled towards the window, heedless of the unwilling passenger sobbing into its hand. The sheer heat of the metal had cauterized the wound almost instantly, but blood loss wasn't the only risk Carlo was facing. P lurched to his feet. Carlo's limp arm fell from his suddenly numb grip. He took a single stuttering step towards the silhouette climbing through the broken glass.

Lea shoved past him, physically pushing him towards Romeo on her way to the window. "Get Romeo out of here!" she shouted. "I'll handle this!"

Another shudder rocked the tower, stronger than the last. There wasn't time to hesitate. P wheeled around, grabbed Romeo's wrist, and sprinted for the exit.

"Wait!" Romeo cried, twisting in P's grasp. "Carlo—"

"Go!" Lea snarled, halfway out the window with a precarious foot balanced on the fire escape. The Watchman was already clambering down the side of the tower. "That's an order!"

"Lea—"

But Lea was gone, pursuing the fleeing Watchman. Romeo clenched his jaw, ashen-faced, but allowed P to pull him towards the service stairs. If Geppetto's aim was to bring the tower down, they couldn't risk the lift.

As they descended, the screams became more audible. The clean, orderly lines of the LADA research and development workshop had devolved into chaos, formerly inert puppets ripping into their creators with mechanical, unfeeling violence. A puppet's half-finished torso lunged from a bench to squeeze the metal framework of its hands around a man's throat; another shoved the sharp, unfinished edges of its forelimbs through a woman's fleeing back.

It barely registered to P. He cut down anything that got close enough to threaten Romeo, but there was little help he could offer the scattering technicians without compromising Romeo's safety. The Puppet Frenzy—he couldn't let it take Romeo again, especially not the way it had before.

"P!" Romeo's voice pierced the din as movement flashed in P's periphery. P ducked just as a puppet cracked a welder against the wall where his head had been, and Romeo swung his scythe over P to cleave the puppet's spindly arms from its unfinished body.

Romeo grabbed P under the arm and helped haul him to his feet. "Watch your own back," he said sharply, "not just mine."

P didn't respond, just braced Romeo by the shoulders as another tremor rippled through the floor. He shoved Romeo towards the stairs as soon as the shaking eased, and Romeo snarled in frustration but let himself be led.

He could be angry. That was fine. It didn't matter if he hated P after this, as long as he was alive to do it.

They staggered through the shaking stairwell along with the LADA floor's few survivors. The climb, which had already felt long on the way up, seemed to stretch on endlessly. Flight after flight of stairs, floor after floor of wrecked equipment and dead bodies. The people who hadn't already fled ahead of them were the ones that weren't lucky enough to survive, or—

"Is—is someone there?" a voice croaked from ahead of them. "Please—!" The cry for help was almost entirely swallowed by another thunderous quake shuddering through the tower. Somewhere behind P, a scream began and ended within a single moment, silenced by a wet, crunching thud. Dust shivered from the ceiling and pebbles rattled down the stairs.

P slowed just enough to spare a glance at the landing, where a technician lay trapped beneath the twitching chassis of a mining puppet. Her legs were crushed beneath its metal hull—she would take time to extract and carry, if she survived at all. With a faint pang of regret, P kept moving.

But Romeo skidded to a halt. His wide eyes darted between P and the woman, who had started to weep. "Wait," Romeo stammered. "Wait, we aren't—"

With barely another glance at the technician's pale, blood-splattered face, P grabbed Romeo by the bicep and hauled him onward. Romeo cursed and stumbled, struggling fruitlessly against P's grip.

"What's wrong with you?!" Romeo demanded. "She's still alive! We have to—"

"No," P said flatly. His voice sounded distant even to himself, like listening to someone shout from another room. The tower convulsed around him in shrieking spasms, its concrete and steel folding beneath its own weight. If Romeo didn't survive—if he died here, then—

"No?!" Romeo echoed disbelievingly. He staggered behind P, unable to plant his feet unless he wanted P to physically drag him along. "You're just going to leave her there?!"

P pursed his lips. The accusation and fury in Romeo's voice hurt, but it was a distant kind of hurt. Secondary. The tower was doomed, but Romeo wasn't. The stage wasn't aflame. Not yet. Not yet.

He'd carry Romeo out if he had to. He was strong enough. If Romeo died here, then—

"Let go of me!" Romeo's shout cracked with anger and grief. "At least let me try—"

"No!" P's voice broke. Lea was gone. Carlo was gone. If Romeo died here, then all of this, all of this—all the agony, all the grief, all the death and destruction—the wish, Lea's wish, that desperate hope to save even one of them—was well and truly for nothing.

The floor buckled. The ceiling fractured. The world tilted, then lurched, then crumpled entirely; when the floor dropped out from beneath them, P barely reacted in time to grab a handful of Romeo's shirt as they fell.

The noise became an incomprehensible roar, every crash and scream bleeding into the next as the tower shattered into pieces around them. P's world narrowed to his Legion hand's desperate grip on Romeo. Everything else was secondary. Everything else was unimportant. He wouldn't let go. He couldn't—

The pain of impact slammed into his side and up through his body. Beside him, something let out a wet crunch, and Romeo moaned in breathless agony. P rolled onto his hands and knees and half-staggered, half-crawled over Romeo's supine form. Perpendicular to Romeo's sprawled body, P only managed to shield Romeo's face and upper torso before a chunk of the tower crashed down onto his back.

Romeo's lips parted around a soundless scream as P lurched under the weight. The Legion arm screeched against the strain as P dug its fingers into the rock and locked the elbow joint. His human arm trembled but held, jerking under each additional impact of the tower's collapse.

He couldn't let go. He couldn't.

"P," Romeo wheezed, voice almost entirely lost to the crash of the tower and the blood bubbling around his tongue. "You need to—"

How far had they climbed? How far had they fallen? It couldn't be the tower's full weight atop him, even if it felt like it. P's body quivered. Something in his back groaned and gave way with a snap, and the pain of it ricocheted through every shrieking joint as the the distribution of the rubble's weight shifted.

P gritted his teeth. His Legion arm sparked and whined. Agony shuddered through every wretched part of him, cutting knifelike through his ribs as he tried to suck a shaking breath into his constricted lungs.

But it held. His body held.

The tower's broken pieces settled on and around them, uneasy but still. The slab propped on P's back was wide and heavy, but its size also created a relatively safe pocket within the wreckage. As long as P's body didn't betray him, he could keep Romeo safe. Keep Romeo alive.

"P," Romeo whispered again. "I…"

P's eyes flickered down to the boy sprawled beneath him. The narrow beams of light piercing through the debris were barely enough to see by. He swept his gaze down Romeo's body and took frantic stock of his condition.

He froze.

Romeo's face and chest were intact, other than a few cuts and bruises; his limbs sprawled limp and ungraceful but blessedly uncrushed. But from the right side of his body, just below his ribcage—

"P," Romeo repeated faintly. His lips moved slowly around the words, wet and red. "I think I…"

A cold fist wrapped around P's heart and squeezed. He couldn't breathe. The tower's steel skeleton had snapped into pieces as its massive body collapsed; he could see the twisting protrusions of its metal bones jutting from the concrete, above him and below him and around him—

—and one, slick with blood, jutting instead from Romeo's body.

Romeo, P mouthed soundlessly. Romeo stared up at him, eyes wide and wet, lips cherry-red with blood. The rod twisted up from the floor beneath him, its jagged end gleaming red in the dim light. His weight and momentum had punched it through him like a pin through an insect.

"It's alright," Romeo managed to say, though the wobble of pain and fear in his voice belied the words. "I'm alright."

No, P wanted to say, scream, wail, sob. No. No. No. Lea, Carlo, the tower—all the same tragedies written in a different hand, in his hand, and now Romeo was—

Romeo took a deep, shaky breath, one bloody hand gripping at the metal rod as if to hold it steady. "P," he whispered. His bleary blue eyes flickered up to the rubble bearing down on P's trembling back. "You need to go. I'm not…"

"No," P bit out. It didn't matter how that sentence ended. It wasn't going to happen again. Not ever again.

He wouldn't let Romeo die. And even if he did—even if he failed, even if he was left defending nothing but a cooling corpse, he couldn't let Geppetto take Romeo's body.

"Please," Romeo begged, voice cracking. "This is killing you, please, you need to go!"

P's voice tore through his throat like sandpaper, words like iron on his tongue. "No," he repeated. "No. I won't. Not again." Something hot and wet dripped down his cheeks. "I'll protect you this time," he swore brokenly. A stage aflame, a broken crown, a tarnished necklace. "I promise."

All the same tragedies, playing out on a different stage. But he wouldn't kill Romeo again.

Please, he begged whatever star had pitied him enough to let him try again the first time. His vision swam into a watercolor blur, reducing Romeo to a smear of gold and red beneath him. Please. Not again. His right arm jerked as something inside it cracked and slid upward, grinding steel against nerve; the rubble plunged another terrible inch closer to Romeo's vulnerable form, and the Legion arm shrieked as P forced it to bear the extra weight.

He'd tear his body to shreds if he had to. Smear every last worthless scrap of it across the bones of this twice-damned tower. He couldn't help Carlo, couldn't help Lea, but Romeo—as long as Romeo was still breathing, he hadn't failed. Not completely.

"He won't take you," P choked out around a sob. "He can't make me kill you again."

Never again.

The tower pressed ever downwards. The weight was nigh unbearable, but more unbearable still was the thought of what would happen if P let it fall.

Please, never again.

Chapter Text

In the darkness, Lea felt light. Untethered. Up and down, left and right, movement and stillness lost all meaning. It was like being swept under by a rogue wave and tumbled in the surf. Or drifting, weightless, after Arlecchino carved a chasm through her throat.

The only difference was the pain, sharp and insistent. In the Rose Garden, her dying brain hadn't needed to tell her what she already knew. Now, it tore her from unconsciousness into the liminal space between rest and wakefulness. Blood rushed by her ears in a muffled roar, pounding against her skull. Pressure mounted at her temples and behind her eyes, but her eyes refused to open. Her body lagged behind her mind.

Without a view of her surroundings, she turned inward and focused on what she could feel. Dust or ash coated her throat and lungs with a dryness she struggled to expel. A stinging vice, like a rope or cord, coiled around her right ankle and dug into her flesh through her boot. A dull throb radiated from that point up to her hip, as though something had tried to rip her leg clean off. Extended above her head, her arms tingled.

Her memory was clouded, but her present situation was rapidly becoming clearer. A bead of sweat dislodged itself and traveled from the small of her back to the base of her neck. Strands of hair hung loose above her head, swaying in a steady breeze.

She was hanging upside down, somewhere high up.

The stark realization slotted memories into place and unlocked muscles. Her eyes flew open. Utter destruction greeted her.

Stretching out beneath her, the eastern half of the Workshop Tower laid in a crumbled heap. The main structure, the tower itself, had been shorn from its other half and brought low, crushing the lower eastern wing. The Bastards' wing, Lea recalled. It all sat in an unrecognizable mass of stone and metal, interspersed with chairs, desks, and workbenches—most broken, a few eerily whole. Lea knew, too, that though she could not see any, bodies littered the wreckage. Technicians and Stalkers, all dead.

"Hello? Are you alright?" A voice, distant yet familiar, cut through her rising panic.

"Carlo," she choked out before descending into hacking coughs. The fit wracked her ribcage, straining muscles already sore from hanging for God knows how long.

It was no use, anyway. That voice wasn't him. No matter how loudly she called, he was gone. Geppetto had stolen him away with that— that thing. Everything after she collided with its claws midair was a blur, but she could never forget the massive puppet's horrid, metallic grin leering down at her while Carlo pleaded for help. His sobs had turned to screams as—

She shoved the memory down along with the rising bile. He'd needed her, and she couldn't protect him. Even though she'd been right next to him, she'd still been too late. This whole foolish plan had been hers anyway. Maybe it truly was her. Maybe she was doomed to witness the deaths of everyone she loved endlessly, and this second chance was actually the cruel game of some wicked and powerful being.

"Um," the voice said. "No, it's just me, ma'am. Frog, that is, ma'am."

Lea twisted her abdomen to spin herself around. The surviving part of the tower displayed its neatly layered innards, though the separation had been haphazard and clumsy. Each floor sagged and dipped without its counterpart to support it. Distorted metal and splintered wood jutted out around her like looming arms. A thick cord had snagged on one such limb, reaching down several stories to loop around Lea's ankle.

She searched the ruin, alighting on the vibrant green of Frog's mask. The Sweeper was perched on a sloping sheet of concrete, one arm steadying herself and the other around another young woman in a technician's leather apron. A white film of dust coated their clothes and the technician's hair, but they seemed otherwise unharmed. How they had escaped death, Lea did not know, but she was glad of it. She would not wish the death of a dear apprentice on anyone, especially not Véronique.

"Right, Frog." Lea kept her tone level and calm. Panic was the enemy in any situation, but sudden, hasty action here would bury them and leave Lea with no recourse but to hang until her heart ruptured. "Do you think you could get me down?"

The building shuddered as a mass of rubble slid off its backside. Tremors shot through the wreckage as it crashed down, raining smaller stones in its wake. A rusty groan directly above Lea sent similar shockwaves up her spine. Frog and the technician tensed for a fall that did not come.

"We think there's a way," Frog said. "It's risky, but we don't have many options if, you know…"

"We all want to live? Yes, I understand. What is it?"

Still clinging to Frog, the technician spoke up. "We can't reach you, but you might be able to reach us if you swing a little. Using Frog's pick as an anchor, we could reel you in enough to cut the cable. But there's also a chance we could destabilize this platform in the process."

Lea chewed on her lip. She would die whether they did nothing or if they failed to help, but they were only in danger if they tried to help. They could hold steady and wait for a rescue team to help them down. Lea didn't want to die. She had people to protect. Romeo and P were here somewhere, perhaps buried beneath debris and calling out for help. Carlo needed rescuing from whatever Geppetto had planned. But she couldn't ask these two women to risk life and limb for so selfish a request.

"I can't—" she began before Frog cut her off.

"You'd do it for me, ma'am. Or anyone, really." She tilted her head, and Lea could hear the smile in her voice. "Besides, I owe you for letting me and Véronique go at Venigni Works."

"And we're not going to let a stupid building kill the Legendary Stalker!" the technician added.

Lea let out a sound between a laugh and a sigh. She hated that name. It had brought her nothing but misfortune. Yet that wasn't true, was it? It had also brought her Carlo and Romeo and all the joy she'd found in teaching them. It meant more to them, and to this technician, than it ever had to her, so she could allow it to ring hopeful just this once.

"Alright, I accept your aid. Let me just…"

She felt at her waist and came up empty. The Rose Sword was gone. Last she remembered, the sword had been in her hand as she pursued that puppet. It would have taken a miracle to have held onto it through unconsciousness and the drop, and she had already used her allotted share of those. Wherever it was, it could not help her now nor did she have time to mourn its loss.

She cursed under her breath. "I don't have anything to cut it."

"I've got it. Don't worry," Frog said. "About that part, at least."

Lea suppressed a sigh. "Then, get ready. We'll need to move quickly."

Using her right leg for leverage, she hoisted her upper body up. Her ribs burned and the cable groaned, but the position allowed the blood to drain from her head and gave her a better look at her ankle. The cord wrapped around the lower half of her leg several times, tight enough that she was sure to have a nasty gallery of crisscross bruises tomorrow but not to pull the foot off as she fell. A tremendous stroke of luck, all things considered, but the knotted mess would be impossible to free herself from without a blade.

She released, diving into the descent like an acrobat in a traveling circus. All the time she'd spent imitating their graceful motions, swinging from tree branches in the forest outside the estate, had paid off. Even when she'd broken her wrist and Lady Isabelle had scolded her for unladylike behavior. Gravity tried to pull her straight down, but the crescent arch of her spine transferred the momentum into an upswing.

On the downswing, she curled in and thrust her arms toward her precarious destination. Each arc, back and forth, became wider. Her fingers inched closer to the heft of Frog's pick before finally, they brushed steel. The near miss sent her careening outward with the taste of victory so tantalizing close. She licked her lips, tensed her body, and grabbed it hungrily.

The pendulous tide of the cable attempted to drag her back, but the two women fought it with every ounce of their strength. They grunted and strained and ultimately held themselves in place as the abrupt halt rippled up the cord, which shuddered and bowed. High above her, the metal beam pinning the cable to a surviving ledge creaked in protest. Lea sucked in a breath and tightened her grip.

Frog and the technician towed Lea toward a better position, shuffling up the slab one agonizing inch at a time. Lea gritted her teeth as her limbs began to burn with overexertion. As they neared the top of the platform's slight incline, the technician reached a cautious hand out behind her, searching for a solid surface with which to anchor them. She grazed the leg of a sturdy workbench and stretched further. Still unable to reach it, she took another step. Her boot hit a patch of sandy rubble and skidded forward.

The technician careened onto her back. Though she avoided a much longer and deadlier fall, she yanked the war pick, Lea, and Frog along with her. The cable snapped taut and, with a sickening screech, came free. It whipped past them, and Lea's legs, no longer supported, crashed onto the platform.

The slab wobbled, then pitched down. The sudden movement shook Frog free, and she began to slide toward the edge. One hand on the pick, Lea lashed out and clutched Frog's forearm. With Frog's help, Lea heaved her back onto the crumbling sheet.

The tower bellowed, a sound that ricocheted through Lea's bones, as some crucial piece succumbed to the pressure.

"I can't— It's going to—" the technician cried over the din.

Lea dug her heels into the concrete and propelled herself up. The metal struts supporting the slab gave way just as she grabbed the technician. Pulling them both in, Lea twisted to shield them from falling debris.

The platform smashed into the outcropping floor beneath them which, in turn, gave way. Lea braced, clutching the girls closer, but the vertiginous drop of freefall never came. Instead, they almost seemed to ride the collapse down like a sled on the cathedral's hill in winter. This descent was just as fast but twice as bumpy, the vibrations rattling her down to her marrow.

Someone was screaming. Lea was reasonably sure it wasn't her, but she couldn't see who it was. She half wished they'd keep going and half wished they'd shut their damn mouth. The former so Lea knew they were alive. The latter so they didn't bite clean through their tongue.

A sharp tug at her ankle reminded her of the cord wrapped around it. Though the cable was long enough to dangle her from several stories up, it was not infinite. Eventually, she would run out of slack. Getting pulled into the tide of debris would surely spell death, but she could do nothing except hope her luck—if it could be called that with the position she had found herself in—had not run out yet.

They hit one final hump, which drove Frog's bony knee into her stomach, then skidded to a halt. The tower's remains let out one last weary sigh and settled back into place, content to stand for now. A moment passed, then another, before Lea released the girls and raised herself up on her hands.

The technician trembled like a leaf in a windstorm, gulping down breaths like she'd never been allowed air before. She must have been the one screaming, then. Luckily, there was barely a scratch on her. Frog, too, was largely uninjured. The only casualty of the brief adventure was her mask, the eyes of which had suffered a blow and been rendered useless. She wrenched it off and tossed it aside.

"Are you both alright?" Lea asked.

"Are you?" Frog replied. "You still have that wire on you."

"I'm fine." She sat up onto her knees and dusted herself off. "Though I do need this off. I have people to find."

Frog popped out the blades hidden in her bracer. "Here, let me." Without waiting for an answer, she hopped to work sawing at the cable.

Lea turned her attention back to the technician. She had regained some composure, her breathing having returned to normal. It was only now, in the relative calm, that Lea could fully take her in. She was small in stature, though that didn't diminish her strength judging by her ability to hold Lea up by herself. A result of her career, no doubt. Her glasses were slightly askew but, thankfully, not cracked. Strangest of all, she appeared to be of the Country of the Morning.

Visitors from other lands weren't uncommon in Krat. The city welcomed them, to an extent, as a way to demonstrate its own superiority. It was, however, quite rare for an outsider to be allowed information about the inner workings of puppets and other Ergo technologies. This woman must have spent many years, perhaps her whole life, as a citizen of Krat to be able to work within the Workshop Tower.

"I'm apologize, I don't believe I've asked your name," Lea said.

The technician adjusted her glasses which promptly slid back into the same position. "Eugénie, ma'am. Weapons specialist, Floor Seven." She glanced up at the bisected corpse of the tower. "Or I was, I guess."

Lea observed the ruins too. Despite her more amenable perspective, the damage appeared no less severe. She clenched her hands into fists. How many died because Geppetto couldn't control his temper? How many had he murdered with his childish tantrum? She'd played nice, practically groveled at the man's feet, all for nothing. Worse than nothing. If he'd said no and sent them on their merry way, then Carlo wouldn't have been mutilated.

But what was done was done and Carlo was beyond her reach for now. Geppetto was unlikely to kill him. Harm? Undoubtedly. Emotionally, if nothing else. But Lea believed him when he claimed he would protect Carlo from the Alchemists. No man would bring about this utter destruction if he didn't intend to keep his word. It made her skin crawl to resign Carlo's fate to his father's whims, but she had no choice. Carlo would have to wait.

The back of her neck prickled. Some piece of her—the part the never let her sit still or sleep through the night interrupted—tapped insistently at her rumination. Stone shifted beneath them, enough to hear the reverberations but not to dislodge their perch. She turned just as a metallic hand closed around Frog's ankle.

Frog shot up, only to have one leg ripped out from under her. She threw out an arm as she fell and hit the ground with the telltale crack of a broken wrist. The puppet's head crested the edge of the slab, followed by the streaking arc of a pickaxe in its other hand. Its spike slammed into empty space as Frog rolled right.

Lea's hand flew to her waist before she remembered nothing was there. With a huff of frustration, she darted forward, driving her boot into its head. It rocked back, severing its mechanical body at the hips. Legs pinned beneath the rubble, the torso tumbled head over waist down the small incline until a piece of debris caught the curve of its neck. A twisted light fixture, its shaft arched like a frightened cat's spine, trapped it as it thrashed. Its pickaxe clinked staccato against the surrounding stone.

Technicians had stripped it of its outer shell, exposing its iron skeleton. Clusters of sinuous copper veins clung to the framework, conveying power to each of its appendages from its shimmering crystalline core. The Ergo's pulsating light could have been beautiful, she supposed, if only she hadn't discovered its secret.

Carefully picking her way down the slope, she kicked the flailing pick aside and crushed the crystal with her heel. The puppet seized once, then fell limp. Snuffing out its light did not bring her satisfaction nor comfort. The Workshop surely housed hundreds of the accursed things, the city thousands more, and all under Geppetto's control. The hope of an unstoppable ally turned to bitter ashes on her tongue.

"What is happening?" Eugénie nearly pleaded. She stood warily on the platform, eyes darting from Lea to the puppet to the surrounding rubble. "One minute, I was assembling a Legion Arm. The next, puppets are trying to kill everyone! I'm only alive because she showed up to help."

Frog—the she in question—had sat up and was looking expectantly at Lea. Her right hand dangled from her broken wrist.

Lea rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Geppetto refused to aid us."

Frog's shoulders slumped, but Eugénie blinked like she'd been struck.

"Geppetto? What do you mean—"

"I don't have time to explain." Lea waved off their questions with a flick of her wrist. Elaboration would waste more precious time than she aready had. "Frog, where is Véronique? Was she in the tower?"

"No, ma'am, I got her out, then came back in." She hiked her shoulder west and winced at the sudden movement. "We heard voices coming from the far end of the lower west wing earlier."

"Excellent, she'll be sending out search parties soon, I'm sure. You two stay put and wait for them to escort you out of this death trap."

The girls exchanged looks that Lea knew quite well. She was about to be outnumbered.

"Are you crazy?" Eugénie said, crossing her arms in front of her.

"We're coming with you," Frog added plainly. It wasn't a question or a request, but a statement of fact.

Lea clenched her jaw. She could argue. She could order them to remain here. After which, they'd follow her anyway and get hurt or killed in the process. They deserved better than a foolish and preventable death. Not to mention Véronique, who deserved her apprentice back in one piece.

"Fine," she relented. "Stay close and do as I say when I say to. And please, enough with the ma'am. Call me Lea."

Frog beamed and nodded. "Yes, ma— uh, Lea."

The familiar expression drove a red-hot poker into the void left by her apprentices' absence. She hoped Romeo and P were among the survivors congregating to the west, but some mournful pang told her that they weren't. If they had escaped in time, they wouldn't be waiting calmly among a crowd of Stalkers and technicians. They would have been looking for her, ill-advised as it was, because that's what she would do for them. The fact that they were nowhere to be seen turned her stomach more than her involuntary stint of inversion.

Lea shrugged off her coat, the one Véronique had given her, and fashioned it into a crude sling for Frog's arm. After, she reached up a hand and helped Eugénie down.

"Right," she sighed. "Let's go."

Traversing the rubble was a long and arduous task. What was left of the tower creaked in the wind as they passed beneath massive blighted crossbeams. As she kept an eye to the sky, she also watched her feet. The ground's uneven, unmoving surface belied its true danger. Each step had to be carefully considered and gingerly taken to avoid burying herself up to her neck.

With the obligatorily sluggish pace, her heartbeat slowed and her ankle began to complain. The occasional sharp twinge was nothing like the excruciating, fiery pain of a broken bone. Therefore, it could, and would, be largely ignored. Though broken or not, her entire body would be sore tomorrow. Oh, what she wouldn't do for a hot bath in her own damn house.

Barring the miraculous appearance of a heated tub, she hauled herself over another half-standing wall. When she turned to help the others, Eugénie was standing motionless, chin tilted up.

"Do you hear that?" she asked.

Lea furrowed her brow but said nothing. Instead, she listened. A puppet with rusty joints shambled its way through the wreckage. Another part of the building shifted and settled. Distant voices floated over the ruin, the ones Frog had mentioned. Except this one seemed closer than it should have been. Her singular focus must have shoved it to the back of her awareness as background noise, irrelevant to her search. But they were not just calling out randomly. They were repeating a name, her name, and she knew that voice.

"Alidoro?" she shouted back. "Where are you?"

"Lea!" he returned. "The stairs. Come quickly!"

He had no need to tell her twice. She broke into a run toward the bisected stairwell. The ground would hold. It had to. This world owed her that much. Two other sets of footsteps kept pace behind her, but her mind was far from them.

Alidoro met her as she raced to the small alcove created by a concrete wedge, piled high with the shattered remnants of the steps. He grabbed her by the shoulders, just barely managing to avoid being bowled over. His man Parrot stood behind him, arms folded.

"You need to prepare yourself. He's alive, but he'll need serious medical attention. Even then…" Alidoro glanced over her shoulder and stiffened. "Lea," he said again, breathy and strangled like he'd been punched in the gut, which she was strongly considering if he kept holding her back. "How—"

"I'll explain later," she snapped. Wrenching herself free, she slid down the mound of debris. Her heart slammed against her chest like a caged tiger desperate for freedom. She felt feral, half-crazed. If Romeo or P were dead, she wasn't sure what she would do, but she was suddenly glad to not have the Rose Sword on her hip.

As she cleared the slab's corner, her knees liquefied beneath her. Her body felt numb and distant. A strange force compelled her to bridge the gap before collapsing.

"Romeo," she said, though she wasn't sure any sound left her. "Romeo, I'm so sorry."

Cradled in a bed of debris and tucked between the protective pillars of P's impossibly strong arms, Romeo could have been resting peacefully. The steel rod bursting from his side dispelled that illusion. Blood soaked through his shirt and coat, pooling between jagged concrete fragments. His skin had taken on an ashen pallor, his golden hair reduced to limp straw.

She ran her fingertips down his cheek. Frigid, even through her glove. Only the distance between her body and soul prevented her from emptying her stomach onto the stones. Cold sweat broke out across her skin as the creeping dread she'd felt in the clock tower, so long ago now, descended on her again. Waxy, grasping arms crawled beneath her feet, seeking chinks in the earth's armor from which to emerge and drag her down.

Dead, Carlo's voice whispered in her ear. Just like me.

It wasn't true, she knew. Romeo's chest rose and fell with each shallow breath. But another part of her screamed, yet. He was not dead yet. How much longer did he have, pinned down and bleeding out? What could Lea truly do to save him?

Her attention flicked to P. Eyes squeezed shut in concentration, his face was as hard and pale as polished marble. Halfway through reaching out to him, she stopped herself. His arms juddered and sparked like they could give way at any moment. Even a light touch could disrupt the delicate balance and smash all three of them flat.

Still, she couldn't help but marvel. The entire weight of the tower on his back and he'd found the strength to protect Romeo. Lea couldn't imagine the stress on his body, the pain it was causing. Though she did not know if, as a puppet, he felt pain the same as human beings did. Either way, she could not allow him to shoulder the burden alone any longer.

Romeo's eyes fluttered open, and Lea's heart followed their rhythm. They searched for a moment, unfocused, before landing on Lea and widening in recognition.

"Lea?" he rasped. His lips were cracked and dry, caked with the powdered remains of the collapsed tower.

"I'm here," she breathed.

His brow furrowed. "You shouldn't be. You should be— Carlo, where's Carlo?" He wrapped a feeble hand around her wrist. Easily sliding out of his grasp, she instead folded his icy fingers between her palms.

"I'm sorry, Geppetto got away." Speaking the words aloud was a dagger to her heart, but Romeo deserved the truth. "We'll find him. We'll get him back. After we've gotten you out of here."

"No," he protested. "You have to go now. I— I promised him— Who knows what his father is doing to him? What he's capable of if he was capable of this?" His eyes darted around as if to indicate the surrounding devastation before fixing her with the same steely stare again. "Get P out of here. He won't listen to me, but he will listen to you. I'm done for—"

"Stop it," she hissed. The words came out more sharply than she intended, but white-hot anger flared in her chest like a wildfire. "Stop talking. We're saving you and that's final."

How many times, after Romeo went missing, had she heard that same refrain? He was finished, dead, not worth looking for unless she wanted a body to bury. None of those fools had dissuaded her pursuit. She'd followed him to hell and would continue to do so as many times as necessary. She would be damned if Romeo would write himself off so soon.

The corners of his mouth turned down into a small, thin frown. "Why is this the one time you refuse to play favorites?" He tugged his hand free, grimacing at the movement. "Go! Leave!"

She was standing now, though she didn't remember getting up. Her hands trembled violently. Seething hatred boiled to the surface, spilling out of her like foam escaping a lidded pot. Not for Romeo—never for Romeo—but for this fucking city, that had convinced Romeo he was worth less than those he loved and who loved him. For Geppetto, who murdered hundreds because he couldn't conceive of a world in which he was not in complete, oppressive control. For fate, which beat her down and seemed intent on kicking and kicking and kicking her until she finally stopped moving.

"I'm not losing you again, Romeo," she shouted. "Not you, not Carlo, not anyone!"

His expression softened, and his lips parted as though he were about to say something. Before he could, a rough hand clapped her on the shoulder.

"Perhaps you should listen to the boy," Parrot cooed. "We're quite exposed here, and you'll be no help to anyone dead. We'd best be going."

Quick as lightning, she pivoted on her heels, seized Parrot by his lapels, and dragged his garish mask down to her eye level.

"Listen well, you greedy shit," she said evenly, fighting back a quaver of pure rage. "If you value your hands, you will keep them far away from my person. And if you value money—and I know you do—you will do everything in your power to save my apprentices. They are precious to Lady Antonia Cerasani herself, and I promise you that should you have any part in rescuing them, she will grant you whatever sum you presume will make your tattered soul feel whole again."

Parrot sputtered and squawked like his namesake but failed to produce anything resembling a counterpoint. A metallic clang drowned out his floundering and drew Lea's attention back the way she'd come. Eugénie appeared over the edge, toting a long section of a metal beam.

"Sorry," she said meekly. "I just thought we could use some leverage."

Lea tossed Parrot's lapels aside. "That's genius, thank you."

A plan began to coalesce in her mind. They would need everyone, including that odious Parrot, but they could pull it off with a bit of coordination.

"Alidoro, Parrot," she continued, the words flowing out of her in a frenzy. "Take that beam, and another if you can find one quickly, and support the load. Raise it off of P's back, but do it slowly. The ground here is unpredictable." She pointed to Eugénie next. "Be ready to catch P and drag him out. I don't want him to land on Romeo once the weight has been removed." Finally, she tilted her head toward Frog. "I know you're injured, but do you think you could help me lift Romeo off?"

"No!" Alidoro yelled. "You can't remove the pole, not until he's at the hospital."

"Fuck," Lea sighed. She buried her face in her hands. "He can't go to the hospital. That place is crawling with Alchemists. They'd sooner slit his throat before performing surgery."

"This is not a superficial cut you can stitch up in your apartment, Lea. He will die without the aid of a doctor."

Lea clenched and unclenched a fist. His cool and clinical tone betrayed what he tried to hide with threadbare clothes. He was a doctor himself, highly educated and connected undoubtedly to the Alchemists like all medical professionals in Krat. She'd known for a while—since he'd used the word contusion and fretted over injuries most Stalkers walked off—but had resolved to let him keep his secret. He hadn't hurt anyone who didn't deserve it. There was no choice now but to call his years-long bluff.

"Why don't you do it? You can, can't you?"

"I—" he faltered. The expectant stares of Frog and Eugénie beat against him until he relented. "Fine, yes, but I'll need supplies and a place to work."

Her apartment was too visible, too obvious. The Alchemists would already be watching it if they were smart. The clock tower was more discrete, but it was dark and cramped. Hardly the ideal setting for an operation. Only one place in the city occurred to her where they might have ample space and no attempting to murder them.

"Cerasani House is vacant, and your man can put his sticky fingers to good use once he's done here. Now, how do I free Romeo?"

Alidoro slid down the mound and unsheathed his blade in one smooth motion. Sunlight glinted off the immaculately polished metal. He held the hilt out to her, causing the its red tassel to sway.

"Cut the pole at the base. Frog can hold his torso up to give you a clear shot." He paused, then added in a softer tone, "Take care of it."

"Of course, better than my own," she replied as she took the grip in her hands. The dire situation dampened the giddiness she would normally feel when holding a new, unique weapon, but the steel sent a shiver down her spine regardless. Certain blades—like her own Rose Sword wherever it was—had a tangible history, a soul infused into its working. This one she felt keenly.

Any revelry she found amidst the chaos was shot dead by a single word. P crackled to life, his voice strangely robotic, and uttered simply, "Hurry."

Her chest seized as she fought back a scream. She turned back to everyone else. "Now, please!"

The girls leapt into action first, helping each other down the perilous decline. Parrot straightened his coat in a huff but made no further fuss as he went to assist Alidoro with the support beam. Lea, for her part, took a few practice swings to learn the weight and motion of the unfamiliar blade. The absence of the Rose Sword suddenly seemed more pressing than before, with the stakes of a single stroke so high.

Parrot unleashed a torrent of curses as he and Alidoro maneuvered two poles into place. Small stones skittered off the pile, but the bulk remained in place thanks to Eugénie's careful direction. She had positioned herself next to P under the slab, seemingly undisturbed by the tons of concrete and metal looming overhead. From her place next to Romeo, Lea sucked in a breath. She hated the feeling that she could do nothing but watch and wait, especially when others were putting themselves in danger.

Eventually, the weight lifted from P's shoulders just enough for him to slump into Eugénie's arms. She let out a soft omf but managed to drag him out and away. His head lolled against her chest, and dread spiked through Lea's bones. Slack and lifeless, he could have been another corpse, another apprentice she did not save in time. A moment later, his eyelids labored open, and Lea exhaled.

As soon as Eugénie and P were clear, Frog took their place crouching over Romeo. One-handed, she cupped the underside of his abdomen as close to the protruding metal as she dared to get and grimaced.

"This is going to hurt, and I'm sorry," she said before yanking back.

Romeo's innards squelched as they peeled off the slickened bit of metal. The vivacity that had bled out of him returned in a rush of pure animal terror. He kicked and scratched at the ground, pupils blown wide and sweat-soaked skin glistening. A howl ripped out of him, then dulled to ragged gasps.

Lea swallowed hard. The pain was necessary, but it did not make it easier to stomach. Once the worst of his convulsions had passed, she cleaved the blade through the offending bit of metal in a red blur, as easily as slicing through dry grass.

Frog sprawled backwards, though she recovered quickly. Lea did not wait for her, instead dropping to her knees and scooping Romeo up by herself. His height made him unwieldy to hold and the rod driven through him demanded attention, but she clung to him like a drowning woman.

Her dearest Romeo. He'd been her rock after Carlo's death. Always kind and gentle, despite the vast hollow space carved bleeding into his heart. It wounded her more deeply than she could describe to see him reduced to such a freezing, frail state, lashing out with vicious barbs the way she had in the darkest depths of despair. Yet the sorrow was overshadowed by a terrible sense of relief. He was alive and here in her arms, not strewn about the Charity House's rafters like a visceral marionette.

A hand on her shoulder made her realize she was trembling. Without a word, Alidoro slipped his arms beside hers. The touch was a request, not an order, but one to which Lea could not help but acquiesce. Alidoro would have a far easier time carrying him the distance to Antonia's city home. Speed and delicacy were already of the essence, and she would not deprive Romeo of either for her own selfish desires.

"I have a small kit," he said to Parrot, who continued to preen himself. "But I'll need a saline infusion, antiseptic, and bandages."

The Sweeper dropped into a short bow. "Of course, a few supplies for a worthy cause will hardly be missed."

"I'll go with you," Frog chimed in. "Véronique will want to know what happened." She bent her head toward her wrist. "And I can get this set without Alchemists trying to kill me."

Lea squeezed her opposite shoulder, careful not to aggravate the injury. "It isn't enough, but thank you. You and Véronique. Tell her—" She hesitated. What could she say that would be satisfactory? That would assuage the harm she'd caused? Véronique had trusted her, and Lea had repaid her in destruction. For lack of anything better, she settled for, "Tell her I'm sorry."

"Well, I'm coming with you," Eugénie said quickly. She had wrapped her leather apron around P's fractured Legion Arm, both to hold it together and protect herself from exposed wires and jagged metal. Leaning heavily on her shoulder, P swayed on his feet. He looked nearly as pale and haggard as Romeo. "His Legion Arm is severely damaged. I'd like to remove it before it harms the nerves any more than it has. Maybe repair it, if I have the right tools."

"Absolutely not," Alidoro snapped. He seemed to think better of the outburst immediately, straightening his back and softening his tone. "We've already imposed enough. If you stay with us, you'll be in danger. I can't ask that of a civilian."

Eugénie put her free hand on her hip and scoffed. "Excuse me? You're not my mother. I want to help, so I will. Clearly, I'm in danger either way." She motioned to the surrounding wreckage. A loud bang to the east sounded to punctuate her sentiment.

Her raised eyebrow and stubborn frown reminded Lea of Carlo and Romeo. Even when it was a terrible idea, perhaps especially then, they wanted to be in the thick of it. No amount of rational explanation could dissuade them or her.

"She's made up her mind," Lea said. "She's part of this now, and we need to get moving."

Alidoro's mask hid whatever slew of emotions surely crossed his face, though Lea only saw the gentle shake of his head.

"Lead on," he said quietly, pulling Romeo tighter to his chest.

After parting ways with Frog and Parrot, they fled the Workshop Tower's grave unimpeded. Krat's streets were devoid not only of people milling about but of puppets. The ordinary flood of couriers, domestic servants, milkmen, and nannies had dried to a trickle of police puppets shambling down Elysion Boulevard. They hardly spared a glance down the backstreets. When they did, Lea dispatched them with a stroke of Alidoro's sword.

P rattled more with each wheezing breath. Though she and Eugénie supported him on either side, the long walk had sapped the dregs of his vitality. Wan and somber, sheer determination kept him upright and moving, placing one leaden foot in front of the other.

He desperately needed rest, but Lea knew better than to offer before they reached their destination. She had battled her own body as it succumbed to petrification. Comfort hadn't been her priority nor would she have accepted it unless it aided her in finding Romeo. The only way for her to help P was to press on toward the Cerasani mansion.

The servant's entrance was the single unassuming door on the otherwise ostentatious building. Wasting no time, Lea rammed her shoulder into it and tumbled through. The polished wood offered surprisingly little resistance for a closed up house, meaning either Antonia was rather lax with her security or someone was already here. The frantic thump of footsteps down stairs moments later confirmed the latter.

Lea did not wait for whoever it was to appear before she waved everyone else into the sun-drenched kitchen. They piled inside, first Eugénie and P, then Alidoro carefully sliding through with Romeo.

"Who— What—" the housekeeper stammered. Her face was red and pinched, as though she hadn't decided whether to be irate or frightened. Lea couldn't remember her name for the life of her—Lambert or Landreau?—and it didn't matter.

"We need the dining room," Lea said, pushing past her. "Is Lady Antonia here?"

"No, and—"

"Good." Antonia didn't need to witness this, and Lea couldn't face her just yet. Not after losing Carlo again. "Another Stalker by the name of Parrot is on his way. Let him in when he arrives, please."

"Miss Monad, I—"

Halfway up the narrow stairs, Lea whirled on the housekeeper. "I do not have time for this, Madame. He does not have time." She pointed toward Romeo. "I assure you, I will take any blame your mistress assigns you. Now kindly get out of our way and gather up whatever bandages and medicines you have on hand."

A deeper shade of crimson flooded her cheeks. Fury mounted inside her like steam in a kettle, but it evaporated as she finally noticed Romeo and P's sorry states. Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head, and she flattened herself against the wall to let them by.

Candlesticks and place settings crashed to the floor to clear a space for Romeo. With him set down, Lea pressed Alidoro's sword into its rightful owner's palm. He closed his other hand around hers in a brief, silent acknowledgement before sheathing it and returning to his preparations. The makeshift operating table was not ideal, providing none of the instruments typical of a hospital. Nevertheless, Alidoro barked orders while laying out his small kit of surgeon's tools.

Madame Lavaud—the name came to Lea now—scurried about the house retrieving an eclectic mess of towels, basins of water, a pillow, and even a sturdy walnut hat rack. To their detriment and fortune, she was the only servant present, having been sent early to open the house for Lady Antonia's imminent return from her summer home. Eventually, one of her trips to and fro yielded the beleaguered form of Parrot bearing a meager lot of medical supplies.

"It was all I could get," he said with his usual irritating nonchalance. To him, potentially blundering this task was no more upsetting than missing a sale at the millinery.

Alidoro clicked his tongue. "It will have to do. Now all of you, out. I need privacy." Lea squeezed Romeo's hand and started to leave before he added, "Not you, Lea. Since we have no anesthetic, I'll need someone to restrain him while I work."

Numbness prickled up her arms. Blood did not bother her, her own or anyone else's. She'd patched herself up dozens of times, seen countless wounded or worse. This shouldn't have been any different except for Arlecchino's final message echoing in her ears. Romeo's screams filtered through the tinny crackle of a magnetic cylinder had been the score of her every nightmare since traveling back in time. The prospect of hearing them again, performed live and in person with her as their conductor, sent a ripple of nausea through her.

But Alidoro was not Arlecchino. This procedure was not the senseless act of cruelty that monster had wrought.

She forced a shaky breath into her lungs and nodded. "Tell me what to do."

Alone in the room, Alidoro directed her onto the table opposite himself. The oblong proportions of the table necessitated a unique approach to restraint. Lea knelt beside Romeo, bracketing the wound and keeping out of Alidoro's light as much as possible. With luck, the amount of violent thrashing would be minimal. Without it, she would ensure the procedure's success regardless.

She tucked a pillow under Romeo's head and slid her folded belt between his teeth. If his skin was pale before, it was ghostly now. The ever-present reddish tones that plagued his fair complexion had fled, leaving only livid hues in their wake. Shallow breaths labored to raise his chest beneath his blood-crusted shirt.

"I'm sorry, Lea, it had to be you," Alidoro said as he shed his coat and gloves. "An operation this delicate requires steady hands and…" He hesitated for a uncharacteristic beat. "And clear eyes. I am entrusting you with everything I am and everything I hold dear, as you have trusted me. I only hope it is not in vain."

His mask fell away with a dull thud. Lea was frozen, transfixed by a sight she did not deserve to see. His dark hair was a little longer than Romeo's, falling past his shoulders in a loose ponytail. Though his cowl covered most of his features, the high points of his cheekbones belied the type of gentleman Sophia used to point out to her before they both concluded that was a waste of time. Besides his assuredly good looks, another detail struck Lea. He was not from Krat, at least not originally. Instead, he hailed from the Country of the Morning, like Eugénie.

Exactly like Eugénie. Pieces slotted into place. His surprise at seeing her, his strange outburst, P's evidence that had convinced him beyond a shadow of a doubt… Lea did not know their relation, nor was it truly her business, but Alidoro's dedication to obscurity clarified all at once.

The swiftness of his preparations left little time for rumination. Slipping on a pair of thin black gloves, he extricated Romeo's arm from his borrowed jacket and plunged a needle into the tender flesh below the crook of his elbow. His attention then shifted to the wound itself, still plugged by the severed steel rod. He poked and prodded and growled at the row of windows as though they were deliberately withholding illumination.

"I'm going to begin," he said. "Hold him firmly."

Lea nodded mechanically. Stretching her arms across Romeo's chest and hips, she bolted him to the table.

The scalpel's blade caressed clinging flesh, and Lea's eyelids slammed shut. Darkness offered respite for only a moment. Her heart's frantic, thumping beat could not drown out the wet sucking sound of Alidoro tunneling his way through Romeo's organs. She tried to think of anything else, to focus on her swelling ankle or her tightening lungs, but the noise invaded her mind. It mingled with the recording until the two were one, and Lea, despite all logic, could only imagine Arlecchino's saws glistening crimson.

She forced her eyes open just as the rod dislodged with a pop.

Romeo lurched. His back leapt off the table before Lea shoved back into place. Muffled cries poured from him, still loud enough for the entire house to hear and possibly the neighbors. Heaving gasps wracked his chest which rose and fell in rapid rhythm.

"Lea…" Alidoro cautioned.

She shot him a thorny look that he was too absorbed in his task to see. "Romeo, listen to me." His pupils, wide as saucers, flitted from the ceiling to Alidoro to her. "I know it's difficult, but you must calm down. Breathe through the pain, like I taught you. It will be alright. I've got you. I'm right here."

Pained groans dissolved into a strange hiccuping sound. It was so out of place, so foreign to the vicious swim of emotions swirling inside her, that it took Lea a moment to realize he was laughing. There was little mirth in it, only a disconcerting callousness. He pawed at the belt until his fumbling fingers cooperated, then ripped it from his mouth.

"You, you're here? But which you is it?"

Lea peered at him from the corner of her eye. Rage had contorted his soft sloping features into something nearly unrecognizable.

"Wh— what are you talking about?" Her voice crackled, thin and reedy.

A sneer spread across his lips. "Us," he hissed. "We. That's what P said in the swamp. And you, not an hour ago, again." He inhaled sharply, dropping his head onto the pillow. "You've been lying to us since that day in the park. P wasn't the only one who came back."

"Romeo, I—"

"Tell me the truth, or be quiet. I don't—" He grimaced. "I don't want to be lied to anymore."

"Alright, yes! I lied. I kept things from you." The words flowed from her tongue like a river. "What was I meant to say? That I was from the future? That I'd had terrible visions of death and destruction? You'd have had me committed."

Lady Isabelle, lip peeled back by scorn, emerged from some shadowy corner of her mind. Mad, she'd hurled at Lea among a plethora of other bitter, envenomed words the day she'd chosen to cut ties with the family. That day wasn't the first time she'd heard those words or seen such a look. Her mother hated anything that might defy society's expectations, and feared most of all the epithet of insane, mad, or even eccentric. It was why, when Sophia had innocently mentioned one of her intuitions, Lady Isabelle had dragged her to her room and sternly instructed her to never speak like a woman possessed ever again.

Imagining that same expression on Romeo or Carlo scared her half to death.

"We believed P," Romeo rasped.

She scoffed. "P had proof. Hell, P is proof. All I had was a jumble of memories crammed into my skull and the burden of years unlived by anyone but myself."

"We still would have believed you."

"Maybe, but what then? You'd have thrown yourself headlong into danger. Provoked the Alchemists. Gotten killed. Again."

Two letters, written some time apart but with the same intent. Their contents had struck the same icy dread in her, too. Carlo was strong, but not strong enough to enter the lion's den and emerge unscathed. Zelator made her realize that death had been the kindest fate to befall him that day, but retrospection offered little comfort. Romeo, too, half-blinded by the grief he swore he'd conquered, charged toward his doom with the certitude of victory.

"Isn't that what you trained us for?" he shouted. His head pried off the pillow, sticky with drying sweat. "To protect people who can't protect themselves? To right wrongs? Why did you teach us if you can't trust us?"

"I do!" she cried. "Of course I trust you. Of course I want you to follow in my footsteps. But not so soon. I—" She inhaled shakily. "My life is hell. It's been hell for a long time. I brought you into that, and you paid the price for my foolishness. So when I came back to this time, I saw a chance to spare you the worst of it and I took it. I don't regret trying to protect you, only that I'm failing again. I— I'm scared that I can't. That I've taken your future from you before it was ever yours."

Scissors snipped in the pervading silence. Alidoro sewed veins closed and shepherded organs back to their rightful place while Lea's soul unspooled. She felt raw, hollowed out, like some inky mass had been dredged from the depths of her and left quivering in the afternoon sun.

"Do you know," Romeo said at last, "why we wanted to train under you so badly? Aside from the obvious." A smirk raised the corner of his lips, though a wince stole it away moments later. Ever charming, even open on the operating table.

"You didn't want to be separated. You couldn't join the Bastards, nor he the Sweepers."

"Sure, but—" Romeo fell back again. His mouth opened for a bellow that emerged as a low whine. Brow knitted and eyes pinched shut, he bore the pain with remarkable poise, all things considered. "That wouldn't stop us."

"No, you'd find a way." If anyone could, it would be them.

When she offered no alternative, he continued, "Before you left the Rose Estate, you were one of the few to treat us like people. Not petulant children or puppets or props. You let us fail without fear of losing our home or your respect." Featherlight, trembling fingers hooked around her elbow. Caught between recoiling and leaning into the touch, she remained frozen like a deer in a hunter's sight. "I want that Lea back, the one who doesn't look at me like I'm made of glass."

"She was a fool who got everyone she loved killed, including herself," Lea snapped. "You weren't there. You didn't see."

"You're right," he quavered. His voice was weak from teetering on the brink of consciousness. "And since you refuse to tell me shit, I'm just going to have to guess."

He licked his lips. Flecks of dried blood sloughed off into his mouth. Some of his color had already returned, due either to the saline infusion or the gradual stemming of the tide.

"I can only assume the Carlo did something reckless that you warned him not to do."

She swallowed, mouth pressed into a thin line. That invitation was nothing but a thinly veiled trap. He insisted that it was an opportunity. With the right knowledge, even the Alchemists would be vulnerable. She told him to ignore it, or better yet burn it. By the time she realized what he'd done, it was already too late.

"Well?" Romeo prompted her impatiently.

"Yes." She did not meet his gaze but could feel it on her, cold and piercing.

"After which, I did something equally stupid despite the same words of caution."

The zoo was a death trap, even without Arlecchino traipsing about. It teemed not only with Alchemists but whatever beasts they'd seen fit to twist to their purposes. Romeo shouldn't have gone alone, and she'd told him that. It had been the last thing she ever said to him.

"Yes," she said, the lone word nearly catching in her throat.

"Yet you still think it was all your fault?"

Hot tears slid freely down her cheeks and into her mouth, coating her tongue with salt. "I failed you," she sobbed. A hoarse gasp ripped through her chest, briefly robbing her of air and sense. "You trusted me to be fast enough and strong enough, and I failed."

His frail grip fell away. The loss stung like ice against bare skin, the absence of warmth burning her as surely as a blazing inferno. Despite their physical proximity, he'd never felt further away. Then, Romeo stirred.

He struggled onto his elbows, summoning his remaining strength to resist her hold. The movement was so unexpected that she abandoned her position to reach out and support him before she realized what she had done. A fist seized the front of Lea's shirt and hauled Romeo up until he sat upright, nose nearly pressed to hers.

Alidoro recoiled with a bark of frustration. "Romeo—"

Romeo ignored him. Lea, too, was too stunned to speak, let alone move.

"Listen," he hissed. "Whoever killed me is to blame. I am, too, in some ways. I made a choice, and it had consequences. Like how I chose to trust Geppetto." He thrust his chin toward the hole ripped through his abdomen. "Making decisions is just a part of life. I'm tired of someone making them for me."

"I can't lose you again," she whispered.

The scent of iron danced in the air between them as he puffed out a chuckle. "I don't want to die, and I don't want to lose you either." He closed the gap, leaning their foreheads together. Beneath his clammy skin, the unmistakable hum of life ran through his veins. "Whenever I've failed, you've allowed me to start again without shame. I'm giving you the same permission. A wish gave you the ultimate second chance, so cut loose the grief anchoring you to the past, and let us—all of us—share the burden of the future."

It seemed so simple when he said it. Perhaps it was. But who would she be without it? Grief had become her constant, a lighthouse to look to when the waters turned rough. She could scarcely remember the time before. No, that wasn't quite right. She could remember, but it was far less painful to linger in sadness and anger than wander back into those halcyon days. Each visit there would end with the inevitable tragedy of remembrance.

Was it better, then, to remain in that space where no one could hurt her? To mold herself into a creature of pure purpose? How long had it been since she had just been Lea, not daughter, Stalker, or mentor?

The truth was, she was tired. Weariness permeated her bones, straight down to the marrow. Years of fighting and grieving and surviving sat stagnant in the corners of her mind and body, like disused furniture swathed in cobwebs. For the first time in a long time—maybe ever—she realized she need not abide them. Romeo had placed the key in the shutter's lock. Only she could could turn it and let in the light.

"Alright," she said, barely audible. A soft click resonated within her. It was not all the way open yet, but a slim shaft of golden afternoon rays peeked through the burgeoning crack. "Alright," she said again, louder this time.

Romeo's expression softened. Ice melted from his spring-blue eyes, now ringed in red.

Alidoro cleared his throat. "If I may continue…"

"My apologies," Lea gasped. The spell broken, she wrestled Romeo supine again. "I didn't mean— I should have—"

"It's alright," he said as he dove back into surgery. "You have a wise yet foolish apprentice." Romeo jolted under his renewed ministrations, one foot smashing into the table's ornate trim.

Quiet overtook the improvised operating theater. The tension—beyond that which accompanied any medical procedure—had gone out of the room, replaced by a companionable air. Alidoro toiled away with no further interruption until the final stitches. Drawing Romeo's skin closed woke him from the half-conscious state he'd fallen into.

When it was finished, Alidoro stripped off his gloves and deposited them in an antiseptic bath alongside his tools. Scrutinizing the small lineup of analgesics, he selected one bottle with a disappointed sigh.

"This will have to do for now," he said, handing the bottle to Romeo. "I'll need to send Parrot out for antibiosis anyway, in case of infection, so I'll have him pick up something stronger."

Romeo downed the tincture hungrily while Lea caught Alidoro's arm. "Thank you. I can't repay what you've done for me, but thank you."

He looked at her impassively, some arcane emotion threatening to burst through the placid surface. Sunlight glinted off his dark eyes like small bolts of lightning in a blackened sky.

"You already have."

Lea hesitated, then pressed on. The veil of secrecy had been so thoroughly frayed that it was pointless to pretend. "Does she know?"

He shook his head. Melancholy surrounded him like a halo, casting deep shadows across his features. "It's safer this way."

"I understand. I'll keep it in confidence until you wish otherwise."

She still did not know the nature of their relationship, though she suspected it was familial based on their striking resemblance. It was not her place to pry, especially after both Alidoro and Eugénie had done so much for her just within the last few hours. The less she knew, the better anyway. She could not reveal that which she did not know.

"Me too," Romeo added. His speech was slow and lilting. "I mean, I'm probably not going to remember any of this, so your handsome face is definitely safe with me."

Lea huffed but did not stifle the grin creeping up. "Hush, you! Let's get you to a proper bed."

"That sounds nice. This one's too hard."

Alidoro's eyes crinkled in amusement before being hidden behind the dog mask once more. "The medicine is taking effect, it seems."

Each taking a side, they carefully relocated Romeo to one of the plush bedrooms upstairs. A few doors down, Eugénie chattered away to a mechanical concerto. Lea hoped she could fix P, or at least alleviate whatever pain he felt. The desire to check on him dueled with her trepidation to see him…disassembled. Ultimately, fatigue won out over both.

She scavenged a pillow and some blankets from another unused room and laid them out on the carpet next to Romeo's bed. He watched her work in silence. Rather than accusatory, his sunken stare felt merely curious. An eye drawn to movement.

She flipped the light switch and settled beneath the covers. Her ankle throbbed distantly, but hauling herself off the floor to beg drugs off Alidoro was far more unappealing than a bit of soreness. Instead, she laid in the dark and allowed her mind to wander back to that disused place.

"It was Arlecchino," Lea said eventually. "The one who killed you."

The confession opened the shutters another hair. One more secret shed, and she felt lighter for it.

At first, there was no response. Lea thought Romeo might already be asleep, pulled under by the medicine's soporific embrace. "I thought you destroyed him years ago."

She pursed her lips. "As did I. The Alchemists rebuilt him for research, but they failed to account for his exceptional resourcefulness and supreme lunacy. He kidnapped and tortured you to get to me. He wanted…"

Revenge didn't quite encompass the depths of that beast's depravity. If that had been all he desired, he would have gutted Romeo and left his corpse on her doorstep, then murdered her in her sickbed. His motives had been far more opaque, at least for any sane human being.

"A reaction," she settled on. "Like a child throwing a tantrum to garner attention." A dangerous child, but juvenile nonetheless. "P and I fought him together, but it hardly mattered. We both fell and ended up here, in the past."

Romeo hummed thoughtfully. "That doesn't make any sense."

"The Alchemists upgraded him, for some godforsaken reason. And I was— ill."

"Still," he yawned. "P is incredible, and you're you. So…it doesn't…" He trailed off into quiet snores.

Lea smiled into her pillow. Romeo was injured but alive. By the grace of some happier star, she hadn't been too late.

"Sleep well," she told him, willing him to hear her even in his dreams. "I'll be here when you wake."

Chapter Text

Eugénie's voice was almost enough to drown out the screaming.

P stared at the ceiling of the borrowed bedroom. Eugénie had his Legion arm half-disassembled, its pieces scattered across the sheets of whichever one of Antonia's guest beds was unfortunate enough to accommodate him. The door was cracked. Maybe if it was shut all the way, they wouldn't be able to hear Romeo and Lea's voices from the dining room downstairs.

"The capacitors are completely fried," Eugénie said. "Not to mention the extent of the structural damage… if this is what your arm looks like, you're lucky the rest of you is intact at all."

P didn't respond. It didn't seem like a response was what Eugénie was looking for regardless; as soon another scream floated up the stairs, she flinched and kept talking through the silence.

"Your arm is very elegantly done," she rambled, fiddling with the components with trembling fingers. "This is exactly how I would have integrated the weapon cells to avoid interfering with the electromyographic signals from the body. It's—it's not easy, you know, harnessing weapons-grade electricity when it also needs the sensitivity to read smaller electrical signals from your muscles. It's so easy to overload the wrong sensors…"

"—lying to us—"

"Romeo—"

Eugénie's throat bobbed with a spasmodic swallow. Her rapid blinks did little to hide the growing wetness in her eyes. "I—I'm going to take your arm off now," she continued, a little too loudly. "It shouldn't hurt, but, you know, you're a bit of a mess, so let me know if it does…"

P stared at a point somewhere past her shoulder. He didn't care what she did or how much it hurt when she did it.

Faltering only a moment, Eugénie wrapped her hands around the connection point. "Alright, here we go. One, two…"

The release mechanism in the socket screeched as she pressed it, deformed enough to be stubborn. She winced but persisted, and with a few strong tugs, the arm ground its way out of its port and tumbled onto the sheets. With a small noise of triumph, she dragged the arm closer, took a breath, and—fell silent.

It was likely only a few seconds that passed, but the muffled cries of agony from downstairs made it feel like hours. Slowly, P slid his gaze to Eugénie, who was staring at the arm's upper connection point with wide eyes and parted lips.

"That's my…" she trailed off. The voices from the hall poured in to fill the silence.

"—the truth—"

"—from the future—"

"The… future," Eugénie echoed the muffled shouts from the door. Her fingers traced something written on the brushed metal cuff. "Is that why…"

P followed the movement of her fingers. A faint spark of recognition lit his mind.

The maker's mark.

Fulminis was Eugénie's creation, first and foremost. Venigni helped P modify it, sometimes even repair it, but it was Eugénie's hands that crafted it. I've had the same maker's mark since I was fourteen, she'd laughed as she showed P. I didn't see the point in overthinking it.

"I… made this." Eugénie's wide eyes flickered up to meet P's. "I made this?"

P was too exhausted to find his voice. Too exhausted to explain. He only nodded, and he closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see all the inevitable questions in Eugénie's face.

"Oh," Eugénie whispered faintly. There was a shuffle and a dip in the mattress as she laid the arm back down on the sheets. "Oh," she said again, even more quietly.

The quiet only lasted as long as the relative quiet in the dining room did. At the next muffled cry, Eugénie's voice started back up again, and P could feel the movement of her hands as she began to disassemble the arm. "I—the arm has some unusual wiring at the connection point," she said shakily. "I must have had… there must have been a reason, I just need to figure out what it was so I can factor it into the rest of the repairs…"

Her commentary continued as she worked, and slowly, slowly, P settled. If he closed his eyes and focused only on the sound of her voice, he could almost pretend he was in the Hotel on one of its calmer nights, sitting by her workbench as she chattered her way through weapon repairs.

He wouldn't call life in his Krat happy, but it had been—simpler. The choices he'd made then had killed people, too, but they hadn't been his choices alone. The decisions he'd made here, the decisions that were supposed make things better—

His eyes and nose stung with that same unfamiliar warmth that had seized them beneath the Abbey, beneath the Tower. Beneath the soothing hum of Eugénie's chatter, he could still hear Romeo screaming. And P had known how this would end, hadn't he? He had known, even if he'd denied it. He'd seen the evidence of his father's ruthlessness painted in blood across every city block in Krat. He'd seen that thing beneath the Abbey.

And still. And still. He'd let Lea lead them up those stairs like there was anything but death waiting for them at the top.

Whatever combination of fear and love and hope had stayed his tongue in the Hermit's Cave, it wasn't enough of an excuse. For all Lea blamed herself for how it ended, the fault laid with Geppetto—and more than that, it laid with P.

Like father, like son. Maybe Geppetto had been right those two lifetimes ago. P's freedom was never meant for him, and by claiming it the way he had, he had doomed not just that first world but the ones that followed after.

"I'm sorry," he murmured without opening his eyes.

"Hm?" Eugénie interrupted herself. "Did you say something?"

"I'm sorry," P repeated, quiet and hoarse. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Eugénie said something else, some gentle-voiced reassurance she didn't know better than to give. P only shook his head, and after a moment's pause, she hesitantly continued talking through the repairs on P's Legion arm instead.

He should stop her, he knew. The arm itself had only slight differences from a human prosthetic, but the inner workings of the attachment port were unmistakably mechanical. It would become very clear very quickly that he wasn't as human as his appearance suggested.

Untethered from his body as he was, he couldn't reach far enough down to find the energy to care. He let himself drift as she worked her way up. It seemed that he needn't have worried regardless; she only hesitated momentarily at the transition from Legion arm to the more human parts of P's form.

For what felt like both mere minutes and a small eternity, Eugénie realigned the components of P's body with the same desperate focus she'd afforded his Legion arm. She maneuvered around the more organic parts of his form to access the puppet mechanics as if she'd been working on things like P her entire life. She hadn't commented on his hybrid nature, beyond remarking on its unique composition and apologizing whenever she thought she was hurting him.

The scrape of her tools against the raw nerves and thrumming Ergo veins probably would have been painful for something occupying P's body. It was a good thing he wasn't. He was still adrift someplace else, like he'd been in the days he was still new. The body was an object, and he a ghost observing.

Eugénie talked about the body like a person's, even as she plucked warped pins and screws out of its metal framework and lamented her lack of a proper welder. Your wrist is broken, she told him, your shoulder's dislocated, your ligaments are torn, your ribs—oh, they're… your spine, um, they're not… attached to…

She seemed a little squeamish about the whole thing, especially whenever the ruptured vessels of the body leaked out that brown-red almost-oil almost-blood. It stains, he wanted to warn her, but ghosts couldn't talk. It was too late to keep it off of the bedsheets by then, anyway.

A noise drifted in from someplace that could have been mere feet away or entire miles. Eugénie picked her head up and looked towards the—yes, the door, that was the sound. A door opening. A familiar dog mask peeked in through the gap. Eugénie's expression did something complicated that P had no hope of deciphering.

"It's done," Alidoro told them quietly. "We moved him to a bed so he can rest more comfortably. I'll need to monitor him for signs of infection, but it went as well as it could have. We just need to wait for Parrot to return with supplies."

Even this far from his body, P could feel the shivering, marrow-deep relief as the words sunk in. He hadn't killed Romeo with his stupidity.

Eugénie breathed a gusty sigh of relief. "I'm glad." She hadn't known Romeo. Had no reason to care. It was very like her to care anyway.

The inscrutable eyes of Alidoro's mask studied them. "And you?" he asked with an uncharacteristic note of hesitation. "Are you in any pain? Many people fail to realize the extent of their injuries until they've had some time to settle." The question was phrased as if to ask after both of them, but as P drifted closer back to awareness, he could tell that Alidoro's focus was on Eugénie.

Eugénie's focus was on Alidoro in turn, careful, analytical. "I'm alright," she replied after a long moment. Her gaze slid to P and back to Alidoro in a silent query.

"I know you have questions, but I'm afraid the answers will need to wait," Alidoro said, sounding tired. "Forgive me."

Something close to frustration furrowed Eugénie's brow. She looked like she did when her work wasn't cooperating, or Venigni was being too noisy in the alcove across the hall; the only difference was the youthful roundness of her face. Despite her visible displeasure with Alidoro's non-answer, she didn't protest when he slipped back out and shut the door behind him.

Romeo. Alidoro was going to watch over Romeo. Romeo, who was only alive despite P's actions, not because of them.

Before P even realized what his body was doing, he was halfway upright, Legion arm moaning in protest as he forced it to bear his weight. Eugénie's frantic voice floated in from somewhere to his left. She hadn't finished repairing him, he was going to hurt himself, she wasn't even sure he could walk—

Noise, all noise. P placed one foot on the floor, then the other. His knees almost buckled when he pushed himself off the bed. The pain was secondary. Noise, just like Eugénie's pleas for him to lie back down. He'd heard which door Alidoro opened; it wasn't far. He'd crawl if he had to.

He had to see Romeo. He had to apologize. He had to—

The room oozed by him in a blur, as did the hallway. Each step quaked through him like the tower's foundations, a seismic wave of pain from foot to skull and down again. Noise. Just noise. The door was three steps away, and then two. Then one. His hand shook too badly to grip the handle on the first try, but he managed. He thought Eugénie might have helped him, perhaps by accident as she tried to pry his hands from the knob.

"You shouldn't be up," came Lea's voice, slicing through the hum of pain and Eugénie's ebbing protests. She sounded tired, too. Raw, wrung out, juiced like an overripe fruit. This, too, was a consequence of P's mistakes: more pain heaped upon a woman who would shoulder the burden until she broke.

"I'm sorry," was all he managed to force out with his traitorous voice. "It's my fault."

"You aren't responsible for what Geppetto did," Lea replied sharply. Her face swam into focus, starkly clear against the watercolor backdrop of the room. P barely felt real, and he clung to her wrist with a shaking hand, desperately anchoring himself as he tried to find the words to argue.

"It's my fault," he repeated. "I—"

"Why don't you both sit down," Alidoro cut in. It wasn't a suggestion.

Numb, P followed Lea down to a pile of blankets on the floor. He couldn't tell where his legs were, but he must have maneuvered them into a position something like sitting. Lea was across from him. Romeo's bed was a mere arm's length away, where he lay with his blond hair limp on the pillow.

"It wasn't your—" Lea started, but Alidoro's calm voice interrupted her, gentle but firm.

"What blame do you believe you bear for what happened?" Alidoro asked.

P couldn't turn to look at him, wasn't sure he'd be able to if he tried. He couldn't look at Lea either. His eyes sought out Romeo almost frantically, and he didn't know if he was relieved or terrified to see hazy blue eyes looking back.

"I lied," P whispered, voice cracking in half.

"You… lied," Lea echoed.

"I didn't," he squeezed out, throat tight, "I didn't, I didn't want to say it. I thought it would be different. I thought since Carlo… since he didn't…"

"You're not making any sense," Lea bit out with badly-concealed frustration. It only made the sick, dizzying knots of P's organs tie themselves tighter.

"I knew." The statement crawled from P's chest and dropped like a stone between himself and Lea. "I knew. He killed people before. A lot of people. I knew he did. I just… I thought…"

Lea stared at him, red-rimmed eyes exhausted and uncomprehending. Eugénie made a noise from somewhere by the door.

It was Alidoro who broke the silence, his voice even and neutral. Unreadable. "Please elaborate. Do you mean Geppetto killed people in the time you came from?"

"All of them," P gasped. Now that he'd admitted the depth of his lie, it all wanted to come pouring out at once, words crowding for space in his closing throat. "He killed—everyone. The puppets—the Frenzy. Everyone—" His voice cracked and died. People, just people. People with red blood. Children with red blood.

"You said he fought the Alchemists," Lea said, a hard edge forming in her voice. "Were you lying?"

"No. Yes." P shook his head. Ghosts couldn't talk, but he swore that every rotting corpse he'd stepped over in the streets of his ruined Krat was screaming, one louder than the rest. "The puppets did. He—Father—"

Something broke in Lea's expression at that. P couldn't read it, couldn't tell if it was pain or anger or grief or something else entirely. "So the puppets fought the Alchemists," she said. Her tone was controlled, but it was tight and fragile, liable to snap at any second. "But if Geppetto didn't order them to, then who did?"

"Romeo."

The word ripped from him like something living, and it hurt just as much clawing its way out.

"Romeo did," he continued, the confession spilling from him like blood from an open wound. "Romeo—Geppetto—he needed a, a hub. Something that could issue orders to every puppet at once. And. Romeo. Romeo was…"

"But Arlecchino—" Lea stopped, paling. Her lips parted without sound at first, as if she could barely bring herself to speak. "It wouldn't matter if he was dead," she whispered hoarsely. "Geppetto put Carlo's Ergo in a puppet. If he had Romeo's body…"

P managed a tiny nod.

"Fuck. Fuck!" Lea's voice rose and broke, her fist thudding weakly against the floor. Her shoulders were shaking. It was the most fragile P had ever seen her, and it absolutely rotted his insides to think that he was the reason for it. "And you just—let him walk in there! You didn't say a word!"

P flinched. He didn't reply. He couldn't. She was right. He'd known what Geppetto was capable of doing to Romeo, to everyone, and he'd said nothing.

"What else are you hiding?" Lea demanded, wild-eyed. "What else, P?"

"I killed him," P choked out. Maybe ghosts could talk. It certainly didn't feel like he was the one using his voice to speak. "I—I didn't know, I swear, but I—he—"

"That's what you meant," a whisper-soft voice floated from the bed, raspy and tired. "Under the tower."

Both Lea and P froze, heads whipping around to look at Romeo. He wasn't sitting up—couldn't, probably—but he seemed a little more awake now, eyes lidded but focused.

"You said," Romeo continued in a voice quiet and breathy with pain, "that you wouldn't kill me again." His eyes drifted shut. "That's what you meant."

With a strangled noise, Lea buried her face in her hands, the heels of her palms pressed tight to her eyes.

"I didn't know!" P barely recognized his own voice, raw and wet with tears he hadn't realized were falling. "I didn't know, I didn't know, I swear I didn't know—"

"What else." Lea didn't say it like a question. It was tired and resigned and it was an order.

"Sophia," P gasped out between heaving breaths. "Sophia—Simon took her, I don't, I don't know when, he used her as an amplifier, he tortured her—"

Lea didn't lift her face from her hands. Her body was tense and trembling, a bowstring ready to snap.

"I killed her, too. She asked me to, she was in pain, but I—I still killed her." P couldn't see much of anything anymore. Lea's form was blending with Sophia's, limp and helpless in her birdcage. He sank his fingers into the meat of his memory, uprooting every painful truth he could touch. "They wanted Listeners. The disease, it has a cure, the Alchemists just—just didn't use it. The Gold Coin Fruit, they killed Listeners, turned them into the trees—"

"P," Romeo said faintly, but P couldn't stop. He was falling apart, fragile walls collapsing just as surely as the tower's had.

"The Archbishop is corrupt," P babbled. "The refugees all died or turned into monsters. The disease was in the water. The Kroud destroyed the city. The Alchemists wanted to make a champion, the Overseer was the prototype, then Victor—"

"P!" Lea's sharp voice finally silenced him. She'd lifted her head, and the fury P had expected in her expression was warring so strongly with grief that she looked more tired than angry. "Take a breath." She dug her knuckles into her temples. "Don't try to recall everything right now. Wait until we ask."

P's mouth snapped shut. He felt strangely ashamed, like he'd flayed himself open and Lea found his guts unappealing.

"I can't," Lea said haltingly. "I can't be around you right now." She shifted as if to get her feet under her, wobbling under her own weight.

"That's enough." Alidoro swooped in to steady Lea, easing her back down onto the blankets. "Eugénie, can you take our guest back to his room, please?"

But the sight of Alidoro shook one last barb free, and P wrenched his shoulder away from Eugénie's hesitant touch. "Parrot," he blurted out to Alidoro. "Parrot murdered you."

Alidoro stilled. He tilted his head, his mask's inscrutable eyes fixed on P. "So I met my end in your future, as well."

"You argued about money. He killed you and took your mask," P continued, almost frantically. His heartbeat drummed in his throat. "He pretended to be you. I only found out when—"

His gaze slid to Eugénie, then to the floor.

"In the interest of full disclosure for all parties present, we should ask after Eugénie as well," Alidoro said, ever-neutral. P only heard the waver of uncertainty because he was listening for it. "Has she anything specific to worry about?"

P shook his head. Alidoro couldn't hide the tension that left his shoulders.

"Then that will do for now," Alidoro said. His hand remained firmly on Lea's shoulder, preventing her from trying to rise again. "Eugénie, if you would be so kind."

"Right," Eugénie said dazedly. Her hand alit on P's arm again, a birdlike touch so familiar that for a single, aching moment, P missed the Eugénie of his time so powerfully it hurt.

At her gentle urging, P staggered back into an upright position. He was only half-present in his body, but it was enough to feel the way his limbs screamed in protest at their mistreatment. It was harder to dismiss as noise when it was accompanied by the fresh pain of Lea avoiding his eyes.

As the door shut behind him and Eugénie helped him back down the hall, he wondered if Lea would ever trust him near Romeo again. He wondered if she should.

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, once and then again. Of all the pain in both his body and his heart, that thought was somehow the thing that hurt the most.

Shortly after settling P back into the oil-stained mess of the bed, Eugénie murmured that she'd be back in a bit and slipped out into the hall. He wasn't sure how much time passed or where she vanished to, but when she returned, she had a canvas bag rattling with metal scraps and a welder clutched triumphantly in her hands.

"I had no idea Lady Cerasani would have things like this in her house," Eugénie chattered as she began to lay the parts out in a neat array. "It's nice that she keeps all of her godson's tinkering…" Her expression faltered, eyes darting nervously to P and then back to the line of screws she was straightening. "A-anyway, it looks like your, um…"

She gestured vaguely at P's supine form, eyes flickering between his body and face. At a loss for words, all he could do was stare back.

"…right," Eugénie said, somewhat awkwardly. "Well, the good news is that you, um, use all the standard fasteners and actuators, so I should be able to replace most of those with these." She glanced at the bag. "I might need to get creative with the damaged parts of your frame, but I have real welding equipment now!" She offered P a wobbly smile. "It might not be workshop-grade, but we'll get you up and running more smoothly in no time."

She still seemed shaken, hands trembling with nervous energy as she carefully realigned a screw to lie parallel to its companions on the bedside table.

"You don't need to…" P trailed off, the words escaping him. Help him? Fix him? Waste her time on him?

Eugénie's shoulders curled towards her ears. "I know I don't. I just…" She toyed with one of the longer bolts, passing it anxiously between her shaking fingers. "If you don't want me to, it's fine," she said finally. "But I… I think I'd really, really like something to do with my hands right now."

Her voice was tight with what P recognized as approaching tears. She'd gotten cleaned up at some point, wiped off most of the dust from the collapse and changed into clean clothes that hung loosely off her frame, but there was still something haunted about her.

The Eugénie of P's time had been far more jaded, long inured to the reality of the Krat she lived in, but P wasn't sure if this Eugénie had even seen anyone die before, let alone witnessed violence on the scale of the collapse. The need to occupy herself, though—the need to fix, to help, to do something—that was the same.

"Alright," he whispered. He was far too damaged to repair on his own, and he'd be of very little use to anyone until his body was fit for combat again.

Eugénie's face slackened with relief. "Alright," she echoed. "I'll take good care of you, I promise."

It was strange. He'd expected to feel every touch of her hands and tools inside him like sandpaper against a raw nerve, but when she opened him back up, it barely hurt at all.

The room was quiet.

Eugénie had long since departed, exhaustion winning out over anxiety after what felt like hours of arranging and rearranging P's broken parts. She'd barely protested when Alidoro poked his head into the room and suggested she get some sleep. Alidoro's gaze had lingered on P from beneath the mask as he held the door for Eugénie, but he hadn't spoken. He'd merely gestured Eugénie down the hall to another bedroom and shut P's door behind him with a gentle click.

Maybe P couldn't be trusted around Eugénie either, now that everyone knew. The thought curdled like old milk. Like a foul taste in the back of P's throat that he couldn't clear, no matter how much he swallowed.

The room was quiet, and it was dark.

No one had bothered to draw the curtains, but the only light that filtered through the window was a watery mix of moonlight and the distant glow of streetlamps. Whatever the window overlooked, it wasn't the main street.

It wasn't the grounds of the Rose Estate, either. Or the hotel courtyard. If P got up and looked, he wouldn't recognize a single thing outside.

He laid an absentminded hand against the sudden ache in his chest. There wasn't much to miss about the hotel of that long-ago time, was there? Or even the Rose Estate of this one, despite Sophia's gentle presence. He was used to belonging nowhere. There was no reason to get upset about it now.

I can't be around you.

There was no reason to get upset. He'd known this second chance was for everyone else, not him. He'd barely belonged in the time he came from, let alone this one. Any comfort, any affection, any happiness—those were secondary to his actual goal, the one he'd very nearly destroyed any hope of accomplishing with his own stupidity.

Romeo could still die, he realized. Carlo, too. Carlo could already be dead, and P wouldn't know.

Suddenly, the room was too quiet. Too dark. P was stumbling towards the door before he realized he'd gotten out of bed.

The hallways were dark and quiet, too, walls looming up and over like reaching arms as he stumbled through their sepulchral depths. His aching body wasn't coordinated enough to manage the stairs, and he tumbled down the last few steps. It barely hurt, barely felt like anything. He shoved himself back to his feet and kept going. Where he ended up didn't matter—he just needed to be out.

The turn of a handle, the click of a door, the brush of cool night air against his cheeks. When the dark sky opened above him, P could breathe again.

It was a courtyard of some kind, he was finally able to process. A small garden. He remembered finding little patches of greenery like this in his Krat sometimes, overgrown and ill-tended things sprawling out into the abandoned estates that housed them, but he'd never seen one that looked quite like this.

Even in the faint light of night, it looked—lush. Alive. Trimmed hedges lining stone pathways, benches tucked beneath the shelter of ivy-covered trellises. Flowers still stubbornly blooming despite the approaching autumn. P glanced up at the surrounding walls and noted faintly that one of those windows probably belonged to the room he'd been in.

It reminded him of the hotel gardens. Smaller, certainly, and much more neatly tended, but similar enough to slow the rapid race of his thrumming heartbeat. As he returned to his body, the twinge of his still-healing injuries had him easing down onto one of the benches to sit. It was more of an ache than a stab, broken parts no longer grinding up against one another beneath his skin, and he silently thanked Eugénie for her diligent work.

The idea of returning to the tomblike silence of that empty bedroom set the anxious animal in P's chest pacing again. He doubted anyone would be looking for him, at least not for awhile, and it wasn't as though he'd wandered off the estate grounds entirely. He settled more comfortably on the bench and cast his gaze to the canopy of stars above him. He wondered which one had sent him and Lea back. He wondered if it was disappointed in him.

I'm sorry, he thought as hard as he could. The winking glow of the night sky offered no reply.

Above P, the moon crept in a slow, inexorable arc. Sleepy shades of black and navy paled to the gray of approaching dawn. Still P sat, following the pink and orange beams of the sunrise as they peeked over the walls of the estate and tilting his head to listen to the clear, bright notes of early morning birdsong.

High, twittering warbles and trills—that was robin redbreast, Sophia had told him fondly, whose gray feathers were scorched red by the little flame he'd carried down from the sun to thaw an icy winter. The slower, more melodic whistling was the blackbird, whose song was beautiful enough to cure the illness of an ailing king. None of the other calls were familiar to him except the harsh, raspy caw of the crows.

A small gray shape waddled into his periphery. He tipped his head down to look.

He blinked at the sight of a pigeon standing plumply beneath one of the hedges. It blinked back at him, unconcerned.

Were there any fairy tales about pigeons? Robin redbreast ended the long winter; the golden blackbird sung and healed the king. Had the pigeon done anything so noteworthy?

Probably not, P mused as the pigeon pecked lazily at the garden stones. It seemed like a lot to ask from a bird with such a simple temperament.

As the sky lightened, more pigeons fluttered down to join the first. Maybe they lived in the eaves. They seemed used to company either way, so unbothered by P's presence that they meandered across the tops of his feet as they inspected the garden.

The sudden sound of a door opening startled P into jerking his head up. The noise and movement seemed to inconvenience more than startle his feathered companions, who tottered away with very little urgency.

When his eyes landed on the person in the doorway, P froze.

Lea stepped into the pale morning light. She looked far less haggard after a night of rest, clean and dressed with her hair pulled back into a simple braid, but she certainly didn't look well. Bandages and bruising peeked out from beneath her loose clothing. The dark bags beneath her eyes were stark against the wan skin of her face.

I can't be around you, she'd told him. She sought his eyes. Sick, terrified, P looked away.

"P," her voice cut through the quiet. Her footsteps across the garden were slow and hesitant, uneven with a limp. "I was looking for you."

P stared at the pigeons. There was a perfunctory sort of wariness in the way they eyed Lea, like they knew they should be cautious but found it quite tiresome to do so. None of them bothered to take flight as she approached.

The bench creaked lightly as Lea settled down beside him. A small cloth bag rustled as she set it on the ground between their feet. Her ankle was wrapped, he noted faintly. He hadn't even known she'd hurt it.

"Alidoro says Romeo is recovering as well as can be expected," she informed him, too stilted to be conversational. "And that his condition will improve much more rapidly once Parrot returns with supplies."

P nodded silently. It was a relief, but not one he had the right to celebrate.

"P," Lea whispered. Her voice was thick with an emotion P couldn't identify. "Look at me." A pause, a hitch in her breath. "Please."

P's head jerked up at the plea, lips parting around a protest—Lea didn't need to beg him for anything—but the words were as quick to flee him now as they ever were. It was just as well, because the look on Lea's face would have silenced him just as thoroughly.

She wasn't crying. Not quite. But her face was tight with grief, and her eyes were suspiciously wet.

"I never… last night, I…" Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "Are you… alright?"

The question baffled P to his core. There were any number of questions he'd been preparing to answer the next time Lea spoke to him, no matter how much they hurt. About Romeo, about Geppetto, even about P himself. But he supposed this one was of immediate concern with Romeo in the state he was, and responding to a status report was so instinctual that his voice loosened almost immediately.

"I'm functional," he said quietly. He flexed his Legion arm, wincing at the delay in its response. "I won't be as useful in a fight until I've had more time to recover, but my body is sturdy enough to act as a shield if needed."

Lea's expression crumpled. "That's not what I meant."

P's chest constricted with confusion and desperation. He hadn't meant to make it worse, but he was at a loss for what Lea had wanted him to say.

"What I mean to ask is if you're in any pain," Lea continued, voice raw. "I was frightened for you as well as Romeo. I understand that your body is more resilient than a human's, but it can't have been easy to…"

She trailed off, hands clenching in her lap. P couldn't remember much after the tower hit his back, but he remembered the terror in her voice, the desperate calls of Romeo's name, the surety that P had been kneeling over a corpse.

"I'm…" he started haltingly, feeling as though he were trying to disarm an explosive with his words alone. Such delicate maneuvers, and he had no idea which ones would cut and where. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect him."

Lea stared at him. "That's not what I asked."

What had she asked—if P was in any pain? P stared at her helplessly. He'd promised honesty, but this line of questioning seemed so pointless that he wondered if he was misunderstanding her somehow. "I'm functional," he repeated for lack of a better answer.

Lea's face twitched with some emotion P couldn't fathom. "Eugénie did some repairs before she went to bed, didn't she?" she asked instead. "Were they effective? Is there anything you need?"

Despite himself, P couldn't help the little flicker of warmth at the mention of Eugénie. "She did a good job," he said softly. "I'm capable of self-repair, but without access to a Stargazer or another source of Ergo, it's a slow process." He stared at the seams of his joints. "Having someone replace and realign things is—helpful."

"Good," Lea said with a jerky nod. "I regret that I didn't ask before I… spoke to you the way I did."

She hadn't spoken to him in any way P didn't deserve. He remained silent, picking at a rip in his coat.

Lea cleared her throat. "I apologize for raising my voice last night," she said quietly. "It was… unkind. And it was unfair of me to treat you as though you behaved with deliberate malice." She took a shaky breath. "And… I'm sorry if I made you feel as though I valued Romeo's well-being over your own."

"Why?" P asked, bewildered.

Lea seemed just as confused at the question. "Why what?" she asked. "Why am I sorry?"

"Yes," P said, brow furrowing. "That's what you're supposed to do. Romeo's more important than I am."

Evidently, it was the wrong thing to say. Lea reeled back, just as shocked and wounded as if P had struck her across the face. Her lips parted around words that didn't come. P stared back just as speechlessly, mystified by her reaction. P's survival was a priority only insofar as it did not interfere with Romeo or Carlo's—hadn't he and Lea been aligned on this?

"P," she croaked finally. "You're all important. All of you."

"I know it's better if I don't die," P tried to reassure her. "But—"

"Stop." Lea gestured sharply with a trembling hand. "When I swore to see everyone through this alive, I meant all of you. Not just Romeo and Carlo." She gripped his wrist. "You."

P stared at her fingers. Her knuckles were bruised, cracked skin stretched tight over white bone. P's tattered coat was getting dust on her.

"Look at me," Lea insisted. "I need you to look at me."

Reluctantly, P lifted his head. He tried to stare at a point over Lea's shoulder, but the intensity of her gaze drew P's eyes to hers like a magnet.

"Your life is not a trinket to be traded or thrown away," she told him in a choked voice. "Your death is not an acceptable loss. This—this second chance, this future—it belongs to all of us, P." Her grip tightened almost to the point of pain. "It's yours, too."

For a moment, he pictured a portrait inside a locket; a woman with three young men smiling beside her instead of two. The feeling it invoked was at once warm and overfull, like it was too big to fit in his chest, and he shoved the undeserved feeling down.

The words he needed to say were like barbs in his tightening throat, but he pushed them out anyway. If he didn't, he wasn't sure he ever would. "But I—I lied. It was my fault that we… that all those people…"

"Geppetto made his own choices." Lea spat the man's name like a curse. "You made a mistake. An error in judgment. But you did not tell him to bring that tower down, and it does not mean that you deserve to die."

"But if I'd—"

"P." Lea's voice brooked no argument. "You made a mistake. I'm not absolving you of that. It's true that I was angry with you." She chuckled humorlessly. "Furious, even."

The words landed like blows, alleviated only by the tenuous comfort of the word was. P squeezed his eyes shut.

"But you're—God, P, you're just a child." Lea's hand slid from his wrist to his back, warm and solid. "You wanted to believe your father would make the right choice. You knew what he was capable of, but knowing doesn't kill the love. It can't." Her fingers twisted into the fabric of his coat. "He doesn't deserve a son like you," she whispered hoarsely as she pulled him closer. "Either of you."

Her embrace wasn't something P had earned. He swayed into it anyway, greedy for comfort and helpless to resist. "I still," he tried to say, voice breaking. "I still—Romeo—"

Lea's arms slipped around him more fully as he started to shake. "You defied time itself twice for the chance to keep him safe," she told him. "You bore the weight of an entire tower on your back until he could be rescued."

"But I'm the reason he—"

"Listen to me." Lea's grip around him tightened. "Your judgment was poor. People died. Do you think my judgment has always been perfect?"

"That's not—"

"It hasn't," Lea continued as if he hadn't spoken. "I've made mistakes that have gotten people killed before. It happens in this line of work. It's terrible, but it happens." She smoothed a hand through his hair despite the dust and grime still caking it. "All you can do is learn from it. You won't make this mistake again."

"No," P hurried to reassure her. "I won't."

Lea's chest shook with what might have been laughter and might have been the choked beginnings of a sob. "God. That wasn't a warning. You and Carlo both…" She let out a shuddering sigh, tucking P's face more firmly against her shoulder as she rested her cheek against his head. "My care for you won't just vanish because you made a mistake. Or two, or two dozen." She gave him a gentle shake. "Do you understand?"

P opened his mouth to reply. He wasn't sure what he was planning to say, but it didn't matter anyway. All that came out was a wet, ugly sob.

"It's alright," Lea murmured. She clutched him more tightly as his tears soaked into her shirt. "It's going to be alright. Between the two of us, Geppetto doesn't stand a chance."

"Carlo," P choked out.

"We'll get him back." The steel in Lea's voice allowed for no other outcome. Her conviction eased some of the tangled knots in P's chest. There was already a world where she had lost Carlo, and she wasn't going to live through another.

The warmth of Lea's arms around him loosened somewhat as she sighed. "We still need to talk," she said. "There are a lot of questions I need answers to."

Romeo, Sophia, Parrot, a potential cure for the Petrification Disease. Every nightmare big and small. P's stomach twisted at the enormity of it. It was so much to try to fit words around.

"But," Lea continued, nudging P back to meet his gaze, "it can wait just a little while longer." She tucked his hair behind his ears and cupped his cheeks, cradling his face in her hands like something precious. Something wanted, something loved.

P had never been a child, never been small like human children were small. He'd never been little enough for someone to hold him, and whatever memories Carlo had of the experience weren't P's to remember. But this—Lea's palms on his face, the fierce love in her eyes—he imagined it had to be something like this.

"For now, I have a better idea," she said, a small but genuine smile brightening her tired face. "You never did get the opportunity to feed the pigeons at the clock tower, did you?"

P blinked. Curious, he followed her gaze to the bag she'd set down earlier.

"I brought some seeds," she said, giving P's cheek one last pat before she bent down to scoop up the bag. She shot an encouraging glance over to the ambling group of pigeons as she set the bag in P's lap. "Throw them a few handfuls. You'll be the best of friends in no time at all."

A handful of seeds later, P learned that the disinterested languor of a pigeon was only a facade. Two handfuls, and he had a lapful of flapping, cooing birds, little clawed feet clambering all over him as they tried to physically climb into the bag. Three, and the sound of Lea's laughter startled a laugh out of P as well. It did not startle the pigeons, who were too intent on emptying the bag to concern themselves with the shaking hands that held it.

"You see?" Lea said, a hand half-covering her smile. "The best of friends."

One of the pigeons was in the midst of a fruitless attempt to pry a screw from P's Legion arm, perhaps mistaking it for a seed. Another ran its beak furiously through the tangles in P's hair. A third seemed to have fallen asleep in the loose, torn cradle of his shirt.

"Thank you," P whispered. The words were tiny. Inadequate. He hoped she knew he meant them for far more than just the seeds.

Her smile softened, impossibly tender and impossibly sad. "Always."

Though the tension had largely died between himself and Lea, P was less sure where he stood with Romeo.

It was clear that Lea didn't wish P any ill will—the opposite, in fact. She'd even implied that he was almost as important to her as Romeo was. That she cared for both P and Romeo was obvious, but that didn't mean P was allowed to be near Romeo. Like—like someone with a both a pet canary and a pet cat, maybe. For that person, loving both animals meant keeping them separate, or it was sure to end in tragedy.

So perhaps Lea didn't resent P. Reasonable people didn't resent cats for their instincts, either. It didn't mean she wanted him near Romeo, and it certainly didn't mean Romeo wanted to see him.

Even if Romeo missed him, even if P wanted more than anything to see him… all he could see was that ashen, blood-splattered face, the inscrutable flicker of hazy blue eyes from a makeshift sickbed. It was better this way. It had to be better this way.

A day or so passed. P kept to his room or the gardens. Lea mentioned Romeo a time or two—that he was awake, that he felt well enough to talk, that he was relieved P was alright—and P clung to every scrap of reassurance like it was the last he'd ever get.

Lea always seemed a little frustrated after those conversations. P wondered, but ultimately, he decided not to ask.

It was after one of those conversations that P found himself in his room. Not hiding, certainly. Hiding implied that there was some kind of danger to avoid. He was simply… resting. In bed, under the covers, with the blankets pulled over his head.

(He'd formed the routine of tucking himself into bed like a person might during his stay at the Rose Estate. It had always upset Sophia to find him curled up on the floor or in the closet, and what had started as a compromise to ease her distress quickly became a source of comfort for P as well. He didn't need the softness, didn't need the warmth or the weight of the blankets, but he'd gotten into the dangerous habit of wanting things.)

Not-hiding under the covers turned into dozing, which turned into genuine rest. P didn't sleep like humans did, but when he stirred awake an indiscernible amount of time later, he felt that it was the closest he had ever come.

Climbing up from the dark, dreamless depths was like wading through the thick mud of the Barren Swamp, with just as many things trying to drag him back down into it. Disoriented, half-awake, he blinked at the ceiling and wondered what had woken him.

"There you are," a familiar voice drifted into his awareness. "Rise and shine."

Furrowing his brow, P wondered if he was still dreaming after all. Antonia wasn't supposed to be here.

Antonia. The Cerasani estate. The housekeeper, who had been preparing for Antonia's return.

Suddenly awake, P shot up in the bed.

"Oh, my," Antonia's voice continued. "I didn't mean to startle you. P, was it?"

P stared at the open door. Antonia looked back, a genial smile on her weathered face. It struck P once again how different this Antonia was from the one he knew—she wasn't young by any means, but her face was bright and clear, her skin aglow with a healthy flush. Her legs supported her body easily, undamaged by disease, and her eyes were sharp and focused.

"I just returned from my estate," Antonia continued, calm and pleasant. "I spoke to Lea. You've both had quite the adventure, haven't you?"

Innards swooping, P dropped his gaze to the floor. The polished leather of Antonia's boots stared back. There was a small scuff on the right toe. She'd always been so meticulous about her things; P had to imagine it had happened on the road and she hadn't had the chance to attend to it yet.

"May I come in?" It was phrased as a question, but P knew it was anything but. He nodded instead of delaying the inevitable, bracing himself as Antonia swept neatly across the room.

"I…" P wasn't sure what he was trying to say, but whatever it was, it wasn't coming out anyway. His throat slammed shut on the words.

Thankfully, Antonia carried the conversation along with her usual grace, perching on the chair by the bedside. "I must say that I didn't expect to be entertaining visitors," she said conversationally. "Lea and Romeo are always welcome, of course, as are any friends of theirs. Dear Eugénie is such a doll, isn't she? And that Alidoro, why, you couldn't ask for a more gentlemanly guest."

Antonia's shrewd eyes studied P, and P shrank back, suddenly quite aware of his tattered appearance.

"I would suggest introductions were in order," Antonia continued more gently, "but as far as you're concerned, we're already acquainted. Aren't we, my dear?"

P's heart stuttered. Antonia hadn't just spoken to Lea—Lea had spoken to her, about far more than P was prepared to answer for. His lungs felt like blocks of ice shoving up against his ribs. The Antonia of that faraway time had grown to love him, perhaps, but what of this Antonia, who still had a living, breathing Carlo to love? A living, breathing Carlo that P might have—

Antonia's face inexplicably seemed to soften. "There isn't a doubt in my mind that Carlo is alive," she told him, dropping the veneer of lightness from her tone. "As strained as our relationship has become, Geppetto still counts me among his closest friends. I would know in a heartbeat if the worst had come to pass."

"But…" P's voice died. Mere days ago, he would have agreed with Antonia, but even with Carlo alive, Geppetto had…

Antonia scoffed. "I am Carlo's godmother," she said primly, smoothing her skirt. "His father has no right to keep his condition from me. I've written the stubborn old fool, and if I don't hear back within the day, he shall receive far more than a sternly-worded letter from me."

Antonia laid a hand on P's arm. The touch was so warm and startling that he almost jerked away from it on instinct.

"I'll tell you the same thing I told Lea," Antonia said softly. "This is a burden I am both able and willing to carry. Allow me to shoulder it. I will ensure Carlo's safe return."

There was an edge to her gentle voice, like steel cloaked in velvet. In the face of her resolve, P could only nod, and with the motion came a sense of calm. The storm roiling in his insides still raged, but a calm eye had formed around the warm pressure of Antonia's touch; if Antonia said it would be alright, it would be alright. It had to be.

Satisfied, Antonia nodded back. "Now then," she said, much more lightly. "Shall we get you cleaned up?"

This, too, was not a question but an order. Numbly, P stumbled out of the bed and followed her down the hall.

The clothes she pressed into his arms were Carlo's. He didn't have time to figure out how he felt about it before she was nudging him into the washroom and shutting the door behind him.

When P emerged from the washroom, clean and dressed, Antonia looked him up and down with a shrewd eye. Despite the similar analytical efficiency, her scrutiny didn't make him feel small the way Geppetto's always did.

"Quite handsome," she concluded. "But goodness, your face. Come here, my boy. Let me see you."

Antonia's authority, though warm and outwardly gentle, was not to be questioned. When she gestured P closer, he went easily.

As soon as she had him within arm's reach, she cupped his face and clicked her tongue in mild disapproval. She produced a clean white cloth from somewhere on her person and pressed it to P's cheek. After a moment's pause, sharp eyes studying P as if searching for an answer to a question, she began to rub it in gentle circles.

P stilled under the touch. He thought, quite suddenly, of the way he had seen Sophia wipe the tears from the faces of the Rose Estate children whenever they cried.

"There you are," Antonia murmured. The cloth felt far too expensive to waste on something like this, but she seemed unconcerned, expression crinkling tenderly as she thumbed the dust from P's eyebrows. "Ah, you're just like Carlo. When the dear boy gets caught up in his projects, I find myself chasing after him with a handkerchief even now, demanding he allow me to wipe the oil from his cheeks."

P tried to shy away at the mention of Carlo's name, but Antonia's deceptively gentle grip remained firm on his face.

"Such a tragic look for someone so young," Antonia chided him. "You'll give yourself wrinkles like that, my dear."

Surely she knew. She said she knew—she said Lea had told her everything. But her hands remained affectionate, and her tone was no harsher than a light admonishment.

With one last pat to his cheek, she stowed her handkerchief and released him. "Much better," she said. "Now, why don't you accompany this old woman on a stroll around the estate, hm?" The hand she held out made it clear that this was not a negotiation.

Meekly, P offered his elbow.

"Such a gentleman," Antonia tittered, taking his elbow with delicate, refined grace. Her touch was so much warmer than P remembered. The long-ago nights of that faraway future had seen the sickness strip the warmth from her, her hands cold and pale in P's as they listened to the gramophone together, but this Antonia felt alive even through the fabric of P's borrowed shirt. "Shall we?"

She was already tugging on his arm. It was clear that he was escorting her in name alone; she had a destination in mind, and P could do nothing but follow.

To his relief, she led him away from the murmur of voices in Romeo's room. As they descended the stairs and looped around towards the garden, P started to think that she really had just wanted to take him for a walk. He began to relax.

This, he realized as they approached the closed door to the kitchen, was a mistake.

The door pushed open as they neared it, and Lea emerged shortly after, shouldering through the gap with a tray in her hands. She blinked in surprise at the sight of Antonia and P, eyes flickering between the two of them before settling firmly on Antonia's face.

"Lea, my dear," Antonia said cheerfully, "what auspicious timing! I've been meaning to speak with you about something."

"Is that so?" Lea glanced again at P. "I wouldn't wish to interrupt—"

"No, no, I'd rather take care of it right away," Antonia said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "It's so very difficult growing old—my memory fails me more and more often these days. Why, if I wander off now, the thoughts are apt to wander off right with me!" She chuckled lightly, as if P and Lea were in on some kind of joke.

Even wracked by disease, Antonia's mind had remained steel-sharp. P couldn't imagine this younger, healthier Antonia forgetting anything, let alone something as important as whatever she needed to bring up to Lea, but to his surprise, the confusion he felt wasn't reflected on Lea's face.

"Certainly, then," Lea agreed easily, shifting her weight off her injured ankle. "Though I'll need to fetch Alidoro to bring Romeo his evening meal."

"Oh, there's no need to bother him!" Antonia patted P's arm encouragingly. "We have a dutiful young gentleman right here who can take care of it. Isn't that right, my dear?"

As he froze beneath the warm intensity of Antonia's expectant gaze, P got the dizzying sense that there was a second conversation occurring that he wasn't privy to.

"Yes," he mouthed more than said.

Beaming as though P had offered her a pleasant surprise, Antonia released his arm and nudged him towards Lea. The look Lea gave P was inscrutable as she placed the tray into his waiting hands.

"Return the dishes to the kitchen when he's finished," she told him. "He may not have much of an appetite, but try to ensure he eats at least half the bowl."

Throat clamped shut, P could only nod. Lea's expression softened. She gave P's shoulder a gentle, parting squeeze before she pushed him in the direction of the stairs.

P barely felt connected to his body as he climbed the stairs, and the world seemed to swim with every step he took down the upstairs hallway. The sensation only worsened in front of Romeo's door, and he swore he couldn't see anything at all in the few moments between his knock and Romeo's quiet reply of come in.

The room snapped into focus the moment P stepped inside and laid his eyes on Romeo's bedridden form. He looked—unwell. But he didn't look like a corpse. Didn't look like he had under the tower, ash-pale and soaked in his own blood. Something loosened in P's chest, some knot that refused to release entirely but was now allowing him the space to breathe.

"Dinner," he said weakly, lifting the tray in his hands.

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Romeo moved to sit up, wincing with every shift. P hurried to his bedside, dropped the tray on the table, and swooped in to tuck an arm behind Romeo's back.

"I'm fine," Romeo muttered as P shored him up with every available pillow on the bed. "It doesn't hurt that—" His body immediately betrayed the lie, squeezing out a muffled whimper of pain as he tried to strain away from P's hands.

Too late, P realized that it might be his touch specifically that Romeo was protesting.

Ashamed, he pulled away, hands cold where they'd been pressed against Romeo's mildly feverish skin. He busied himself with the reading table instead, pulling it over to the bedside and carefully setting the tray atop it. He felt Romeo's gaze burning in his periphery, but he didn't lift his head, fidgeting with the table so it was positioned over Romeo's lap.

"Thanks," Romeo said quietly.

P swallowed around the lump in his throat, darting an uneasy glance up at Romeo's face. "Carlo is—" he tried and failed to start, choked.

Thankfully, Romeo cut him off with a slight motion of his head. "Antonia told me. If anyone can get him back, it's her."

With a shallow nod, P fell silent, picking at the bedspread as Romeo stared into his bowl of soup. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Romeo hummed. P couldn't decipher the inflection, nor could he read the expression on his downturned face. Heart tripping over itself in his chest, P fumbled for something else to say. Something that would make Romeo look at him.

"I'm sorry," he repeated with more desperation. "I didn't—I never—"

"I know you didn't mean for this to happen," Romeo said tiredly. "You don't need to force yourself to be here."

"No, that's not—" P's voice broke. He swallowed again, trying to clear the tightness from his throat. "I killed you," he whispered hoarsely. "Almost twice. I just—thought it was better if I wasn't around you."

Romeo's shoulders slumped. The spoon clinked against the bowl as he gave the soup a listless stir. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You can yell," P said helplessly. "Or hit me. I don't mind." He hesitated, eyes flickering to the bandages visible under Romeo's shirt. "You can hit me once you're better," he amended.

The laugh that tore from Romeo's throat was rough and without humor. "And what would that accomplish?" he asked, finally lifting his head. "It wouldn't make me feel better. It wouldn't help the me you think you killed, either." His red-rimmed blue eyes bored into P's. "You think I like seeing you in pain?"

"I…" P hesitated at the genuine hurt in Romeo's voice. It seemed so simple, so obvious, that P's suffering should mirror the suffering he caused Romeo, but when had Romeo enjoyed watching anyone suffer? "I only mean," he tried to rally, "if I could have… instead of Carlo…" His eyes dropped to the covers. "You'll get him back," he promised. "Even if I have to…"

Romeo cast his gaze to the ceiling, sighing heavily through his nose. "You know," he said, quiet and tired, "I don't think people like you and Lea realize how awful it is to tell someone you would die for them."

P jerked his head up, lips parted.

"Or that you shouldn't be near them, because clearly, they're happier that way," Romeo continued. "Either way, you're leaving me behind because you think you know better." A soft, derisive snort. "That's how you treat a child, not an equal."

"I just," P stammered. "I only wanted—"

"You and Lea," Romeo gritted out. "You both assume you know what's best for me. If you die protecting me, if you leave me behind—what then? What do I do then?" He blinked rapidly, tears sticking to his lashes. "Dying's easy. Leaving's easy. You of all people should know that surviving is the worst part."

And that—that landed against P's heart like a physical blow. Antonia's empty wheelchair. The empty spaces in his heart and memories where Romeo should have fit. Sophia. He'd only ever thought about making sure Romeo survived, never about what came after.

"That other me," Romeo choked out, half laughter, half tears. "Lea was gone. Sophia was gone. Carlo was—gone. And that Romeo, he left you behind, didn't he? Whether he wanted to or not."

P's lips moved soundlessly around Romeo's name. His palm crushed his necklace against his chest, metal edges digging in enough to hurt.

"You couldn't have killed that other me," Romeo continued hoarsely, "because he was already dead."

"But I—"

"He was a puppet, wasn't he? He… I… was bound to the Covenant. Whatever Geppetto told me to do, I…" Romeo trailed off, face twisting. "Even if you'd tried to protect me, he would have ordered me to hurt you anyway." He huffed out a humorless laugh. "Puppet or not, you think I'd want to survive if it meant killing you? If it meant being alone?"

"Romeo," P managed to say. "I wasn't—Carlo wasn't—"

"I said you," Romeo said sharply. "Not Carlo. You."

P floundered, helpless. "But I…"

"Is it so hard to believe—" Romeo broke off, shuddering through a repressed sob. "You and Lea suffered more than I can imagine," he said instead, voice quivering. "You know what it's like to watch the people you love leave you behind. And I—I'm sorry about that. I am." His voice cracked. "But why do you keep wishing it on me?"

That crack in his voice cracked P's heart right along with it. Maybe there were more ways than just dying to leave somebody behind.

Swiping away tears with a clumsy hand, Romeo continued in a voice raw and bleeding. "Do you think I'm glad Lea's been suffering this whole time without saying a word? Do you think it makes me happy that you refuse to even look at me?"

"That's… that's not…" P fumbled for words and found none. That's not what we meant. That's not what we wanted. Had they asked Romeo what he wanted?

"I'm not fragile," Romeo whispered. "Neither is Carlo. We love you. We want to help. We want to fix this. Together." He dropped his hand from his red-rimmed eyes. That steely blue gaze, no less determined for its tears, bored into P's. "You want to protect your family. Fine. Let me protect mine, too."

We're taking a stand against death itself, Romeo's voice from that long-ago time echoed in P's mind. That same grim determination shone in Romeo's eyes now. Romeo was a victim, a beloved ghost, a shadow P had chased across time, but this was him, too—a golden heart whose love for the world around him could not be extinguished. Trapped inside a steel body, unable to speak or cry, he'd somehow still found the strength to protect. Found the strength to reach out his hand, to keep caring even when it hurt. Found the strength to deliver the truth to P's ears from across a chasm of time and death.

It was easy to forget when all of P's memories of Romeo were memories of blood and pain, but Romeo was strong. Stronger than P. There was a world where he'd survived losing everything and still come out with that love intact, even for the thing that had stolen his beloved's face.

"Alright," P whispered. "I'm—"

"If you say you're sorry again, I'm going to climb out of this bed to beat some sense into you, no matter how many stitches I tear." The tired grin pulling up the corner's of Romeo's lips belied the angry words. That smile dropped slightly as he continued. "I'm… I'm not asking you not to worry. I just… want us to do this together." His fingers pressed against P's wrist, right over the fluttering pulse of Ergo. "All of us."

P nodded jerkily. He couldn't speak.

"P," Romeo continued hesitantly. "I know this might be difficult for you to answer, but I have one more question." He gave P's wrist a comforting squeeze, smiling with weak humor. "The last one for today, I promise."

The maw of the anxious animal pacing around P's chest sank its teeth into him anew. All he could offer Romeo was another nod, this one more uncertain.

"Why didn't Lea know what happened to me?"

P froze.

"She said Arlecchino killed me," Romeo said, studying the circle of his pale fingers around P's wrist. "And that she died fighting him. That's what sent you both back."

"Yes," P whispered. The implied question was clear, but he found himself choking on the explanation anyway, helpless to wrap something as small as language around the enormity of it.

Romeo's eyes flickered back up to P's face. A crease formed between his eyebrows. "So you… didn't survive. You and Lea both died, and you both returned at the same time."

"Yes." P picked at the bedspread with anxious fingers. "It's… complicated."

The crease deepened. "Try."

P took a deep, wavering breath, trying to soothe the chaotic roil of emotion filling his lungs. "I don't really know," he admitted quietly. "But I… we… think that Lea pulled me back, when she was trying to save you. She made a wish." He ducked his head. "We failed. The wish let us try again."

"You couldn't have failed," Romeo muttered. "There's no way it's that simple."

Blue strings in P's periphery. Reactions too fast and blows too strong for even Arlecchino to manage. But P had been distracted, half his attention fixed on the grisly tableau of the archway, and the tower had just reminded him again of how fallible even his steel body could be.

Romeo sighed. "So you came from a future farther than the one Lea is from," he concluded. "But you spent time with Lea in hers before you both came here."

P bobbed his head in a silent nod.

For some reason, that made Romeo's face crumple. "God, P," he said hoarsely. "Did you have to watch all of us die?"

The emotion that lodged itself in P's throat was dark and yawning, like the dripping gape of an open wound. White flame, an empty wheelchair, a birdcage full of butterflies. Two bodies beneath the Abbey. White snow soaked red with blood. He remained silent and still.

Romeo squeezed his wrist again, more tightly this time. "Thank you for answering," he said quietly. "That's all I wanted to ask." His eyes were gentle as he prompted, "Alright?"

"Alright," P mouthed more than said, unspeakably grateful.

"Now then," Romeo said with forced cheer. He gave P's wrist one final pat before withdrawing his hands. "In the spirit of asking for help, can you please hold the bowl while I try to eat this soup?"

And like mist melting away in the morning sun, most of the tension faded away. P nodded, the maelstrom in him calming as he slid his Legion hand around the bowl to hold it steady. With a grimace, Romeo knocked back one glass of medicine first, then the other, before he picked up the spoon.

It wasn't the bowl that needed bracing, as it turned out. The earthenware dish didn't so much as shift when Romeo scraped the spoon across its sides. But as Romeo lifted the spoon to his lips, his hand trembled and dipped, splashing a few stray dots of soup onto the duvet before P managed to cup his wrist and steady it.

A flicker of genuine frustration crossed Romeo's face. "Fuck," he muttered. The word sounded almost wrong in his gentle voice.

"I can help," P heard himself say, despite the way his heartbeat was drowning out every single thought at the sheer proximity of his face to Romeo's.

His mind was a wreck, unmoored and spinning through a chaotic current of warmth and closeness and the ache of spilled emotions. But when Romeo allowed him to hold his hand as he spooned soup into his chapped lips, P's body remained miraculously steady.

Perhaps too steady, because when P noticed a fleck of broth on Romeo's cheek, his thumb was wiping it away before he realized what he was doing.

"Oh," Romeo whispered.

P froze at the sound of his voice. His hand—the softer, more human one, at least—was cupped around the handsome line of Romeo's jaw, thumb still curled over the smudged drop of soup. He was halfway up onto the bed, one knee propped on the mattress as he leaned over Romeo's body.

"You had," was all P managed. "You had a."

When Romeo smiled, P felt it before he saw it, muscles twitching beneath his palm. Every point of contact between him and Romeo felt warm, hyper-sensitive.

"Mmhm." Romeo's voice was just as warm as his face felt, as P's face felt. "Thanks."

His eyelids were starting to droop, P noticed. The flutter of his pale lashes was slow and sleepy, blue eyes only half focusing as they followed the movement of P's hand leaving his cheek.

He was agonizingly beautiful, even like this—even pale and tired and wrung out, face blotchy with tears. P's heart seized with an affection that was almost painful in its intensity, like an embrace too tight to be comfortable but too precious to pull away from.

"M'gonna," Romeo broke off with a yawn before continuing, "fall asleep now, I think."

P hurriedly pried the spoon the rest of the way from Romeo's loosening fingers, dropping it back in the bowl—mostly empty, he noted with relief—and sliding the table away from the bed. He stood, intending to gather the dishes and return them to the kitchen like Lea had told him to, but a weak tug on his wrist stopped him short.

"Stay," Romeo's sleepy voice floated up from the mound of pillows.

It didn't take any more convincing than that. P dropped back down into the chair by the bed.

Romeo's grip loosened around his wrist, but before P could even start to mourn the loss, that beloved hand moved instead to P's. Romeo's grip was light and uncoordinated, barely managing to tuck his thumb under P's palm, and P was almost afraid to move his hand for fear of dislodging Romeo's entirely.

"The way I see it," Romeo murmured, voice softening at its edges, "the worst things happen when we run off on our own. That's how Carlo… and that's how I…" His eyes drifted shut, half-asleep already. "But if we just… let each other help…"

P swallowed, throat tight with an emotion he barely had the words for. "I'll try," he promised quietly.

"Mm." Romeo's head lolled against the pillows, his eyes a pair of hazy blue slits. "Me too." Those bright blue eyes crinkled as he smiled, open and unguarded. "Love you."

By the time P had the wherewithal to process what Romeo had said, Romeo was already asleep, whisked away to unconsciousness by his exhaustion and the analgesics. Even then, it took a moment for the words to consolidate from sound to meaning.

"Oh," P mouthed soundlessly. Had Romeo thought he was—? But no, he'd gotten so exasperated when P compared himself to Carlo. Romeo was sleepy, but he wasn't delirious; he'd known who he was looking at. That smile, that affection, those words, they were for P. P pressed his free hand to his necklace, tucking it into the warm place between his palm and his fluttering heart.

It wasn't as though no one had ever told him they loved him before. He'd learned to see it in the way Lea angled her body in front of his at the first sign of danger, feel it in the way she held him; he'd heard it in Antonia's soothing voice and known it from the way she wiped the dust from his cheeks. He'd held Sophia's heart beside his own two lifetimes ago and felt the love she had for him, as bittersweet as it was. Eugénie, Venigni, Carlo—of course they'd told P they loved him once or twice, even if they hadn't thought of it that way.

But to hear it. To hear it from Romeo. For Romeo to be the one to give it shape and make it unquestionably real.

P's heartbeat pulsed beneath his hand, as fast and frantic as a rabbit's. Love you, love you, love you, each beat seemed to say, and he realized with a start that he'd broken into a smile without even realizing it.

"I love you," he tried, whisper-soft. A thrill quivered through his chest, like the wingbeats of an animal taking flight from inside his ribcage. Since when was loving someone this warm? Even with the tinge of fear and worry, it barely hurt at all. He was almost giddy with it.

He loved Romeo. He loved Romeo. He loved him so much, and in a baffling reverse of what P was used to, the words felt impossible not to say. And so he repeated it—"I love you." He liked the way it felt in his mouth, the way it sounded in his voice. The smile on his face almost hurt, but even that was a good hurt. A pleasant hurt. He loved Romeo, and Romeo loved him, and it didn't even matter if Romeo meant it the same way P did.

His smiled dimmed somewhat as he studied Romeo's face. He was still pale, still unwell, still recovering from the consequences of P's omission—still recovering from what Geppetto did to him. Carlo was still missing, trapped at the mercy of his father. The Alchemists were still a looming threat.

But it was easier to think about now than it was before. No less terrible, but somehow less frightening.

"I love you," P said one more time. He reached out a tentative hand to brush a lock of Romeo's hair from his sleeping face. "We'll save Carlo together. Like you want." Romeo's hair wasn't an entirely pleasant texture, limp and greasy with dried sweat, but it was still soft to the touch. Still like spun gold to P, who couldn't tear his eyes from this beloved face now that he knew he was allowed to look. "You'll be happy this time. I promise."

P thought about a locket. He thought about a portrait of four people instead of three.

It felt too daring to say out loud. Too risky to give shape. But he cradled it beside his necklace in that warm place between his palm and his heart, and he hoped it wasn't too selfish to ask that happier star for this, too.

Chapter Text

Wisps of steam had long since ceased to curl off the bathwater, yet Lea remained in the lukewarm tub, head back, eyes fixed on the molded ceiling. She traced plaster vines as they wove their way from the chandelier hanging like a gilded teardrop in the room's center to the cornice. Cherubic figures perched in the corners, blowing little horns and strumming tiny harps. Whoever designed the space had, at least, had the good sense to keep the angels' eyes demurely closed, but Lea still felt observed. She'd take the standard, unadorned tile of her apartment any day.

God, she needed a drink. A glass of La Bleiwies would smother frivolous musings about interior design under a hazier, rosier version of Krat. The bottle would let her sleep.

Water sloshed over porcelain walls as she sat up. Thoughts like that were weak at best, treacherous at worst. Though, she supposed, they were also harmless. Alidoro had commandeered most of Antonia's liquor cabinet for medical purposes the first night they'd arrived. The remaining sherry she'd poured down the sink herself the following day before her future, miserable self could form the very same craving she had now.

Climbing out of the tub, she lowered herself gingerly onto her right foot. The worst of the swelling had subsided, but purplish-blue bruises mottled her skin as expected. Alidoro had examined it the morning after Romeo's surgery—when the pain presented itself full-force without other crises to keep it at bay—and determined that while nothing had been broken, the muscles were strained. He'd advised rest, and when she'd tried to leave the house on her own, he'd ordered it.

The pathetic attempt at flight was a foolish impulse, brought about by restlessness rather than sense. With Romeo and P both injured but safe, her focus shifted to Carlo. His absence was a gaping wound, a void filled by the lingering, putrescent smell of thirteen corpses. Antonia's presence ameliorated the ache somewhat with her staunch insistence that Geppetto would never harm his son. Lea wanted to believe that, despite the sight of his severed limb burned into the back of her eyelids. She did, logically. Geppetto had become furious over his misinterpreted order. But the longer time stretched on without plans to recuse Carlo materializing, the more unease wormed its way into her.

She toweled herself dry and slipped on a borrowed night gown. Its high collar and lace made her feel like a young girl again, wearing matching pajamas with her sister as they sneaked a midnight bite from the kitchens. She smiled, though it quickly soured.

Sophia had no idea where Lea was, how she was doing, or whether she were even alive. In return, Lea could only wonder how Sophia was bearing the news. They hadn't spoken in weeks, not since before the ill-fated meeting at Venigni Works. It wasn't safe to do so for either of them. Still, she would like to reassure her sister that, at the very least, she wasn't laying dead in a ditch somewhere in the Barren Swamp. She would speak to Antonia tomorrow. If anyone could find a solution, it would be her.

Lea finished braiding her hair as she padded down the corridor. The house was quiet, as was the street outside. The Workshop Disaster, as the papers had named it, caused shockwaves to ripple far past the destruction itself. Krat's citizens had retreated inwards, in the hopes that nothing could harm them behind bolted doors. It had been like that for the few days they'd spent in Antonia's home, and even still, the unnatural silence put her on edge.

The doors lining the hall were all firmly shut. Antonia, at the far end, retired first. P followed soon after. Though his early night could have been attributed to his injuries, a slight twinkle in his eyes betrayed a heartbreaking delight in having his own room to which to retreat. Eugénie, located between P and Romeo, went to bed muttering to herself and tinkering with some component of P's Legion Arm that still eluded her. Whether she was actually asleep, Lea did not know, but her room was quiet from outside.

The exception was Romeo's. Ajar only a few inches, the gap was a pitch-dark stripe against the hallway's incandescent lights. The darkness didn't surprise her, not at this hour, only that she could see it.

She'd been sitting with him after everyone else had gone off to bed, telling him about the other time in as much detail as she could bear. Alidoro had come in to examine Romeo's stitches and administer his nightly tincture, at which point she excused herself to bathe. That had been nearly an hour ago.

It was possible that Alidoro had forgotten to close the door on his way out. It was equally likely he'd left it open on purpose, to make it easier to hear if Romeo called for one of them during the night. Maybe he'd simply stepped out to fetch something and was coming right back. The space outside those possibilities gnawed at Lea.

With a gentle nudge, the door creaked open. Light spilled in eagerly, illuminating the room and the two figures within. Romeo, propped up on a small army of pillows, slept peacefully. Alidoro sat next to the bed, head bowed and hands folded in his lap as though he were praying. He didn't stir at the sound of door nor the flood of light.

She said his name. No reply came.

Rushing across the room, Lea laid a hand on his back, careful not to jostle him to roughly. He groaned as he roused. The proof of life did little to comfort her as her fingers came away from his neck wet. Blinking in the dim light, she could just make out a patch of darkened, matted fur on the upper left side of his mask. Sluggish and imprecise, he twisted his head toward her.

"Be…" he croaked out. His voice was thin and tense, like the final thread holding a seam together. "Behind… you."

Her eyes widened as a wire snapped taut around her throat. The room blurred as the assailant wrenched her back against their chest. She clawed at anything within her reach—clothed forearms, gloved hands, the garrote digging into her flesh—but to no avail. The wire only squeezed tighter.

A sharp kick to the back of her knee sent her careening to the floor. Her attacker landed atop her, pressing a strangled sound from her lungs and pinning her right arm under her body. A shadowy haze already began to swim at the edges of her vision. If it closed in entirely, she would be lost forever. Not just her, either. Alidoro, Romeo, everyone in the house would be in danger, if they weren't already dead.

"Not so high and mighty now," a familiar, oily voice spat out. "I'll put my hands where I damn well please, you pompous bitch."

Recognition churned in her gut. Of course. Parrot. P had warned them about him, or some version of him from the future. He'd seemed so insignificant compared to grander threats that Lea had nearly forgotten. She'd pushed the issue aside to be dealt with at a later date with the assumption that Cerasani wealth would dazzle him too completely to cause trouble. It had seemed to be working, too. He'd returned with the medicine and supplies necessary to save Romeo's life, and no Alchemists had coming knocking. The quiet had lulled her into a dangerous state of complacency one couldn't afford when working along someone so unscrupulous.

She kicked furiously, but her bare feet couldn't gain purchase on the worn rug nor reach Parrot's vital points. He had her at a severe disadvantage in this position. While she struggled, he needed to do little more than sit and let his body weight do the hard work keeping her trapped. Her single hope was her left hand, which had escaped the fate of her right in the scramble.

Seizing a single spark of clarity, she peeled her fingers off the garrote. The base part of her brain that wanted to thrash like an animal in a trap revolted, but she refused to give into fear. Clawing her own throat out would only help her enemies. Instead, she threw her arm back to blindly climb his left leg. If she were lucky, Parrot would be as foolish as she believed him to be.

"Alidoro, I respect," he continued. "I meant to make it painless, but he insisted on doing things the hard way. As usual." He laughed at his own joke, as though he were discussing the weather and not the cold-blooded murder of the only man in Krat to call him a friend.

Her fingertips brushed the softened leather of a well-used sheath. Hope spiked in her chest, though it felt an awful lot like her heart juddering out of rhythm. Her shoulder screamed in protest as she contorted it well past the limit of comfortable rotation to reach further. Just a few inches more and she could grasp the hilt. A bit more than that and she'd have it free.

"But you?" Parrot ground his knee into her opposite shoulder blade. Her pained groan emerged as an impotent hiss. "I wanted to make it hurt. After all, you can only kill the Legendary Stalker once."

Leather gave way to metal as her palm found his hunting knife's grip. She yanked once, twice, before the blade dislodged.

"Besides, I'll probably get even more—" A shrill howl curtailed his incessant monologue as Lea drove the knife through his knee. Ripping it out, she poised for another strike, but he skittered away before the blade found purchase.

Air flooded her lungs as she heaved greedy breaths. Her ragged gasps thundered like a freight train's struggling engine in her ears. Tears ran down her cheeks, blurring the stripe of light from the door into a watercolor smear. She stood, wiping her eyes clean with one hand and clutching the ornate trim of a nearby bureau with the other. Her legs quivered and her heart pounded violently, but any circumstance was an improvement.

Beside the bed, Parrot cradled his knee in a futile attempt to stop the gushing blood. "You stabbed me!" he wailed. "You actually stabbed me!"

Lea did not indulge that inane observation with a reply. Instead, she tossed the knife to her other hand and drew it up in front of her.

Parrot growled and tore another blade from his belt. The smooth steel of Alidoro's sword sat awkwardly in his clenched hand. His high grip and the oblique angle he held it at betrayed his preference for larger, heavier weapons. She almost pitied him, choosing to cross swords with her. Almost. The thin line carved into her neck prevented any sympathy from crystallizing.

"Alright, let's do this the old-fashioned way," he said and advanced.

Panic drained from Lea as Parrot hacked wildly at the air. Despite his years of field experience, it was clear he'd never learned proper forms. She could beat him with a hand tied behind her back and one eye closed, which was just as well considering the state of her. Even the sword's fine craftsmanship could not salvage his poor technique. Indeed, Lea was more worried about him blunting the precious blade than suffering a blow.

She ducked under a swing, then parried away the backstroke. As Parrot stumbled off balance, Lea jammed the heel of her palm into his sternum. The hit didn't deliver enough force to crack bone, but it did send him reeling in a fit of wheezing coughs that shook his mask's feathers. He staggered to the bedside before his heel slipped on something half-hidden by the draping linens. Catching himself on a bedpost, Parrot whirled around to the other side of the bed, interposing its wide frame and a still-sleeping Romeo between him and Lea.

A small, cylindrical item rolled to a stop against Alidoro's outstretched boot. It was a silver candlestick, about a foot tall and matching another on the nightstand. A drying bloodstain marred the otherwise polished surface. The attempted murder weapon, tucked out of view until Alidoro unearthed it just in time to trip Parrot up.

"Bloody cockroaches, the lot of you," Parrot grumbled. He brandished the blade. "Why couldn't you just die like you were supposed to?"

Lea cleared her throat, testing the strength of her voice before she spoke. When she did, it came out as a rasp. "We have reason to live besides filling our pockets."

He scoffed. "There it is. There's that high ground you love lording over us peasants from. Maybe you can't see it from all the way up there, but anyone in my position would have done exactly as I have."

Though he flung it with such conviction, Lea knew his claim to be false. She'd seen the proof nearly every day of her life in the Rose Estate's wards. Most of the children had grown up on the streets or raised in shacks not much better, yet they were kind and fair and loyal.

She'd seen it more recently in her allies, too. Véronique descended from a long legacy of Sweepers who served the city with pride and honor despite holding neither land nor peerage. Like her mentor, Frog met adversity with courage and integrity. She had rushed headlong into danger to protect strangers when it would have been easier and safer to simply look the other way. Even the women in the survivor's camp, Gemma and Noémie, had stepped up to ensure everyone was fed and clothed after living through absolute hell themselves.

Grim certainty hardened her countenance. "Only the cowards."

Parrot recoiled, his head bobbing like a chicken's. His shock only lasted a moment, however, before he schooled himself into composure.

"You're right," he said with cloying cheerfulness. Lea tightened her fingers around the knife's handle. "That's exactly what I am. I'd almost forgotten myself, what with attacking you directly. That isn't how cowards win fights. No, we win by playing dirty."

He grabbed the sword's hilt with both hands and drove it toward Romeo's chest.

Time slowed, milliseconds stretching out into small eternities. In the hollow space between heartbeats, Lea willed her legs to move as fast as they could, and then faster still. She threw herself onto the bed, sprawling across the quilt in the desperate hope that, somehow, she would make it in time.

Steel collided with steel in a shower of sparks. The hunting knife caught the blade's edge between its yawning metal teeth, halting its tip mere inches from its mark.

Lea pushed, but Parrot returned the force in kind. His stance and the relative size of his weapon both acted in his favor, and the sword's point slipped incrementally closer to Romeo. Repelling him entirely would not work, not from the awkward half-laying position she'd found herself in. She would instead have to redirect the trajectory toward the mattress, but even that would be difficult. Her palms were slick with sweat, her lungs on fire. The next few seconds would decide the fate of everyone in the house, perhaps in all of Krat.

A resonant crack echoed through the chamber, and Parrot's grip slackened. With the pressure released, Lea seized the opportunity. She slapped his blade away and sunk the knife into his gut.

Parrot inhaled so sharply it was almost a whistle. Alidoro's sword clattered to the ground as he fumbled to hold the wound. He stepped back in a daze, but he only made it three steps before his knees gave out and deposited him in a heap against the vanity. Various pharmaceuticals atop it rattled as he crashed down.

Behind the footboard, Eugénie stood wreathed in light. Hair tucked into a bonnet and dressed in a nightgown as lacy as Lea's, she held a wrench the length and thickness of her forearm aloft. Her white-knuckle grip dared Parrot to try his luck again, but terror shone behind her crooked frames.

"I— I thought— Is he…?" Eugénie spluttered, peering past the bed at Parrot. Quiet moans still seeped through his mask. They would likely persist for some time. Unlike the head or heart, the stomach took its time to kill.

Lea shifted to sit so her ankle was no longer wedged between her body and Romeo's bony knees. The scuffle had agitated her sprain, which she hadn't yet been rewrapped after bathing. Ignoring the pain, she pressed two fingers under Romeo's chin. The steady march of his pulse met her as expected.

Ironically, Parrot's attempted strike had signaled Romeo's safety to Lea. That he chose such a bold course of action, rather than gloating about his kill, meant that Romeo was not beyond saving. Drugged, probably, to keep him quiet, but drawing breath. Two cups on the nightstand—one empty, the other half-full—that smelled of earthy tea and syrupy-sweet medicine confirmed her suspicion.

"I didn't mean— He was trying to kill you," Eugénie stammered on. It was not quite a question, nor was it a statement.

Lea slid off the bed and placed her hand over Eugénie's, easing her grip on the wrench. "You did what was necessary, and I thank you. We're all safer for it."

"Why would he do that? I thought he was helping us," Eugénie shook her head. Her eyes flickered away from Parrot's slumped form and alit on the tender line encircling Lea's neck. "You're hurt."

Lea touched the wound which flared in response. "It'll be sore for a bit, but frankly I'm more concerned about Alidoro."

"I'm fine," the man in question mumbled in response. "I just need to lie down."

He was more alert than he had been, clenching and unclenching his fists to test their mobility. That he was awake and aware was a good sign, but Lea knew better than to consider him healthy based on that alone. Blows to the head were fickle. They'd need to examine the injury concealed by the mask and observe him over the next few days to ensure no lingering symptoms cropped up.

"You are not fine," Lea said tartly. Of all the times he chose to eschew basic medical care, of course it was for himself. To Eugénie, she instructed, "Fetch Lady Antonia and P. They must know what happened."

Eugénie nodded and bounded off, wrench in hand. In her wake, Lea flicked the switch, bidding the lamps to buzz to life. Their glow banished the gloom and the threat of unseen enemies lurking in the wings. There was only Parrot, alone and breathing shallower with each passing minute.

She picked up Alidoro's sword from where it laid discarded and crouched in front of Parrot. Smoothing out her skirt, she wished for a shawl or dressing gown. Anything to put more space between them. Holding a weapon made her feel more secure, but she hated showing any vulnerability to such a vile man.

He breathed a ragged, mirthless chuckle. "You couldn't have aimed a little higher?"

"Who was it?" Her patience for his glib demeanor had always been thin, but now it was nonexistent.

His head fell against the vanity's leg with a soft thump. "You're not very good at this, are you? You're supposed to offer to patch me up if I tell you everything you want to know. We'd both know it was a lie, but at least you'd be making an effort."

"It didn't have to be," she said. "I might have offered if you hadn't nearly brained our only doctor."

He hummed, which devolved to a wince. "It wouldn't matter anyway. All the saline went to helping dear, sweet Romeo, and I can't feel my legs."

The knife must have gone in further than she thought, sliding right through the soft organs and nicking his spine. She tried to summon remorse and came up empty-handed.

"Then you're dying. You have nothing to lose by telling me everything you told the Alchemists."

A stray feather fluttered free of his mask as he cocked his head. Footsteps thundered into the room before he could reply. P screeched to a halt just inside the doorframe, assuming a defensive position despite being unarmed. His eyes darted from Alidoro to Romeo before alighting on Parrot. Color drained from his face as recognition bloomed.

"It's alright," Lea said quickly. "Everyone's alive, though we'll need to see to Alidoro."

Alidoro grunted indignantly as Antonia and Eugénie filed in behind P. With a single, discerning look around the room, Antonia clicked her tongue and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

"Lea, dear, what happened?"

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Lea stood. This was not the conversation she thought she'd be having tonight, nor one she ever really wanted to have. "I regret to inform you that I've brought a traitor into your household. He's taken care of, but I have no idea who knows what. We're all in danger here, even more so than before."

Antonia pursed her lips. "That is troubling news."

She quirked an eyebrow in a silent question: are you alright? In reply, Lea gave her a look she hoped conveyed later. The message seemed to come across because Antonia placed a hand on P and Eugénie's backs and said, "Perhaps you two should take our Stalker friend to lie down and bandage his wounds."

"No! Not with—" Alidoro faltered. "I mean, I'm fine." He rose to prove his point, but the desperate curl of his fist around the bedpost told a different story.

P stepped forward and hooked an arm around Alidoro's elbow. Eugénie did not shift from her place in the doorframe. She sucked in a breath and planted her fists firmly on her hips.

"If you have a problem with me, just say it," she snapped. "It couldn't be any more awkward than you going out of your way to avoid me and staring when you think I won't notice." Her expression fell into an inscrutable emotion that was no softer than before. "I know I'm not from around here, but—"

"That's not—" Alidoro interrupted, aghast.

"Then what is it?" she cried. Her dark eyes, the same stormy color as Alidoro's behind his mask, swept across the room. "And why does everyone seem to know except me?"

P's owlish look and hunched shoulders mirrored exactly how Lea felt. They'd been caught out like naughty schoolchildren—how many times had she seen that same expression on Romeo and Carlo?—yet neither could come clean. Alidoro had entrusted his secret with her and she wouldn't betray him, even to Eugénie. Especially to Eugénie.

"It isn't my story to tell," Lea explained. She followed with a dry cough, half to clear her throat and half to pass the onus of further elaboration.

Alidoro sighed deeply, pressing a hand to his forehead. "No, it's mine, and I suppose it's long overdue. Eugénie, please, allow me a chance to explain myself." The dog mask flicked in Parrot's direction, then in Antonia's. "But not here."

She crossed her arms and rocked back on her heels. Just as Lea was beginning to believe she wouldn't respond, she said, "Fine, but P is coming with us."

Alidoro gestured his assent while P shot Lea a pleading look. She returned an apologetic shrug. Even if she could extract him from the awkward conversation, it might benefit both Alidoro and Eugénie to have a third party present. With how much he already knew about their situation, perhaps more than they did themselves, P was the best choice. Whether he'd be able to keep tempers from flaring was up for debate, but she hoped so. If only for the sake of Alidoro's head.

Once they had filed out of the room, Antonia motioned for the chair to be placed at Parrot's feet. Lea complied, then took up position at Antonia's left shoulder as she sat. Even in her nightclothes and fringed shawl, she had the air of a queen presiding over her court.

Parrot cocked his head to the side. His breathing was shallower now, thin and rasping. Despite that and the knife still embedded in his abdomen, he seemed in no hurry to die. Lucky, though more for them than him.

"I hear you have much to tell us," Antonia intoned. "I do recommend you answer our questions truthfully. You've already spit in the face of my hospitality, threatened the lives of those I love, and ruined a perfectly good carpet. Lea may be a woman of honor, but I am not above twisting the knife."

"Oh, no need to bring out the screws," he said with a scoff. "The Legendary Stalker was right. I'm done, so I don't have to fear the Alchemists anymore. Won't get a chance to spend their gold, either. Might as well bare it all rather than dying in boring, pitiful silence."

Lea's grip on the chair's back tightened, but Antonia remained calm and even. "When did your arrangement with them begin?"

"Recently," he said. The ease with which his confession rolled off his tongue made it seem like he'd never kept a secret in his life. "After the Workshop Disaster. Alidoro sent me out like his little errand boy to pick up whatever medicine your boy needed. Huge mistake, in hindsight. One of the pharmacist's bald brutes hopped up on whatever drugs they test on themselves shoved me into the back room for his sickly friend to interrogate. Of course, I didn't let that happen."

"Instead you caved? Like you're doing right now?" Lea spat. Every time she thought she couldn't hate the man more, he proved her wrong.

He snorted. "God no, I'm a coward, not an idiot. If I told them everything I knew, what use would I have? I simply informed them that I was open to negotiation. I had what they wanted—I could get close to you and to Alidoro, both thorns in their side—and they had… Well, everything, really."

Antonia hummed thoughtfully. "How did they know that you had that information? Even if you were a known associate of Alidoro, how did they know he and Lea were together?"

Parrot shuffled his shoulders against the vanity's leg, flinching as the movement jostled the protruding blade. "That's the thing, isn't it?" A bitter smile seeped into his voice. "It would almost be more comforting to say they just knew somehow, that the Alchemists are some all-knowing force of nature. Then it would be out of your control. But no, someone saw us in the Tower's wreckage. They reported it to someone who told someone else before it ended up in the ear of an Alchemists. It's all so terribly ordinary."

Lea's eyes fluttered closed. The Tower collapse. It was obvious, in retrospect, but again the relative quiet had tricked her into thinking they'd dodged consequences past a metal pole through Romeo's side. They'd been out in the open. Too exposed, too many prying eyes. Yet another half-true tale that would place her at the scene of a massacre. Not just her this time, either. Romeo, Alidoro, Eugénie, and…

Her head snapped up. "Véronique." Antonia gave her a quizzical look that only spurred her on further. "She and her apprentice are in danger if that's true. Frog was with us when we rescued Romeo, and she accompanied our friend here to meet up with the other survivors."

Whatever account Véronique gave of the collapse it would surely make no mention of Lea's presence. Yet that very omission was now a liability, a clear flaw in the story to any Alchemist who'd received a different record of events. One that placed Lea right next to Véronique's apprentice. By attempting to throw them off the scent, she'd implicate them both more concretely than any admission.

For once, the other time offered meager comfort. The Alchemists wouldn't kill Véronique hastily, not if they thought she could still be of use. When it would have been easier to dispose of her and be done with it, they'd kept her and the other Sweepers around, used them for Zelator's experiments. Véronique had gone half mad from whatever serum they'd given her.

Had Frog been there too? The thought alone made her stomach flip. No, she chided herself. You can't go down this path. She swallowed thickly but managed to keep her dinner down.

Even still, in this time where Zelator was no more, the Leader of the Sweepers would be more use alive, if the Alchemists believed her ignorant of what they knew. They likely hoped that Véronique herself, or Frog perhaps, would lead them to Lea or reveal which Stalkers were still beholden to masters other than Ergo-wrought coin. That proposed a conundrum. It would be safer, for her and everyone staying in Cerasani House, to leave her out of the loop. She could not reveal what she did not know, after all. But Lea couldn't conceive of doing so, of leaving her adrift without so much as a warning of the approaching tempest.

Without a word, Antonia nodded sagely. She understood. Hell, she had probably arrived at the same conclusion long before Lea had.

"As the head of one of Krat's fine noble households, I have a right to demand answers of the Blue Sheep. She may call on me here to explain how this happened and why she and her Sweepers have allowed my godson to be treated so cruelly."

A shiver wriggled up Lea's spine. Even if the meeting was largely pretext, Véronique would be in for a lashing if Antonia determined she bore any responsibility for Carlo's kidnapping. Lea was only glad it wasn't her.

Parrot coughed wetly. "Well, I'm happy to have been of help, but I've changed my mind. I would like to die in peace and quiet after all. It's remarkably hard work, as it turns out."

Lea exchanged glances with Antonia, both prompting the other to speak. When neither put forth further questions, Lea sighed and angled the edge of Alidoro's sword toward Parrot. She'd have to give Alidoro his weapon back, but she didn't think he'd mind if she held onto it for the night. Depending on how well his conversation was going, he might be glad not to have it.

"I can make it quick," she offered. "A blade in the gut is a nasty way out, even for you."

"Absolutely not!" he squawked. "You've done enough damage for one night, I think. Just— God, there isn't even any liquor, is there? Just give me that tea, then. The one Alidoro didn't finish. That's a bit less daunting than the Legendary Stalker lopping my head off."

She rolled her eyes but brought him the cup. As she did so, Antonia rose and pulled the bedside cord to ring for a servant. Lea felt a brief wave of pity for the poor housekeeper and the mess she was walking into before she heard the clanking of an automaton's metallic gait on the stairs.

When Antonia had arrived home—quite unexpectedly and to a thoroughly sullied dining room table—she'd brought her butler with her. It wasn't a surprise. They were practically inseparable. But Lea could be forgiven, she thought, for being wary of puppets after witnessing Law Zero in action. To his credit, Polendina had been nothing but courteous since arriving, though Lea still tried to sidestep him whenever possible.

"My dear," Antonia said, laying a hand on Lea's arm. "Polendina will watch over Romeo. Don't give me that look. I'll instruct him to wake you when Romeo wakes, but only if you promise to try to sleep. There's nothing to be done about Véronique until the morning, not without drawing the exact attention we want to avoid."

Lea sat on the edge of the bed. Romeo still slept soundly, blissfully unaware of the utter chaos that had occurred mere inches from him. She took his hand and drew small circles with her thumb just below his knuckles.

"I don't know what to do, Antonia," she admitted. It was nowhere as difficult as she expected it to be, perhaps because it was the honest truth. "Every step forward is met with five back. We needed allies, so I found some. Now Parrot's betrayed us, and Véronique's in danger. The number of people I actually trust in this city is dwindling at an alarming rate."

"Dwindling, but not zero. If there is anyone you believe could aid us, anyone at all, tell me and I can bring them here."

Protestations sprung into her throat on impulse. How could she ask people she cared for to put themselves in harm's way? She was meant to protect everyone. That was her role. Yet Romeo's words still rang in her ears. It wasn't her decision to make and to do so for someone else wasn't a kindness, it was degradation. She had to trust in others, but first she had to reach out.

A dull thump announced the end of Parrot. Whether he had succumbed to the laced tea or the wound, Lea could not say from her position, but she knew he would never reawaken either way. A nuisance removed. Relief did not fill her, however, only the faint nausea of staring at another corpse laid at the Alchemists' feet.

She swallowed. Her throat burned. "There is one person…"

Chapter Text

"This tea is absolutely divine, Lady Antonia," Esme said as she replaced her teacup on its saucer. "I must know where you get it."

A spoon rattled against Lea's own untouched tea in time with her bouncing knee. She had been the one to suggest a conversation with Esme, but the constraints of polite society chafed even more than usual. A raised eyebrow from Antonia brought her leg to a halt, but they both knew the peace would last only momentarily. Unable to keep still, she'd resume soon enough or else pace like one of the zoo's great cats. She couldn't help it. Not while the chair across from her remained empty.

Three days ago, Antonia had sent for Véronique. Her reply had been a clipped, "when I'm available," which Lea both hated and admired. She was far too preoccupied with searching the ruins and rebuilding the Stalkers to call on nobles, even if she'd read between the lines of Antonia's message. To make matters worse, the papers had been noticeably lacking in mentions of her, opting instead to focus on Lumacchio's heartfelt remorse for being absent the day of the collapse. Lea regretted that too. A single falling brick could have spared everyone from his overblown theatrics.

The fire blazing in the hearth hissed and popped between the mantle clock's marching ticks. Lea tucked a loose strand of hair back into its braid to keep her hands from loosening her collar. As bleak as it looked outside, it was sweltering indoors. Antonia enjoyed near reptilian temperatures. That, or Lea was more agitated than she wished to admit. Either way, she sought a distraction from the heat and the absence staring her down.

She landed on the teacups, as Esme raised hers to her lips again. Bunches of plump reddish-purple grapes adorned the porcelain, suspended from the golden rim by sinuous orange brushstrokes. Antonia had selected the set that morning in preparation for the scheduled meeting. The darker colors and vineyard motif suited the season, she'd said, and any fashionable lady worth her salt matched the season. Her statement had proven particularly prescient when Ms. Tulard arrived in a wine-and-black striped walking suit.

The woman herself was seated on the sofa to Lea's right, with Antonia flanking her on the other half of the couch. Though Lea hadn't purposefully chosen a tactical position, she couldn't rule out intent on Antonia's behalf. Esme, for her part, seemed unfazed by the arrangement. She sat with arrow-straight posture, hands folded in her lap. Her dark curls were pinned up under a reasonably-sized hat, topped only with a plume of quail feathers rather than a cloud of ostrich. Stylish yet practical, Esme was a businesswomen above all.

"Don't you agree, Lea?" Her name on Antonia's lips shattered her concentration. Both women looked at her expectantly, but Lea could not for the life of her puzzle out with what she was meant to be agreeing.

"Say again?" she asked. Irritation must have leaked out into her voice or expression because Esme's brow softened into pity.

She clicked her tongue and leaned forward to rest a hand on Lea's knee. "Poor thing, I've never seen you in such a daze. It'd be precious if I weren't so worried for Carlo."

Lea stood at that, allowing the gentle touch to fall by the wayside. Chewing the inside of her cheek, she ventured to the broad window facing the street. Despite Elysion's reduced activity, limited largely to errand boys and puppets, she concealed herself from any passing glances in the drapery's shadow. A lacy veil sprung into existence where her breath met the glass. The rain promised by low-hanging clouds would chill Krat to its bones.

They needed Esme. They'd discussed as much once Romeo awoke—groggy and frustrated but no worse for the wear—and Lea was sure Alidoro and Eugénie could share a space. She didn't know what their conversation had consisted of, since neither was forthcoming and she refused to press P on the matter, but was relieved that they were more than civil. Regardless, after some debate, everyone saw the merits of recruiting someone both socially savvy and under far less scrutiny than anyone present. They decided to trust in Esme as Lea's old friend and bring her into confidence, barring a few key elements. The idea of traveling through time was a difficult sell to those they knew intimately, much less someone P had never met and Lea hadn't seen in years.

Lea knew all that, accepted it. Hell, she'd proposed most of it. Yet the pleasantries, the sympathy, the well-meaning comfort… It all grated on her fraying nerves. They'd waited three days for Véronique, but both Geppetto and his son had been silent for longer. No one seemed to even know where the bloody man had gone. According to the papers, neighbors reported movement within his city home, but others recounted the Watchman—as P called it—fleeing toward the coast. Either way, talking around the issue wasted precious time better spent on their true aims.

"We have to destroy Geppetto," she said, turning her back on the foggy skyline.

Esme barked a laugh. "Oh, is that all?"

"We have to tarnish his reputation before we go anywhere near him. Otherwise, any action we take to free Carlo will be used against us. I'd still be a wanted criminal and I fear Lady Antonia would become my abettor."

Esme blinked. Her lips compressed into a tight frown. "You're quite serious, aren't you? God, Lea, he's only the most powerful man in Krat!"

"That," Antonia cut in, "is precisely why we must take a prudent approach. Less direct than Lea's usual methods, but no less damaging if done correctly. A coordinated campaign against his character will dismantle his good standing before he even realizes it's happening." Her frigid tone reminded Lea to never get on Lady Cerasani's bad side.

Shaking off the chill, Lea went on. "Ruining Geppetto will force the Alchemists into a difficult choice: sacrifice a powerful ally or lose public trust. It's a risk, of course, but we're confident that they'd scapegoat Geppetto before doing anything that might turn eyes onto their research."

"The Alchemists?" Esme asked incredulously. "So not only Geppetto, but them too? I didn't realize you were planning to tear the city down! I thought you just wanted help clearing your name."

"Ah, but that's exactly what we wish for you to do." Antonia gathered up her teacup and took a dainty sip. "Challenging the prevalent narrative of the papers would be next to impossible, but casting aspersions on Geppetto's motives? His work? His parenting, if it can be called that? That we can do in private salons across the city. Once the seed's been planted, its roots will spread far beyond those sitting rooms and parlors. It would only be a matter of time before Krat's peers and public alike were chomping at the bit to condemn him."

Esme pinched the bridge of her nose. "Do you think that will work? He's one of the richest men in Krat, and his inventions have made the fortunes of more than half the rest. They'll fight to the bitter end to protect his reputation if their own status is at stake. I doubt little rumors in parlors will topple his empire."

"It won't just be rumors," Lea said. "We have a friend. A reporter, one that's not in the Alchemists' pocket. In fact, he's been looking into their dealings for quite some time. We plan to pass him some…incriminating information that we hope he can corroborate through his own research and the testimonies of the Workshop Disaster's survivors. Once you've chummed the waters with speculation, he'll release an exposé so damning even the other manufacturers will disavow him."

Friend of a friend was more accurate since Lea only knew him through her sister. Sophia spoke highly of him, but that counted for little when she also found Lumacchio charming. Alidoro, however, supported Sophia's assessment with an equally glowing recommendation. Medoro had assisted him several times in uncovering secrets buried in paper trails and handshakes, in exchange for Alidoro's expertise on his own projects. In short, they all shared a common goal, and that was enough for Lea to consider him a friend these days.

"So my role in all this is to sow doubt about Geppetto," Esme mused. She took a languid drink to give the impression of lengthy consideration. The keen sparkle in her eyes told Lea that the pieces had already begun to click into place long before. "I could recruit the future Lord de la Roche and his charming new fiancee to the cause. As well as my own betrothed, I suppose. We all saw how happy Carlo was at dinner not but a couple months ago. Surely Lea's neither kidnapped nor coerced him if he's happily playing at his godmother's parties."

Lea's gaze flicked to Esme's left hand. A gold band inlaid with an oval diamond and two small sapphires sat on her third finger. It matched nothing else she wore which should have been a dead giveaway that it was not a simple piece of jewelry, but a symbol. Esme. Engaged. The idea was so preposterous that Lea wouldn't have believed it if it hadn't come straight from the woman's own mouth. She still almost couldn't. That night in the garden had always felt like just yesterday, but now the intervening decade threatened to crush her.

"An excellent plan, but we did have one other request. It's a bit strange. Perhaps I'll let Lea explain?" Antonia gestured to her expectantly.

Lea inhaled sharply to remind herself she still could, then said, "Yes, do you remember The Blood Artist's Final Masterpiece? We need you to put it back into print."

If Esme had been surprised before, she was dumbfounded now. She made no effort to conceal the shock that leapt into her face. "That horrid penny dreadful that you begged—no, ordered—me to pull from publication by any means necessary? Why on Earth would you want that circulated now?"

Lea grimaced. It was horrid. Absolute garbage in every sense of the word, yet shockingly accurate in its portrayal of Arlecchino. Obviously, it hadn't captured everything. His name, for one, had never been revealed to the public. But the uncanny depiction of a sadistic, deranged puppet killer had hit a bit too close to home for Lea's comfort. That had been the main reason for Lea's desire to burn every copy. The other had been the number of times the cleverly named protagonist, Clea, had sighed dramatically.

"I agree that it's hardly worth the paper it's printed on," she conceded with a dry laugh. "But even an affront to literature can influence opinions. The author imagined a puppet as a murderer and claimed it fiction, but that very concept just became uncomfortably real." It already was, but Esme didn't need to know that. "If people remember what the Blood Artist's reign of terror was like and link that feeling inextricably with Geppetto—all while remembering who the only person capable of besting the fiend was—then I suspect there will be many changes of hearts."

Tilting her head, Esme smiled wryly. "That's the most devious thing I've ever heard you say, Lea. Normally, you don't care much for subterfuge."

"Well, needs must. And you learn a thing or two being raised by an Alchemist." She gulped down a mouthful of tea in the ensuing silence. It had grown tepid, but she didn't mind.

Esme cleared her throat. "I'm sure we have the original manuscript in one of our warehouse. I'll see if I can dig it out, along with any copies we might have—"

The door creaked open and admitted Polendina, who bowed deeply at the waist. "Apologies for the interruption, my lady," he warbled out in his tinny voice. "Miss Véronique of the Sweepers has arrived."

Lea bolted upright. "Where?" she asked, the question tumbling out before she could think. "Where is she?"

The butler's molded face clicked toward her. "In the foyer, ma'am."

"Bring her up, please. We wouldn't wish to keep her waiting," Antonia said. She waved a hand nonchalantly, but her jaw was tight.

Lea couldn't wait even a moment longer. A surge of bottled anxiety propelled her past Polendina onto the landing. She only made it as far as the railing before a familiar voice arrested her.

"Look who's not dead," Véronique said. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed and smirking. Her sling was gone, traded in for a leather harness straining to support her ridiculous hammer. Lea doubted her elbow was fully healed, but she knew that would not prevent Véronique from acting as such. She understood the impulse, even without the added pressure of appearing strong to her subordinates. Only the prospect of pushing back plans due to re-injury stopped Lea from vaulting over the railing.

Another Stalker trailed behind Véronique. They wore a brown mask, reminiscent of a rodent, that Lea did not recognize. Its slapdash appearance could have meant it was sewn together last night or worn out and replaced over many years. Sweepers made it difficult to tell on purpose, as a way of keeping opponents on their toes. An oversized cloth-wrapped bundle was also tied to their back.

"I could say the same to you," Lea said as she bobbed down the steps. "Where have you been? And who is this?"

The other Stalker perked up. "It's just me, ma— Lea," Frog said. Although, Lea was not sure if she could be called Frog anymore. This new mask certainly didn't resemble any she'd ever seen, thought it could just as easily be a temporary disguise.

Véronique put the matter to bed with a thrust of her thumb. "I figured saving the Legendary Stalker's sorry ass was worth a promotion, so meet Stoat."

Stoat wrestled her mask off with one hand. A brace held the other straight. Using it was probably still too painful, but she was lucky, all things considered, that that was her only memento of the tower collapse.

"You can just call me Nathalie," she offered.

Lea smiled genuinely for the first time in days. "Congratulations are in order then, Nathalie. Well done. My sorry ass is grateful."

Nathalie's eyebrows shot up, but Véronique snorted. "As for where I've been, I'm still the leader of the Sweepers. Even if most of them would gleefully stab me in the back, I can't just abandon them when shit gets rough. Excavation is going well. We're finding more each day, both dead and some still alive. I only just got the chance to slip away today. Even took a little detour." Nathalie presented the package on her back to Véronique who began to loosen the bindings. "I thought I'd bring them to you, seeing as you can't move around much."

The cloth fell away to reveal Romeo's scythe and Carlo's twin swords. Cast in Workshop steel and engraved with golden filigree, they were exquisitely made and as utterly unique as their wielders. For that reason, they had been left behind in the Hermit's Cave when they'd gone to the Tower. Lea hadn't thought them lost like the Rose Sword, but nevertheless inaccessible in their current predicament.

She ran a finger along the smooth silver surface of Carlo's blade. Two months after they finally wore her down and she agreed to train them, she'd taken them to the Workshop Tower to have custom weapons made. It was a rite of passage for young Stalkers, and they'd already far outstripped their peers anyway. They'd needed tools that could complement their skills, not hold them back. Romeo, as usual, had chosen something understated and practical. His hooked blade played to his height advantage and required far less maintenance than any weapon with moving or mechanized parts. Carlo…had been Carlo.

Freedom, he'd said the scissor-like set symbolized when she'd asked. They could cut away the grief of the past and the strings that bound him to his father on his path to a better future. The fit of poetics had seemed incongruent to his usual self at the time, but his meaning rang true to her now. In her hands, the swords would once again carve the way to Carlo's liberation.

She lifted it from the cloth and pressed its flat edge to her chest. "Thank you," she said softly.

Véronique nodded. Free from her mask, her pale braid swayed with the motion. "Are they…?"

"Carlo is still—" She searched for the right word. He wasn't really missing, though it certainly felt like it. She settled on, "gone. But Romeo is making a tremendous recovery, thanks to Alidoro. As is P, though he owes that to our newest friend."

"That's good." Véronique cleared her throat and clapped a hand on Nathalie's shoulder. Thrusting the scythe into her hand, she said, "Why don't you give this to Romeo? See if he needs some water or something while you're at it."

Nathalie's cheeks flushed pink under a sea of freckles. She stammered out a few words of thanks and apology before scurrying up the stairs.

"Don't let him hurt himself!" Lea called after her, though Nathalie made no indication her request had been heard.

Once she was out of sight with Polendina conscripted as a guide, Véronique shook her head fondly. "That girl's going to get her heart broken."

Lea huffed. "At least Romeo will be kind about it. Carlo is a little devil when it comes to that sort of thing. I swear he took it as a challenge to make all the girls at the Rose Estate cry."

The bemused smile that memory conjured faded as soon as she realized it was there. After Carlo had died in the other time, she hadn't been able to speak his name for months. This time was different. He was alive—she would know in her soul if he were otherwise—but any happiness still felt like a betrayal. Why was she allowed joy while Carlo suffered? It was foolish, irrational. Wallowing had done nothing but get her killed by Arlecchino. Yet acknowledging that did not eradicate the grief or the guilt.

"What happened in there?" Véronique asked. Her brow creased in twofold concern. Worry for Lea and her apprentices, for one. The other, the professional interest of a guildmaster whose hall had been reduced to rubble.

Lea glanced up to the landing. Neither Antonia nor Esme had followed her out. Nathalie and Polendina were long gone. The housekeeper was likely in the kitchen preparing luncheon. They were alone. But voices carried in large houses, and some conversations were best had in absolute privacy.

Sliding Carlo's dual swords into the empty belt loop where the Rose Sword's scabbard once hung, she steered Véronique into the dining room and shut the door behind them. The table had been cleaned and polished so thoroughly that no trace of the hasty operation remained. Despite the pristine surface, it hadn't been used since. Antonia and Romeo took meals in their chambers, P didn't eat, and everyone else was content to dine at the servant's table with Madame Lavaud. She suspected that once this was all over, Antonia might replace the thing altogether.

Sure they would not be overheard, she launched into the sequence of events that led to the Tower's collapse, from where Véronique had left them to Geppetto sending the command, sparing few details. As she spoke, Véronique's gloves creaked as her grip tightened on the table's edge.

"That absolute— Fuck!" she snarled.

"My thoughts exactly."

"He's been holding the entire city hostage and we didn't even know! He still is!"

Lea chewed the inside of her lip. "Yes and no. While it's true that the possibility is there, he lacks a necessary component to cause a widespread frenzy."

When she didn't elaborate, Véronique narrowed her eyes. Lea did her best not to grimace. P had explained it in clearer, more level-headed terms a few days after his initial jumbled confession. The King of Puppets. Romeo, in a way. The same way, Lea supposed, that P was Carlo, except the puppet monarch was exactly that. Bound by the Covenant, he began the Puppet Frenzy that slaughtered whoever hadn't already succumbed to the Petrification Disease. Geppetto needed him not just as a convenient scapegoat, but as a communication hub. The King's manipulation of Ergo waves made it possible to issue commands to every puppet in Krat simultaneously without the need of physical tethers.

The violation of Romeo's body and soul was enough to make her dizzy with rage, but it was not alone in giving her pause. She had many questions. Ones that P could not, or would not, answer. How had Geppetto acquired Romeo's body? His Ergo, which originated from the Petrification Disease? Something about their fight with Arlecchino rankled her, yet she could not place a finger on what. Worst of all, another question had kept her up at night, staring holes through the velvet-tufted canopy above her bed. She had also died there in the garden, and unlike Romeo, she was absolutely, desperately sick with the disease. Had Geppetto seen fit to place her Ergo in a steel prison too?

Whatever the answer, she would kill him if it were the last thing she did on this Earth.

"He needs a conduit to broadcast his orders," she said simply to Véronique. There would be time for all her private worries later. "The Workshop fell because he was able to send direct orders to the puppets via a local communication network, but he'd need this conduit to send messages to puppets outside his immediate vicinity." Lea had no idea how puppets and networks actually operated, but P and Eugénie had put their minds together and she trusted the outcome. "The one P informed us he used is not within his power as of now, so we're free to move against him without risking the city at large. With caution, of course, he might still have another trick up his sleeve."

Véronique pressed the heels of her palms onto her eyes. "That's something, I guess. Fucker is probably too cowardly to even leave his house at this point, too. Whichever one he's in, that is." She flicked her wrists out and shook her head, sniffing sharply to clear her mind. "What's the plan, then? Why'd you call me here in such a rush?"

Lea pursed her lips. "The plan we can discuss upstairs, but the reason I called you, surprisingly, has nothing to do with Geppetto. You've been compromised, you and your apprentice. The Alchemists know you're working with us."

"Shit," she hissed. "How'd they find out?"

"Parrot decided to take advantage of the situation to avail himself of a small fortune," Lea said acerbically. Véronique's upper lip curled in mirrored disgust. "He attacked Alidoro and drugged Romeo to lure me in, then tried to strangle me." Her fingers drifted up to the edges of her cravat, pulling away the crisp white fabric to reveal the painted streak of purple skin.

Before she knew what was happening, Véronique caught her chin between thumb and forefinger and tilted her head further back. She froze. The chamber's temperature climbed from warm to dangerously hot. With the sun hidden behind a cloak of drab gray, there was no convenient place to lay the blame beside herself. She only hoped she wasn't blushing. Her fair skin colored too easily for her liking—the same shade as her hair, Sophia used to tease.

Véronique pulled away as quickly as she'd approached, shaking her head. "I'd say I'd kill him, but you've probably got that covered."

Lea swallowed and smoothed the front of her jacket. "Yes, I beat you to it by several days. He's in the icebox now. Just until we figure out what to do with him."

"Lady Cerasani is as terrifying as ever," she chuckled. "I thought she was going to tear me a new one when I got her message."

"She still might. Speaking of, we should probably head upstairs. She and Esme are probably wondering what's become of us."

Neither woman budged. They watched and waited for the other to make a move or something to disrupt them. But, unseen by them, the world outside ceased to exist. It would return, she knew, once they started for the door and donned their respective titles once more. Until that moment, there was only her and Véronique and a nebulous, swirling mass of possibility.

Véronique broke the silence first. "I was worried for you, you know. When the tower came down. I thought I'd killed you the one time I tried to help."

"I was, too. For you, I mean." Lea shook her head. Why was it when she tried to speak earnestly that she found herself lacking all eloquence? "I couldn't have stayed and searched myself, but I would have."

Lea's boots creaked against the wooden floor as she stepped a pace forward. Slowly, deliberately, she stretched out a hand and alighted her fingers on Véronique's forearm. Even through layers of fabric, the contact sent another wave of heat rippling across her skin, like a shot of clear liquor without the burn.

"We haven't always seen eye-to-eye," she drawled. A syrupy haze had descended over her senses. "But I'm glad you're here. More than glad."

"Don't," Véronique breathed, but made no move to extricate herself. "Don't do this now, Lea. You're not thinking straight."

Perhaps she wasn't. Perhaps the electric thrum coursing through her veins was merely a product of proximity after living so long in absence. Perhaps the shock of Esme's engagement, so far a cry from their tender early years, had simply frightened her into action. Lea found she didn't care any which way, and the freedom that came with that realization was intoxicating.

She shook her head. "When, then? After this crisis is over? What about the next, and the one after that?" Sliding down Véronique's arm, she grasped her hand. Véronique's eyelids fluttered closed as a shiver ran through her. The scar on her forehead seemed more pronounced with her eyes shut.

"Our lives are steady streams of disaster after dilemma after catastrophe," Lea continued. "There will be no perfect opportunity. I don't want to go to my grave, whether that's tomorrow or in fifty years, regretting what I did not say or do. I've wasted too much time already. Time I could have spent enjoying the company of those for whom I care deeply."

She braced herself for the tension that followed such an invitation. The dance was a familiar one. Its steps were traced in unlit passages away from shining ballrooms or in taverns where the proprietor valued coin and discretion more than cathedral sermons. She'd learned the pattern by rote, its swings and sways and turns, because to err was to be ruined.

Véronique disregarded the entire delicate process, cupping Lea's face in her hands and drawing her into a kiss. Her chapped lips dragged against Lea's in a way she should have found unappealing, yet she drank in the contact like fresh spring rain after a dry winter. Hot, fervent, and rough, it was the sweetest thing she'd ever tasted.

Her hands found their way to Véronique's waist and clung on as Véronique twisted them both. Lea's thighs bumped into the edge of the table, eliciting a small gasp and an arm thrown out to steady herself. Véronique huffed out a laugh at the startled sound, and Lea couldn't help the giddy titter that escaped in response. The kiss broken, they lingered in each other's presence. The other woman was close enough that Lea could smell soap and linseed oil.

"Enjoying company? Is that what it's called these days?" Véronique murmured. Lea didn't need to feel Véronique's nose crinkle to know she was grinning like a fool.

Lea rolled her eyes, but her own amusement was painted plainly on her face. "Oh, shut it. We really must be going now, but…" Pulling back, she fixed Véronique with a mischievous look. "Maybe we can pick this up later? Once Carlo is safe? If you're a good girl, that is."

Véronique inhaled sharply through her teeth. "Whatever you say, princess."

"You test me," Lea said as she freed herself from between the table and the Sweeper.

"You like it," Véronique replied, catching Lea by the wrist and reeling her in again.

Unable to resist blatant temptation, Lea planted a quick peck on the corner of her mouth. "Unfortunately, I do."

They returned to the parlor to raised eyebrows and barely contained questions. Introductions were made between Véronique and Esme, who knew each other by reputation only. Afterward, Antonia politely and subtly berated Véronique for her recklessness over the last few days and at the factory and perhaps throughout her entire career. Once pleasantries had been exchanged, they sat and planned.

Antonia took the lead, as expected. She shared what she knew of Geppetto's staunchest allies within the Workshop Tower and Alchemists. Intelligence of the latter proved irrelevant to their purposes due to the organization's tendency to isolate themselves, the former incomplete owing to recent changes in leadership. The head of LADA had apparently been in the building during the collapse, along with board members of two other smaller manufacturers. Their successors were not entirely unknown, but Antonia was not personally acquainted.

Unsurprisingly, Véronique relayed that Geppetto had few allies among the Sweepers. The nature of the Workshop's agreement with the Bastards left little opportunity for Sweepers to interact with him. Though, Véronique couldn't recall many Stalkers—Sweeper or Bastard—who spoke much of him at all, either positive or negative. He was a solitary creature, in stark contrast with other prominent figures, such as Venigni or even Lord Valentinus, which made him a dull topic of conversation in servants' halls and carriage parks.

For her part, Lea struggled to retain much of anything presented by her companions. Instead, her teacup hovered at her mouth to hide a smile that refused to stay banished. She couldn't help it. Véronique, in her piecemeal armor, was as out of place in Antonia's pastel sitting room as Lumacchio had been on the grease-stained factory floor. The way she concentrated on Antonia and Esme, pointedly ignoring Lea across from her, nearly sent Lea into hysterics.

A pang of guilt struck her again. There she was, having a grand old time while Carlo was trapped by his tyrant of a father. But the feeling didn't sink its teeth in as it once might have. The fear persisted, of course, and the concern. She could never shake those nor would she wish to, but they did not rule her anymore. Living in the sunlight was far more pleasant than cowering in the shade.

She was surrounded by the most competent women in Krat, with more friends spread through the house and future allies walking the streets outside. They would figure this out. Carlo would be saved, and he would tease her relentlessly for her juvenile romance. She was looking forward to it. Almost.

Well after the appropriate hour for luncheon had come and gone, they were dismissed to their work. Véronique and Nathalie would quietly round up the few Sweepers Véronique did trust should they need to call on them. In the meantime, Esme would sow discord.

Lea said her farewells in the sitting room to avoid prying eyes at the door. Antonia led Véronique to the sleeping quarters to fetch Nathalie, but Esme tarried. She adjusted her hat, straightened her jacket, and worked her fingers into her gloves. The black fabric concealed the gold band before Lea spoke.

"Thank you for agreeing to this. I know it's more than you were expecting and it will be dangerous, so I appreciate your willingness to help."

Esme hummed as she slipped a pearl button through a loop. "I still can't say no to you, can I? Even after all this time. Even when you've clearly moved on." Lea's mouth dropped open, but Esme put up a hand. "Calm down, I don't plan to make anything of it. We both know that if I dueled Véronique for your affections, I would lose."

"It might be fun, though," Lea said.

"No doubt," Esme chuckled. The mirth drained from her eyes, leaving her with a strangely melancholy air. "You'd deserve it. Just as you deserve the joy she brings you." She reached out and squeezed Lea's hand. "Be happy for the both of us, why don't you?"

With that, she was gone, breezing out of the room and down the stairs before Lea could think. They were accustomed to partings, but none had felt so final. Not even when they'd fought over that stupid book the first time and fell out of touch. There had always been the possibility of reunion, in some shape or form, to keep the sense of permanence at bay. But that ring symbolized a lifelong vow, one Lea could not share with her. Nor did she wish to anymore. The realization left a hollow space where something long neglected had finally passed.

She sat alone in the parlor for a long while after the party had dispersed, listening to the fire pop and hiss. Eventually, the sky made good on its promise and opened. Fat raindrops splattered against the window. Translucent rivers traversed the glass in their wake, running apart, then together, until the casements were nothing but a bleary, muddled mess.

The letter came when Lea was outside observing Romeo as he shuffled around the courtyard, P at the ready behind him. Alidoro had prescribed regular exercise to prevent clotted blood and atrophied muscles, but Romeo would have been up regardless. Though less overt than Carlo, he was equally restless and hated confinement in cramped spaces more than anything. Whether that loathing was a result of some childhood incident or simply a byproduct of his proportions, she did not know. It made it all the kinder when he chose to stay and care for her in her sickbed.

Antonia swept into the garden with such haste that Lea instinctively reached for her sword—pleased to once again feel steel within her grasp. She released the hilt when she saw the folded paper, but the sight did not calm her heart.

"Read it aloud, my dear," she urged Lea as she pressed it into her hand. "I'm an old woman, and my reading glasses are upstairs."

It was an obvious lie, but one Lea was grateful to accept. She popped open the wax seal emblazoned with Geppetto's seal to find Carlo's looping, narrow hand filling the page. Several instructors had attempted to neaten out his writing which they claimed was illegible chicken scratch. As many other times, she was glad they had not succeeded in changing him one bit.

She began, "Dearest Godmother, your letter finds me in good health and recovering spirits."

Romeo scoffed. "It sounds like he's being held at knifepoint." Lea shot him an impatient glare, and he flushed. "Sorry, please continue."

Without further interruption, she read the letter in its entirety.

Dearest Godmother,

Your letter finds me in good health and recovering spirits. Forgive my silence. Witnessing the Tower's destruction left me quite forlorn, unable to write or even speak this past fortnight.

The seaside has done me some good, though I regret the season's chill. The windows have all been shut up to prevent drafts, and I am not yet well enough to walk the grounds. Fog so often blankets the sea cliffs that I can hardly see anything outside my room. The drab scenery has done little to bolster my mood. I'd hoped in coming here that the chrysanthemums might still be in bloom, but if they are, I cannot see them anyway. Perhaps when next you visit you might bring some? I've always enjoyed the reds and oranges, but you might also be able to find some blues still blooming.

There is one matter for which I am grateful, however. Father has seen fit to provide me with everything I could possibly need and the help to fetch it for me. I did not properly appreciate the utility of a fully automated staff until they stood in constant vigilance over my convalescence. Common things, such as bringing ice to calm a bout of fever or stoking the fire at odd hours, are done with haste and without complaint. So you see, godmother, that you needn't worry for my physical health, but I do so long to walk the winding hedges with you once more when I am able.

With love,

Carlo

When she finished, she stared at the page, as though peering harder would change its contents. Antonia muttered something that Lea could not hear but knew was barbed from the deep lines furrowed into her brow. It was the most agitated Lea had ever seen her, and it set her teeth on edge.

Romeo exhaled shakily. Leaning on P for support, he lowered himself onto the bench next to Lea. "That's…"

"Much to consider," Lea finished his thought mechanically. Only the process of sorting through her emotions kept a hot spike of anger from her voice.

Romeo shifted closer. Though his skin had begun to regain its color, his hair had not. Greasy strands hung free from his low ponytail and brushed her arm as he read the letter again. After a moment, he tapped a line near the top.

"I thought I heard that right. Forlorn."

"I noticed it too," Lea said.

She noticed much, in fact. First, the seaside locale could only be Casa Azzurra, the summer house Geppetto had purchased from the Turano family after their fortune turned sour. She'd never visited herself, but talk of it purported vast slabs of gray-veined marble and more rooms than anyone could possibly need in a lifetime. Second, Carlo was confined to one of those rooms and kept under constant watch by a small army of puppets, likely with orders to dispose of intruders. Third, there were no blue chrysanthemums, at least not naturally. It was an unassuming enough mistake to overlook if one knew nothing of flowers or their language. Together with red—for love—and orange—for friendship, or perhaps more accurately the color of her hair—the image he'd painted matched only one trio, and he'd asked Antonia to bring them all.

Lea looked up. P's round, quizzical eyes were on her. Unlike Carlo, he was reticent to ask questions, like he was not sure they would be welcome unless she specifically invited them. Something else to throttle Geppetto for later. Antonia, too, stared with a cocked eyebrow.

"Apologies," Lea said. "I didn't mean to keep you in suspense. 'Forlorn' is one of our code words." She addressed P alone. "I should have taught them to you too, but it slipped my mind with everything else going on."

P shifted his weight to his other foot. Taking her explanation as a cue, he asked, "What does it mean?"

A chill skittered up her spine like grimy, bloated fingers climbing her vertebrae. Each time she made a step forward toward saving her apprentices or Krat, balance would assert itself again. Véronique had become their ally, but now the Alchemists sought her head as well. Carlo was alive and well enough to scheme, but he'd used the one word she'd hoped he'd never need to. One he hadn't even used before he ran off to die.

"It means grave danger."