[b]Étoile![/b]

You blow Am’met and Visha’an a kiss and wiggle your rumpled rear one more time as you pass inside your lady’s chambers. The door slides smoothly shut behind you and your shoulders slump like cut puppet strings. You have been groped and rubbed and felt up [i]everywhere.[/i] On the other hand, you have their names and even their ID numbers, so it’s really up to you whether your Lady does something about it or Marianne pays them a visit. Mmm. Now there’s a thought. See how interested they are in kissing when they’re dangling from a bridge upside-down...

Tamytha is in her bedroom. You can’t help yourself; you have to go check on her. You pad stealthily through the reception room and down the hall, down into your Lady’s chamber. (The moonlight filters in through the open casings. In the private garden outside, the fountain burbles. Breaking in would be so simple for someone who can get past guards and evade the ever-present eyes of Caphtor.)

In the bedroom, dimly lit, Caphtor is playing an instrument somewhat like a harp. She is mathematically perfect, making music so ethereal and gentle it’s hard to keep your eyes open. In the low light, you can see Tamytha tangled in her sheets, her veil hanging neatly on the bust of Ishtar by the side of her bed. Maybe it’s guilt that makes you linger there in the doorway a moment, but it’s a moment too long; Tamytha stirs, half sitting up.

“[i]Lamassie?[/i] Is that you?” Her voice is weak. She always takes a turn after certain Salamander plants contaminate her food. This one’s... this one’s bad. Her forehead’s slick with sweat even from here. “Is it you this time?”

Oh. She’s... oh.

***

[b]Canada![/b]

This time (as it used to do, as it has not done since the day you betrayed the world) the mirror yields. You tumble through, yelping, like the first time you came here. The mirror place. The fortress of solitude. The upside-down. Really, you’ve got your pick of nicknames.

It’s a disorienting place. It’s like a big old house, maybe even a castle, except all the walls used to be tiled with glass. Used to be. More than half of them are broken, or fallen, and what’s behind them is peeling green-yellow wallpaper, and underneath that... you know, you never worked up the courage to dig your fingers in and keep pulling back.

It’s an imperfect place for an imperfect hero. It’s a place that sometimes has just what you need, and sometimes reflects you back at yourself. The worrying thing is that sometimes there’s movement in the mirrors, out of the corner of your eye. Sometimes there’s the intense feeling of being watched, and sometimes? Turns out you are.

Looks like you’re alone tonight (as alone as you ever get). The walls around you reflect you back on yourself, and if you get just the right angle between two unbroken mirrors...

You go on forever and ever, Canada without end, amen.

***

[b]Anathet![/b]

The black-eyed girl touches you with her hand. It’s like the idea of being touched, more than actual contact.

She shares with you, more gently, a sense of being vast and seeing without eyes. The infinite shades of black. The swirl of tides... but it’s as if from far off. Something you remember, but only as something that happened to someone who happened to be you. Tablets, sought; a sense of self, coalescing.

“Tia,” she said. Her lips move, but the word was already shared with you, and there is no sound. She is focusing so hard. “Name. Tia.”