The music’s loud. Jo in her leering devil T-shirt slumps in the dark red booth, laying her head back against the pillowy vinyl. Ysabel slides in next to her, her heavy black hair swinging as she leans over the table. Roland leans his sword against the table and slides into the booth across from them, ripping open the velcro of his fingerless gloves. A woman’s voice is singing about how you can make dew into diamonds, and pacify the lions, but you know you can never love me more. Roland tugs his gloves off and lays them flat on the table. Looks up at Ysabel. Lifts his eyebrows, tries on a smile. Her expression doesn’t change. “My lady,” he starts to say.

“You really killed him, didn’t you,” says Jo, her head still lying back against the booth.

Roland looks down at his gloves on the table and tries again. “My lady. I am sorry I have not been with you directly these past few days.”

“It’s no longer your office,” says Ysabel. She holds one of her hands in the other, her thumb absently stroking a wet red patch, rubbed raw, on her palm.

“It is no longer my office,” says Roland. He looks directly at her again. “And, I am sorry I was not with you sooner tonight.”

“We got by,” says Ysabel.

“You really did kill that guy,” says Jo, glaring at Roland. “He’s dead.”

“You should not be forced to ‘get by,’” Roland’s saying. “My only defense is that it should have been inconceivable for the Duke to act so openly, so quickly.” He looks down at his gloves again. “A sad excuse, I know.”

“What will you guys be having?” says the waitress.

“Vanilla Stoli and Diet Coke,” says Ysabel crisply, putting her hands in her lap.

“Water for me,” says Roland. “Thank you.”

“And you?” says the waitress, turning to look at Jo and knocking Roland’s sword over. “Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry!” bending down to pick it up.

“That’s a real sword, you know,” says Jo.

“I’m, um,” says the waitress, propping the sword back up against the table. “What?”

“That’s a real sword. That’s why it’s so heavy. If you pull it out there’s blood on it. He just killed somebody with that sword.”

The waitress looks over at Roland, who’s looking down at his gloves on the table. “You know,” she says to Jo, “state law won’t let us serve anybody who’s visibly intoxicated.”

“I’m not drunk,” mutters Jo. “Yet.”

“Well?” says the waitress.

“You buying?” says Jo to Roland.

“I suppose,” he says.

“Then bring me one of those fishbowl drinks,” says Jo. “Whichever one has a lot of rum in it. And umbrellas. And those little plastic mermaids.”

“Okay,” says the waitress.

Let the rain pour down, the woman’s singing, let the valleys drown, still, you know you can never make me love you more.

“Look,” says Jo suddenly. “I want out.”

“You want out,” says Roland. Ysabel’s looking away, over at the bar, a dim confusion of shadowy people and light-struck glass.

“Yeah,” says Jo.

“You were warned,” says Roland. His eyes are a pale blue that washes away to nothing in the dim light.

“I don’t care,” says Jo. She covers her face with her hands and digs at her eyes with her fingertips. “I don’t care,” she says, her hands falling in on themselves to rest on the table. “I’ll just, challenge you to a duel or something. I’ll lose, I’ll let you win. You can have her back. Take her back. I’m sorry,” she says to Ysabel. “But.” Ysabel doesn’t say anything.

“It doesn’t work like that,” says Roland, looking up. The zipper on his jacket flashes, pulled up to his chin.

“Why not?” says Jo. “It’s how I got into this mess.”

“The Queen would never – ”

“Fuck the Queen,” snaps Jo.

Roland’s hands curl into tight fists on the table. Ysabel blinks and turns her gaze slowly on Jo.

“Okay?” says Jo. “I mean, what’s going to happen to us? To me?”

“Happen?” says Roland.

“With the cops!” says Jo. “And,” she frowns, “and the cops!”

“It’s none of their concern,” says Ysabel.

“None of their,” says Jo. “He killed that guy!”

“No, Jo,” says Roland. His voice is gentle. He looks down at his fists, pursing his lips. Looks up at Jo. “I didn’t,” he says. “You did.”

“What?” says Jo.

The Mooncalfe runs to meet the Chariot’s charge as car alarms wail and yowl around them. The Stirrup scrabbles for the sword he’d left under the railing. The Mooncalfe swings his Japanese sword with two hands, hunkering low, his hips twisting this way, that. The Chariot takes his stand sideways, head leaning back and away, his off-hand tucked against his chest. Every now and then a straightforward cut is blocked by a solid parry ringing like a great bell cracked and sinking out of tune. More tentative ripostes and probing thrusts swatted aside sound like someone banging to clear the pipes of a steam radiator. “Roland!” cries the Stirrup, hefting his sword. “Roland! Surely we can settle this as gentlemen?”

“We are,” snarls the Chariot, his blade scraping against the Mooncalfe’s as they push and shove.

“Ysabel,” hisses Jo from her perch at the top of the steps leading to the church’s side door. Still clinging to the gate there she leans out, calling to Ysabel at the foot of the stairs. “Get up here!”

Ysabel looks up at Jo and shakes her head. At the corner on their side of the street stands Tommy, arms folded, his eyes on the fight. The Mooncalfe stumbles against the curb behind him. Ducking under the Chariot’s slash sends him almost to his knees. “No quarter!” roars the Chariot. “Come at me as you like!”

“Surely we deserve to hear the nature of our crimes?” says the Stirrup, shifting his weight so one leg leads, his sword held low at his waist, away from the Chariot. “We only sought to protect the Princess!”

“Liar!” bellows the Chariot, backing away from the Mooncalfe. “I call you a liar, sir. And I will make good that claim upon your person.” And as the Chariot lifts his blade and takes his first running step toward the Stirrup, as the Stirrup crouches, his sword still down, waiting, as Tommy stands there on the sidewalk, halfway between the corner and the church steps, his arms folded, watching the fight, the Mooncalfe steps up on the fender of a little round compact car and launches himself twisting into the air, his sword up above his head for a final blow. The Chariot’s second step buckles as he ducks, rolling onto his back, his sword up.

“Hurk,” says the Mooncalfe.

He crouches over the Chariot. Stuck on the blade passed clean through his body. His Japanese sword clatters dully as it falls to the pavement.

“Are these the Nazis, Walter?” says the nervous little guy on the big flat television hanging on the wall.

“They’re nihilists, Donny,” says the big guy. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

His Grace on the brown leather couch in his paisleyed dressing gown chuckles. The blond woman at the other end of the couch sits under the only light in the room. She’s wearing black stockings and a black teddy, and she’s reading a thick yellow paperback book. There’s a muffled shout outside. Footsteps pounding up the stairs. “Baby?” says His Grace, scooping up a remote. The television freezes on the image of a man doubling over, clutching his crotch, his face a cartoon mask of pain. The blond woman doesn’t look up from her book. “You might want to,” says His Grace, and then down the hall the door bursts open. His Grace leaps to his feet. The blond woman rolls her eyes and fiercely turns the page.

“Gaveston?” calls his Grace.

It’s the Mooncalfe who’s first into the room. The Stirrup, his tie loosened, his shirt open, is next.

“Well?” says His Grace. “Is she here?” He looks from one to the other and back again. “Well?” He frowns. “Where’s Tommy?”

The Stirrup looks over at the Mooncalfe, who isn’t really looking at anyone.

“Where the fuck is Tommy Rawhead?” says His Grace.

The Stirrup reaches into his rumpled linen jacket and pulls out a bone. It’s a good-sized bone, thick and long, the tibia of a short man. It glitters.

“Oh,” says the blond woman, peering over the back of the couch. “Oh, no.”

As His Grace takes the bone in a trembling hand, gold dust shivers into the air, sparkling. He lifts the bone in both hands and rests his forehead against the knobbed flange at one end, his eyes closed. The Stirrup looks away. The Mooncalfe is still looking at no one in particular. Then with one hand His Grace brushes up some of the gold dust still clinging to the bone. His eyes still closed he touches his fingers to his lips and murmurs. Then he opens them.

“Who did this?” he says.

“Hurk,” says the Mooncalfe.

The Chariot reaches up to plant one hand on his chest and pushes him up as he pulls the blade down and out of his body. The Stirrup’s running up, lifting his blade –

“Hey!” yells Jo.

– and the Chariot rolls to one side as Ysabel looks up startled at Jo at the top of the church steps and Tommy standing beside Ysabel reaches up to grab her arm and the Stirrup’s blade swings down in a mighty blow to clang against the pavement where the Chariot had been lying. The Chariot on his feet blade up backs away. The Mooncalfe clutching his belly stomps angrily over to the curb. “Fuck!” he yells up into the pink-hazed night sky over the piercing car alarms.

“Let me go,” Ysabel’s saying. “Let me go!”

“Hey,” says Tommy, easily holding her arm in his big hands. “Roland.”

The Stirrup and the Chariot circle each other, blades wary between them.

“Hey,” says Tommy.

The Chariot suddenly breaks for the church steps as Jo lets go of the gate. Startled, the Stirrup starts after him, as Jo runs down the steps toward Ysabel. Tommy hauls Ysabel over to one side away from the Chariot’s wild lunge, throwing up one long arm to protect himself, as Jo scrambles on the steps to turn, reaching out for Ysabel’s hand. Tommy knocks the first thrust aside letting the Chariot’s blade slide along his forearm as Ysabel takes Jo’s hand and then looks up to see her there and then cries out, “Oh, oh no. Jo – Roland!”

The Chariot’s second thrust hits home, and everything is suddenly quiet.

Tommy looks down at the metal that’s stuck in his chest. Opens his mouth. Something dark and wet falls out of it to spatter onto the sidewalk.

“Gallowglas!” bellows the Stirrup.

“I didn’t,” says the Chariot. He pulls his sword out of Tommy’s body, and Tommy sinks softly to his knees. The front of his black turtleneck is stained with something that glitters in the streetlight. “I didn’t know,” says Roland.

“Gallowglas!” The Stirrup is marching toward the sidewalk, toward Tommy falling onto his side, toward Jo, holding Ysabel’s hand. The Mooncalfe on the other side of the street is climbing to his feet.

“Ysabel?” says Jo. “What’s – ”

“Run,” says Ysabel.

“Gaveston,” calls the Chariot. The Stirrup doesn’t hear him. Doesn’t look down at Tommy as he marches past, headed after Ysabel, and Jo, running now for the corner. The Chariot swings his sword and knocks the point of the Stirrup’s sword down. “It’s over!” He grabs the Stirrup’s shoulder slamming him back against the church wall. The Stirrup gasps. “It’s over,” says Roland. An SUV jerks to a stop in the intersection, honking as Jo and Ysabel hand-in-hand run across the street in front of it. “Take him with you and get out of here,” says Roland.

“You will pay,” says Gaveston.

“Go,” says Roland.

“I’m a Gallowglas,” says Jo. With fumbling fingers she manages to get the miniskirt unzipped but working it down her legs she stumbles and falls onto her futon. She rolls over on her back. “I’m the Gallowglas. Hey. Hey. How come the other guy didn’t die?”

Ysabel sits on the edge of the futon with a glass of water in one hand. “You should drink some,” she says, holding it out for Jo.

“Need a towel.” Jo tries to sit up and rolls over on her side. “Just in case. How come?”

“You weren’t on the field of battle then,” says Ysabel. She sets the glass of water down and picks up the Spongebob Squarepants towel. She smoothes it out on the futon by Jo’s head. “It’s only when you’re actually fighting that, well.”

“I make them. I can kill them. They can be killed,” says Jo. “Makes no sense.”

“It’s not supposed to make sense,” says Ysabel.

“It makes perfect sense,” says Jo. “I fuck everything up.” She pulls her knees up to her chest. Worrying at the ripped knee of her tights. “I fucked up the fight. I fucked up that guy. I’m fucking up my job. I fucked up my life. I fucked up high school. I could have, I would have gone to Harvard. Did you know that?” She reaches out for Ysabel’s hand. “If I had the money. I would have gone to Harvard. Or maybe Berkeley.”

Ysabel strokes Jo’s hair. Smiles, a little. “You should drink some water and get some sleep,” she says.

“But I fucked that up,” says Jo. Closing her eyes. “And I’m fucking you up,” she says. She opens them, looking up at Ysabel. “I’m fucking up your life,” she says. “I’m fucking up your life, and I’m really sorry about it.” She closes her eyes again.

“Shh,” says Ysabel. Setting the glass down on the floor by the futon she stands up and steps carefully around the piles of dirty laundry and shoes, past the sink full of dirty dishes, to the front door of the apartment. Out in the hallway stands Roland, his hands in the pockets of his green and silver track suit, looking down at his spotless white shoes.

“Do you need anything, my lady?” he asks, quietly.

“Well,” she says.

“Anything I can bring you?”

“No,” she says.

“My lady,” he starts to say.

“Answer me this, Roland,” she says. “Did my mother set you to watching me?”

“Well,” he says. “I mean, well – ”

“Did she?” says Ysabel.

Roland shrugs. “Yes,” he says.

“In that case,” says Ysabel, stepping back into the apartment, “I’ll be seeing you around.”

“My lady,” says Roland, “I – ”

She shuts the door.

Inside, on the futon, Jo snores.

Ysabel stands there in the middle of the cluttered apartment, in her hip-hugging jeans, her peach tank top, the nails on her bare feet glittering with gold paint. She swallows. She closes her eyes and bites her lip and briefly, just for an instant, shudders.

Then she reaches out and snaps off the light.

She makes it to the windowsill without stumbling. Jo mumbles at the stiff croak of the window as Ysabel cranks it open. She sits on the sill, working one long leg out onto the faux balcony. Plucks a cigarette from a crumpled pack and lights it with a match. Jo starts snoring again in great bubbling snorts. Blowing smoke out the window, Ysabel looks out over the nighttime city, filled with light: the pink and orange haze of the streetlights, white-hot spots of arc light at a construction site, here and there rectangles of yellow still burning in buildings all around, neon squiggles in primary colors hanging in dark shop windows, billboards lit up like giant television screens. The stoplight below changes from red to green and with the change in color the whole world subtly shifts. Engines rumble and growl. Headlights and taillights start to move. A thumping bassline slides past. Ysabel leans back against the sill and closes her eyes.

“Fareless,” says Christian to the bus driver. His hands are jammed in the pockets of his old grey sweatshirt, tugging it low. He doesn’t flash a transfer or a pass. He doesn’t drop quarters in the fare box. The driver shrugs. “Lloyd Center?” she says.

“Yeah,” says Christian. “Whatever.”

The bus is nearly empty. He swings himself into the seat just behind the back door. His reflection glowers at him in the black window-glass.

“Running to Northeast,” says one of the men sitting in the very back seat to the other one. “Now that seems pretty smart, first time you look at it.”

The other man, the big one, doesn’t say anything.

“Nobody’s going to look for you up that way, at least not right off the proverbial bat,” says the first guy, the little one. “Certainly not the people you pissed off. And not the people they pissed off, neither. You’re out of the middle of them, and yay team for that. Plus, you’re crossing water.” The bus changes gears, surging up and around an on-ramp onto a bridge. “Always good to get some running water between you and your troubles. Not that it necessarily has any practical effect, mind you. Come to think of it, it doesn’t have much of any effect at all, does it? But it’s what everybody does, they hit a patch of trouble too big for their britches. Makes you feel a little better to be doing it. It’s something. You know?”

The big guy doesn’t say anything.

“And see,” says the little guy, “you start looking at this plan, this whole running to Northeast plan, with that attention to detail, well. It all starts to look less like a home run and more like a bunt, and maybe not even a base hit, you know? I mean, hell. Northeast. Here there be monsters. You don’t know the signs and signals, the ways and means, you’re gonna end up as lunch, make no mistake.”

“What you need,” says the big guy, “is a friend.”

“And that is precisely what I was about to say, Mr. Keightlinger. Hot damn. Hot damn indeed. Who wouldn’t want a friend in times like these? The other fellow has somebody to back his play, what do you need? Somebody to back yours. But not just a friend, no. Not any old friend will do. You need a friend with britches big enough to stand up to your troubles. You need a friend with deep pockets to back your play. What you need, Mr. Keightlinger – ”

“Dude likes the sound of his voice,” says Christian, loudly.

“What you need, Mr. Keightlinger,” says the little guy, “especially if you’re a loud-mouthed pushy little sonofabitch like Christian Beaumont here, what you need is a goddamn patron.”

“Make no mistake,” says the big guy, who has a thick beard the color of mahogany furniture, bushy enough to bury the knot of his skinny black tie.

“The fuck are you?” says Christian, who’s spun around on his seat to look at them.

“Me?” says the little guy, who’s wearing a black suit just like the big guy’s. “I’m Mr. Charlock. My associate is the aforementioned Mr. Keightlinger. And I’m assuming that you are in actual fact Mr. Christian Beaumont. If you aren’t, what I’m saying probably makes no sense whatsoever. But if you are, my friend, well, you just stood yourself up between two houses of the gentry who are determined to butt heads and none too particular about what happens to the little folks stuck in the middle. Hell, you’ve got one or two of ’em ready to see to it personally you end up flatter than not. The kind of trouble you’re in doesn’t come any bigger. You need a patron. And we can fulfill that role, my associate and myself.”

“And what if I told you to go fuck yourself?” says Christian.

“Well,” says Mr. Charlock. “You have a couple of options, all of which involve running out of town. But! That costs money, doesn’t it?”

“Quite a bit of money,” says Mr. Keightlinger.

“More than Mr. Beaumont has, anyway.”

“Fuck you,” says Christian.

“He could hitchhike, I suppose,” says Mr. Charlock, “or hobo his way south or east. Or he could sign up to fight forest fires! ’Tis the season, after all, and the commercial outfits aren’t too picky about who they sign up. He could be out at the Three Sisters burn in a matter of days.”

“He doesn’t have days,” says Mr. Keightlinger.

Christian rolls his eyes.

“Oh, you’re right there,” says Mr. Charlock. “That Mooncalfe is a vicious bastard. Murderous. What was it again he did to that obnoxious cowboy in the parking lot of the Red Lion?”

“Bet he didn’t talk his motherfuckin’ ears off,” says Christian.

“No,” says Mr. Charlock, his voice suddenly flat and quiet as the bus pulls into a stop. “No, he didn’t.”

“Lloyd Center,” calls the bus driver. “End of Fareless Square.”

Christian hauls himself up out of his seat. “So what do you want from me?” he says.

Standing, Mr. Charlock says, “You see, Mr. Keightlinger?” They follow Christian out the back door and onto the sidewalk in front of a dimly lit park. “The street is a harsh mistress, but her lessons are taken to heart. The invisible hand of the marketplace is hard at work, ensuring that services are rendered for value received. A patron is no mere friend, after all, to flee when the fair weather turns; a patron, after all, is a mutual obligation. So let’s by all means cut to the chase: we will, Mr. Beaumont, keep you safe from the Mooncalfe and the Stirrup and anyone they might send to effect their revenge. In return for which, you will educate us in the ways of one Jo Maguire.”

“Jo?” says Christian.

“You do know Miss Maguire, don’t you? Mr. Beaumont? Otherwise, I’m afraid this has been a dreadful waste of everyone’s time.”

Christian jams his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. He looks away from the two men in their black suits up the sidewalk toward the parking lot of a movie theater, filled with a slowly churning traffic jam of people and cars working their ways home after the last show. A number eight bus pulls up to the stop, opens its doors expectantly. He waves it off. “Buy me a burger,” he says. “Let’s talk about it.”

“By all means, Mr. Beaumont,” says Mr. Charlock. “By all means.”

In one of the Club’s private dining rooms, long tables have been laid with dazzling white cloths and arranged in a blocky U. Two places have been set, on either side of one of the corners: bread plates and soup plates, fish forks and salad forks, butter knives and steak knives, wine glasses and tea cups. Dressed all in black the Queen sits before one of the settings, facing the door, her back to a window overlooking a parking garage. Her head nods. Her eyes close. Her chin brushes her chest. Behind her stands a woman wearing narrow black-rimmed glasses and a black sweater over a white shirt with an enormous stiff collar shading her shoulders. At some unseen signal she bends down to whisper in the Queen’s ear. The Queen sits up, blinking. Smiles uncomfortably.

There is a bustle at the door.

The first to enter is a young man backing carefully, both hands held out with some concern, murmuring encouragement to an old man tottering slowly on two grey orthopædic canes. Ivory hair makes a wild crown about a pink head bobbing loosely, a delicately balanced counterweight to every hesitant step. His arms and legs are quite thin, lost in the copious folds of a soft blue suit, but his belly strains its buttons as raises up a little and croaks, “You’re losing it, Duenna.”

“Grandfather Count is honored as ever to join you for brunch, Your Majesty,” says the young man over his shoulder, “and he offers his every felicitation to your illustrious reign. May it last forever.”

“And we are delighted, as ever, by his company,” says the Queen.

“That girl of yours is like honey,” says the Count, making his slow, torturous way outside the tables toward the Queen, each shaky step braced by a cane in the opposite hand. “Leave a pot of it outside your tent,” and he lifts a cane, poking its rubber tip in the general direction of the Queen, “and the bears get frisky!” He almost falls from the force of his rhetoric. The young man catches an elbow. He, too, wears a soft blue suit, and his shirt is a blushing pink. His hair is also white, just touched with hints of pale gold, and it hangs in tangled dreadlocks down past his shoulders. “There are, of course,” he’s saying, as he helps the Count into his chair, “some matters Grandfather wishes to discuss,” and the young man favors the Queen with a quick nod. “But none so pressing, ma’am, that they cannot wait until after we have eaten.”

“If I might recommend,” says the waiter, who in his white apron and black tie has appeared quite silently on the other side of the tables, “today’s omelet is delicious – wild chanterelle mushrooms, leeks, walnuts – ”

“Boca!” blares the Count.

“I also have black bean chili,” says the waiter, brushing his walrusy black mustache.

“I want my Boca!”

“With,” says the waiter, “semi-sweet chocolate base. And a delicious risotto with lemon and pomegranate – ”

“I want my goddamn Boca burger!” The Count bangs a fist on the table and the silverware chatters. “On sourdough! Made from the goddamn Yukon Gold Rush culture!” Bang! “I want a slab of Irish cheddar steeped in whiskey! None of your goddamn skimping on that – I said a slab and I want a goddamn slab! I want mango chutney and I want my jo-jos fried in goddamn peanut oil and I want fresh coriander leaves, fresh, dammit, you hear me, cut this goddamn morning, and I want the last tomato of summer!” Bang! “And gimme a bottle of Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray, you hear me?” Bang!

The waiter clears his throat. “I also have many surprises for dessert, but will tempt you with them later.” He bows slightly and stiffly.

“Grandfather will have his usual,” says the young man.

“The omelet,” says the woman in the black-rimmed glasses standing behind the Queen’s chair. “A light salad, oil and vinegar on the side. A cup of coffee. And please make sure we have some Splenda on the table?”

“Of course,” says the waiter.

“Nothing but a jumped-up khokhol in a stuffed shirt,” mutters the Count.

The waiter’s mouth tightens at that, and his steps as he leaves are crisp.

“We should probably begin,” says the Queen, “by discussing our plans for the upcoming year’s end festivities.” The woman in the black-rimmed glasses plucks a manila folder from the leather case at her feet and walks it over to the young man.

“Not while people are dying, we don’t,” says the Count. The young man pauses in the act of taking the folder. “Grandfather,” he says, “is gravely concerned about a recent, incident? Involving the Princess, and some of the Duke’s men – ”

“We fail to see how that concerns the Count,” says the Queen.

“Gallowglas,” says the Count. “That’s how it concerns me, dammit.” He coughs. “All of us. Goddamn outsider, threatening everything. Your girl got cute, Duenna. Whether she meant to or not.”

“Meant to?” says the Queen, arching one thin black eyebrow.

The young man says “What Grandfather is trying to say” as the woman in the black-rimmed glasses says “The Queen must insist that this matter be kept – ”

“Bullshit!” blares the Count. Bang! “She! Got! Cute!” Bang! “And you’re trying to teach her a lesson.” The Count waves this off. “But it’s getting out of hand.” He leans back from the table with a slow push. “You have to call it off.”

“Frederic,” says the Queen, quietly. “You would do well to remember who I am. And that no one – not you, not the Duke, certainly not my daughter – dictates my actions.”

“The Count is invited to note,” says the woman in the black-rimmed glasses, “that the Princess and her guardian are effectively isolated from the court.”

“Grandfather doesn’t feel they’re isolated enough,” says the young man, eyeing the Count closely.

“If the Duke hadn’t tried to kidnap the Princess,” says the woman in the black-rimmed glasses, “none of this – ”

“That’s enough, Anna,” says the Queen.

“Well?” says the Count.

“We have no intention of accepting the Gallowglas at court,” says the Queen. “We have no intention of rescuing our daughter from the consequences of her actions. We will not insult one of our knights by making any more of his recent – indiscretion, and we have no intention of allowing the Duke’s complaints to determine how and by whom the Princess is guarded. We trust this is clear?”

“Nothing will change,” says the young man. The waiter has reappeared. He sets a small plate of dark little pancakes and a bowl of yogurt before the Count.

“Unless I change my mind,” says the Queen. The waiter sets an omelet and a small salad before the Queen, and then he holds up a couple of creamy envelopes. “These were delivered to front desk,” he says, laying one before the Queen and one before the Count.

Anna lifts the envelope and rips it open with a finger. She tips out the card inside and scans it quickly as she hands it to the Queen.

“An invitation,” she says. “From the Duke.”

“To the court,” says the young man, looking at the other card. “A hunt, in honor of the Princess.” He looks up. His face is carefully blank. “This would seem to work against their isolation,” he says.

The Count snorts as he scoops up a small spoonful of yogurt.

“You don’t have to be any good at it,” says Jo, punching the fourth floor button. A dusting of powdered sugar is left behind. “Hell, you don’t even have to try. You just have to make do for a week or so.” She stoops and plucks another donut from one of the plastic sacks of groceries at her feet.

“You want me,” says Ysabel, “to work. For money.” One hand hangs by a thumb from a beltloop on her plum jeans. The other holds a bottle of peach tea.

“You said yourself it wasn’t work. It’s just talking to people on the phone.”

“You want me. To exchange my time – hours out of my day – for money.”

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. “Well, yeah,” says Jo, hauling up a sack of groceries in either fist. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Ysabel rolls her eyes.

“Look,” says Jo, leading the way down the beige and burnt-orange hall. “See these groceries? That tea? If I don’t go in and get my paycheck so I can cover the check I wrote for this shit, well, that’s the sort of thing they take away your bank account for. If you don’t have a bank account, you don’t get to keep the apartment.” At the end of the hall, Jo sets the groceries on the floor by a door and fishes in the cavernous pocket of her workpants for her keys. “And I tend to get cranky when I don’t have an apartment. So. Since I have to go in anyway, and you have to go with me, well, Becker can’t exactly kick you out if you work there.”

“Why don’t you call out sick again?” says Ysabel.

“You didn’t listen to a thing I just said, did you,” says Jo, unlocking the door.

“As little as possible,” says Ysabel.

Jo blinks. “What the fuck?”

The window on the far wall of the apartment is framed by floor-length burgundy drapes. A gauzy shade filters the sunlight into something soft and cool. By the futon, neatly made and piled with a crazy quilt of patterned pillows, a glass-topped café table stands between two spindly wrought-iron chairs. A bulky blond wood armoire takes up the corner behind it, and a contraption of thin metal tubing hanging from one side racks a couple dozen pairs of shoes. The sink in the little hallway kitchen gleams mirror-bright, with only a single glass in it. A bit of milk rings the bottom.

“What the,” says Jo. Looking at the number on the door. Looking into the apartment again.

“You like it?” says Ysabel, sliding past her. “I had someone in to clean the place while we were out.”

“You had someone,” says Jo, hefting the groceries up onto the spotless kitchen counter. “You,” she says again, stepping into the main space of the apartment. “I,” she says, looking at the expansively shaggy bouquet spreading across the table, the thick, stubby candles burning before it. “You,” she says. Shakes her head. “Where the fuck is my stuff?”

“Black cumin,” murmurs Ysabel, stroking some ghostly blue flowers frothing the top of the bouquet. “I’m sorry?” She turns, looks about the room. Points. At the foot of the futon are three or four blond wood crates filled with neatly folded clothing.

“You,” Jo’s saying. “I mean. I. You.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” says Ysabel, opening the armoire, running one hand along the shirts and tops and dresses and jackets and skirts hung within. “It’s just while I’m staying here. Do you think you could make do? For a week or so?”

Jo’s wrinkling her nose. “Smells like fucking Pine-Sol,” she mutters.

It’s a small, windowless room, not much bigger than the round table in the middle of it. Ysabel sits in one corner, staring up at a white board that says WinBank 4.3 an hour How to Improve? A small stack of typescript stapled in one corner on the table before her. Her hair’s pulled back in a thick ponytail high on the back of her head. She’s wearing a light turtleneck sweater in some nameless natural color.

The door pops open and a head peers around the frame. “Um, hey,” it says from behind a curtain of black hair. “Becker said I should come in here and, uh, run you through the script – ”

“Hello, Guthrie,” says Ysabel.

“Um,” says Guthrie, looking up at her. His eyes are ringed with black mascara. “Hi.” He’s wearing a black T-shirt that says Snarky Kite. “So I’m supposed to run you through the WinBank script,” he says, stepping into the room, closing the door. “Um. They call this the Little Conference Room, which I think is some kind of joke, since the other conference room isn’t any bigger.”

“That isn’t part of the script,” says Ysabel.

“Um, no. It isn’t. I guess you’ve already read the background memo?” Guthrie pulls out a chair and sits down.

“When you said that you might remember more than I’d thought, what did you mean?” Ysabel leans her elbows on the table.

“That, uh, isn’t in the script, either,” says Guthrie.

“Humor me.”

He smiles, his eyes jerking away from her. “Um,” he says. “I just mean, well. Becker doesn’t remember how that guy fought Jo with a sword. And, uh. I do.”

“And you think you weren’t supposed to remember this?”

“I don’t know,” says Guthrie.

“Guthrie,” says Ysabel. “Look at me.” His smile has tensed into a grimace that’s crawled up under his nose. “I don’t have any secrets here, all right?” His eyes slide away from her. “I’m not hiding anything. I know Jo said there was an evil boyfriend, and there isn’t, but that was her idea. Okay? I don’t know why she said it. Okay? I’m a lousy liar, Guthrie. Guthrie. Look at me.” He does, now, unsmiling. “It really doesn’t matter if you remember the duel or not, okay? Got that?”

Guthrie nods. “Can we just, you know. Do the script?”

Ysabel shrugs. “Sure.”

“I’ll be the respondent,” says Guthrie, “and you do the survey, okay? Just start from the top.”

Ysabel holds her hands out in front of herself there on the table and traces a vague box shape in the air. She mimes plucking something and lifts it, an imaginary telephone handset, to her ear. She stabs the air with her finger where she’s shaped out the vague box, six, seven times.

“What are you,” says Guthrie. “What are you doing?”

“Calling you,” says Ysabel. “I need to call you on the phone, right?”

“Yes,” says Guthrie, “but, I mean, there’s no need to, to pretend all this, we could just – ”

“Your phone’s ringing,” says Ysabel, pointing to the space on the table before him.

Blinking, frowning a little, Guthrie mimes picking up a telephone handset. Silvery rings glitter on his fingers. “Hello?” he says.

“Good evening, sir,” says Ysabel. “My name is Ysabel Perry, and I’m calling on behalf of Barshefsky Associates. This isn’t a sales call. We’re an independent market research firm located in Portland, Oregon, and we’re conducting a brief survey. Am I speaking with the person who makes most of the financial decisions for your household?”

“Ah, yes,” says Guthrie.

“Would you say that you make all of the financial decisions, at least half of the financial decisions, less than half of the financial decisions, or none of the financial decisions for your household? That’s redundant,” says Ysabel.

“I, what?”

“That’s redundant. You already said you made most of those whatever decisions. So I shouldn’t ask if you make less than half, or none.”

“That’s, ah,” says Guthrie, holding up his hand, then pointing to the script, “that’s how it’s written.”

“It’s written badly,” says Ysabel. “I shouldn’t ask you a question you’ve already answered. It makes me look stupid.”

“Yeah, but,” says Guthrie, pointing to the script again. “Look, you have to ask each question as it’s written. It has to be the same, every time you do the survey or anybody else does. Otherwise, I mean, you’re going to get different answers than somebody who’s sticking to the script like you’re supposed to.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean, if you wanted to get the same answers every time, you could just figure out what those are supposed to be and write them down and save the rest of us a lot of time and trouble.”

Guthrie closes his eyes. “Just read the script. The way it’s written. Okay?”

“The whole thing,” says Ysabel.

“Yes,” says Guthrie.

“Because there’s some grammatical errors in here, you know.”

“Just,” says Guthrie. “Read it. What’s the next question?”

Ysabel flips over the first page of the script. “I’m going to read you a list of financial products and services. For each one, please tell me whether you or someone in your household has that product or service. And I have a question here.”

“What,” says Guthrie, who hasn’t opened his eyes.

“What on earth is a ‘financial product’?”

“I, uh,” says Guthrie. The door pops open and Becker sticks his head in. “How’s it going in here? You going through the script?”

“Ah,” says Guthrie. “Yes,” says Ysabel.

“Good,” says Becker. “Ten more minutes, and then you’ll go live, okay, Ysabel?”

“Okay,” she says.

“Um,” says Guthrie.

Becker pulls the door closed and heads down the narrow hall and around a corner into the phone room, full of chatter and grey late-afternoon light. He’s got a new manila folder in one hand and he’s wearing a bulky plaid flannel shirt. Jo’s sitting midway down one side of the U of carrels. The black tufts in her hair stick up around the band of her telephone headset. She leans into her carrel, one hand up holding the mike closer to her mouth. “Well, sir,” she’s saying, “I don’t – Well. We made the appointment with your wife – Yessir – Well, she said – Sir, I don’t believe you. Just what I said, I don’t believe you. Nobody makes all of the financial decisions in this day and age. Well, your wife seemed to think – Sir, you shouldn’t say – Well, fuck you too.” She yanks the headset off and drops it by her computer monitor.

Becker kneels down by her chair. “Hey,” he says.

Jo jumps. “Jesus,” she says. “Hey. He already hung up before I started swearing. Okay?”

“I figured,” says Becker. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

In Tartt’s little office, with its poster on the door exhorting them to shoot for the moon, Becker holds up the manila folder. “I shouldn’t be showing this to you, but I’m thinking you can help me with Ysabel.”

“Yeah?” says Jo.

“Well, the paperwork for her I-9 is hopeless.” He spreads the folder open on top of a couple of relatively level stacks of paper on Tartt’s desk.

“Hopeless?” says Jo.

“She doesn’t have any of it,” says Becker. “No driver’s license. No passport. No Social Security card. No birth certificate. No voter’s registration card or school ID. She says she was born in the US, but she’s got nothing to prove it. She wanted to know why her word wasn’t good enough.”

Jo chuckles.

“Look, it’s not that funny. If we can’t get this filled out, we can’t pay her. Okay? And if we could, well,” he flips over the larger form and pulls out a small half-sheet, “I’m not sure what the hell to make of what she put on her W-4.”

Jo leans forward to peer at the form and says, “Oh, God.” She claps her hand to her mouth.

“What?” says Becker.

“I had no idea,” says Jo, stifling a giggle, “that that’s how she spells ‘Ysabel’.”

It’s a round room on the third floor of a tower, and it’s empty except for a big three-way mirror and several cardboard boxes of clothes and more clothing strewn across the floor here and there and the woman who’s standing in the middle of it all, wearing a pair of white boyshorts and lifting her mass of pale gold curls up into a pile the color of clotted cream on top of her head. The radio at her feet is muttering something sprightly and bossa–nova-ish. To be all she wants, it’s singing, I cannot do. All the things it would take, just to pull it through.

She stoops and pulls a soft, baby-blue hooded jacket out of one of the boxes. She wrestles one arm and then the other into the long tight sleeves, lined with red piping, that flare suddenly at the cuffs, swallowing the heels of her hands. She has far too high expectations, sings the radio, she thinks she deserves all she can get. What she wants from me is something I cannot be. The hem of the jacket hits just above her navel. She works the one end of the zipper into the other and tugs it up to her throat, then pulls it down, to just about halfway between her breasts. Tilts her head, swings herself to one side, then the other, examining herself in the mirror. Pouts thoughtfully. Tugs the zipper down a little more.

“Hot date?” says the man leaning in the doorway.

She jumps a little. “Don’t scare me like that,” she says to him in the mirror. He’s wearing a blushing salmon shirt, and his pale, pale hair hangs in tangled dreadlocks down past his shoulders. She squats by the cardboard box and rummages through it. “And no, brother dear. I’m just doing a favor for a friend.” She pulls out a long athletic skirt in matching baby blue and red. Sitting on the floor, she pulls the skirt over her feet, then her knees, then works herself back up off the floor to yank it up her thighs and over her hips.

“Hey,” says the man leaning in the doorway. “Let me help you with that.” He steps behind her, helping her settle the skirt into place, low on her hips. Tugs the zipper up in back. “And would this friend be Roland?” he murmurs, in her ear. “And is this favor what I think it is?”

She reaches up and taps his nose lightly with a fingertip. “I told you,” she says. “It isn’t a hot date.”

“Well,” he says, stepping back. “You look fantastic.”

“Naturally,” she says, sitting by another cardboard box.

“Be sure to tell your cool date that your brother’s jealous,” he says, stepping back out of the room.

“Oh, I’ll be sure to,” she says, absently. Pulling out a pair of rose-colored running shoes. Frowning. Reaching back in for a pair of light blue jellied sandals.

Ysabel triumphantly lifts her hand, her middle finger poised, circling the phone’s disconnect button. “Why, no,” she says into her telephone headset. “Thank you. I can only apologize for how badly the questions were written, and how boring it must have been for you. Not at all. And you have a good evening yourself. Goodbye.” She punches the button. Sighs. Peers at the computer keyboard that takes up most what little desk space is left by the monitor and taps a couple of keys with index fingers poking out of loose fists. She peers at the screen, then punches a couple more keys. Becker kneels down next to her chair as she reaches for the phone again. “Hey,” he says. “It’s after nine. You’re done.”

“Oh,” says Ysabel, leaning back in her chair.

“You’ve been on the phone about five hours. You logged 42 complete surveys. That’s, ah, pretty much a record.”

“Oh,” says Ysabel. Jo comes up behind Becker, her arms folded, her mouth wryly turned. Behind her, other dialers are scooping up bags, books, empty water bottles, candy wrappers, gathering their things and heading for the door.

“Yeah,” Becker’s saying. “Seth monitored several of your calls – you did a fantastic job. We could maybe do with a little less, you know, insulting the survey, but – ”

“Good,” says Ysabel, pushing back, standing up, brushing off her khaki skirt. “So is that enough?” she asks Jo. “Are we done?”

“Sure,” says Jo.

“Good job, Ysabel,” says Becker, standing.

“Thanks,” says Ysabel, bending over to tug one of her heathery wool socks back up over her knee. “Can we do something else tomorrow night?” she says to Jo. “This was really dull.”

“Um,” says Becker.

Roland in his green and silver track suit is standing on the sidewalk in the pink and orange light, under the multi-colored Tonic banner that whuffles in the evening air. With him is a woman a couple of fingers taller, whose hair the color of clotted cream is piled even higher that that. She’s wearing a soft blue hoodie and a matching full-length skirt. “What,” says Jo, arms akimbo, looking them up and down. “We get an escort now?”

“This is Marfisa, the Axe,” says Roland. “She will take the keeping of the Princess tonight. You and I have something we must do.” He bows his head slightly. “With your permission, of course, my lady.”

Ysabel nods. “Something we must do?” says Jo. “That’s great. What if I already have something to do?”

“What would that be?” says Roland.

“Well,” says Jo, looking away, “nothing, really.” She jams her hands into the pockets of her workpants. “I just, don’t like the way you guys haul off with the orders, you know? You will do this, you will go with me, you will hand over the Princess or get stabbed. It’s rude, you know?”

“She’s not very grateful, is she?” says Marfisa to Ysabel. Her voice is low and round and full.

Ysabel shrugs. “Grateful?” says Jo. “Listen, Glamazon. I’m out a hundred and thirty bucks thanks to your Princess. Hell, that’s just the missed days of work – that doesn’t count brunches and peach teas!”

“You were warned,” says Roland.

“Yeah, I know.” Jo shrugs herself more deeply into her bulky flannel shirt. “I was warned. I was told to walk away and I didn’t and it’s all my fault. You could have just asked, is all I’m saying. The principle of the thing, you know?”

“Jo Maguire,” says Roland, looking down at the sidewalk, spreading his hands. “Though the Queen cannot recognize you as a member of the court, there are, nonetheless, certain events which will require you, as guardian of our Princess, to take a more public role. After some consideration, the Queen in her wisdom has decided you might benefit from some instruction, in how to carry yourself, what to say and do, how to handle a blade. And I, it seems, am to see to that instruction.”

“There, see?” says Jo, after a moment. “That wasn’t so hard. You even made me feel like a shithead. Added bonus.”

“Will you come with me, then?” says Roland.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming. Christ.” As Roland starts across the street toward the corner under the Danmoore Hotel sign, Jo, stepping off the curb, stops. Turns to look back. “Hey,” she says to Ysabel. “You gonna..?”

“She’ll be fine,” says Marfisa.

“It’s all right, Jo,” says Ysabel. “Go on.”

“Okay,” says Jo. “I’ll, ah. See you later.” She sighs, steps off the curb, then trots after Roland.

“An odd girl,” says Marfisa. Ysabel is looking sidelong at her, pursing her lips against a bemused smile. “What?” says Marfisa, looking down at her.

“‘Glamazon’,” says Ysabel.

Marfisa rolls her eyes, folding her arms, exasperated. Then she smiles, just a little. “Yeah,” she says, “okay. You look good.”

“Oh?” says Ysabel, in her oxblood boots, her knee socks, her khaki skirt, her turtleneck sweater in some nameless natural color, cropped an inch or above her hips. Her long high ponytail swings as she tilts her head. “I haven’t been ruined by my exile?”

“Well, tonight’s your night,” says Marfisa, stepping down the sidewalk, swinging around. Offering up the city. “What are you in the mood for? Saucebox? Le Happy? Madame Damnable’s? Panorama?”

“Actually,” says Ysabel, standing still under the Tonic banner, “I was thinking – what with the recent incident and all – that it might be best if we headed back to Jo’s apartment and holed up there. For safekeeping.” She looks away, out into the streetlit night. “What do you think? As my guardian, for the evening.”

“Well,” says Marfisa. “I think. Given the recent incident, we should probably head back to her apartment. Hole up there. Till they get back. For safekeeping.” The corner of her mouth quirks up. “Sounds like a plan.”

Jo and Roland climb a narrow flight of stairs into the heart of an old commercial building. The second floor has white walls and a black floor painted so many times that they still look slick and wet. Corners are soft and round. There at the head of the staircase is a set of double doors with a frosted glass fanlight. Roland raps at the right-hand door with the back of his fist. “Come!” a man somewhere on the other side bellows.

Roland opens the door. The room beyond is wide and deep, the far end lost in shadows. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors line one wall. The dark floor is marked in a dozen spots with Xes of blue masking tape. In the splash of light from a lone fluorescent ceiling panel stands a wiry man. His greying, balding hair is closely cropped, his soured mouth framed by a salt-and-pepper Van Dyke. His eyes are large and flash. “This is it?” he says. He’s wearing drawstring pants and a T-shirt stretched across his broad chest and simple canvas shoes. One hand holds a bundle of swords tied together with a bit of rope. “This is what I’m supposed to work with?” His other hand is a metal hook at the end of a beige prosthetic, attached just below his left elbow.

“Jo Maguire,” says Roland, “Vincent Erne. Vincent, Jo.”

“She’s scrawny,” says Vincent. He walks across the room, laying the swords down on a rolled-up mat. “Terrible posture. An attitude thick enough to have already gotten on my nerves.” He moves quickly, the balls of his feet wisping silently in those shoes on that floor as he circles Jo. “And, of course, she’s a girl.”

“That doesn’t matter,” says Roland.

“To you, yes. I know. I’m the one who has to make something viable of her by Wednesday of next week. Her hair will have to be cut – this is ridiculous.”

“I thought this guy was supposed to teach me how to use a sword,” says Jo, who’s following Vincent with her glare.

“Ha!” says Vincent. “Ha! I’m going to teach you not to embarrass yourself, girl. In our pursuit of this goal, we shall endeavor to avoid anything involving the actual use of a sword. You,” he says, turning and jabbing a finger at Roland, “leave. Come back in a couple of hours. You,” he says jabbing a finger at Jo, “take off that bulky jacket so I can see you move. Then walk down to the end of the hall and back, and I will tell you everything you are doing wrong.”

Jo, shucking out of her flannel shirt, glares at Roland, who shrugs.

“Chop chop!” says Vincent, clicking his prosthetic hook for emphasis. “We don’t have all night!”

As Jo sets off down the dark wood floor, as Vincent says “Shoulders, for God’s sake, shoulders back, don’t slouch,” Roland opens the big black door and steps out into the hall. Yawning, stretching, he sits on the top step. “Chin up! Up!” comes Vincent’s voice faintly from the training hall. Roland smiles.

Ysabel’s fingertip sparkles with gold dust. She holds it above her face, drawing a squiggle in the air, a floral pattern that lingers shimmering like the patterns made by sparklers on a dark night. She smiles at it, her eyes shining. Laughs, just a little. Closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Opens them, and lets it out. The flower dissolves into glittering swirls, lost in a dim apartment lit only by flickering, guttering candles.

“Oh, how I miss you,” says Marfisa, lying naked on her belly on the futon next to Ysabel.

“I miss all of you,” says Ysabel, her hair undone, its dark weight pooled on the pillow, spilling over her bare shoulders. She still wears her wool socks. A small plastic baggie swollen with gold dust lies on her stomach.

“You know,” says Marfisa, “I wanted to make you jealous tonight.”

“Don’t think like that,” says Ysabel.

“I did. I did. I was going to hang on Roland when you came out with that girl and I was going to, I don’t know. It was foolish.”

“It was.”

“Roland thought I was chilly. He offered me his jacket.”

“Roland can be a bit – dense.” Ysabel kisses her fingertip lightly, and dips it into the baggie for another smudge of gold dust.

“You were such a bitch at Robin’s party,” says Marfisa, rolling on her side, looking at Ysabel. “Dancing with that girl while I played your song. And then – ”

“Don’t,” says Ysabel. Her finger slashes through the air, sketching an angry shape. “Don’t think like that. Don’t think you can make me jealous, Marfisa. There’s nothing to be jealous for.” The shape hangs glittering above them, ghosting slowly into the air. Ysabel turns to look at Marfisa, whose pale, pale hair is tangled across the pillows, her shoulder, tangled up with ghostly blue flowers about her wide face falling, her thin-lipped mouth turning down, her blue eyes shining wet and rimmed with red. “I know,” says Marfisa. “I know. Some day the King will come and sit the Throne again. And you will – marry him. But until then – ”

“No,” says Ysabel. “No. There’s no then. There’s no until. There’s no could be or maybe or can be.”

Closing her eyes against threatening tears Marfisa turns her face to the pillow. “I know,” she says, muffled. “Lady, I know.”

“Shh.” Ysabel dips her finger and thumb into the baggie, pulling out a pinch of dust and setting the baggie to one side. She rolls on her side to lie against Marfisa, kissing the thick round blue-tinged shoulder before her. “There’s now,” she says. “There’s here.” She sprinkles the pinch of dust floating glittering down through the air to land on Marfisa’s back. “Oh,” says Marfisa. Shivering. “There’s now,” says Ysabel, lightly stroking the dust into Marfisa’s skin, “and here.”

“Oh,” says Marfisa.

Jo clomps down the narrow flight of stairs and kicks open the door at the bottom, fishing in her shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. The door’s swinging shut as she lights one and sucks down a chestful of smoke.

“I liked it better when the brewery was here,” says Roland, who’s sitting on the sidewalk by the door. “I liked the smell. Some people didn’t, but I did. It was rich. Sour, but – rich. Full of life. You knew something was growing here. Being made.” He smiles. “I also liked the way the bottles would clink on the conveyor belt above the street. Like little glass bells.” He looks up at Jo. “How’d it go?”

“He says I should quit smoking,” says Jo, taking another drag. “Among other things. I’m supposed to come back Sunday for a test.” She looks back up at the long, two-storey building. “Freak.” One last drag, and then she flicks the cigarette sparking up at the blank black windows above them. “So what did you stick around for?”

“I thought I might walk you home,” says Roland.

“Oh,” says Jo. Shrugging, she holds out a hand. He takes it. She pulls him to his feet. “You going to tell me more about brewing?”

“It’s good, honest work, brewing,” says Roland.

“Actually,” says Jo, as they set off down the sidewalk toward 10th. “I wanted to ask you something. About, about this thing I do, being a Gallowglas.”

“Go ahead,” says Roland, frowning down at his shoes.

“When you challenged me. At that party. If I’d actually hit you – ”

“You wouldn’t have hit me,” says Roland, walking more quickly.

“Yeah, but if I’d managed to – ” says Jo, catching up.

“You couldn’t manage to – ”

“If, I’m saying. If. If I had. Would I have, well, I mean – ”

“There’s no way you could have. But. If you had – yes,” says Roland, stopping at a corner. The stoplight over the intersection is blinking red in all four directions. “Yes,” he says again.

“Because of who I am,” says Jo.

“What you are. Yes.”

“I could have killed you. Just like that guy the other night.”

“You wouldn’t have – ”

“And you challenged me anyway.”

“There wasn’t any danger!” says Roland. Jo throws up her hands and starts across the street. “There shouldn’t have been any danger,” says Roland, following after.

“Oh, no,” says Jo. “None at all. I just woke up in Ysabel’s house with a hole in my back and no idea what the fuck had happened.”

“Jo,” says Roland. “Jo!” He runs and catches her arm. The two of them swing to a stop, facing each other, before the darkened windows of a bookstore. “I am sorry for that,” says Roland. “And I promise you: I will make amends.”

“You,” says Jo. “Will make amends. To me.”

Roland smiles. Laughs a little. “You are rude, Jo. You’re impatient and disrespectful. You don’t listen and you don’t care and you laugh at things you don’t understand. But the night before last you proved yourself.”

Jo starts to say something, and stops, and then throws up her hands. “Night before last I ran. I got some guy killed, boiled away into nothing, because I didn’t know where to put my feet.”

“You fought,” says Roland, “to keep the Princess safe with everything you had. That’s all that matters to me.”

Jo shakes her head. “I am never going to understand you people.”

“Why should you?” says Roland. He gestures toward the next intersection with his hand, and shrugging, Jo sets off. He follows.

There at the corner of 10th and Burnside, waiting for the light to change, Jo points across the intersection. “What the hell is that?”

On a wedge of sidewalk piercing the five-way intersection, across from a pizza place, is a mound of bicycles: kid-sized bikes in candy colors, mirror-bright dirt bikes, banana-seat choppers sparkling with glitter, white rimmed wheels glowing pink in the streetlight, plastic handlebars feathered with tassels, all piled up in a heap about as tall as Roland. “I have no idea,” he says.

“It just seems like something you people would do.”

“My people?” says Roland.

“Well, it seems like it.” Jo frowns.

“I have no idea, Jo,” says Roland. “The light’s changed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Jo.

“Le Trash Blanc?” says Jo.

“Go on,” says Ysabel. “For another fifty cents you get a can of beer.”

Jo shrugs. “Why not.”

“Demi-vegan,” says Ysabel, handing their menus up to the waitress. “And a glass of the Bordelet sydre doux.”

The room is dimly lit and red. Jo and Ysabel sit side-by-side on a low couch under the front window. Over a ringing cocktail-hour piano and a lonely trumpet an unearthly chorus is singing Dare no harienu, daiya no kokoro tsumetai watashi no. Past the closely packed tables toward the back there’s an open kitchen, where a goatee’d man pours batter on a hot griddle, swirling it in a circle with a wide flat paddle. “Ah,” says Ysabel. She’s wearing black jeans and a tight white T-shirt. A black leather jacket rustling with fringe slumps on the couch next to her. “This is nice.”

“Yeah,” says Jo. “We’re under twenty bucks, with booze.” She’s wearing baggy brown cords and a blue and orange rugby shirt, her mismatched Chuck Taylors perched on the edge of the coffee table in front of them. One black, one white, the toe swaddled in grubby duct tape.

“What I meant was,” Ysabel’s saying, “it’s just about been a week since you challenged Roland. And in all that time, we haven’t really had much of a chance to sit down and – ”

“Eat out?” says Jo.

“Don’t,” says Ysabel, quietly. Jo looks down at her hands in her lap, reaches for the glass of water on the table between her feet. Sips. “You think you can spring for dessert?” says Ysabel.

“We’ll see,” says Jo.

“We could split one,” says Ysabel. “The lemon-ginger. And a cup of coffee. That’s it. I swear.”

“We’ll see,” says Jo.

Donna tenshi mo akogare sasayaki mo, the chorus is singing. Otoko no ainado todoki wa shinai, todoki wa shinai.

“So what’s your life like when I’m not interrupting it?” says Ysabel. The waitress in her periwinkle dress sets a glass of cider and a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon on the low table.

“You’ve pretty much seen it,” says Jo. “Work. Home. Sleep. Every now and then I order a pizza.”

“Yes, but,” says Ysabel. “I mean, friends. You were out with some last Saturday – Becker, and, well, that funny little goth – ”

“Guthrie,” says Jo, shrugging, leaning forward, popping the top on the can of beer. “And Becker, yeah. Friends from work. I’ve known Becker maybe, what, eight months? He’s kinda turning into an asshole, now that he’s been promoted.” She grins as she pours the beer into an empty glass. “Which is what we were celebrating last week, his promotion, I mean. Not his assholishness.”

Ysabel lays one thin arm along the back of the sofa. “And what about anybody else?”

“What about them?” says Jo.

“You know,” says Ysabel. “Is there? Anyone in particular?”

“Well,” says Jo, the glass of pale beer in her hand. “There used to be.”

Her hand up by her temple, toying with her thick dark tangled curls, Ysabel smiles. “Does this anyone have a name?”

“Frankie,” says Jo. “And, I mean, it’s over. It’s definitely over. It ended badly.” She takes a long drink of beer. “So,” she says, setting the glass down.

“So?” says Ysabel.

“So,” says Jo, shrugging. “It’s over. So I guess the answer is there isn’t.”

“And Christian?” says Ysabel.

“Christian?” says Jo. “No. I mean, what? We just – ”

“How did you get to know him?” says Ysabel.

“He was one of the first people I met when I moved here,” says Jo, looking sidelong at Ysabel. “About four years ago.”

Ysabel sips her cider. “He just,” she says, “doesn’t seem like the sort of person you’d, well. Know.”

“Yeah, well,” says Jo, “he was. Okay? For a while there – I did some stupid stuff, and some stupid stuff happened. And Christian is a wild guy, you know? But, if you’re a friend, he’s there. Period.” She smiles. “It was cool, seeing him again.”

“Stupid stuff?” says Ysabel, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah,” says Jo. “Which is why these days I go to work, and I come home, to my apartment, and every now and then I order a pizza.”

Ysabel nods a little at that.

“Of course,” says Jo, “your man Vincent doesn’t think that’ll do me a bit of good.”

“Vincent?” says Ysabel.

“He says no matter what, I’m always going to be looking for trouble. Looking for a fight.” She grins a little at herself. “I guess I proved that last week.”

“He’s not ‘my man,’” says Ysabel.

“He isn’t?” says Jo.

“I’ve never actually met Vincent Erne,” says Ysabel. “What’s he like?”

“He talks too much,” says Jo.

“Chin up! Up!” snaps Vincent.

Jo at the other end of the mirror-walled room spins around. “What the fuck?” she says. “I’m walking. Like you said.”

“You’re walking, all right,” he says. The metal hook at the end of his left arm clacks in a dismissive snap. “You’re walking like a goddamn kid. Like you’re going to detention. Like your mother just called you home for supper and you want the whole world to know you hate collard greens.” He’s gliding down the dark, tape-marked floor, jabbing at her with his thin, knobby forefinger. “Boo. Fucking. Hoo.” Jo’s spreading her arms, staring at him, her mouth open in dismay, in anger. “What?” he says, circling her. “What? Come on. Let me have it.” Jo’s mouth tightens. “Whaddaya got? Come on.” Her hand squeezes into a fist and opens up again. “Well? What are you gonna do about it, huh? Come on!” Leaning back to one side Jo throws the heel of her hand at his face.

He catches it easily.

“You have nothing,” he says.

She tries to jerk her hand free. He holds it there in the air between them, his fingers tightening about her wrist.

“You have nothing,” he says again, “and everybody knows it. So you curl up tightly about it and when somebody tries to poke you to see what’s what, all you can do is take that someone’s head off. So go on. Take my head off.”

Jo jerks her arm again, trying to throw her hips into it, and when he hauls her hand back up between them she shoves the motion into her shoulder, lunging at him. He blocks her with his beige prosthetic arm. Then he lets go, stepping back.

“You walk into a roomful of gentry like that,” he says, shaking his head.

“What the fuck is this?” snarls Jo.

“These are people who would as soon gut you and leave you for dead as take your lunch money,” says Vincent. “You walk into a room, full of nothing, like that, you won’t walk out.” Turning away he walks back down the long room toward the lit end. “Now walk like you have something,” he calls over his shoulder. “Walk like you mean it.”

“I killed one of them,” she says.

“No,” he says, standing there under the light at the other end of the room. “No, you did not. The Chariot did. And he wasn’t gentry. He was just Tommy Rawhead. Mothers used his name to scare their kids. ‘Get up to bed, or Rawhead and Bloody Bones will eat! You! Up!’” Vincent shakes his head. “And then some idiot got it into his head he’s going after the Bride, and Tommy got in the middle of it, and you stuck your foot in when you were told to stay put, and this is what you thought you were bringing to the table?”

Jo’s looking down at her boots.

“Luckily, it’s all about appearance,” he says. “If you look like you have it, then you have it. That is the secret, my dear. Plain and simple. If you walk into a room with the Bride on your arm and you look like you have it, no one is going to poke you to find out otherwise.”

“So,” says Jo, “what do I – ”

“Walk towards me,” says Vincent. “By the time you get here, I want to believe you have something. Anything. It.”

Jo takes a deep breath. Squares her shoulders. Looks him straight in the eye. The light’s shining off his forehead, the tip of his nose. His hand held loosely at his side, waiting.

She starts walking, striding down the dark floor toward him. He sighs. Looks away, at the floor-to-ceiling mirror running down the wall. Heads toward her suddenly. She falters as he circles behind her, takes her shoulders in his hand, the butt of his prosthesis, turning her to face the mirror. “Look,” he says, leaning over her shoulder. “Look at yourself. Look. What do you have? What do you have to be proud of?”

Jo’s face in the mirror is slack. The line of her nose is the only sharp thing about it. Shadows pool in her cheeks and smudge the skin under her eyes. Her lips parted, just. Taking a breath. “What is it?” he says. “At the end of the day, what can you look back on and say, I did that? Find that thing. Find it and let it fill you up so you can walk with your shoulders back and your chin up and your head high. Find it so you can look them in the eye and they will see that you are a person to be reckoned with. Find it and show it to them, and you won’t have to prove it.” Jo closes her eyes. Swallows. “But you have to find it, Jo.”

She opens her eyes, looking down at his hand. “Please,” she says. “Get your hand off my shoulder.”

Vincent backs away a couple of steps. “Walk,” he says. “Go on. Down to the end of the room and back again. Go.”

“So what about you?” says Jo, leaning forward to fork up a mouthful of crêpe.

“Me?” says Ysabel, polishing off her cider. It’s too much me, a woman’s singing breathily over a weepy steel guitar, and not enough of the people I wanna be.

“Yeah,” says Jo. “Do you have a particular anyone?”

Nine ninety-nine, sings the woman, pretty good wine, a beautiful time. Ysabel smiles. “No,” she says. “I never have.”

“Never,” says Jo.

“I can’t,” says Ysabel. She leans back, toying with the fringe of the jacket beside her. “I’m the Princess,” she says. “The Bride. I can’t.”

“So this Bride business is, I mean, it’s literal?” says Jo. “You’re going to get married?”

“To the King,” says Ysabel. “When he returns. So I suppose there is a particular anyone, after all.” She leans forward, picking up her fork to chase a last bit of black bean paste.

“What’s he like?” says Jo.

“I don’t know,” says Ysabel. “No one knows who the King will be, or when he will come.” She looks back at Jo. “Which might be why someone was trying so very hard to talk to me Wednesday. Perhaps he thinks it works the same backwards as forwards – if he were to marry me,” and she licks the last bite from her fork.

“He’d become King,” says Jo.

“And it might very well work that way,” says Ysabel. “But until then,” she shrugs. “I can’t.”

“Now,” says Jo, “when you say ‘never,’ do you mean – ”

“I think I mean it’s none of your business.”

“Yeah, but. Never?”

“Did you want to split a crêpe for dessert?” says Ysabel.

The phone rings, so he picks it up. “Hello,” he says, tucking it between his ear and his shoulder, picking up the knife. “I, uh,” he says, crunching a garlic clove under the flat of the blade. “Look,” he says. “It’s a Sunday, for God’s sake. You people shouldn’t be.”

“Oh, I understand,” says Ysabel into her telephone headset. “But this isn’t a sales call. It’s just a survey, sir. We only want to ask you how satisfied you are with various financial products and services. It’ll only take five or six minutes of your time, tops, and you’ll be helping a bank do a better job of giving its customers what they want. Perhaps your bank. Look at it as a good deed for the day.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, peeling the paper from the clove, “I don’t think.”

“And you should understand, sir, that we don’t know who you are. Your phone number was randomly generated. I wouldn’t know you from Adam, sir, if I were to bump into you on the street. So.” She swivels in her chair, looking out of her carrel along the length of the narrow office with its indecisive cream walls. A couple of spaces down, Jo is hunched over her phone, making some emphatic point with her hands. Guthrie’s hanging up his phone. The woman with the wattle under her chin is headed for the kitchen, on a break. Becker at his desk, holding a handset to his ear, monitoring someone’s call. “With that in mind,” says Ysabel, “do you think you might want me?”

“I, uh.” His brown hair is shaggy, and has enough grey in it to look dusty as well as unkempt. He holds the knife in one hand, looking down at a jumble of unpeeled garlic cloves. “What?” he says.

“Would you want to answer my questions?”

“I,” he says.

“Keep in mind, they’re very simple. It’ll only take five or six minutes of your time. For instance: do you find me desirable?”

“I’m married,” he says. Putting the knife down on the counter.

“Doesn’t matter for the purposes of this survey,” says Ysabel. She’s looking at her gold-painted nails. At his desk Becker’s looking up, at her, frowning. “How would you rate me, on a scale of one to ten, one being lowest, and ten being highest?”

“A ten,” he says. “I thought you said this was about financial – ”

“It’s about how satisfied you are,” says Ysabel. Becker’s making slashing gestures across his throat at her. “How satisfied do you think you’d be with me?” Becker’s getting up from behind his desk. “Would you say very satisfied, somewhat satisfied, somewhat dissatisfied, or very dissatisfied?”

“Oh,” he says, looking across the kitchen at a woman typing on a laptop on a little desk in an alcove under a crowded bookshelf. “Very satisfied. But – Hello? Hello?”

Ysabel stands as Becker takes his finger off the disconnect button. “What the hell was that?” he says.

“I was,” says Ysabel, “flirting. Trying to keep him interested in doing the survey.”

“That wasn’t flirting,” says Becker. “That was – weird.”

Ysabel shrugs.

“Don’t do that,” says Becker. “You do that again, I’ll have to pull you off the phones. Okay? There’s just an hour left in the shift – ” Ysabel’s hanging her headset up in the carrel, squatting to pick up a little purse from the floor under her desk. “What are you,” says Becker.

“Leaving,” says Ysabel. “I’m bored, and I’d almost certainly do it again. I’m saving you the trouble.”

“What’s up?” says Jo, standing there behind Becker.

“Get back on the phone,” says Becker.

“Shut the fuck up,” says Jo. “Ysabel?”

“Don’t,” says Becker.

“I’m going,” says Ysabel. “I’m done.”

“Don’t talk,” says Becker.

“Let me get my jacket,” says Jo.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” says Becker. People are looking up from their phones. “Jo, sit down. Ysabel, just head over to the Little Conference Room. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

“I think,” says Ysabel, “I would be very dissatisfied with that.”

“That doesn’t matter,” says Becker. quietly. Not looking at either of them.

“Back the fuck off,” says Jo, yanking her jacket off the back of her chair. Shutting off her computer.

“Don’t you leave,” says Becker.

“If you’re throwing her out,” says Jo, “I have to go with her. You know that.”

“I’m not – ” says Becker. “Sit the fuck down, Jo. Ysabel – ”

“Or what?” says Jo. “You’ll fire me?” She pulls on her jacket. “Come on.”

“What the hell,” says Becker, there in the middle of the aisle of kelly green carrels.

The whipped cream melts into an oily sludge. Fluffy curds calve off, bobbing up and down as Ysabel pokes them with a plastic stirrer.

“We could sell the stuff,” says Jo.

“The stuff,” says Ysabel, not looking up.

“The furniture,” says Jo, leaning forward, her elbows on the table. “The chest-thing. That whoever it was brought, who came in and cleaned up the place.”

“We can’t sell that.”

“We can’t,” says Jo.

“We can’t sell it, Jo,” snaps Ysabel, throwing the plastic stirrer down by her coffee. “Honestly. Do you really think somebody hauled all that up the elevator and set it up in your apartment while we were out shopping for a half an hour?” She slumps back in her chair, looking up at the yellowing ceiling tiles. “It’s not mine to sell,” she says.

“What were you doing on the phone?” says Jo.

“I was flirting,” says Ysabel.

“For flirting,” says Jo, “Becker cuts you off? For flirting, he wants to talk to you in the conference room?”

“Yes,” says Ysabel simply.

“Whatever,” says Jo.

“So,” says Ysabel, picking the stirrer back up. “Do you think you’re,” and she sinks a large, unwieldy blob of whipped cream, “fired?”

“For that?” Jo snorts. “I’d have to go postal or something to get fired there. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“You think I’m fired?”

“I think you quit.”

Ysabel shrugs. Dunks another shred of whipped cream.

“Are you going to drink that?”

“Probably not,” says Ysabel.

“Fine,” says Jo, pushing back her chair. “It’s about time to go meet Roland and whatshername, anyway. You know,” she says, as Ysabel plucks her jacket from the back of the chair, “we could get her to guard you while I’m working – ”

“No,” says Ysabel, heading for the door.

“No?” says Jo.

“No,” Ysabel calls over her shoulder.

“Okay, fine, whatever,” mutters Jo, following after.

After a moment, she’s back, snagging the cup of coffee, taking it with her.

“She surprises me,” says Roland, standing once again under the multi-colored Tonic banner. He’s wearing a silvery track suit with green piping. His shoes are puffy and white and spotless, and blue and white headphones cling to his neck. “I keep expecting her to give up, and she doesn’t.”

“Her nose is too big,” says Marfisa. Her hands are tucked into the pockets of a baby blue fleece pullover.

“The Princess?” says Roland.

“No,” says Marfisa. “I thought you were talking about the girl. Jo.”

“I meant the Princess.”

“The Princess’s nose is fine.”

“I know.”

“I thought you meant Jo was refusing to give up.”

“I know.”

Marfisa reaches up to tuck a curl of hair behind her ear. “And Jo is surprising.”

“Jo,” says Roland, “is surprising in precisely the way you’d expect.”

Marfisa frowns.

“Hey,” calls Jo from the corner, Ysabel behind her, a dark shape in her dark suit. Roland looks over at the front door of the building, back to the two of them coming up the street. “Change in plans,” says Jo. “I mean, we’re still going to Vincent’s. Right? We just, um. Left work a little early.”

“Oh,” says Roland.

Hall light spills onto crinkled posters for plays long since over, with titles like The Maid’s Tragedy and The Courier’s Tragedy, The Insatiate Countess and The Knight of the Burning Pestle. “You weren’t in the studio,” says Roland.

“I’m not,” says Vincent Erne, as the ceiling lights flicker to life, “am I.” He’s sitting cross-legged in an office chair, his back to a long table lost under haphazard stacks of books and piles of paper. He holds a coffee mug loosely, his finger through the ring. On the desk a bottle with a finger’s worth of sooty whiskey.

“You’re drinking,” says Roland.

“Why yes,” says Vincent. “I am. Did you bring your protégée? Jo?”

She’s leaning in the doorway, her head against the jamb. “She’ll be ready for Wednesday?” says Roland.

“What will you do to her, Wednesday?”

Jo’s eyes flick from Vincent to Roland and back again. “Vincent Erne,” Roland’s saying, “you have incurred certain obligations – ”

“You don’t need to remind me, boy,” snaps Vincent. “Why don’t you run along, and allow me to discharge them. As,” he says, climbing slowly out of his chair, “I see fit.”

“Should we go over to the,” says Jo, pointing down the hall after Roland.

“I’m not in the mood for running around and yelling at you,” says Vincent. A long axe, hung with ribbons and limp felt banners, leans in the corner. On the floor a large white kite-shaped shield with a gold and black bee. Vincent squats there, clattering something. “Are you in the mood to run around and be yelled at?”

“No,” says Jo.

“Then we shan’t go over to the studio,” says Vincent. He stands up, holding a sword. “Here.” He tosses it hilt down at Jo who just barely catches it above the saucer-shaped guard.

“It’s a sword,” she says.

“And this is a sheath.” He holds it up, a limp leather sock dangling from the hook at the end of his left arm. “Take off your jacket.”

“Why?” says Jo.

“So I can tie it to your belt,” he says, kneeling heavily before her, catching himself with his hand on the floor.

“You’re not,” says Jo, arms raised awkwardly out of his way. “You’re not one of them. Are you.” The scabbard hangs from a fold of black satiny fabric with a couple of long ties that he works under Jo’s belt. “I mean,” she says, “I knew you weren’t a knight. But I didn’t realize you weren’t a, well, a…”

“Go on,” says Vincent.

“You’re not – you’re like me. You’re like most people.”

“I highly doubt that,” he says, leaning back. “Then, no one is like ‘most people.’ Sheathe the sword.”

“I thought,” says Jo, looking down, aiming the wavering tip at the sheath’s mouth, “I wasn’t going anywhere near a sword, or something. All of a sudden I’m worthy?”

Vincent climbs to his feet. “It’s a piece-of-shit épée that would set you back maybe a hundred bucks.” He grins. “I get them wholesale. Now. Let me show you everything you need to know.”

He takes her left hand in his and places it on the hilt. “The most common mistake a newcomer makes with a sword is to hold it here, by the hilt. Go on. Grab it.” Jo does. The sword swings a little on her hip, the end of it sticking out behind her clunking into the door. “See?” says Vincent. “It’s a long piece of metal. You want to keep it under control, but if you grab it like that, the tip sticks out. If you were to bow before the Queen, you’d put out the eye of whomever’s standing behind you. Let go. Rest your wrist against the hilt. Push the hilt out,” and she does. From its black satiny baldric the hilt pushed out swings the blade in its sheath to tuck up against the backs of her thighs. “Under control,” says Vincent. “If you bow, just remember to keep pushing the hilt out like that. It will become second nature.”

“Okay,” says Jo. “Now. What if I get into a fight?”

“If you get in a fight, Jo,” he says, “you will lose.” He heads over to his desk and pours the last finger of whiskey into his mug. “So don’t get in a fight. Don’t curl up. Don’t snap.”

“Vincent,” says Jo.

“Mr. Erne,” he says, sipping.

“Mr. Erne,” says Jo. “What’s going to happen on Wednesday?”

Swallowing, Vincent lowers his mug. “A hunt,” he says.

“It’s a stupid way to run things, if you ask me,” says Ysabel. She’s sitting on the edge of the counter in the bathroom, next to the sink.

“Hold still,” says Marfisa. “Close your eyes.” She’s standing between Ysabel’s knees, leaning in close, a brush in one hand to smooth a pale and creamy beige across Ysabel’s eyelid.

“She wakes up,” says Ysabel, closing her eyes. “She spends six hours a day telephoning people and asking them how much they like their things. She does this for just enough money so she can come back to her apartment. Sometimes she orders a pizza.” Marfisa picks up a skinny brush and dips it into a pot of bright pink in a jumbled muddle of colors and brushes in a My Little Pony lunchbox. “She doesn’t even have half the things she asks about. Money markets. Mutual funds.” Ysabel’s hands rest idly on Marfisa’s hips. “An annuity. She doesn’t even know what those are.”

“Something that happens once a year,” mutters Marfisa, carefully drawing a thin pink line along the edge of Ysabel’s eyelid.

“I don’t think what she does matters. Whether she’s calling people or making donuts or delivering pizzas. What she’s really doing is shoveling money. From the company that pays people to ask questions to the people who own this apartment building and make the pizzas who probably put it into mutual funds which they aren’t all that satisfied with. It’s like a tide,” says Ysabel, “constantly rushing out, and she has to help it along, and she can’t ever stop and take any for herself.”

“Her loss,” says Marfisa, leaning back a little, looking at Ysabel’s closed eyes. “How’s that?”

Ysabel looks over her shoulder at herself in the mirror. Blinks. “Looks good,” she says, turning to look up at Marfisa. Smiling. “Let’s go.”

“The Bear?” says Roland, as they pass the white brick wall of the old armory. “The Stag? The Boar? None of these?”

“All he talked about was how I walked,” says Jo.

“The Fox?”

“Look,” says Jo, “I didn’t even know there was going to be this hunt until tonight. You haven’t exactly been upfront yourself.”

“I thought he was telling you,” mutters Roland. “He didn’t even talk about the Hare?”

“He gave me this,” snaps Jo, holding up the épée she’s been carrying at her side, still in its black leather sheath, her hand an awkwardly tight fist under the bell guard. “What the hell am I supposed to do with it?”

“Don’t go waving it around,” says Roland, reaching out, pushing her hand down.

“It doesn’t even have a point,” says Jo.

“Roland!” calls someone up ahead. “Roland, is that you?”

“What the hell is he up to?” says Roland, looking back the way they’ve come.

“Who, him?” says Jo, pointing with the hilt of her sword at a man with a shock of pinkish orange hair, up ahead at the corner of the intersection with Burnside. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and black jeans and he’s slouching over the handlebars of a little pink bicycle. His knees jackknife up to either side like some spindly frog. White streamers on the handlebars flutter in the breeze.

“Roland!” he calls. “It is you!”

“I was talking about Vincent,” mutters Roland. “Just hold onto the sword for now, and,” but Jo’s stepped past him.

“It’s one of those bicycles,” she says. She looks back, frowning. “I thought you said you guys didn’t do the bicycles.”

“He’s not one of my guys. Just ignore him, and he’ll – Jo – ”

“Hey!” Jo’s calling to the guy on the bike. “What the hell are you guys doing?”

His face cracks open in an enormous grin. He slings his arms out to either side and yells up into the light-stained nighttime sky, “Zoobombing!”

At the underground station a dozen of them get off the train. They wear sweaters and hooded sweatshirts, jeans and hacked-off khakis. There’s a woman in a green and yellow cheerleader outfit. Somebody’s wearing a rabbit head with a metallic, skull-like face. Some of them carry little kids’ bikes, like the pink one on the shoulder of the guy with the pinkish orange hair. Some of them carry silvery dirt bikes. The cheerleader has a big blue bicycle with fat tires and a flowery white basket hooked to the front. One guy has a rickety looking homebuilt machine with a yellow banana seat and a tiny back wheel and a long fork for the front wheel, like a chopped penny-farthing.

They head for the elevators at either end of the platform. Roland frowning hefts a battered red dirt bike. Jo after him sets a purple kids’ bike on its back wheel. “Hey,” says the guy with pinkish orange hair, last to push his way in. “Roland. If you don’t think this is going to be a blast – ”

“I said I’d do it, Ray,” mutters Roland. “So I’ll do it.”

“Going up,” says whoever’s wearing the rabbit head, punching the top button. The digital readout starts counting down from 260 feet to the surface.

“Young and tall and tan and slender,” sings someone else, giggling.

“You guys do this every week?” says Jo.

“Just about,” says a woman in a white tank top, her muscled arms ringed with tattoos and elbow pads. “First time?”

“Yeah,” says Jo.

“You know, Roland,” says Ray, “You don’t have to – ”

“I said,” snaps Roland, as the elevator doors slide open, “I’d do it.”

“Heads up!” yells somebody outside, and something comes winging in at them. Ray puts out his hand and catches it, thwock! A can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. “Oh ho,” says Ray. A couple of people in the milling crowd outside break into a run, and violently shaking up the can of beer he takes off after them.

Out of the elevator a sidewalk overlooks a cluster of dimly lit parking lots sloping generally down toward the dark gate of the Oregon Zoo. There’s a swarm of people on bikes, people walking bikes, people sitting by bikes drinking beer and bottled water, snapping photos of each other posing on bikes. “I told you,” says Roland. A big guy walks past, wearing only an army helmet and a pair of white underpants. “Not us.”

“Yeah,” says Jo. “But Ray is. Right?”

“Ray is an asshole,” says Roland, after a moment.

“So what are you doing up here?”

“First,” says Roland, “I have to make sure you get back to the Princess.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” says Jo. “She’s in my apartment.”

“And I will not allow anyone to say I backed down from a challenge,” he says.

“It’s not that bad,” says the tattooed woman. “It’s all downhill from here into town. We get up to thirty, forty miles an hour, but the worst we’ve seen is a busted collarbone.” She grins. “You will wipe out. You will scrape stuff up. But it’s a hell of a run.”

Someone’s chanting something – the words lost in a thick fake Cockney accent. Somebody else takes it up: “We are the Self-Preservation, Society! We are the Self-Preservation, Society!”

“Zoobombing,” says Jo, shaking her head.

The swarm sorts itself out into a line snaking up out from under the parking lot lights along the switchbacking length of Kingston. The sky to either side glows with the lights of downtown, the suburbs on the other side of the hills. The only other lights shine from the fronts of the bicycles, bob on helmets, flicker and flash from cameras and cell phones, wink unexpectedly from reflectors in spokes. Kingston dead-ends suddenly at the top of the ridge into Fairview. The line of bicyclists starts clumping up here in ragged groups on either side of the road. There’s Ray, waddling out into the middle on his little pink bike. “Hey!” he yells. “Hey!” He sits there a moment as whistles and claps waft around him, and then throwing back his head he bellows, “Get a bloomin’ move on!” He lifts his feet, jackknifing his legs to get them onto the pedals. The bike wobbling rolls slowly downhill. Picking up speed as he leans into the curve and out of sight.

And everyone starts to follow him. Wheeling and pedaling out into the street and kicking off down the hill, dirt bikes and kids’ bikes and a ten-speed like an old greyhound, a red folding bicycle with little wheels, the homebuilt chopped penny farthing. Whoops and cries ring out. Jo follows the tattooed woman out onto the street, and Roland follows her. “Watch out,” says the tattooed woman, “for cops,” and then she’s off.

“Cops,” says Jo.

“This was your idea,” says Roland.

“You were the one who said yeah, whatever, we’ll do it.”

“You were the one who wouldn’t ignore him in the first place.”

“You know,” says Jo, as the guy in the army hat and the white underpants pedals past, giggling, “there’s a story there. If we make it to the bottom in one piece, you’re gonna have to tell me what the hell it is with you and this Ray guy.”

“Do not think to bargain with me, Jo Maguire,” snaps Roland, and he kicks off, pedaling jerkily down the hill on his red dirt bike.

Jo sits there a moment, looking after him. And then she shrugs, pushes off, finds the little pedals with her feet. “Ho. Ly. Fuck!” she yells, picking up speed.

Marfisa in the hall sits back against Jo’s door, long legs in blue and brown striped socks stretched across the orange carpet. She wears blue shorts and a tight grey T-shirt that says Property of S.H.I.E.L.D. Her arms folded over the blue fleece pullover wadded up in her lap. When the elevator down the hall dings, she opens her eyes.

“No, seriously,” Jo’s saying.

“I do not,” says Roland.

“That was one hell of a spill.”

“I do not need help.”

“I’m not,” says Jo, as Roland pushes past her, out of the elevator. “Helping,” she says. Following him, the épée still in its black leather sheath balanced on one shoulder, her hand up holding it lightly. “It’s just, you’re limping – ”

“Jo,” says Roland.

The blue fleece pullover wadded about her left hand held up before them Marfisa elbow crooked up high in her right hand holds a sword, fluorescent light stretched thin glaring from the tip at Jo. She opens her mouth to say something.

“Don’t,” says Roland.

“I will,” says Marfisa. “Jo Maguire – ”

“Do not do this,” says Roland.

“Jo Maguire,” says Marfisa, “I challenge – ”

“What has she done to you?” says Roland. “What harm?”

“For her,” says Marfisa. “It’s for her. The way she – ”

“No,” Roland’s saying, “it isn’t. Put up your blade. Put up – Jo – ”

Jo her blunted épée still resting on one shoulder is stepping past him. Marfisa lowers her swaddled hand a little, sword hand still held high. “Stop,” says Roland. Marfisa’s sword is bright, two fingers wide without a curve until its sudden tip, quivering, scraping nervous squiggles in the air. “You know what?” says Jo. Marfisa sucks a quick breath, sword twisting at the jump in her wrist as Jo lifts the épée and her hand drooping lets the black leather tip of it swing down to thump against the carpet. “I’m tired,” says Jo. “I’m really fucking tired. I’m going to walk past you, go into my apartment, I’m going to crawl into bed, and go to sleep.” Jo looks down at the épée in her hand almost swallowed by the cuff of her army jacket. The bell is dull and dented. The hilt under her fingers is wrapped with grubby red tape. She lets go, catching it about the leather sheath. Hefts it, tucking it under her arm. Lifts her head. Marfisa’s looking away, working at the pullover wrapped about her left hand.

“I will not,” Roland’s saying, “mention this to your brother.”

“Thank you,” says Marfisa, and then, reaching out suddenly, her hand on Jo’s shoulder, “Wait.”

Jo eyes wide looks at that hand.

“If you hurt her,” says Marfisa.

Jo frowns. “I won’t,” she says. “Let go.”

“I will kill you if anything happens to her.”

“Marfisa,” says Roland. “Let her go. Leave her to guard the Princess. Let her go, or I will call you out myself.”

Marfisa lifts her hand. Jo awkwardly clamping the épée under her arm fishes for her keys. Marfisa shaking out her pullover watches as Jo unlocks the door. “Well,” says Jo. “Goodnight.”

The door closed, there in the dark, Jo sags back against it, shivering. The épée falls to the floor with a muffled clank.

“So,” says the little guy in the dark suit.

“So?” says Mr. Leir, washing his hands at a stained plastic sink on spindly legs.

“What do you think?”

Mr. Leir, smiling, holds up one finger. His white shirt open at the collar, the cuffs unbuttoned and rolled back. A rust-colored smudge still on one wrist. that he worries with his thumb, walking back across the dusty floor to the harsh white glare of the arc light hanging from a hook. “Well, Mr. Kerr?” he says.

“I, um,” says the man in the blue striped shirt. The wooden floor under that bright light has been swept clear of dust. It’s marred with a smattering of black charred spots. “He was – magnificent.”

“And?” says Mr. Leir, smiling.

“It’s like I was saying,” says Kerr. His tie is much the same blue as the stripes on his shirt, and the watch on his wrist is heavy and gold. “The EPA rules coming down, security, with the terrorism thing – like it’s ever going to happen here, but still. People are scared.”

“Which isn’t what I want to hear,” says Mr. Leir, still smiling. “What I want to hear is those reservoirs are an important part of the fabric of this city. I want to hear you say you have no intention of burying them in tanks under the hillside, that’s what I want.” One of the charred spots still smolders, putting up a thready stream of pale quick smoke. “And for now, he listens to me.” Mr. Leir smothers it neatly with his white and ivory saddle shoe.

“Well,” says Kerr. He is clean-shaven, his dark hair carefully swept back. “I could talk to the commissioner. Arrange another study. It’s not like we can just turn around and say no.”

“But you will,” says Mr. Leir. “Eventually.”

“Um,” says Kerr. He nods. “Thanks,” he says. “Thank you. Very much.”

When Kerr has left, Mr. Leir walks over to the sink, where the little guy waits next to the big guy in the dark suit. “Mr. Keightlinger,” says Mr. Leir, unrolling his sleeves, “tell Mr. Charlock what today’s date is.”

“What I’m saying,” says the little guy, “we can get this girl six ways from Sunday the minute you say the word.”

“Three,” says Mr. Leir, pulling cufflinks from his pocket. “Only one of which is likely to work. Mr. Keightlinger?”

“It’s an expression,” mumbles the little guy, looking down at his shoes.

“The nineteenth of September,” says Mr. Keightlinger.

“It’s the fucking eighteenth,” says Mr. Charlock, elbowing him.

“Ten past,” says Mr. Keightlinger. “Midnight.”

“Not even the equinox,” says Mr. Leir. “Months to go, and what would we do with her? Where would we put her?”

“The suite at the Lucia?” says Mr. Charlock.

“We wait until the solstice,” says Mr. Leir, “and then we deal with the one who has her keeping. Not whoever’s the most unusual. Vulnerable.” He smoothes his cuffs, brushes something from one sleeve. “Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Charlock. This was good work. I don’t think it’ll be this girl, but if it is, we’re ready. Meanwhile, you keep up your observations and investigations. Whoever it is, we’ll be ready.”

“Yessir,” says Mr. Charlock. Mr. Keightlinger nods, once.

And then Mr. Leir says, “The boy?”

“Who,” says Mr. Charlock. “Beaumont?”

“He won’t mess this up?”

“Nah,” says Mr. Charlock. “We took care of him.”

“Good,” says Mr. Leir.

“Jo?” says Ysabel.

“Go back to sleep,” says Jo, smoking a cigarette in the dark. The épée lies on the glass-topped café table before her, between the ashtray and the vase full of tea roses unearthly pale in the streetlight.

“Did you pass?” says Ysabel, rolling over, up on one elbow.

“I have no idea,” says Jo. “I got a sword. I rode somebody’s bike down the west hills from the zoo in the dark. Roland wiped out on this corner up by the rose gardens, I helped him get up. Fucked up his knee, you know?” She takes a drag. “What’s the deal with Marfisa?”

“Did she say something?”

“She nearly,” says Jo, and then she says, “Never mind. Forget it.”

“There’s no deal,” says Ysabel, rubbing her eye with the heel of one hand. “She’s a knight. Like Roland. The Axe. What were you doing tonight?”

“Zoobombing,” says Jo, and then she shakes her head. “I have no fucking idea.” She stubs out the cigarette.

“Five hundred bucks,” says Frankie, shoveling the hair out of his face, looking up at the red-headed man. “It’s only fair,” he says. He frowns. “I mean, we’re not gonna hurt her. Right?”

“He says it’s only fair,” says the red-headed man into a slim red phone. He’s standing in the apartment’s open doorway, dark against the soft grey light outside, leaning lightly on a long portfolio tube. “Did you catch that?”

“What?” says the man in the dark gold shirt. Lit by a single bulb he’s standing in a basement at the foot of a sagging flight of stairs. “What’s fair,” he says, half stooping, swinging his head back and forth, craning to tilt the antenna of his purple phone. “Reception’s fucking wretched down here.” Somewhere in the dark something large clip-clops back and forth, grunting. A woman in a black vinyl miniskirt sits at the top of the stairs. She’s eyeing the shadows nervously.

“Five hundred,” says the red-headed man. “He wants five hundred, Your Grace. Half a thousand.” Frankie biting his lip says, “You’re not gonna hurt her,” to the thin man perched on the arm of the couch. “Right?” The thin man’s looking at the handle of his Japanese sword. His feet are bare.

“Five hundred dollars,” says His Grace. He turns to look up at the woman in the black vinyl miniskirt. She shrugs. “This is the ex,” he says.

“Yes, Your Grace,” says the red-headed man.

“Fuck him,” says His Grace. From somewhere in the darkness a lugubrious voice says, “Sir.” His Grace lifts a hand, finger up, admonishing. “We don’t need him. Not five hundred dollars’ worth of him.”

“Sir,” says the red-headed man. He takes a step out onto the balcony. “I’m sorry, sir, I – ”

“Blast and rot, Gaveston, you know this. We could pull anybody off the street for this, anybody in the city, and you call me to ask if I want to pay out five hundred dollars for an ex-boyfriend. Stop bothering me with this shit.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” says Gaveston. He snaps his red phone shut and stands there a moment, one hand on the wrought-iron railing of the balcony, looking down at the little parking lot. A woman cuts across it, trailing cigarette smoke, a heavy white garbage bag held in one hand out away from her body.

“Well?” says Frankie. “What’s up?”

“We have the pleasure,” says Gaveston, tucking his phone into the pocket of his brown cardigan, “of refusing your offer.”

“What?” says Frankie. The thin man pushes off from the couch, headed for the door. He bats an empty Diet Coke bottle away across the carpet with the scabbarded tip of his sword.

“There will be no counter-offer,” says Gaveston, lifting his portfolio tube. “Do have a good afternoon.”

“But,” says Frankie, as they close the door behind them.

The steps down the outside of the yellow apartment building are quite narrow. They go down single-file, footsteps clanging. The thin man lifts his sword and rests it on his shoulder. “Vengeance,” he says, “should never be done on a budget.”

“The Duke has spoken, Orlando,” says Gaveston. He sighs. “And we cannot but obey.”

In the basement His Grace holds a finger uncertainly over his purple phone. “The middle button,” says the woman in the black miniskirt. “The one that says End.”

“Your Grace,” says the lugubrious voice from somewhere in the darkness. The clip-clopping has stopped. There’s a wheezing grunt, and then that voice says, “He has decided. He will hear your petition.”

His Grace turns there in the circle of harsh light under the bulb and facing the shadows squats in the dust. One hand on his knee he closes his eyes and bows his head. “Erymathos,” he says, his voice ragged. He clears his throat. “You do me unspeakable honor.” He looks up, into those shadows. “My offer is this: two days of safety, and dreamless sleep, and all the meat and cereal, wine and water your belly can hold. In return, come the Equinox, we’ll hunt you with a Gallowglas.” Looking down, he brushes something unseen from his knee. “You will taste the blood of knights,” he says, “and have a chance at oblivion.” His Grace looks up into the shadows again. “That is my offer.”

After a long moment – clip-clop, clip-clop. The shadows gather themselves into a thing that hulks just outside the light. A suggestion of an arc, old yellow in this light, glistening. A black wet eye shines above it. His Grace catches his breath. At the top of the stairs the woman in the black miniskirt covers her mouth with her hand. The thing in the shadows nods, that tooth, that eye ducking once and coming up again.

“It,” says that lugubrious voice, “is acceptable.”

His Grace sighs and looks away, rolling his eyes. “I can see that,” he snaps.

A half-dozen T-shirts, most of them black, are scattered across the unmade futon. There’s a red one that says Farmers & Mechanics Bank in peeling brown letters. The empty legs of tights unrolled, unfolded lying across them, black again, red, dull green, blue jeans, grey jeans that once were black, a couple pairs of workpants, plumber’s navy, package delivery brown, frayed cuffs and the greasy sheen of nylon. Soft flannel shirts, arms tangled, dark green, a plaid of faded berry colors, a short black denim skirt, a longer Catholic tartan. Ysabel in an oversized blue sweatshirt that says Brigadoon! squats at the foot of the futon, looking over it all. The droning spatter of the shower cuts off, and there’s Jo’s voice, “Somewhere like New York City sounds oh so pretty, but let’s leave the timing to fate – !” Ysabel leans over and scoops a double handful of underwear and socks from one of the blond wood crates against the wall.

“I’ll be the one in tears,” sings Jo, coming out of the bathroom in a pair of boxer shorts, towelling her hair, “I’ll be the one who’s trying to make up for the what the fuck?”

Ysabel’s holding up a pair of washed-out pink underwear with a finger crooked through the split side seam. “Do these have some sort of sentimental value?” she says, frowning theatrically.

“What are you doing?” says Jo.

“You have nothing to wear,” says Ysabel, wadding up the underwear and tossing it onto the tangle of clothes.

“What?” says Jo. “Oh, fuck it. Just give me a goddamn T-shirt.”

“I’m perfectly serious,” says Ysabel. “The hunt is Wednesday night, and you have absolutely nothing to wear.” She leans back on one elbow, her mouth trying not to smile.

“Would you toss me a clean shirt,” says Jo. “Please.”

“We must go shopping,” says Ysabel.

Jo throws back her head and lets out a guttural sigh. She stalks past Ysabel and kneels by the futon, pulling a black T-shirt from the tangle.

“Why did you get that tattoo?” says Ysabel. She’s looking at Jo’s belly. Black lines claw up from the waistband of her boxers. Two dots that might be eyes peer out from under her navel.

“Don’t change the subject,” says Jo. She hauls the T-shirt over her head and tugs it down. A red devil leers across the front of it, lined and pocked by silkscreen craquelure. “What the hell is wrong with the clothes I’ve got?”

“You need a dress,” says Ysabel. “Something light, that you can move in, but with a good full skirt – What?”

Jo’s shaking her head. “I’m supposed to wear a dress to go hunting.”

Ysabel sits up, leans forward, her elbows on her knees. “This hunt is being called in my honor. Even though you aren’t of the court, you will be very noticeable. It’s important you dress well.”

“In a dress,” says Jo. She looks over at the glass-topped café table under the window. “For a hunt.” A sword in its black sheath is lying on top of the table, next to a blue vase full of tiny wild roses.

“It’s expected,” says Ysabel.

“You wear jeans,” says Jo. “And pants. All the time.”

“Not at court.”

“So this is a thing?” says Jo. “Like, for your people, all the women have to wear dresses?”

Ysabel’s eyes are dark, and sharp. Her lips purse themselves before she parts them to say, “Yes, Jo. My ‘people’ like to dress formally for formal occasions.” Her bare feet have burrowed under some socks that once were white. She kicks them free. “Don’t yours?”

Jo leans over, grabs a pair of blue jeans, bundles them into a small, irregular wad, tosses them past Ysabel into one of the blond wood crates. She grabs a couple of T-shirts.

“I need to get something myself,” says Ysabel. “I can’t wear any of those.” She’s pointing at the bulky blond armoire looming in the corner, doors ajar, a mad welter of fabrics and colors stuffed within, trains spilling out at the bottom, a froth of lace dangling from a half-open drawer.

Jo reaches past Ysabel, snags her tartan skirt, shakes it out. “You going to sell some of them, or something?” She folds it in half and starts rolling it up.

“I couldn’t,” says Ysabel. “I can’t.”

“Then what are we going shopping with?” Jo tosses the skirt into a crate, followed in quick succession by three more T-shirts.

“You mean money,” says Ysabel.

“Of course I mean money.”

“What I have in mind won’t cost us anything.”

“I’m listening,” says Jo.

Over the two leather armchairs large copper letters say Barshefsky Associates: Quality Assured. Orlando’s in one of the armchairs, absently rolling the tip of his black braid between his fingers and his thumb. Gaveston stands, his knuckles rapping a martial tattoo on the top of his portfolio tube. Behind him a door swings open and his impromptu drumbeat’s lost in a sudden wash of questioning voices and clacking keys. A big guy in a faded red sweatshirt steps through, a pen behind each of his ears. Gaveston smiling offers up a hand. “Arnold Becker?”

“Can I help you?” says Becker. A lick of brown hair sticks straight up from the back of his head. He keeps his clipboard folded up against his chest with both arms.

“I certainly hope so,” says Gaveston, pulling back his hand, still smiling. “You’re a friend of Jo Maguire’s?”

“She’s off today. What can I – ”

“We asked,” says Orlando, not looking up from his braid, “if you were her friend.”

“I’m her boss,” says Becker, looking from Gaveston to Orlando and back again. “Who are you guys?”

“It’s a delicate matter, Mr. Becker,” says Gaveston. “Is there perhaps somewhere we could – ”

“Here’s fine,” says Becker.

“I see. Well.” Gaveston sighs. “The girl? Ysabel? Jo has been seeing a lot of her lately – ”

“She’s off today, too,” says Becker.

Gaveston looks sidelong at Orlando. “She works here?”

“She works?” mutters Orlando.

“Her family,” says Gaveston quickly, loudly, “Ysabel’s family, is concerned. It’s – ” He takes a deep breath. “As I said, it’s a delicate matter, one that requires a certain degree of, of tact, and circumspection.”

“Help me out here, guys,” says Becker. He looks over his shoulder at the door behind them. “I have no idea what this has to do with me.”

His hands together fingers interlaced on top of the portfolio tube, Gaveston leans forward. Something in the pocket of his cardigan sways pendulously. “We’d like to offer you some money,” he says, quietly.

“Money,” says Becker.

“Wednesday night,” says Gaveston. “The day after tomorrow, to be precise. Ysabel intends to attend a – shall we say, gathering, at the Lloyd Center, with your friend, Jo. We would pay you to attend as well, if you were to report back to us your impressions.” Becker’s frowning, his mouth shaping a question. “As it would be late at night,” says Gaveston, “we are more than willing to compensate you accordingly. With half the agreed-upon sum right away.” He thumps the top of his portfolio tube. “On the barrelhead, as it were. All you need do is say yes.”

“This,” says Becker. Still frowning. “Is really strange. Look, you guys – ”

“It isn’t working,” says Orlando from his chair.

“I,” says Becker. “What?”

“You’re quite right,” says Gaveston. He sighs. “It isn’t.”

“It wasn’t working when we came through that door.” Pulling himself to his feet Orlando flips his braid back over his shoulder. “It wasn’t working when we walked into this building.”

“What do you propose, friend Mooncalfe?” says Gaveston.

“Vengeance,” says Orlando, “has no budget.” Smoothing the front of his loose white shirt. “It is not polite. It does not ask.” He looks up at Gaveston. His eyes are pale and blue on either side of his sharp long nose. “It takes what it needs, or it isn’t vengeance.”

“Hey,” says Becker. “You – ”

“Don’t,” says Orlando. “Do not.”

Gaveston’s nodding. “I think I take your meaning, friend. What’s more,” and he hauls up his portfolio tube, slinging it from one shoulder, “I concur.”

And together they walk across the little lobby toward the glass doors.

“What the,” says Becker, and then, as Gaveston’s stepping out into the hall, Becker shakes his head, raises his voice, “What the hell are you doing?”

The glass door closes with a click. Becker wide-eyed lets out a little half-laugh.

“I, um. Hey.”

Becker turns so sharply a pen tumbles from behind one of his ears and he nearly drops the clipboard trying to catch it. “Jesus,” he says. Guthrie’s standing there, black jeans, a black T-shirt that says Gutshot Goose. “How the hell long have you been behind me?”

“Well,” says Guthrie. He looks over at the glass doors a moment, then looks back at Becker. “We really ought to talk,” he says.

The woman in the broad straw hat kneels and reaches out to ruffle the grass with her fingers. “Benjamin,” she says. “Come on, Benjamin. What on earth do you think you’re going to do with that?” A yard or so away a little brindle cat squats suspiciously over a mouthful of dull blue feathers and bright black eyes, a beak wide open, white throat beneath it jerking for air. The cat hunkering down stretches a paw out, eyes looking this way, now that. “Benjamin,” says the woman in the straw hat, slapping the grass. She’s wearing dirty white gardening gloves with yellow cuffs. Looking down, the cat opens its mouth tentatively. The bird freezes, its beak still hanging open, its throat now still. Tilting his head the cat finds a new hold about the bird’s shoulders. The bird starts panting again. “You have no idea,” says the woman. “Do you.” Her hair is heavy and long and dark, glossy chains of curls gathered by a simple yellow scrunchie.

“Majesty?” says a tall man in a black suit, leaning over her from behind.

The cat looks up and that’s when the bird kicks loose, its wing-flaps an explosion in the tiny yard, darting and bobbing low over the grass as it looks for a way out, the house to one side, red brick wall close on the other, trees all about, the cat bounding after. The bird arcs up sharply, threading the gap between gate and ivy-draggled arch, banks over the street beyond under lowering trees, back toward the house and up, headed for open sky. Below, the tall man in the black suit bows slightly, his collar a shining ring of white. The Queen one hand on her hat climbs to her feet. The tall man leads the way to the house. Behind them, the cat has circled back from the foot of the gate. Stopping suddenly, he falls to one side, scrubbing his cheek against the grass. He assiduously begins to lick a paw.

The wide-mouthed jar is half full of gold dust. Lines hashed in white ink down the side denote ounces, gills, mutchkins, a thirdendeal. The woman wearing narrow black-rimmed glasses scoops up a spoonful and taps it into a plastic baggie on one plate of a small balancing scale. A man in a soft blue suit watches over her shoulder, his white hair matted in long dreadlocks. When the French doors behind them open with a creak, he turns. “Majesty,” he says, ducking his head in a brief bow.

“We are always pleased to see the grandson of Count Pinabel,” says the Queen, tugging the gloves from her hands.

He smiles. “You’ve heard the venue’s been announced for Duke Barganax’ hunt?” Behind him, the woman in the black-rimmed glasses plucks the filled baggie from the scale, twisting it closed.

“Of course,” says the Queen. “I’d like a glass of water,” she says, settling herself on the long white sofa.

“Grandfather wonders what is to be done.” He glances down at the baggie held up for his approval and nods crisply. The woman in the black-rimmed glasses tosses the baggie to the other man standing by her table, who catches it in the armload of little baggies crinkling against his chest. His dark blue suit is tight across his shoulders.

“Done?” says the Queen. She leans forward, plucking up a slice of lemon, twisting it into a tall glass of ice water. “What would you have us do, Sir Axehandle? It is our sister’s demesne. It is the Duke’s hunt. We trust he has seen to the necessary precautions. What shall we do, Agravante?” She takes a sip of water. “We shall arrive promptly and enjoy his hospitality. We hope to see you there.”

“Of course,” says Agravante. “Pyrocles will stand for Pinabel in the hunt.”

“Pyrocles,” says the Queen.

The big man nods. “Ma’am.” His long mustaches lend his face a somber air above those crinkling baggies.

“And for yourself and your daughter, ma’am?” says Agravante. “I must say, everyone is eager to see what this Gallowglas you’ve found can do.”

“Indeed,” says the Queen. She sets her water on the table. “This interview has been delightful, Axehandle, but I’m afraid our Chariot has arrived.” There in the doorway by the Majordomo stands Roland, a yellow tie knotted tightly beneath his chin.

“No more need be said, ma’am,” says Agravante. “Pyrocles?” The big man in the dark blue suit leads the way. “Every felicitation, ma’am.”

“Our best to the Count. Anna, if you would also – ?”

The woman in the black-rimmed glasses screws the lid back on the wide-mouthed jar and follows them out. The Majordomo closes the doors as he leaves.

“How is our Gallowglas?” asks the Queen.

“Majesty,” says Roland, stepping forward, leaning against the back of the long white sofa, “she means well. I would never doubt her heart.”

“But,” says the Queen.

“She does not understand, ma’am. What must be done, and how. She cannot take the field.”

“So that you might take her place?”

Roland draws back. “You wound me, ma’am,” he says, quietly. “If there is the chance she might embarrass us by her presence, then she must embarrass us with her absence.”

“You heard Pinabel,” says the Queen. “They all expect to hunt with a Gallowglas. They’ll be disappointed if they can’t.”

“Erne says there is nothing he can teach to someone who won’t learn, ma’am,”

“Really?” says the Queen. She looks at him, then, her eyes dark, her face expressionless. “It’s you they’ll blame, Chariot. Say you’re jealous of a girl who beat you by turning her back. You’re afraid to take the field with a Gallowglas.” She holds up a hand as he opens his mouth to speak. “You wear your pride so openly. Out where anyone might strike it. I can’t have you wounding yourself on every pointed remark.”

“That will not happen, ma’am,” says Roland. “Your pride and honor I place before my own.”

The Queen stands. “See that you do,” she says.