>[1] Yep, that's right, he did. Good guess. About those communications?

  Did Ellery talk about a manse? Your heart is pure and honest. "Uh, yes," you say. "Right. Yes. Good job."

  (Here Richard is supposed to say something nasty. The absence of this worries you. Sure, the snake's right here around your shoulders— but he last spoke ages ago. Is he still here? Richard? Hello?)

  Madrigal looks confused, and it's transparent why: she likes being right, but she doesn't like you agreeing with her. "Uh-huh," she says finally.

  "Excellent. So about potential communications…"

  "It's possible? I'm not aware of anything, but I also didn't pry."

  You stroke your chin knowingly. "This appears to be a pattern."

  "Look, it's his life, okay? I wasn't about to go snoop through his mail for no reason."

  "So he did have mail!"

  "…Yes?" Madrigal has given up on holding the clipboard and sets it down by her feet. "I guess so? Just local stuff, though; we're not on any kind of mail route. And I didn't read it." She pauses. "God, you're annoying. Has anyone ever bothered to tell you that?"

  You're unconcerned. "No."

  "Yeah, see, I thought so."

  "No, I'm just thorough, which you don't like. It exposes your complete failure at accomplishing anything yourself!" Your smile had slipped, probably due to your face beginning to ache. You prop it back up. "But it's okay, Maddie, I'm here to help you out. Are you aware of any recent moves Ellery may have undertaken? If so, when, and from where to where…"

  "Okay, how is this relevant? What the fuck have you been doing today? I can buy Ellery talking about stupid mind stuff, that's one thing, but I don't believe you got him on about his mail. Or moving."

  "I," you say haughtily, "have been investigating. Like you asked."

  "That doesn't answer the question, though? You're giving me vapor to try and grab onto. If I had some context, I might be able to…"

  She sees your face.

  "Look, unless you tortured it out of him I really don't give a shit. Spill."

  >[1] That might be what she claims, but it sure sounded like she cared. Keep your cards close to your chest about what you did.

  >[2] That might be what she claims, but it sure sounded like she cared. Just tell her you went through his papers, and show her the ones you found for good measure.

  >[3] Okay, now she extra can't blame you. Tell her about last night, and specifically the correspondence you found on the walls.

  >[4] Write-in.

  "I'd rather not," you say primly, and fold your arms. "It's not really any of your business."

  Madrigal sputters. "Not any of my— Charlotte, I am your fucking client! It's more my business than yours!"

  "Okay, well, firstly…" You examine your fingernails in great detail. "You're not my client. You're my charity case."

  "Yooou bitch!"

  "I took this on out of the goodness of my heart, and you want to spit on that with 'transactions?' I simply can't allow it. Besides, my work is practically over, I don't see any reason to string things out…"

  "Over? You— you— all you did was make things worse! Can you get that through your dainty fucking ear holes? You made things worse."

  You're going to have to purchase a nail file. It escapes you how you've gone so long without one. "Hmm?"

  "You made things worse! He's gonna make an insulting attempt to placate me, yeah, that's normal. But he's gonna do it knowing I asked someone to…" She drags both hands down her face. "Do you know how fucking embarrassing that is?"

  "Maybe he'll appreciate it," you say mildly. "You know, it means you care? Doubt you showed too much of that, really…"

  Madrigal, shaking, socks you in the jaw.

  Is it supposed to hurt? You thought it was supposed to hurt. But it's just gone numb and staticky, like a leg you've sat on for hours. Your heart and head are pounding.

  She looks almost as surprised as you are. "Oh, fuck," she mutters. "Sorry…"

  You don't say anything, only clutch your jaw.

  "Fuck... sorry. Are you going to die? You look like you're going to topple over—"

  ?Oh, Charlie. You're not going to die.?

  Richard has shaken himself from his torpor, right on time.

  ?Punch her back.?

  You've never punched anyone before. You have read about it, but you—

  ?That's not a concern. You will be receiving guidance. You don't want to be considered a weakling, do you.?

  No, of course not, but...

  ?Then listen to me.?

  >[1] Punch her back, with ?guidance.? [Roll.]

  >[2] Punch her back, without ?guidance.? [Difficult roll.]

  >[3] Shank her. You have a knife. [Roll.]

  >[4] What does this make you? This makes you the victim, and she's (or is pretending to be) *guilty*. Milk this for everything it's worth.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  >[5] Write-in.

  >67, 57, 0 vs. DC 40 -- Success!

  Okay, fine. Fine. You're not going to stand here, gaping like a dead fish, clutching your bruised jaw, powerless while some uppity little harlot lies at you through crooked teeth. You are royalty, God-damnit, and you do not get punched!

  (You do not punch, either, your good breeding cries, but you will not hear of it.)

  The obstacle is, and at the moment it appears insurmountable, you really do not know how to go about it. You have never been in a scrap, fistfight, or dustup— never so much as a scuffle. (Or none you'll admit to.) Your knuckles are virgin white and your nose is straight and symmetrical. You have read about it, certainly, but the idea of putting words into action is wholly daunting. Do you go up with your arm? Or down?

  ?Charlie, that's what I'm telling you.? The tinny radio-crackle of Richard's voice is oddly soothing. He is winding up your neck. ?You don't have to worry about any of that. It would be my pleasure to take care of it.?

  >[-1 ID: 5/10]

  God, that's nice of him. He does care about you, even if he doesn't show it sometimes. Well, most of the time. But it just makes you value this kind of thing more, doesn't it?

  ?I'm glad you've come around, Charlie. Now, do relax. It lessens complications.?

  >[-1 ID: 4/10]

  Aside from the core of white-hot fury you're reserving solely for Madrigal (she's talking right now, like she thinks it will matter), you're already relaxed. Or something. Mostly, your head feels stuffed full of candy floss. Did the blow to your jaw knock something vital loose, something cold, sharp, rational? It doesn't bear thinking about.

  >[-1 ID: 3/10]

  So you don't. And you don't think about the pinhole-camera black seeping into your vision. And you don't think about the tang of iron in your throat, or the bite of bitter smoke in your sinuses, or the inexplicable crushing sense that everything's just gone flat— though this is admittedly difficult.

  >[-1 ID: 2/10]

  You just wait, because everything is going to be fine.

  ?I appreciate your patience.? There is new gravel to Richard's voice. ?The time is now.?

  Madrigal's still talking! She must have taken your silence as tacit acceptance, which'll make this all the better. Should you say something along with the punch? Something cool? You think that's what's supposed to happen.

  ?What— no. Don't.?

  Maybe. Yes. Just as soon as… are you waiting for something? If this drags on for too long, it'll look weird. Who punches someone back two minutes later? Not you. You're a girl of action.

  Which is why you're punching her right now.

  Right now.

  Right… now.

  >[-1 ID: 1/10]

  There! You go rigid as invisible fire scorches up your spine and down your arm. Your hand flexes involuntarily. Madrigal sees it, pauses…

  It's too late for her. You uncoil in a single languid, liquid motion— so casual an onlooker might believe it was serendipity your fist connected with her face. "SUCK IT!" you scream in extremely cool fashion, immediately disabusing any onlookers of this notion.

  ?Damn it.?

  Madrigal sways for a second— there is startled betrayal in her eyes— and topples sideways, unconscious.

  The fire in your arm dies out, and you feel like swaying, too. All of it— the candy floss, the smoke and iron, the pinhole vision— is gone, but you don't have anything to replace it. You just feel woozy and empty.

  And Madrigal's out cold in front of you. God— God— God bless the King and all the ships at sea! Now what? What are you supposed to do, leave her here? Drag her back? What were you thinking? Oh, good job, Charlotte, where's Game Night now! You've gone and done it now, haven't you!

  >[1] Write-in!

  Oh God, look at her! Her mouth hangs agape, her arms and legs are bent at odd angles, her chest rises and falls shallowly. Did you really do this? You didn't mean to hit her so hard. You didn't think you could.

  ?No, you meant every second of it. It wouldn't have happened if you didn't.?

  Richard's lying to you. Like how he lies about everything.

  ?Not everything. Not when the truth is just as convenient. You wanted to hurt her badly. Maybe even kill her.?

  You stare mutely at Madrigal's prone form.

  ?We'll make something of you yet, Charlie. Now, look, you can't just stand here. Someone could've seen that.?

  Oh God, someone could've seen that! You whip around, clutching your jaw in one hand (it is really beginning to throb), and scan the treeline. It is empty. If someone did see it, they're long gone.

  ?There's nothing that can be done, then. Drag her out of sight.?

  You don't see what's wrong with leaving her where she is. You're already off the trail and in the brush.

  ?It's good practice.?

  Fine! You pick up Madrigal by the ankles and drag her behind an obliging tree. Her clothing is now totally smeared with mud and debris, but that's also fine. You don't care anymore.

  ?Now dance.?

  "What?" you mutter. There is a hard limit to what you'll do without question. "Why?"

  There is a short pause.

  ?You are supposed to want to. You're extremely pleased.?

  You cradle your jaw. Madrigal is limp at your feet.

  ?Go on.?

  You don't move.

  ?We will have to work on this later, Charlotte. Now…?

  You want a drink. It's the only idea in your head. You want a drink, preferably pink, preferably with an umbrella, also pink. A drink would fill the emptiness. A drink would let you forget this even happened. A drink would make Richard shut up.

  But you've been (unjustly!) greylisted from the only establishment in town, and Monty is a moralistic prick who keeps alcohol banned from camp.

  >[1] Wheedle your way back into the Better Than Nothing. So what if you're in exile? (And have an unpaid tab a fathom long?) You're also clearly in terrible need.

  >[2] The guys out on the mudflats are sure to have a crate of something. It won't have umbrellas, and it's a considerable hike, but it's worth it, right?

  >[3] You've heard *Madrigal* keeps a cache hidden somewhere in camp. And she won't even be awake to catch you! Pros: convenient location, extra up-yours. Cons: you don't know where it is; no umbrellas.

  >[4] Oh, God, can't you just settle for the fake stuff? It's not like your body will know the difference. Find Eloise back at camp and convince her to make you a cocktail. She'll ask for something in return, but she won't screw you over too badly, probably.

  >[5] Write-in

  …But you know what? A greylist doesn't mean anything, not really. It's just a suggestion. And you deserve it, anyhow. You've been through a difficult occasion. A trying occasion. And you're royalty! Jacques couldn't ban you if he tried. It'd be illegal, you think.

  Anyways, you don't know anywhere else with cocktail umbrellas.

  why she sees the world that way, and how that worldview might change over time. Right now, we've barely scratched the surface of "how," let alone "why" or "over time," but if you give it some time we can unravel her together.

  BATHIC'S RECOMMENDATION CORNER #4