>[1] Check on the bloody mirror shard.

  >[2] Attempt to read one or more of your filched papers.

  >[3] Attempt to break into Ellery's tent.

  >[4] Go give the whistler a piece of your mind.

  >[5] Find Madrigal. Get your servitude over with. Or whatever Monty called it.

  >[6] Write-in.

  ?Good morning, sunshine. I assume you feel better.? Richard drapes loosely over the railing. His bow is gaily askew.

  "I— not really." You push a mass of curls off your face. "I think I feel worse. Had a nightmare."

  ?Tell me about it.?

  "No, I'd—" Only one person calls you 'Charlie.' "I'd rather not, thanks. Would you get off my shirt?"

  ?Certainly.? He unwinds with a flick of his tail. ?You do feel better, whether you notice or not.?

  You discard the night-blouse, snag your brassiere off the floor, buckle it on backwards (you have to keep stopping to brush your hair away), and slide it around so it's facing the proper way. "You know, I think I'm really a better judge of this than you are."

  ?You have a stunning lack of self-awareness. You are not.?

  "Okay, that's not true." Shirt, then coat, then slacks (on the ground). "You're just saying things."

  ?Aren't we ever.?

  Slacks, then… oh, the shard. You guess it didn't explode overnight— it's still sitting pretty on the desk. You pick it up. Your blood remains smeared across its surface, with no apparent change to either it or the glass underneath.

  Damn, you really thought it would do something. What a bust. You wipe it against the side of the desk and set it back on the—

  The blood's still on it. But the blood's not still on it, it's smeared on the wood. Did some dry on? No— it's perfectly smooth. It's like the blood's sunken into the surface of the shard.

  ?It's not porous, Charlie, that seems unlikely. I'd wager that's the reflection.?

  "The reflection of the blood?"

  ?Yes.?

  "Does it do anything?"

  ?Unclear.?

  Better than nothing, but not as good as anything explosive. Oh well. You place the shard in the drawer and walk barefoot to your socks and boots. The socks are simple enough; the boots require a good shake (to remove sand deposits, slugs, etc). Just accoutrements remain: your pocketknife, the portable lantern, the woven baggies. You wish you had sunglasses, or mints, or bobby pins, or anything, but sadly you have committed to minimalism.

  ?You used all your bobby pins in failed attempts to pick locks, I believe.?

  It worked sometimes. Right. Time to face the glorious day, to blaze a trail, to something something dawn. You'll work on it. You untie the knot, push the door aside—

  God, the whistling's louder out here— and you'd almost managed to ignore it. From how it sounds, it's coming from the tent next to yours. This is troubling. Nobody lives in that tent.

  Possibly it's haunted? It's as good an explanation as any. You stride over to the whistler's tent, make to bust in unannounced, and hesitate. What if it is haunted? You don't want to offend the spirits.

  You knock instead.

  A man promptly sticks his head out. You recognize him immediately: it's the horse-faced man, the man in the grey longcoat, the man who stole your model. You gasp; he smiles. "Charlotte! Hello."

  >[1] What are you doing here, horse-faced man???

  >[2] You stole my model, horse-faced man!!!

  >[3] Your whistling sucks, horse-faced man!!!

  >[4] Get out of here, horse-faced man!!!

  >[5] Write-in!!

  "You!" You stamp the ground. "What are you doing here!"

  "Er," the man says mildly. "I live here?"

  "You do not."

  He pushes open the tent flap. Inside— hand-drawn maps across the walls and ceiling. Crude models of foreign creatures across the floor. A camp-provided cot. Opened boxes, unopened boxes.

  "Moving in doesn't— that doesn't count!"

  He shrugs. "I don't live here, then."

  "I— you—" You ball your fists. "I thought you were Madrigal's friend, or whatever! What are you doing here!"

  "Ah, it was decided I should stick around for a while. I suppose this tent was empty. Why?"

  "Because I live there!" You point roughly at your tent. "And you're— here!"

  His gaze follows your finger. "Oh, lovely!"

  "No, not—" You put your hand down. "Not lovely! I don't want to be next to you and your— your horse face!"

  He raises his eyebrows. "My what?"

  What did Eloise tell you? She told you to commit. "Your horse face!"

  He doesn't say anything, and for a second you think you've gotten somewhere. Then he chuckles. "That isn’t bad! I haven't heard that before."

  "Really? Because you— you've got one! You've got horse eyes and a horse nose and horse cheekbones, and— God, just look at you!"

  "Horses aren't a major frame of reference for most, it would seem." He scratches his chin. "Is that all you came to say?"

  "I— no!" You are discovering your well of hatred for the horse-faced man runs deeper than you expected. "You stole my model!"

  "No I didn't," he says.

  "Huh?" You were not expecting such a flat answer. "Yes you did? You were in my tent, you were looking at my models, and then I come in and my model's missing! It's not rocket science!"

  ?Nice.?

  "It's not br… It's not difficult, you mean?" He shrugs again. "I don't know what to tell you. I didn't steal anything."

  "But you took something?"

  "No? I didn't steal anything or take anything, sorry! Hope you find it."

  You stare blankly at his horse face. Here you are, with facts, actual incontrovertible facts, and he's just— denying them? That's not how facts work. He's supposed to be tearily confessing. "I— so how do you suppose it went missing, huh? It's just a mysterious coincidence?"

  "Someone else took it? You just misplaced it? I'm not a detective. But coincidence does sound about right, sure."

  You're already in inch-and-a-half heels, but you stand on your tiptoes to eke out every bit of height you can get. You grab hard at the tent flap. "You stole my model, horse face!"

  "Like I said, hope you find it. Is that all?"

  "No! Your whistling is awful, too!"

  He chuckles. "Hey, that's why I'm practicing. Did you catch the tune? It's the theme for Pickering Hour— you know, the radio—"

  "I know what Pickering Hour is!" you spit. "You were just so off-key I couldn't tell!"

  He sucks his teeth. "I'll keep working on it. Thanks for letting me know, Charlotte."

  "You're welcome, horse face! Could you leave now?"

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "Pardon?"

  "Could you— could you leave! I don't like seeing…" You are growing aware of how ridiculous your stance may be. "Leave."

  "I do live here, sorry." He shrugs. Why does he keep shrugging? "Might be a couple months. Would you like to come in?"

  "Would I what?"

  He gestures inside. "I have tea. Do you like tea? It's quite a mess in here, for the present, but—"

  >[1] You're— just a little— morbidly curious. And you do like tea. Barge in like he didn't just ask you to. (Tread on his foot with your heel.)

  >[2] People don't invite *you* places, you invite *people* places. You'll accept his tea, but you choose the location. (Tread on his foot with your heel.)

  >[3] Is he insane? You are not going to have tea with the horse-faced man. You are heading straight back to your tent.

  >[4] Write-in. [Questions for the horse-faced man, etc]

  This is, admittedly, a convincing offer. You don't have any strong feelings towards tea in specific, but you're baldly desperate for surface amenities. If it is surface amenities, anyways.

  "Proper tea?" you probe. "Not made from kelp, or whatever?"

  "Proper tea, indeed."

  That does it. Without another word, you elbow past him (treading hard on his foot as you do— he mouths "ouch!"; you are filled with warm satisfaction) into the tent. It's just as you saw in your brief glimpse: like an eccentric-but-wealthy uncle had begun to decorate it, but was struck down by fits before he could finish. It smells of potpourri.

  There are, however, rather more boxes than you expected. They're of dry, dented cardboard, and they're marked with masking-tape labels like "DOSSIERS K-P" and "FALSE MOON ARTIFACTS" and "CARPETS," and they are stacked in shelves to the ceiling. How many piles? You keep count as you weave between them— two, ten, twenty. How many boxes in each shelf? Five or six, at least. How long have you been walking? How big is this tent?

  You whip back around to the horse-faced man, a few steps away— but he's on the other end of a dark tunnel. He is saying something faintly. "Hold on… you didn't give me a chance to…"

  He is fiddling with a device in his palm. He flicks a switch. You are rent clean from your navel to your crown, and twisted in opposite directions.

  You are in the tent again, two steps from the entrance. It is half-decorated with maps and large models and what appears to be an alligator-skin ottoman. There are about five cardboard boxes.

  The horse-faced man looks discombobulated. "Apologies," he says. "Apologies, you didn't— you came in too fast, I left the auks in— I'll find the tea, alright? Yes?"

  He hurries past you, longcoat fluttering. You wet your lips. "Er," you say. "The auks?"

  ?AUX. Auxil—?

  "—iary, ah, space." The man has retrieved a kettle from one of the boxes. "Don't worry about it; it's not important. Do you prefer green or black?"

  ?Read: pocket dimension. But that's now considered a loaded term.?

  "Bergamot?" you try. The man shakes his head. "Fine: black tea. You trapped me in a pocket dimension, horse face?"

  "Some call it an ‘auxiliary space’. It’s highly debated."

  ?In practical terms it's exactly the same thing.?

  "You trapped me in an auxiliary space, horse face?" If this is what pushes his buttons, you're not letting up so easily.

  "Ah, no, it was attached to the entrance. Can we move on?" The horse-faced man pads back over to you, a teacup in either hand. He offers you one. "Here's your cup. Watch the tea bag."

  Retorts flee your lips as you eye the cup. It's not the hammered tin or rough ceramic you've grown used to— it's white, delicate, fluted. You're reverent. "Bone china?"

  "Whalebone." He presses the cup into your hands. "Off a scrivener out west. Careful."

  "I'll be careful. What do you take me for, some kind of—"

  You flinch at the kettle's whistle. The man doesn't— he's already over by it, switching off its heating element. "Here we are," he mutters.

  "What do you take me for?" you reiterate. "Some kind of non-careful… non-careful, uh..."

  ?Very smooth.?

  "Well, I don't really know." Horse Face pours the hot water for his tea. You have no idea how it stays in the cup— density? But shouldn't it be less dense? You can only handle so many mysteries at a time. "I can't say I take you for anything, Charlotte. How do you take yourself?"

  He pours the hot water for your tea. You perch yourself on the ottoman and stare up at him. "What?"

  "Well, I'm curious. How do you see yourself?"

  >[A1] Respond to that. [What do you say?]

  >[A2] Give him the silent treatment until he changes the subject.

  >[A3] Why is he talking about you? You don't even know this guy's name! Tell him you don't speak to people who haven't introduced themselves. (Not that you'll not call him horse face.)

  >[A4] Harp about the auxiliary space.

  >[A5] Harp about your stolen model.

  >[A6] Write-in.

  ---

  >[B1] Drink your tea once it's steeped.

  >[B2] Don't drink your tea.

  >[B3] Write-in.

  You finger the edge of your cup uncomfortably. "Uh, I— fine. Great."

  "You see yourself as fine?"

  "I—"

  ?Yes. Ask why. Don't cede ground.?

  "—Yes. Yeah." You compulsively pluck a stray hair from your collar. "Why?"

  The horse-faced man balances his tea with one hand and retrieves a small spiral-bound notepad from his coat in the other. He flicks the notepad open with his thumb and pauses. "You ever wish you had three arms?" he asks colloquially.

  "…No?"

  "I do. Excuse me." He sets his tea down next to you and, with the newly free hand, slides a wax crayon out from the binding of the notepad. "How do you see… fine," he murmurs as he scribbles on the paper.

  "You're writing this down," you say dryly.

  "Yes. Do you believe you are currently in some form of afterlife?"

  He has his crayon poised. You fold your arms. "No. Why would I?"

  "Prior stated reasons include…" He flips back a couple pages in his notes. "…Logically should've died, loss of biological functions, supernatural phenomena including rapid healing factor and responsive environment, inability to leave, quote 'everyone here deserves to go to hell, so'…"

  You consider saying something like 'yes, Horse Face, hell is here with you,' but you don't want that ending up in his list. "I'm not going to hell, so it's not that. And it sure isn't heaven, so… that's all the options."

  "Have you considered this is an intermediary state? Neither punitive nor rewarding, say, but either a 'waiting room' or a permanent plane for mediocre souls?"

  Your tea has steeped. Eager for a pause, you sip it. It's— it's tea, all right. Salty tea. You're not as happy as you expected to be.

  The man's tea lies forgotten next to you on the ottoman. "—parallels to the beliefs of the antediluvian people of Xalta, who thought the good were reborn as silver fish, and the bad as brown fish— sorry, did you say you were monotheistic?"

  This conversation has gone wildly off-track. You need to steer it back to safe territory. "Horse Face."

  "Yes?"

  "Remember when you trapped me in a parallel dimension?"

  ?Pocket dimension.?

  He picks unconsciously at the end of the crayon. "Pocket— auxiliary space. I thought we were past—?"

  "Right! Yes." You sit upright. "That was pretty messed up, Horse Face. Don't you need permits to have that sort of thing?"

  ?You do, actually. Sign some kind of contract with the manufacturer.?

  He sighs. "I have permits, they're just, you know, in a box in the AUX. Do you really need me to show you?"

  >[A1] Yes. Absolutely. It's not that you care— you just want to make him do a runaround. And maybe you can poke around while he's gone.

  >[A2] That's going a little too far. You've got questions to ask.

  ---

  [A2 ONLY]

  >[B1] Okay, but seriously, why did he ask you the first thing? Why's he so interested in you?

  >[B2] Why's he so interested in the afterlife? What's that got to do with anything?

  >[B3] Why's he writing things down like a freak?

  >[B4] What's his *name*?

  >[B5] Write-in.

  "Uh," you say, "that's… I'm not a health and safety inspector, Horse Face. Actually, you dodged the question."

  His jaw tenses— and relaxes just as quickly. "Which question?"

  "I only asked one— why do you care how I see myself? You're not my friend. You're a guy who broke into my tent and stole—"

  "Oh, well, I ask everybody it. It's not very popular, as far as questions go." He flips to yet another page. "Ah, let's see. 'Fuck off,' 'Not answering,' 'Better off not here'… you get the gist, yeah?"

  This strikes you as off, but you don't have actual grounds to contest it. "So it's not me?"

  "Oh, no, no. This isn't the only notebook, either. I'm just, ah— call me inquisitive."

  "And that's why you broke into my tent."

  "It didn't have a sign outside, did it? I didn't know it was yours until you came in. Oh, speaking of—" The horse-faced man grips the crayon between his teeth (this makes him look more like a horse, somehow) and works a small white card out from the middle of the notebook. "I found this in here. I think it's for you."

  You take the card. "ANTHEA AVES * PRESIDENT * SPELUNKERS ASSOCIATED * CORCASS CHAPTER," says the front, in clean black typewriter ink. You turn it over. On the back, in tiny, cramped handwriting— "Charlotte F. Fawkins. - You Are Sincerely Invited To. - The 17th Monthly Meeting Of Spelunkers Associated. - By Recommendation. - Thirdsday Evening. - Please Consume Card to R. S. V. P. - Thank You."

  "Cellu-taped to the door," the man says, by way of explanation. He's pulled the crayon from his teeth. "Confused the tents, maybe."

  "Oh," you say. "Thanks? I—"

  "By any chance, are you in need of work?"

  >[1] This is getting weird. You should down the rest of your tea and leave.

  >[2] Nnnnnnnnnnnnno. Of course not. You're very busy.

  >[3] Well, you wouldn't say "in need," exactly… you're very wealthy… what work?

  >[4] Hey, jerk, what's your name?

  >[5] Hey, jerk, seriously? "Inquisitive?" Is he for real? You're inquisitive, but you don't go around asking people weird… well, you don't do it systematically.

  >[6] Write-in.

  AGHHHHH IT'S THIS GUY