What's wrong with you? Why are you standing here, dethorned, declawed? You should be kicking her when she's down. She's a peasant, and you're queen! You're queen! You'd forgotten. You should be bossing her around, not— isn't it illegal to tell you what to do? You feel like it should be, and if it's not, well— you'll make it illegal. That's right. Because you have that power. Will have that power. Just as soon as you—

  "Well?" Madrigal demands. "Got an answer? Or are you just gonna have that stupid look on your face?"

  Stupid look on your face? She's the one barely containing her stupid tears, like you can't even tell she… ugh! The pity rises in your throat, like stomach acid. You swallow it down.

  ?Good girl.?

  "Of course it's related," you snap. "He dumped you for a reason, didn't he? There's—"

  "This is after that!"

  "Who says it didn't start before! Who says there wasn't something wrong all along, and you just didn't notice?"

  She's quiet.

  "You think he's coughing up gak because of you? You're that egocentric? I bet— I bet a hundred to one it's been happening for months. Think of him and you on a—" Eloise's rumors be damned, you can't picture Ellery in any kind of romantic situation. He's got too much blood on him.

  ?A walk.?

  "—a walk," you continue, relieved. "And you're yammering away. And he's just looking at you, and in his nasty-looking eyes—"

  "They're hazel," Madrigal mumbles.

  "—he's screaming for help. And it just goes right on past you. And you're wondering why you got dumped?"

  This is about the point where you got punched, last time, but Madrigal just sits there and tries to pretend she's not crying. It sucks the fun out. It's not sporting.

  She says something you don't understand.

  "What?"

  "…Proof." She wipes her nose with vigor. "Have you got proof."

  You have not got proof. That speech was wholly extemporaneous— though it has the whiff of truth about it, you think, or else she wouldn't be so upset. "For pre-dumping? Not at present, no. For his condition a scant three months ago? A bevy! Not just this note, but Eloise told me—"

  "Hah."

  "Eloise told me that she had Ellery come in three months back, asking for a mirror. He said he'd been writing mirrored."

  "Great proof."

  "Without knowing. Said he'd only just realized it. Said he didn't even own a mirror."

  Madrigal puts her face in her hands.

  "So there you have it, I suppose. He's sick, or he's gone mad, or someone's messing with him. Easy."

  "'Not sure what I did to me.'"

  "What?"

  She raises her head. "What the note said. You said it was the same timeframe."

  "Er, yes—"

  "He did it. Maybe— I don't know, maybe on accident. Maybe he did snort mirror dust, so he went all— mirror. It said he was coughing up silver."

  This is disgustingly plausible. "I… guess."

  "Fuck me, I don't— whatever it was, I caused it. Or, or, made it worse. Either way. I—" Face back to hands. "I need to talk to him."

  No! Oh, God!

  ?Oh, dear, Charlotte. The consequences of your actions.?

  She sees and misinterprets your look of horror. "It's— it won't be like other times. I have evidence, I have— you're coming with. I'm taking you with."

  It just keeps getting worse. "That can't be necessary."

  "It's not a big deal. He knows you're investigating him— you fucking told him. And you've got all the info, so I've got to."

  "I told you the—"

  "He won't believe just me. I've—" She stands shakily. "Come on."

  You quaver. "I really— I really— don't—"

  "It's an order."

  >[1] It's fine, right? This is fine. All that will happen is she can't find Ellery, because you killed him. He's gone all the time. She won't suspect anything. Just go and promptly return.

  >[2] This could be an opportunity, actually. If Ellery's not in his tent (and he won't be), you can convince Madrigal to help you dig through it. She'll have more of a perspective on what's important.

  >[3] Logically, you should be fine. Emotionally, you're panicking. You can't do this. Convince Madrigal to leave you behind, despite her order. [Roll.]

  >[4] Write-in.

  One does what one must, even if it makes one feel like one must vomit. You tip your head in assent.

  "Right. Good." Madrigal undoes her bandana and wipes her face and nose with it. She looks up at you. "How do I look? Okay?"

  She looks like she's been crying. "No."

  "Well, maybe he'll pay more attention." She stuffs the bandana into her shorts pocket and slides off her bomber jacket, leaving just the scanty tank top.

  "More attention?" you snipe.

  It's the first smile she's managed since you got here, though it’s a weak one. "Can't hurt."

  And with that, you're off. You attempt to trail far enough behind Madrigal that it doesn't look like you're trailing her at all, but she's walking so fast you have no choice but to hurry. Defiantly, she cuts through the heart of camp. You're lucky it's a sunny day: you suspect the usual crowd is off mudskipping, skylarking, or expeditioning in the Fen, not hanging around watching you.

  Not there's nobody watching you. Eloise is there, chatting up some red-haired woman with a jaw like a brick. She gives the both of you a wave. Meaning everyone will know by evening, anyways.

  ?Start thinking of a spin. I suggest: you've turned over a new leaf and are aiding even those who openly despise you. Voluntarily. Out of the goodness of your heart.?

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  It'll have to be something like that. But here you are, finally, in front of Ellery's tent. Madrigal rubs one last time at her face, then knocks on the tentpole.

  Nobody answers. You release the breath you didn't realize you were holding.

  "I guess he's not in," Madrigal mutters. "Figures."

  "Is it tied?"

  She tries the flap. It opens. "Oh, huh. Hold on." She pokes her head in, then recoils. "He cleaned."

  Thanks to you. "I know. So am I free, or—" Inspiration hits! "—would you want to do a quick search of his things? For— evidence, you know. Since you'd know it better—"

  Madrigal wavers. "He could come back."

  "He won't," you say.

  "I—" She screws up her face. "Yes. Sure. Just a— because I'm worried, not because I'm some kind of— crazy— you know."

  You've already pushed inside. The interior is very close to how you left it the other day, excepting what might be a new layer of papers. And Ellery's brown coat, intact, tossed casually over the chaise longue.

  Madrigal's followed you in. "Of course he left his coat," she scoffs.

  In the late morning light, a great deal more detail is revealed to you. There's a green chaise lounge covered entirely with open boxes— and one coat— to your immediate right, and varied keepsakes on the hanging shelves above it.

  To your immediate left, there is a worn wooden coat hanger (you spend a moment brooding on the irony) with no coats on it, but one pair of scratched safety goggles. Farther to the left, along the wall, lies what might be a table— it's covered entirely with paper, among other things. Soft-lead pencils. Whale-wax black crayons. A small box of rubber bands and salvaged thumbtacks. A clay bowl of unshelled tapegrass nuts, and another of their shells. An empty nautilus-shell, evidently as a paperweight.

  Past the maybe-table is a small upholstered chair, shoved into the far left corner. Unlike every other surface in the room, there is nothing on it.

  On the floor: haphazard stacks of paper, everywhere, except in the center. And other things. Stacks of thinner boxes under the maybe-table, each hand-labeled "FRETSAW PZL," then a descriptive term of choice: "LEAFIRE AT DUSK," "PANTHER ATTACK." A broken, discarded knife.

  ?A jackknife, Charlie. For wood.?

  A steadily-rusting iron mirror (none of the properties of glass). A— you turn up your nose— little shrine to one of his dead gods, with wilted flowers. A radio.

  A radio? Surely not. The expense! The luxury! That sort of thing can't be made, by hand or by architecture: it's too complicated, and there isn't the material for it. It must be salvaged and repaired, or else brought down specially, or else bought or bartered from someone who did either. But the squat wooden box at your feet is a radio, sure as the day you're born, and you are filled with dark and screaming envy.

  ?Not yet, Charlie.?

  On the ceiling: a glow-orb on a string.

  On the walls: paper. Paper paper paper paper. Mostly written on, some drawn on, all illegible, mirrored— that you can see, at least.

  Even Madrigal seems daunted. ("A lot of this is new," she says. "Most of the paper.") You've got a lot of work ahead.

  >[1] Look at something. (What?)

  >[2] Look for something in particular. (What?)

  >[3] Just kind of shuffle through until something strikes your interest or fancy.

  >[4] Follow Madrigal's lead. She's been in here, you assume, quite a lot.

  >[5] Write-in.

  Without comment, Madrigal has begun to sift through the things on the maybe-table. You begin instead with the coat. It seems like a bad omen, though of what kind you're unsure. A premonition? A warning? Or Ellery just has two identical coats. But no, that's absurd.

  You examine it from a distance, just to be sure. It's a standard men's thigh-length collared topcoat, one-size-fits-all: there's straps on the wrists and shoulders to adjust, currently let out all the way. Not economical to account for different measurements anymore. Fabric: mud-colored cloth, thick, rough, cheap— you'd say hopsack, but you'd need to feel to be sure. Dull black buttons down the front. Overall, beaten up to hell and back: the elbows worn, the sides scraped, the collar nicked and torn.

  How your mother would put it, were it one of her good days: "it's seen some love."

  You're burying the lede, though, which is: the last time you saw this coat, it was shot to pieces in front of Tom's Cave, along with— well. But excepting the hell-and-back, the coat in front of you is whole.

  You purse your lips.

  ?Bad omens do not exist, Charlie.? So sayeth Richard, the talking snake. You have tried many times to convince him of the irony, but he refuses to acknowledge it (or any of the bad omens). ?It's just a coat, I'm afraid. Albeit an unusual one.?

  You purse your lips harder. "Madrigal," you call.

  "What?"

  "Would you look at this coat?"

  She comes over and looks at the coat. "It's his coat."

  You look at her expectantly.

  "I— it's his coat. He wears it all the time."

  You nod towards it.

  "For god's sake. Get me if you find anything." Madrigal returns to her sifting.

  Damn! Your plot, foiled. Fine. You touch the coat. Yes, hopsack. No, no evil energy (at least the detectable kind).

  ?See.?

  Omen or not, touching the fabric still gives you a quick, jumpy, hare-scared feeling. It's too much of a personal thing, the coat. It's too constant, too present, too— you can't say you've ever seen Ellery without it. Lying here, it seems molted, or shed. Like a cicada shell. Like a snakeskin.

  Which is to say you spend about twenty seconds staring at the coat before you work up the courage to go through its pockets. The outside two are busted, which you didn't predict, but could've. Undaunted, you check inside.

  You get more than you bargained for. Eight pockets in total, none of which were built into the coat— every one of them was crudely sown in later. You go clockwise.

  First pocket: empty.

  Second pocket: sand, fine and pale. You run it through your fingers. Nothing else.

  Third pocket: empty.

  Fourth pocket: empty.

  Fifth pocket, guarded with a button: A folded photograph. Madrigal, half-smiling, not looking at the camera.

  Sixth pocket: A note. Two notes, one inside the other. Ellery's handwriting, mirrored. You translate.

  "Your fine. Dont panick. Dont jump to conclushons. Lay low. It has ben 1 or 2 days out."

  "Also you've been to the cave already which is what this is about. Blonde Charl Lottie fucked in the head. Maybe other places. Be careful."

  You cannot crumple the notes up fast enough. You stuff them into your own pocket.

  Seventh pocket: empty.

  Eighth pocket: empty.

  It's bathetic, to say the least. Why weren't there eight sets of notes? Or eight things, at least? What's the point of sowing in pockets if you're not going to make use of them—

  ?Legerdemain, I'm guessing.?

  You don't remember what that is, but it sounds stupid.

  ?It's not stupid, Charlie, it's an elevated art. It's the finding of loopholes and ambiguities in the rules and it's the exploiting of them in such a masterful and silent way that the rules don't notice. It's—?

  Wait, you take that back, you do remember. It's what Richard called the woosh thing. Woosh, there's a glass. Woosh, there's a bucket. And so on. Things out of nowhere.

  ?It's not called the 'woosh thing,' Charlie, it's called legerdemain. The more pockets you have, the more probable it is to have any given pocket-sized object. The more probable it is, the more likely you are to pull that object out of a pocket. Even an empty one.?

  Briefly, you picture the inside of Richard's suit. Yellow silk. Thirty or so pockets?

  He brushes against your neck. ?I have no need. And the suit has no inside.?

  >[1] Show Madrigal something of what you've found so far. (What?)

  >[2] Check in with her findings.

  >[3] Inquire about Ellery and legerdemain. (Or pockets.)

  >[4] Just keep searching.

  >[5] Write-in.

  BATHIC'S RECOMMENDATION CORNER #11