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Your old life has ended. What now? The mirror offers no response. (Thankfully.) Well then.

They say that once every nine years, there's a card game where you can stake your soul and win your heart's desire. Initiating the game will be a legendary feat of planning and perseverance, and requires copious amounts of luck, but you're up to the challenge. You are free of Surface ties. It's time to immerse yourself in what levity you can find in this darkness. The road ahead is long and convoluted. Onwards.

What is the Correspondence?

They say it’s the frequency of the sound behind absolute silence. They say it's shaped like the spaces between the boughs of the Tree of Life, which may or may not be the same as the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Its study is exceedingly dangerous and inescapably isolating; it’s also necessary for your overarching goal.

(You lose your soul, on unrelated business. It doesn’t bring enlightenment.)

Caligula's coffee house is a prime location to tuck yourself into a corner, alone, and brood aggressively as befits your new spiritual state. (You have lost your soul, not style.) Nursing a drink adds authenticity. Never mind how it's gone cold. Nearby, an Affluent Photographer advocates the capital-R Revolution to a Jovial Contrarian.

“We cannot allow the Masters to hold our reins any longer,” the Photographer declares. “There's no need to think about what happens after - we'll sort ourselves out, no doubt. When London fell, our predecessors believed the establishment would fall with it. They were wrong; they were silenced, along with anyone else who spoke against the Bazaar. We will be their voice now.”

“But that’s exactly what I mean!” the Contrarian cries. He thumps the side of his wheeled chair to emphasise his points, growing more heated by the word. “Who do you suppose were affected most by the Bazaar mangling the streets? The elite? Or those who lived there? No revolution has ever improved the lot of the people the leaders purport to represent. And even you must have noticed we're in a somewhat exotic environment. How do you think we'll fare down here without the protection of the Masters?”

Mid-sentence, he glances at the clock hanging above your head - the flash of his grey-green eyes is startling.

“Good God, is that the time?” he exclaims, just as the Photographer reopens her mouth. “You must excuse me, I'm afraid. I have a party to attend...”

The Photographer watches him wheel away, cool and inscrutable as she sips her coffee.

When she asks you to steal a package from a Surface courier, her political affiliation nags at your latent conscience. There are rumours that she's tied to the Calendar Council, the mysterious leaders of the Cause. A second opinion may be warranted. The Jovial Contrarian is a familiar stranger: his sobriquet is uttered with equal admiration and disdain at semi-respectable parties, often by the same people. His articles appear in every newspaper, well-worded and incisive - or convincingly pretending to be. On every issue, he's argued for every corner, assuming that the average issue has at least fourteen corners.

Returning to Caligula’s, his chair is parked by a different table than before. A Revolutionary growls from low in their throat, hisses something at him and storms off. The Contrarian shrugs, then sees you.

“Oh, I know who you are,” he interrupts your introduction. “Four hundred stanzas about mushrooms, yes? I believe I glimpsed you in here last week.”

His eyes twinkle like the false stars as you describe the Affluent Photographer's job offer in plain terms.

“Moving from the theoretical to the practical, is she?” The Contrarian clucks his tongue. “My, my. And why are you not accompanying her? Fear, perhaps, or a duty to those who despise you?” His gaze rakes up to your alarmed expression, down to your feet, up again. “You don't look to be of high birth to me. What does the status quo give you?”

“Most of my income.”

“But at what cost?”

You take your leave with a demure smile and a flimsy excuse. The job is completed within a fortnight, the postcards of the Surface delivered to the Revolutionary cause. You filch a duplicate of a beetle on a tree trunk.

The Affluent Photographer asks you to rough up a Nostalgic Sonnetist on behalf of the Revolution. You agree without hesitation. Perhaps his politics are tolerable - you cannot abide his scansion. Over lunch at Dante's Grill, the Photographer confirms the existence of the Calendar Council. March will be pleased, she claims. Then she exits your life as swiftly as she entered it. You don your ink-black anarchist’s coat with pride, more for fashion than the Revolution. For now.

The Correspondence is compelling in conversation and distasteful in action. Misery may love company, but spontaneous immolation is best endured alone. 

A year and a half passes. The Comtessa's pretty face is frozen in clay and fear. The Devil absconds with the Music-Hall Singer and neither are seen again. The Bell adores the Candle who despises her, who cannot resist her; set to music, their tale rends reality and mends the Topsy King's mind for minutes. But only minutes. Everywhere you turn, love is the script, stage, and scenery; it swallows its players. Whole, like an anaconda. In gory chunks, like a tiger.

The day you set zail for Polythreme, a man in a stovepipe hat waves merrily to you while you're loading cargo. The crew fails to notice you meeting your onetime-caregiver and future opponent.

“You needn't mention me,” says the Manager of the Royal Bethlehem Hotel, with a smile that doesn't go past his mouth. “If he deigns to speak to you, he will speak of nothing else.”

“You haven't actually told me who I'm meant to find.”

“You'll see. Do you know what it is - ” the Manager's eyes are as shiny as his brass buttons, “- to be unforgiven? For so long, over an undertaking of love?” His gaze drags from the bow of your ship to your face, the weariness of uncountable ages weathering his voice. “It is a terrible thing. A terrible, terrible thing.”

What is love?

They say it's kind. They say it's sundered empires on impulse. They say its presence surpasses monetary value. They say its stories sell for two Echoes and fifty pence apiece at the Bazaar. It’s in the glowing graffiti etched into the city’s walls and the flowery words delivered daily to your desk, ever-present, painfully relevant and difficult to decipher on the best of days. But at least love has not directly set you on literal fire. Yet. As far as you know.

(You will regain your soul someday, and it won't bring enlightenment.)

“...and this is the Despondent Correspondent! Yes, the one who was kicked out of court over that unique opera. I thought you'd have much to talk about. Play nice, now.”

Oh, dear God. You can tell that parties of this calibre are going to be a chore. Your host departs, leaving you at each other's mercy.

“I see you've christened yourself with an ironic adjective,” the Jovial Contrarian observes. He tsks and shakes his head, smiling the entire time. “Scandalous!”

“Sir,” you respond dryly, “inside I am constantly weeping.”

“In that case, your sobriquet is too descriptive. There is something to be said for the allure of mystery, you know.”

You discuss his work. (On a recent series of columns, published across different papers: “You soundly defeated yourself. Well done.”) Your work. (On a new treatise: “An absurd hypothesis. Gravity has never let me down.”) The circumstances of the exile preceding your last one. (On the Empress’ throne: “I can't judge if it is comfortable, as I did not strictly sit upon it.”) Then your host wishes to introduce the Contrarian to other guests, and you slip away to help a Tentacled Entrepreneur remove a fork from its lapel.

Over the course of the night the Contrarian argues with a variety of people. He largely ignores the dancing, though he watches with some interest as the Turkish Girl removes her shoes and you hasten to remedy her social faux pas.

The dancing ends. The dinner gong sounds. It is scarcely heard above the Whiskered Admiral's indignant cry, an overdue response to the Contrarian's invective on his past service.

“Sir!” the Admiral shouts, springing to his feet in a surge of fury. “You have insulted my nation, my dignity, and my moustache! I - urk!”

All attention is diverted to how the Admiral is wobbling and turning purple. Specifically, mauve. His wild gaze rests on the open tureen sitting before him; a final spasm of acute apoplectic rage, and he promptly falls face-first into the sprouts, dead.

How would the Contrarian have fared on the Surface, where death is usually permanent? Or has quasi-immortality made members of high society so fragile that they drop dead at every aggravation? The night comes to an early end - everyone was rather put-off from their food by an old man dying in it. The Contrarian is apologetic. He doesn't know why this keeps happening.

What is the Correspondence?

They say the softest hearts can explicate it by scent. They say it's harder than an aegis of diamonds. They say it's the raised ley lines traced from intersecting doubt and certainty. They say the kaleidoscopic cadences of the splintering of reality are too esoteric for the untouched. They say your metaphors are becoming odder.

In the Neath, news and anecdotes of the Surface are traded as often as calling cards. Though being buried beneath the earth for over thirty years tends to dim the memory, among other things. Between this and the light, there was no place for you, even before soullessness, before these days of tangled allegiances and a reoccurring laudanum addiction to ward off nightmares and mentally referring to yourself in the second person as a means of dissociation. Really, darkness is an ally: it serves as an understandable justification for being lost.

You re-dip your pen in violant ink. Splotches sizzle and hiss as they hit the paper. Dilettantes share stories while laughing, then read your transcription and weep. Granted, their tears may belong to post-drunken malaise more than sorrow. But Celestial nostalgia, as they call it, remains an underlying source of dissatisfaction. 

There is light here, if you know where to look. Lanterns and gas-lamps. Luminescent mushrooms. The moonish glow and candles. Still, sometimes you wake expecting sunlight you will never see again. Your skin hungers for its warmth, as does your blood. They sell it in boxes, somewhere. It wouldn't be the same.

Regardless of - or perhaps due to - the occasional manslaughter, the Jovial Contrarian is a prized presence at parties. He's similar to a zee-monster on a Sunday rampage: immensely entertaining, provided one personally evades his attention. Predictably, you decide to indulge your penchant for self-punishment.

“I tire of dancing,” you explain, sinking into a seat by his wheeled chair while the music swells.

“Truly? I hear it's second only to political participation in terms of joie de vivre." That's a phrase you've encountered once before - in the title of a book banned in London upon English publication. He shrugs. “A distant second, that is. Not that I've had much experience with either.”

If the Barbed Wit wielded her sharp tongue with the intent to maim, the Jovial Contrarian uses his to spar. He doesn't pick sides, per se; he picks targets, and positions himself where it's most challenging for him to strike. It quickly becomes clear that he does not necessarily aim to win. You concede several points just to see his reaction. He will go to extraordinary lengths to keep arguing with you. The realisation puts you at ease, loosening your own tongue more than the wine does.

Over two hours you argue about the Masters, the revolutionaries, the plot of your first novel, the prose of your second novel, the migratory habits of zee-bats (clockwise? counterclockwise? do they only fly forward or can they hover like bees? where are they going, anyway?), the relativity of the movement of a clock’s hands, the scientific plausibility of your third novel, and the Correspondence. His attempts to goad you into renouncing your profession lead to the audience dwindling for the moment, given the fairly publicised amount of trouble you've gone through to turn it into a stable career. 

“Could a respectable Corespondent use the Correspondence to kill?” asks the Contrarian.

You make a show of granting the question its due consideration. “A respectable scholar might not, but I doubt there are many proficient in the Correspondence.”

“They say the Correspondence is built into the Bazaar's nature,” he persists. “It’s fine and well for you to endanger yourself. But using its power for destruction must be a dreadful perversion of love.”

“I would be a mere agent for natural order beyond the Bazaar's. Love kills more often than hatred, without the Correspondence's assistance.” A surreptitious glance around confirms that you have no rapt listeners. Your voice lowers to barely above a whisper. “Sir, has love ever saved us?”

“It preserved the Consort.”

“One man weighed against an Empire. Against the Fourth City, too.”

His eyes gleam. “Perhaps it was worth it.”

“So love has been a boon, for a few individuals at a time, for a small time,” you continue. “It rarely acts for the greater good. Love has plunged us into darkness. When will it return the light?”

The Contrarian props his elbows on his armrests, smiling wryly. “You assume that the light will not reveal anything you don't wish to see.”

Before the last dance has concluded, you succeed in making him admit the possibility that he may potentially be wrong: the world may be round, or at least not flat. It requires a complicated maneuver doubling back to an earlier comment about zee-bats. He's far from upset - he's had tremendous fun. You're toasted by everyone who's ever been at the receiving end of his logic, which apparently comprises almost all of the people in the room, including the Tentacled Entrepreneur.

At the end of the night, he shakes your hand and says, “I have a word of advice.”

“I doubt you're able to communicate any of your layered thoughts through a solitary word.”

“Two, then.” The Contrarian smiles, on the brink of imparting some benevolent wisdom you will discard. “Question everything.”

“Why?”

He laughs heartily, a note of surprise touching the first peal. He’s still laughing as he wheels away. It takes a minute for your heartbeat to slow, two for the palpable heat to fade from your cheeks. It doesn't take much longer to realise that he didn't answer.

What is love?

They say only the stoniest hearts cannot identify it by sight. They say it’s the song sung by songs. They say it's the rawest form of truth, and the truth shall set you free. They say it's not a choice.

“In all manners of the Bazaar, look to love,” says the Duchess. “Always.” Love is blind. Love is as eyeless as the skull in your hand. It will not look back.

“Don't trust the Bazaar,” says your Noman as it is unmade, your face that is not your face contorting as it melts and fights to force its voice out. “Don't feel sorry for it. Love is a demand, not a solution.” Its last words are 'the liberation of night' - the same words your black-cloaked current companions have rallied behind.

They say it's the stairway back to the Surface. They say it's the road to ruin. They say it paves the path leading to the Cave of the Nadir. Hopefully it's not what you find there.

Stumbling through one or two dances is a worthless endeavour, so you excuse yourself when the lightheadedness becomes unbearable. The Jovial Contrarian finishes his conversation and wheels to where you've slumped in a chair.

“You look closer to collapse than the Admiral,” he says, “and he's a fascinatingly vibrant shade of beetroot.”

“Aubergine.”

“Beetroot.” His sympathetic smile takes a sly turn. “Did you terrorise too many sonnetists last night?”

Drawing an exasperated breath, you begin to recount snatches of your adventure with the Secular Missionary and the Revolutionary Firebrand; how you narrowly (and rather ingeniously, you feel) thwarted February of the Calendar Council; and what lay within the Cave. Special attention must be devoted to the hint of tenderness renewed between the Missionary and the Firebrand at the end, right after she pointed a gun at him and you screamed at both of them. If that’s the nature of an exciting marriage, it ought to be shot.

“That sort of relationship is common among the most ardent revolutionaries, I'm afraid,” the Contrarian says, amused at your seething. “Must you blame them? They say that the Bazaar collects touching stories. We thrive on adversity.”

We. Contrarian, indeed. “I can blame them for the explosive reaction that occurred because they coupled their volatile love with their steadfast aversion to trust.”

“Love and trust -” he waves flippantly, “- are as comparable as apples and oranges.”

“Both fruit.”

“Of different trees, of different tastes. Decent in a salad together.”

“It depends what other fruit accompanies them.”

He reflects on it. “Grapes.”

“Preposterous.”

Anyway, to top it off, now your newspaper is short of an Arts Correspondent thanks to the Firebrand's departure. The Contrarian sees no reason why you couldn't occupy the position in the first place. You remind him that you’re not exactly that type of correspondent. He counters that any competent scholar of the Correspondence knows better than to be limited by semantic technicalities. You sweetly tell him to b____r off and interpret that as he will. This would have been a winning riposte, had it not coincided with a total break in the music.

The next evening, February bursts into laughter before the end of your sentence has left your lips.

“The things we'll build there!” she exclaims, stroking her derringer the way one would coax a particularly shrewd cat. “Oh, Iron, my sweet. You have no idea what's coming. The very liberation of night...”

A vial of Masters' blood slides across the table, into your waiting hand. It's bone-chillingly cold to the touch.

Evolution is a controversial subject, but it's the most accurate word for it: life evolves after you sell information of the Cave of the Nadir's location to the Calendar Council. Sable-cloaked men nod to you on the streets. Younger anarchists seek your counsel, even when you aren't wearing your coat. At a party a week later, the Contrarian offers a wan smile, then spends the night pointedly avoiding you. Your bohemian friends do not disappear, but they receive you with a degree of coolness. What have you done? Why?

What is the Correspondence?

Words were once your refuge. Now they are your jailer.

Like the other languages you've studied, Correspondence characters make less sense the longer you stare at them, the harder you think. Words are the crude translation of emotion, thoughts, and impulses. Words build. They define and are defined. They bind. Language is the medium of misunderstanding. If you could vocalise feelings in their totality, you suspect they would sound closer to an aria from Tristram Bagley's opera or the noises that leave the Topsy King's mouth.

There stirs a disquiet in your heart that translates into the restlessness of your tongue and writing hand. Thus you search for meaning by gathering words for kindling in the shadows of the Flit; by the docks; in the depths of honey-dreams. And so on. Words are beautiful, they are your bread and butter, and they must burn. 

Mr Pages, the Master in charge of censorship, is admirably creative regarding words. You ascend his list of Reliables by retrieving seditious material, earning some respect from the Masters as a result. Nobody needs to know that you owe much of your uncanny efficiency to your revolutionary connections. It's a game more hazardous than juggling the Constables and criminals, or the Church and Hell, or bohemians and being awake before noon. 

One could call it an exploitation of trust on both sides, but it's not as if either the Masters or the revolutionaries deserve genuine allegiance beyond fleeting affection. Besides, you're hardly a friend of your own skin. 

Tonight's party gossip prominently features Lies Below the Palace, a scandalous novel allegedly written by a palace functionary and said to contain all manner of secrets. Bohemians are fawning over the prose. Revolutionaries are using it to sketch possible layouts of the cellars. You admit that you haven't had the chance to procure a copy.

Days after the party, a package lands on your doorstep, unsigned, unexpected, and oversized for its contents: a single book. The frayed dust jacket proclaims that it's 101 Uses for an Empty Laudanum Bottle. Opening the cover, you discover that it's actually Lies Below the Palace.

An investigatory article appears in the following week's edition of your paper, taking care to avoid direct reference to its text. The Jovial Contrarian writes a letter of rebuttal defending its literary worth. You publish it with a sarcastic response, and the ensuing back-and-forth lasts for a month, practically recounting the whole story in the process.

You also secure an exclusive interview with the Manager of the Royal Bethlehem.

“...Damn the Bazaar and its ways,” he says, teacup shaking with the anger-induced tremor of his wizened hand. “It takes everything and gives nothing. A terrible institution.”

As far as you're concerned at this particular moment, 'terrible institution' is a redundant statement. He gazes out of the window, at the false stars coruscating overhead, at the Clay Men lumbering across Doubt Street below. The latter makes him sigh heavily.

“And now my love lies across the water, as you well know. But I see his face every day in the street.” The Manager turns back to you with a pained smile. “It's enough to drive one to madness...”

What is love?

Oh, it's simple enough to mimic, in stories spread across mediums, in halfhearted practice spread throughout the city. You've had several suitors since descending to London. None have stayed. They bore you to irritation, you nag them to tears, they become obsessed with wanting to eat you, you do not wish to be eaten, etcetera. The most ubiquitous words truly restrict and are limited in kind. Here and on the Surface, love is a word too often profaned.  

Mr Pages is riled into anguished rage after a specific book is stolen. A love story, from what you gather. He entreats you alone to find the thief. The clues: green carnation petals at the crime scene and a figure limping away. It isn't difficult learning which florist supplied the suspect, but the trail is muddied from there. 

At a stylish salon, you lament the quality of flowers in the Neath. Healthy roses of every colour are a common motif, you muse. Yet they're sadly rarely incorporated in fashion itself. Well, your host says, there is a beautiful young man who still wears green carnations...

“Are you referring to that charming youth I spied the other day?” you ask coyly. “At - my, I can't remember the party, for the life of me, I attend so many. The man with the limp?” Your host nods. “I'd love to meet him.”

“Dare I ask why?” the Contrarian interrupts. He looks intrigued. Almost worryingly so. His expression reminds you of a tiger waking and immediately realising its hunger.

“Oh,” you say, “because I routinely work for the Masters out of my own volition and Mr Pages has entrusted me with hunting him to retrieve a stolen confiscated book; I'll probably throttle him as I would a bad poet while I'm at it.”

“There's no need for sarcasm,” he replies mildly. 

Your host winks and scribbles the Wilting Dandy's address on a scrap of paper. This exchange somehow segues into questions about your bizarre expeditions. Why you plan to revisit Polythreme in a fortnight requires a great deal of explanation: indeed, your tales of the Marvellous occupy much of the dinner conversation. It certainly clears up that business with the opera and the Empress' court.

The Contrarian beckons you to a secluded corner, and you follow. Does he have anything to share about the Wilting Dandy? No, he wishes to argue some more. What a shock.

“I hope the Foreign Office is prepared for a diplomatic incident,” he chides. “You must have a vast stockpile of blackmail, because I see no other reason why they would consider entrusting a governorship to one who would sacrifice their sanity and security over a pursuit as trifling as prematurely starting a scheduled card game, just to win...to win...” His argument grinds to a halt, suddenly missing its keystone. “What is your heart’s desire, anyway?”

“At present, to learn what it is.”

“Well!” He is delighted. “For your sake, I wish you a safe and successful journey. And for my amusement, I wish you a lengthy and arduous one.”

Upon your return, you meet the Contrarian at Charley Square, London's largest hub of revolutionary activity. You give him a pen, explaining that twice now, it has proven to be your most argumentative item and you can no longer stomach writing with it. He inquires about your involvement with the Wilting Dandy. Keenly. You answer with smug reticence until he drops the topic in favour of another potential debate.

“What would happen,” he wonders, “if you win the Marvellous, only to learn that your heart's desire was to win the Marvellous?”

“I suppose I'd be happy. Or perhaps my second greatest desire would be fulfilled instead.”

“And what if you have two equally intense greatest desires?”

“Then the desire to have them both fulfilled may become my greatest desire and they would both be fulfilled.”

“Unlikely. There must be stipulations, otherwise one may desire infinite desires and break the game.”

“Presently, my greatest desire is your silence for a minute. One minute.”

“What a dull solution.” He regards you for an extended beat, the pen's tip digging into the corner of his smile. “You once wrung four hundred stanzas from your mind solely dedicated to fungi. I had assumed you were more creative than that.”

You feign deep contemplation. “If I located an exceptionally robust Rubbery Lump - ”

“That's the spirit!” Pen set aside, the Contrarian grabs the wine bottle and fills your glass to the brim, laughing. “Give me something to chew on. Harder than a mushroom.”

In late June of 1894, the Masters decree that a mayoral election will take place - the first in London's history. Sinning Jenny announces that she intends to run. Days later, the Bishop of Southwark follows suit. At the height of London's excitement, the Jovial Contrarian publishes an article in the Unexpurgated London Gazette scathingly denouncing the proceedings as an undemocratic sham.

The next morning, he announces his campaign.

A Veilgarden soiree begs your attendance. None of the candidates or their known associates are present, but inevitably, the election is a popular topic.

“Whose side do you support?” a guest asks you.

“Mine.”

“That’s the sort of thing the Jovial Contrarian’s supporters say.”

“No, no, that is - with respect -” Your tone strains from the effort of civility, “- my political inclinations aren't so easy to discern from -”

“You’re only digging yourself deeper,” the Presbyterate Diplomat murmurs. You are loath to agree and you can see his point.

In the early days, you stall endorsing a candidate. Instead you publish a euphemism-fraught satirical novella starring a wily red fox and its nemesis, a hardy white bulldog; at the climax, they're joined by a self-satisfied saturnine stoat. You resolve to never, ever attempt colour-coded animal analogies again.

The Jovial Contrarian sends you a note which simply reads, There is more than one way to skin a cat. Since you didn't mention cats in your satire, you conclude that this is his usual sensical nonsense, or an indication of anti-cat sentiments.

Another night, another party. “They say that you are...friendly with him,” your host says, referring to the Contrarian. Ah. Euphemism.

“They say many things,” you reply. 

The Contrarian's banners flutter in the facsimile of a breeze, jet-black and midnight blue. He watches Tomb-Colonists plastering a wall with dark posters bearing his slogan: 'MASTER YOURSELF'. Too on the nose, perhaps, but then again, most people aren't sure whether the Masters have noses. Or what would traditionally be considered faces.

“I find your colour palette rather...drab,” you venture. “I fear it fails to adequately convey the broad and varied spectrum of your opinions.”

“My words will suffice.”

“The typeface is excellent.” His beleaguered printer parked themselves at the Singing Mandrake a fortnight ago and hasn't stopped drinking since.

He nods. “It's too big.”

“I take it you have some patchwork of a platform?”

The Contrarian waves dismissively. “Platforms are built for trapdoors in a gallows.”

“And your strategy?”

“I shall try to win.”

Finally, you wonder, “What is your heart’s desire?”

His smile is unusually reserved. “That's irrelevant. Any interest I have in the Marvellous is your doing.”

“Yes, but I dare say you play a similar game.”

“Why, haven’t you heard?” he asks, as archly as your raised eyebrow. “I’m cocking a snook.”

They say momentum is swinging in the Jovial Contrarian's favour. He may lack formal policy or direction beyond a vague notion of free speech, but his supporters circumvent this problem by saying everything that comes to mind, loudly. Despite their disparate backgrounds, they've developed a singular reputation, easily identifiable by their rowdiness, their energy, and their black rosette pins. Now they've taken to ambushing his rivals’ campaigners with outlandish accusations and unrelenting cross-examination.

An impromptu debate is held in the centre of the Square of Lofty Words, where a chattering crowd parts like a wave in the Sea of Voices. The Contrarian’s supporters size you up haughtily as you ascend the stairs to the stage. The man himself appears close to whatever constitutes the opposite of a conniption.

Your opening statement is modest: why does the Contrarian advocate demolishing the buildings around the Shuttered Palace to lease the space to Mrs Plenty? (He does not.) Are they aware that he is the man who singlehandedly incited the Battle of Wolfstack Docks by sneezing at the wrong moment? (He is not.) Has he not argued for the annexation of every lifeberg darting around the Unterzee? (There's actually some basis to this, from an article published last year. You could cite it if asked, which you are not.)

The Contrarian's corner overcome their initial astonishment to launch their counterattack. You are flanked and outnumbered, but stand your ground against their barrage of absurdity. The Bishop of Southwark's moustache is a monster sucking out his brain! Sinning Jenny is a mass hallucination caused by fumes leaking from the Forgotten Quarter!

“I'm not talking about them,” you retort. “I am talking about the candidate who changed his stance on the rights of Clay Men four times within the span of three months.”

Here you deploy your most potent weapon: intimate knowledge of the Contrarian's political positions, his array of associations, his party-spoiling killings. Accidental, at that! Twice, you catch an opponent glancing at him questioningly. He offers them no reassurance other than a bemused expression.

Words wield power, but certain words lose effectiveness the more they are spoken. His supporters counter with typical amateur anarchist rhetoric, the likes of which you could pick apart in your sleep.

“Radical, you say? He’s extreme in his argumentativeness precisely because he reveres moderation. Revolution? Loyalty to disloyalty is loyalty nonetheless; it's a moral shackle, an intact inhibition. Don't you see?” You drag your gaze over the audience, locking eyes with the Contrarian. “To uproot the status quo, you pledge support to a high society fixture who's grounded himself in a single principle. To challenge the law, you rally behind someone who dodges defying the constitution of his own mind.”

They're stunned into silence. The Contrarian applauds.

“Plus,” you add, “is he not planning to build a system of catapults to feed urchins to the Vake?”

Your opponents' hurled insults glance off your back. Hopping offstage, you undo the top button of your coat - exposing the black rosette pinned to your shirt's collar.

Some audience members gasp. Some murmur among themselves. You share a last look with the Contrarian and only fear that he’s in danger of bursting from unadulterated glee.

The campaign headquarters are based in a ramshackle tenement block in Charley Square. Doubtless the Jovial Contrarian could afford far better, but it's appropriate for its occupants, full to bursting with eagerness and loosely holding together in terms of structure. Inside, it's brightly-lit, noisy with music and laughter. A Reactionary Tomb-Colonist shambles past; his cloth bandages are covered in black ink, the words on his hand dripping. You recognise some of the phrases. How could anyone could bear to wrap themselves in something as stinging and nonbinding as the Contrarian's words?

The Contrarian meets you by the building's entrance. You're about to remark upon the efficiency of his printing presses, but you're interrupted by a sprightly gentleman in a stovepipe hat stepping between you.

“There you are!” says the Manager of the Royal Bethlehem. “He said you might join us.”

“Good to see you!” Your practiced smile wavers slightly as you turn your attention back to the Contrarian. “You've met?”

“You could say we're quite well-acquainted,” the Contrarian answers cheerfully. “He's my campaign manager.”

His campaign manager is the man you first encountered when your nightmares began to bleed into waking moments - the ancient priest-king who sold the First City to save a dying lover and doomed him by doing so, the collector of dreams who will play the Marvellous to win him back. The Jovial Contrarian's campaign manager. Your heart drops, and your throat goes unaccountably dry. Okay. Okay.

“It's wise that you've appointed a manager to manage,” you manage. “Economical.”

The Contrarian gestures grandly at his humble headquarters. “I strive to cut costs.”

He stares at the Manager, smiling. Have you ever seen the Contrarian narrow his eyes that way? The Manager tightens his jaw, smiles, and returns the stare with equal intensity. Perhaps the Manager thinks the Royal Beth is a more suitable location for the campaign. Perhaps the Contrarian has finally found an indefatigable opponent. You get the distinct impression that if you backed away, neither would notice.

“Please excuse us,” the Contrarian says, casting a quick glance at you.

“I was already leaving,” you protest.

He glances at you again. “You could still stay.”

“Yes, you could!” the Manager agrees. “Give us a minute to confer, then you can help me review the ledgers. Or stir the speech-wrights.”

“Although it is rather late,” the Contrarian adds.

“I do keep irregular hours,” you say, rounding on his chair.

“Oh, I recall,” the Manager says. Animosity briefly suppressed, he lays a weathered hand upon the Contrarian's shoulder. “Round, full dreams. Yours couldn't hope to hold a candle to them. Not even an irate, cold candle.” Doesn't that ring a bell? 

“In fact, my hours are so damnably irregular that I've just remembered that I must attend a meeting.” You muster a small grin and tip your hat. “I'll see you soon, gentlemen.”

They both nod. They do not watch you exit.

What is the Correspondence?

They say it's screamed by the wind around Polythreme. They say it's the whispers you hear in the edges of your sleep. They say it's light condensed into a language. They say it drips dark as venous blood, exactly as heavy as the weight that finally breaks your mind.

Throughout the week, the Manager of the Royal Bethlehem hovers by the Contrarian's side. They laugh and jape when they think themselves observed, but today you spot them arguing in a corner. Of course, this is perfectly ordinary for the Contrarian; what's troubling is the Manager's uncharacteristically unironic sternness. 

“Do you honestly suppose I haven't searched, myself? Between this and the Bazaar, there is no third way,” the Manager insists, shaking his head. “You will be neither forgiven nor thanked.”

So, a more prudent line of inquiry may be: What are they trying to achieve? What are you trying to achieve? And why?

(Here's a useful gauge: would you sell a city to protect him? Remember: you've sold your soul on a whim. You may yet, again.)

You are utterly unsurprised and entirely incensed.

The Jovial Contrarian happens to be at Caligula's when you enter in search of an fittingly fiery drink. His hair is more ruffled than usual, dark circles ringed beneath his eyes. Upon noticing you, he brightens; his entourage disperses at his command, shooting wary glances as they pass.

You take a seat at his table and scoot your chair as close to his as possible. Anywhere else, you’d exercise caution over rousing suspicion, but most discussions here are conducted in either hushed tones or ear-shattering discourse.

“I hope Jenny and the Bishop enjoy their newfound fortune,” you begin, with sharp emphasis on the last word. “Wouldn't it be funny if they bought matching landaus? You could strap me onto the road and have them run over me.”

“Ah, so you’ve been digging. In your own camp, no less. Capital!” The Contrarian enthusiastically pounds the table with one hand. “Such exemplary political participation! Paws steady, proud nose to the ground, sniffing out the truth like a pedigree foxhound - or, non-pedigree fox-and-bulldog-and-stoat-hound, as it is - ”

“Do you remember the sun?”

“I've heard glowing reviews.”

Would it be terribly untoward to menacingly wave a teapot in his face? Would it? “I remember the sky.”

“Oh?”

“I remember how for years, it struggled to penetrate the thick, odious fog hanging above where London once was.” If you cannot attack him with a teapot, you shall assault him with metaphor. “The ruffians, the Benthic scholars, the Reactionary Tomb-Colonist and the rest...are they aware of what you obscure?”

“Obviously I cannot ask them. Foxhound or not, I don't suggest you do, either.” The Contrarian smiles cryptically. “The campaign tends to attract those nearly as curious and tenacious as we are. Let's leave it at that.”

“I understand that you can't flaunt your goals, but you've already pushed the limits of propriety with your slogan and nonexistent public platform.” He seeks a way to free London from the Bazaar's control without extinguishing what little light there is left; he rejected the Liberation of Night when he stopped accepting funding from the Calendar Council. At least, that was his plan around a week ago. Recent clandestine donations to Jenny and the Bishop imply otherwise. “Outside your thumbscrew of an inner circle, you've inspired loyalty among your more moderate supporters. We deserved to know.”

“Have you ever considered,” he replies, smile widening, “that I might not be successful?”

“I’ve considered that you might succeed, and withhold the truth out of your love of conflict for conflict’s sake.”

“My love of conflict,” the Contrarian repeats, eyes glittering. “Free of Surface ties, you swathe yourself in night...yet you yearn for more light, don't you? Do you passively pursue the Revolution to indulge your nostalgia, or to chip at an insatiable taste for danger? Why do you hesitate, time and again? Why do you return? Do you even know?”

You've stiffened. “Perhaps you’d have a more productive conversation with a mirror.”

The Contrarian reaches for you, but stops short of your hands. “Your faith is touching. Your distrust is flattering. Regrettably, both are misplaced.”

Behind you, several people clear their throats in synchronisation. His entourage. You rise in a restrained huff to noisily shove in your chair, giving him space to wheel away.

“You have my sincere thanks for all you’ve done,” he adds.

“This is not over,” you both say in different tones, simultaneously, somewhat dampening the dramatic tension.

Reports place Sinning Jenny in the lead. The gap between Jenny and the Jovial Contrarian stretches by the hour, though the Bishop's numbers trail safely behind. The mood at Charley Square, once as cheery and implacable as its candidate, now flags into apathy and doubt. The Contrarian himself has been absent, ostensibly due to his annual bout of spore-fever.

The Manager of the Royal Beth is nowhere to be seen. The Contrarian's inner circle barricade themselves in his upstairs offices, refusing entry to the newest wave of supporters accompanying the replacement campaign manager.

One of you accosts the other in the stairwell. It's difficult to determine which, but the manager cinches the role of aggressor when a pleased expression crosses her face.

“I'm not surprised to see you,” February says, smile faux-bright and cold as winter moonbeams. Or so you recall. “You should know - things will proceed very differently from here. The Contrarian will come to see the error of his present folly.”

Is that a threat? Has she threatened him? “That folly has occasionally been more effective than the most thorough insight,” you say. “He has defeated me in the past. Whatever that suggests of me, surely it speaks volumes of you by association.”

Perhaps it's cowardly to turn heel and flee down the staircase several steps at a time and into the streets before she reacts, but even your derring-do has its bounds. It isn't until you've dashed halfway home that you realise she said 'present'. 

You return to the campaign headquarters eventually. You write, cross-reference publications, take notes.

“Why bother?” a Revolutionary asks. They're referring to the frenetic scritch-scratch of your pen filling the void left by the music since silenced. “It's practically ended.”

Laid on your desk is a set of Correspondence stones and supplementary plaques; the old stolen postcard of the Surface; the recently-delivered unsigned note blessing you in the name of capital-L Love. You tuck your black rosette into its place of honour in a vase full of green carnations, sink into your seat, sigh, and pick up a fresh pen.

What is love?

They say it's mandated and constrained by the architects of the universe. They say it's untamed and ruthless, preying on rationality like a ravenous lion. They say it's indescribable and impossible to comprehend, so don't seek the answer, lest it slip through your fingers forever. They say that in the end, it's simple, and you haven't truly comprehended anything else.

You don't reencounter the Jovial Contrarian until the day of the election. Your ballot has been cast. February has, thankfully, vanished. The Contrarian listens to your assessment of the situation with infrequent contradiction. Anxiety, you presume.

“I must ask a question,” he blurts. Smiling weakly, he tightens his grip on one of his chair's handles. “Perhaps it's not the best moment - really, it may be the worst moment. But I admit it's been occupying my thoughts for some time, where more...urgent concerns should've been prioritised.”

“Yes?”

Confidence withers into self-consciousness beneath his scrutiny, then resurfaces in certainty. Probably. Yes. Maybe. The Contrarian stares deep into your eyes.

“Did you vote for me?” he asks.

You exhale and tell him.

White and jet flags are swallowed by the unfurling of scarlet while the crowd is showered with matching confetti. Sinning Jenny sits alone on the balcony overlooking the square, swirling a glass of Morrelways, serene and triumphant as she basks in her victory.

“...I'd wager we took more heat than exists in the Bishop’s fevered dreams, and we survived,” the Contrarian finishes happily.

Then he blinks at you as if he's waking from a dream of his own. Exactly what type, you cannot judge. And likely never will.

“I'm sorry if you're disappointed,” he adds. You hadn't known his voice could be that soft.

“It’s all right. And thank you.” Soon, you must set zail again, to resume pursuing the Marvellous. You've exhausted your repository of words over the past month, but the words currently burning in your throat are as insistent about being spoken as their subject has been about being outspoken. “By the way, I have a confession.”

“It's best if you keep campaign indiscretions to yourself.”

“Listen - I dabble. My career is based on reading and transcribing an unreliable reality. My major goal amounts to acquiring a major goal. To that end, I find that you've become a curiously dependable element in my life. Your ideas give shape to the hours of the day; your loyalties are the cycle of seasons in the dark. I was by your side not out of great allegiance to any cause, but because I trust you.”

“That is…” He beams; for once, perilously close to speechless. “...Brazen irresponsibility and I must protest.”

And for once, you instantly defer to his judgement. “Of course you must. It's in the sobriquet, after all.”

“Not that I don't appreciate your hard work. Sacrifice, even. There is significantly less love in politics than in the games you prefer to play.”

You would contest that, but this isn't the best time. Perhaps later, at tonight’s ball, in front of an appreciative audience. The Contrarian laughs and hands you some papers from the stack stashed beneath his blanket: sworn statements, pages from journals of infamy. All invaluable for your activities in the near future, whatever they may be.

“Take heart, friend,” he says; his choice of words is warming, like a strong memory of the sun reasserting itself from within. “The light has not yet gone out. This is not the end.”

Forming a coherent response seems too tricky. Instead you nod, departing as more supporters approach to speak to the Contrarian.

Familiar - even friendly - faces stand out in the crowd, but another quiet spot appeals to you most. The shower of confetti has thinned, revealing a myriad of false stars glimmering above the city. Wedging yourself into a corner, you watch the ongoing celebration and smile. He was right. There is nothing quite like the joie de vivre of the democratic process.