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Chapter Text

Game Night at Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency was, as Todd had once eloquently put it, a pain in the ass. It wasn’t so much that Dirk cheated (although he did), or that Todd was a sore loser (although he was), or that Farah’s perfectionism manifested in an alarmingly intense competitive streak (although it did, and weapons had now been banned from Game Night). It was more that, in an agency dedicated to untangling and reweaving the ineffably connected threads of the universe, playing mundane games tended to get a little…holistic.

Farah had vetoed charades after it became clear that Dirk and Todd’s detective/assistant ability to intuit each other’s meaning extended to wordless guessing games. Todd refused to play Monopoly on the grounds that it was capitalist propaganda, though Dirk harboured suspicions Todd was simply annoyed about Farah’s draining his bank account the time she set up a chain of overpriced hotels on Mayfair. Dirk took issue with Trivial Pursuit because he maintained that all the answers were wrong, especially in the pop culture category: what the hell was a Skywalker, thank you very much?

The real issue, though, was that Game Night had a habit of taking unpredictable turns into…well, stupid flighty bullshit.

Charades, for example, had led to Dirk accidentally flapping his left hand in a covert signal witnessed by an international spy hiding out with binoculars across the road, who saw the gesture through their window, assumed they were enemy agents preparing for a raid, and tried to snipe them. Fortunately, his bullet had lodged in the high-grade plexiglass Farah had installed in the agency windows, and the cracked web of lines spiralling out from the impact had formed the shape of a map that led them to a cache of hidden driftwood sculptures, thus solving the Case of the Spitting Donkey at last. It had still been inconvenient, though, the only consolation for the ruined round of charades the fact that Todd had, on hearing the bullet hit the glass, tackled Dirk to the floor in an unnecessary but very pleasant show of protectiveness. Dirk may have feigned unconsciousness for just a moment in order to prolong the feeling of Todd draped across his chest as they lay tangled on the carpet.

Clearly, the Universe wanted to ensure that the agency wasn’t slacking off while on the clock, but it did seem terribly unfair that they weren’t allowed even a simple Game Night without superspies, donkeys, and murder-y bullets coming into it. And so they persisted.

“What about Cluedo?” asked Dirk, feet on his desk as he folded a page of their insurance paperwork into an aeroplane. It was a quiet morning in the agency office, the patter of rain outside underscoring the occasional rustle of paper. The weather was crisp enough that Dirk had felt justified in cranking up the heat; one flaw of the agency’s high ceilings and exposed metal beams was a tendency towards draughtiness. Days like this made him a little nostalgic for England, but it was difficult to miss his old life when he was lazing comfortably at his cluttered desk, gazing across his warm, airy office at his perfect assistant. Dirk lobbed the paper plane towards Todd.

“What the fuck is a Cluedo?” asked Todd, without rancour. He caught the plane, unfolded it, and scrunched his eyebrows. “Does this say ‘excess claims for unusually catastrophic deaths’?”

“Hmm?” Dirk, mesmerised as ever by the silent monologuing of Todd’s eyebrows, took a moment to catch up. “Oh, I think Farah found us an insurance company that specialises in acts of reality-altering disaster. Handy, isn’t it?”

Todd’s eyebrows monologued some more, but Dirk’s mind was catching up on other things. “Wait, what do you mean ‘what’s a Cluedo’? Don’t you have that game in America?”

“Game? I don’t – oh. You mean…Clue? Board game, murders, candlesticks in drawing rooms?”

Dirk scoffed. “Clue? That’s hardly original. We call it Cluedo in England, and I’ll have you know it’s an English game, invented by Anthony E Pratt of Birmingham in 1943, so I would posit, vis a vis, that as its source of origin –”

“How do you just. Know that?” asked Todd. “Actually. You know what? Never mind. Why are you talking about Clue?”

Dirk swung his feet off the desk and leaned forward. “Game Night, Todd! We need something new to play, after the…Universe-required but nonetheless unfortunate deaths that followed our last round of Trivial Pursuit, and Cluedo seems perfect for a detective agency bonding exercise, wouldn’t you agree?”

A door clicked open in the next room, and Farah strode in from reception. All ramrod posture and leather boots, she somehow managed to look badass while sorting idly through the mail. When setting up the agency a year ago, Dirk had bestowed Farah with the title ‘benefriend’, which he considered a rather nifty portmanteau of ‘benefactor’ and ‘friend’, but he had to admit that her general demeanour was more ‘bodyguard who cares deeply for those under her protection but finds it difficult to express that love and therefore seeks refuge in exasperated paranoia’. However, he hadn’t yet found a suitable portmanteau for that one, so ‘benefriend’ was what he scribbled on her business cards when she wasn’t looking.

“What’s this about Game Night?” Farah asked, squinting at what appeared to be an ordinary white envelope.

Dirk wiggled excitedly in his chair, which had the unintended side effect of causing it to spin in a lazy circle. “I’ve thought up a new game for us to play!”

“Hmm. Will I need to take out an extra premium on our insurance?”

Dirk hummed. “Possibly. Does our insurance cover Acts of Universe?”

“It will by the time I’m done with those forms.” Dirk bit his lip and Farah narrowed her eyes. “You haven’t touched them, have you?”

Dirk looked at the pile of paper aeroplanes littering the hardwood floor around him. “…No?”

“Dirk thinks we should play Clue,” said Todd quickly. “I’m not so sure. It’s a little…” He shrugged one shoulder and shook his head, standard Todd Body Language for I don’t really know how to convey my emotions in this moment but I hope that with the right combination of movements and scowls I’ll articulate what the listener needs to hear from me. “Right?”

Farah thought about it, tapping the envelope (apparently no longer deemed a threat) against her chin. “I don’t know. It could be…fun.” Farah always said the word ‘fun’ as if it were a foreign term she’d learned from an out-of-date phrasebook and wasn’t quite sure she was using correctly, but Dirk appreciated the effort. “What don’t you like about it?”

“I don’t know.” Todd shrugged again. “It just…seems too much like work, you know?”

Dirk wriggled into a Listening Pose, which may have indicated genuine interest in the topic or may have been an excuse to prop his chin in his hands and stare at Todd. “Oh? How so?”

“Our job is to solve mysteries,” pointed out Todd. “Including some pretty…weird murders. I’m not sure I need to spend my downtime figuring out which rich asshole clubbed someone with a spanner during a game of pool.”

“Billiards,” Dirk corrected him. “It’s the billiard room. I had to infiltrate a country estate once for a case, and it was really quite nice. I think. I wasn’t technically, one might say, invited to the house, per se, so it was hard to tell from where I was hiding behind the gilded mahogany bar, but it seemed like a cosy sort of room until the missing hound I was searching for emerged from under the billiard table and bit the estate owner’s balls.”

“Really not convincing me to play Clue here, Dirk.”

“Wait,” said Farah. “You mean billiard balls, right, Dirk? Not the owner’s…balls balls?”

“Farah,” said Dirk earnestly, “hearing you say ‘balls balls’ may be one of the greatest experiences of my life to date, and Todd has on more than one occasion told me I’m his best friend, so you can understand the kind of competition it’s facing. But no, I’m afraid that I was not referring to the man’s billiard balls.”

Todd made a strangled noise, which by Dirk’s estimation could have meant one of three things: he was distressed about the fate of the estate owner’s genitalia; he was overcome with emotion about being Dirk’s best friend; or he was still reluctant about trying Cluedo on their next Game Night.

Dirk liked the second option very much, but Todd’s next words confirmed it had been the third: “Look, putting aside…billiard balls or whatever, I just don’t see how us playing a board game version of our weird lives is gonna be relaxing.”

“Tooodd,” said Dirk, with the special emphasis he saved for persuading Todd in moments of particular reluctance. Todd, who was wising up to when there was a Persuasion in progress, narrowed his eyes. “It would be professional development, Todd.” Oh, he quite liked that, actually. Professional development. It sounded very…professional. Like the sort of thing people with business cards did. “PROFESSIONAL. DEVELOPMENT. Think of how this will help your detecting.”

“I thought you were the detective,” said Todd.

Dirk puffed up his chest.

“Besides, holistic detecting is bullshit guesswork and luck, not figuring out puzzles based on. You know. Data.”

Dirk deflated. “Rude. You’re never going to be promoted to Ward if you keep devaluing the significance of interconnectedness, Todd. I won’t stand for this demoralising attitude.”

“Look,” said Farah. “I think we can all safely agree that the logical problem solving and deductive reasoning of Clue in no way resembles the structure of our real-life detective agency.”

Dirk’s hand shot up. “Umm, excuse me –”

Farah twitched her brow at him. Dirk retracted his hand and slid down in his seat, arms crossed. Definitely not sulking. Professional detectives with business cards did not sulk.

“But maybe that’s…what we need?” continued Farah. “A night of solving crimes we can figure out with…minimal effort. With minor stress. With…”

Dirk perked up. “Arguable efficiency?”

Farah closed her eyes. Sighed. Opened her eyes. Smiled. “Sure. With arguable efficiency.”

Dirk grinned, good humour restored. Todd still looked unconvinced, but when Dirk turned the grin on him, he averted his eyes and muttered something that sounded like reluctant consent. That was about as much enthusiasm as one could expect from Todd outside wild bursts of case-fuelled obsession, so Dirk considered the whole thing a win.

Todd apparently did, too, because he sighed, tossed the paper aeroplane at Dirk (Farah followed its progress with narrowed eyes), and stood. “I’m gonna go get coffee. Anybody want anything?”

Dirk opened his mouth. Todd held up a hand. “I know you don’t like coffee. Black tea, strong, one sugar, milk.”

Dirk closed his mouth, biting back a smile. Probably not very effectively, judging by the knowing look Farah gave him.

Todd paused in the doorway, apparently struggling within himself over something, and then his shoulders slumped. “Dirk. I have to ask. Why did the…the hound. At the country house. Why did it bite its owner’s balls?”

“Hm? Oh! I’m very glad you asked, Todd.” Dirk wriggled into an Explaining Pose. “It had been trained as a guard dog assigned to protect the treasures of the estate. Bit of a miscommunication in the training process, and it thought it was, er, retrieving the family jewels.”

Todd stared at him with one of those intent expressions he got when Dirk had shared an especially interesting anecdote. Dirk seized the opportunity to admire how exceedingly blue Todd’s eyes were.

“Right,” said Todd, in tones of weariest resignation, and stomped from the room without another word.

A very successful Persuasion all round, Dirk thought.

*

Which was how they came to be solving a frankly unrealistic murder in an ostentatious mansion populated by a mere six people. Daggers? Guns? Rope? Dirk had forgotten how fantastical this game was. Where were the cults, the sharks, the interdimensional travel? Where was the artistry?

“I am merely saying,” announced Dirk, gesturing with the miniature dagger, “that in all my experience of murder, it’s rare for a killer to do anything so pedestrian and uninspired as simply stab someone. I’m willing to suspend a certain amount of disbelief, Farah, but are you really telling me that what was evidently an impulsive crime of passion really took place with a standard-issue weapon, in an empty room, with no witnesses? Without even a single horse present? Really?”

Todd snatched the dagger from him. “Give me that. You’re going to put someone’s eye out.”

“May I remind you, Todd, that this is in fact a very small, very plastic dagger, and not actually designed to wound anyone.”

“If anybody could injure an innocent bystander with a tiny dagger token, it’s you.” In the process of making this accusation, Todd managed to poke himself in the finger. He dropped the dagger with a wince.

Dirk pointed at him. “Ah ha!”

“Shut up and roll the damn dice.”

Aside from these minor quibbles, the game was going remarkably well. They were playing at the coffee table in the agency’s living area, a snug nook of whitewashed panelling and soft carpet beside the arched doorway of the kitchen. Dirk had snagged the role of Colonel Mustard, his penchant for yellow winning out over his aversion to military types, and Farah had taken Professor Plum, deeming him a respectable, benignly authoritarian figure. Blue being Todd’s best colour, Dirk had urged him to be Mrs Peacock. “The only peacock in this agency is you,” Todd had grumbled, but he’d taken the blue token. Possibly he’d acquiesced so that nobody would try to make him Mrs White, the role of frilly-capped maid uncomfortably close to memories of being a bow-tied bellhop. Todd did not particularly enjoy low-paid and highly costumed service roles, Dirk had noticed.

They were playing what the box proclaimed to be “The Classic Detective Game”, which Dirk took to mean the standard version among a bewildering array of spinoffs. His experience of Cluedo was limited, given that he had never previously had friends who stayed in his life long enough to do things like play board games with him on rainy evenings. He was mostly going on what he’d observed during a case back in England, when he’d found himself uncomfortably folded up in the vents of a suburban home one night while the family played board games on the kitchen table below. There hadn’t been much to do while he waited for the flying pig to appear and reveal which of the family members was actually an intergalactic assassin in disguise (incidentally, it had turned out to be all of them, each from a different galaxy and unaware that the others were aliens), so he’d watched Cluedo play out with some interest, his face squashed up against the vents as he tried to deduce whether Mrs White could have used a secret passageway to commit murder in the study before fleeing back to the kitchen for her alibi.

Farah, on confirming that they would attempt Cluedo during their next Game Night, had begun researching the various versions, only to have her preparations foiled by Dirk stumbling across The Classic Detective Game in a previously unnoticed cupboard near the kitchen. Farah had, to use a popular colloquial term, lost her shit at the realisation that the agency offices contained an entire storage unit she’d never come across in her security checks. Todd’s reassurances that it was “all chill” hadn’t done a great deal to calm her, and Dirk had finally explained that the sudden materialisation of a well-stocked games cupboard was probably a sign of holistic significance. He was less than pleased about the Universe interfering with Game Night, given that the Universe didn’t provide favours without strings attached, but Farah at least had been soothed.

The upshot of all this was that Mrs Peacock was currently accusing Colonel Mustard of murder in the kitchen, which Dirk was trying not to take personally, while Professor Plum was methodically making his way to the lounge after having scouted the study and hall as potential crime scenes.

“Really, Todd?” demanded Dirk, flinging out his arms. His hand narrowly missed a beer bottle on the coffee table. “You’re going to accuse me of murder, after all we’ve been through?”

“I mean, apart from the fact this is literally a game, I’ve seen you kill multiple people, Dirk.”

Dirk spluttered. “Never with a candlestick, though!”

“That’s what you’re objecting to here?”

“You’ve just shown that you think me capable of clobbering someone to death with an archaic ornament in a place where food is prepared. That is not merely brutal; it is unhygienic. I’m a little shaken that my best friend would believe something like that of me, so forgive me if I’m getting hung up on details.”

“Oh, sorry.” Todd crossed his arms. “Would you prefer I accuse the kitten in the penthouse with the weaponised shark soul?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“Guys,” said Farah, scrunching her eyes shut. She tapped her pencil sharply against the piece of paper on which she was making notes. “Can we move on? I have theories to test in the conservatory. Dirk, just show Todd a card that proves you’re innocent, all right?”

Huffily, Dirk withdrew the kitchen card from his deck and tossed it on the table.

“Dirk,” sighed Farah. “You know I’m not supposed to see the card, right?”

“I had a point to prove, Farah.” Nonetheless, Dirk scooped up the card and tucked it out of sight.

Todd, making notes on his own slip of paper, barely looked up. “Farah, I think it’s your turn?”

Farah muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Thank God” and rolled the dice.

Dirk reached for a slice of pizza and gnawed sulkily on a string of cheese as Farah progressed to the conservatory. Her theory involved Todd – er, Mrs Peacock – bludgeoning the victim with a spanner, and Dirk didn’t appreciate how pointedly calm Todd was as he faced down her accusations. “Of course, Farah,” he said, staring meaningfully at Dirk as he showed Farah a card that Dirk couldn’t see. “I’ll be happy to prove my innocence, but I also understand why you need to check my alibi.” Dirk threw a piece of pepperoni at him.

Still, it was nice playing a game with friends. Well, doing anything with friends, really. Dirk had dashed through the lives of more people than he could count, but he had never imagined this scenario: curled up on the couch of his very own Holistic Detective Agency on a cool Seattle evening, bickering amicably with his best friends as rain thrummed outside. The pizza was hot, the beer was cold, and Dirk was solving a murder with the people he loved most in the world.

It would have been nice if Mona could have joined the game, if only so Dirk had an ally in spats with Todd, but she was abstaining from extracurricular activities while she settled into life at the agency. Which was to say: right now, she was a fluorescent tennis ball on the windowsill.

Dirk was fairly confident the tennis ball was Mona’s current form, partly because it changed colours regularly to match his jackets and partly because it had developed a pair of googly eyes earlier in the evening and was now angled as if to watch the rain pattering against the window. You could never be too sure of things, of course, but Mona did have a penchant for googly eyes. She’d once grown several pairs while acting the part of a cushion on the couch; this had somewhat alarmed Todd, who still didn’t know about her existence and had been napping with his head on the cushion at the time.

That was the other thing: Mona hadn’t elected yet to introduce herself to Todd and Farah. This didn’t worry Dirk, who was certain they’d all get along beautifully when they did meet. Todd was perfect, and Farah was incredible, and Mona was brilliant – how could they not all be the best of friends? But if Mona wanted time to adjust to the new environment, Dirk was happy to wait. In the meantime, he quite enjoyed coming up with evasive explanations for the various roles she was trying out around the office. Justifying the existence of a scarecrow in the bathroom had been a particularly challenging exercise.

The game continued, the pizza slices dwindled, and the beer turned things pleasantly fuzzy enough that Dirk spent several moments reflecting on how Mrs Peacock’s blue token really did match Todd’s eyes perfectly. Farah interrupted this reverie when she said, sharply, “Wait. You’ve solved it?”

Dirk straightened guiltily, almost falling off the couch where he sat cross legged, and blurted, “Yes! I mean. No? I will solve it, of course, because that’s what I do. I’m a holistic detective who follows the. Things. The threads! Of coinky-dinks. In order to, um. Keep the bad things from. Well, happening. Interconnectedness, and all that.”

Hm. That hadn’t sounded quite as competent as he’d hoped. Perhaps he’d had more beer than he realised. Should he perform a “Did it!” snap to reassure his agency colleagues that he was in fact a very capable, mystery-solving professional? It would help if he knew what he’d solved, though.

Farah and Todd stared at him. “Not you, Dirk,” said Farah. She squinted at him, then reached out to confiscate his beer bottle. Probably for the best.

Dirk decided to conduct the remainder of this conversation with his head resting on the coffee table. He slithered off the couch and dropped his forehead onto the cool wooden surface.

“If not me, then who?” he asked, turning his head to speak to Farah as he hugged the table leg.

“Todd,” said Farah, directing her gaze across the table in what one might call a piercing look.

“Todd,” agreed Dirk, turning his head in the other direction without lifting it from the table. “Perfect, perfect Todd. Have you solved a murder, Todd? You’re so clever. And perfect.”

Todd made an indecipherable noise and looked down at the board. His face had turned red; perhaps he’d drunk too much beer as well. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered. “I’ve figured out the answer. Can we just finish the game?”

“Farah seems cross,” observed Dirk. He turned his head on the table to look at her. The room lurched pleasantly, but Todd and Farah didn’t seem to notice. “Why are you cross, Farah?”

“I’m not – not cross,” said Farah, in a tone that Dirk would definitely have described as ‘cross’. “I’m just. Surprised. That Todd would reach a conclusion about the prime suspect, murder weapon, and crime scene before those of us who have been carefully compiling clues and data for the last half hour.”

Dirk squinted at her. “Farah. Are you…jealous that Todd solved the mystery before you did?”

Farah looked at Dirk in a way that made him newly relieved weapons had been banned from Game Night. “Let’s just hear Todd’s thoughts, all right?”

Dirk nodded frantically, a somewhat uncomfortable manoeuvre with his head still resting on the coffee table. Todd sighed, dragged Dirk by his shoulder into a sitting position, and grabbed the small paper packet labelled ‘Case file: CONFIDENTIAL’ from its place on the gameboard Cellar.

“Okay, so I accuse Professor Plum with the candlestick in the library,” said Todd, in the tone of one trying to get through a trying experience as quickly and painlessly as possible.

“Hmm?” Dirk, still reliving the feeling of Todd’s hand on his shoulder, stared blankly. “What was that, Todd?”

Todd, grimly muttering something that Dirk decided not to hear, shook out the packet. Three cards – the solution to the mystery – fluttered to the carpet.

Dirk picked them up, definitely not wobbling as he did so, and tilted his head. “Hate to be a bother, Todd, but could you clarify a minor point for me? Perhaps I misheard. You did accuse Sir Salmon of committing a homicide with the toothpick in the ivory tower, is that correct?”

Todd’s brows reached a whole new level of scrunchiness, which under other circumstances Dirk would have found mesmerising. “God, Dirk, how drunk are you? Those aren’t even options in the game. It was Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick.”

“Wait, do you mean the library had a candlestick, or the peach person?” Dirk gasped and turned to Farah. “Wait, you’re the peach person! Todd thinks you did it? Farah, I’m so sorry.”

“Give me that.” Todd snatched the trio of cards and held them outwards to face Dirk and Farah. “See? Plum. Library. Candlestick. Now, can someone hand me another beer, please?”

Farah and Dirk stared at the cards. Todd stared at them staring at the cards. Then he turned the cards around and stared at those instead.

A long silence.

“Who the fuck,” demanded Todd, “is Sir Salmon?”

Chapter Text

The next morning broke dim and drizzly over Seattle. In honour of the new case, Dirk had slipped into a violet jacket and a Chevrolet Camaro to match. The source of the car wasn’t important, Dirk had assured Todd, only that it was a suitable shade of electric purple, and they were now zipping along the grey streets at what he had informed Farah was a perfectly respectable speed.

“I should’ve known,” said Todd from the front passenger seat, ominously and apropos of nothing.

“Probably,” agreed Dirk, who was nothing if not supportive of his friends. “Er, known what, exactly?”

Todd gripped the glovebox tighter as Dirk swerved around an inconveniently placed lamppost. “I should’ve known there’s no such thing as a simple game of Clue for us. Or a simple Game Night. We’re an agency that solves weird shit no one else will. Of course the Universe won’t just let us stay in with beers and pizza and a board game for one damn night.”

Dirk tried not to smile too widely at Todd’s use of ‘us’, but it was difficult. These sorts of conversations – and Dirk had had many of them throughout his life – usually went more along the lines of “It’s your fault” and “There’s no such thing as normal when you’re around, Dirk.” When had frustrated parties ever included him as a fellow sufferer, rather than pointed to him as the cause of the problem? When had someone – someone he cared about, no less – ever complained because they wanted to spend time relaxing with him over pizza and it was the Universe getting in the way? This ‘having friends’ business was a heady thing.

“Dirk? Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, of course! I’m listening attentively, like a very attentive listening man.” Dirk presented Todd with his most studious Listening Face, then remembered Farah in the backseat and quickly turned his head towards the road. Farah rarely allowed Dirk to take the wheel; she’d only agreed today because she wanted to sort through evidence, and Todd was supposed to avoid driving due to the risk of a pararibulitis attack. Dirk, figuring he was on thin ice, was making performative attempts to drive cautiously.

“Yeah, you looked real attentive,” said Todd. “Anyway, maybe we should just, I don’t know, forget about this whole Game Night thing. Game nights are for…normal people. People who can play cards without aquatic royalty swimming up through the toilet and accusing them of stealing a trident.”

“We agreed we’d never talk about Go Fish,” said Farah sharply from the back seat. Todd held up his hands placatingly. Dirk, pondering Todd’s words, veered idly around a stop sign, and Todd returned his hands to gripping the glovebox.

“Well, maybe we just aren’t picking the right games,” said Dirk as a passing cyclist somersaulted out of the way, wheels whirling.

“I think we’ve tried every game under the sun at this point,” said Todd wearily.

“What about poker?” asked Dirk. “I have a fantastic poker face.”

Todd and Farah were silent. Very loudly silent.

Perhaps he’d oversold things. “It would be a challenge to play against me, I admit, but wouldn’t that just make the game more fun?”

Todd made a noise best described as a ‘mangled groan’, but that might have been because Dirk was zigzagging around a poorly placed set of traffic lights.

“You have…a fantastic. Poker face?” repeated Farah, very thoughtfully, as if weighing each word.

“Mm-hmm! ‘Inscrutable’, I’ve been told. Or was it ‘inexplicable’?” Dirk squinted at the roof of the car. “Perhaps ‘incapable’?”

“Dirk.”

“Yes, Todd?”

“…Dirk.”

“…Yes, Todd?”

“I…you…Dirk. You have the worst poker face I’ve ever seen. Your face goes through more expressions in a minute than most people’s do in a year.”

“I don’t know how else to describe this, but somehow you grin with your entire body,” said Farah from the back seat.

“I’m subtle!” protested Dirk. “I can be deceptive and inscrutable!” He honked the car horn for emphasis. The noise apparently startled some people exchanging goods for cash in a nearby alleyway, and they scattered like a small flock of birds.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Dirk. He stuck his head out the window and yelled after them, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to break up your drug deal!”

He pulled his head back into the car. “Anyway, I’m very discrete. You’d be surprised how well I can deceive people when I want…to…” He trailed off, suddenly painfully aware of Todd in the seat beside him. And not the heart-skittering, hands-trembling, faintly-nauseous-but-somehow-in-a-nice-way awareness he usually felt around Todd. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Todd, now very still, staring straight ahead through the windshield. Words hung unspoken in the space between them: Monster. Lied. Just to have a friend.

Farah, oblivious to the fraught memories now hanging in the air, sighed. “Sure, Dirk. You’re a real master of deception. While you’re practising your poker face, maybe we can go through the details of the case?”

“Yes, excellent plan!” Dirk squeezed the steering wheel and determinedly did not look at Todd. “Amazing Farah, always coming up with efficient plans. Hit me!”

“Don’t tempt her,” muttered Todd. He sounded…normal. Calm. Not as if he were reconsidering his friendship with Dirk and planning to leave the agency for good as soon as the car stopped. Dirk loosened his grip on the steering wheel and breathed out shakily.

“I’ll keep this to a brief summary, since I assume you read the dossier.”

Dirk and Todd exchanged sideways glances. They had not read the dossier.

“Fact number one.” Farah cleared her throat. “Clue – or Cluedo, if you’re Dirk – involves six suspects, six murder weapons, and nine rooms. Each is represented by a playing card, and at the start of the game, three of the cards are set aside in a confidential envelope over a tenth room, the Cellar. These cards represent the who, where, and how of the crime – the homicide of a Mr Boddy.”

“Mr Boddy? That’s rather on the nose,” said Dirk.

“Fact number two: when we played the game, the three cards in our envelope were somehow swapped out for a suspect, room, and weapon we’d never heard of.” In the rearview mirror, Dirk saw Farah pull three cards out of a folder and stare down at them with the intensity she reserved for puzzles, challenges, and a certain Bergsberg police officer.

“Clue’s taken many forms over the years,” said Farah, “but none of my research turned up references to a Sir Salmon, a toothpick, or an ivory tower, which suggests those options have never existed in any version of the game. More importantly, I did an inventory of the cards myself when setting up the game last night; we definitely had all the correct ones and no extras when we started. The three that I put in the envelope therefore should have been part of the regular deck.” She paused, then added grudgingly, “The missing cards are Professor Plum, the library, and the candlestick, which suggests that Todd was right about the solution.”

Todd made a mild noise. Dirk, who considered himself fluent in Todd Sounds as well as Todd Body Language, interpreted this as I knew I was right but like hell am I baiting Farah about it. Such well-developed survival instincts were one of many reasons Todd made such a perfect assistant, Dirk reflected.

“Unless they were somehow transformed into these new cards, the three originals are gone.” Farah’s wry smile flashed in the mirror. “I’m guessing we don’t have a shapeshifter around, so I think we can rule out the transformation option.”

Todd sighed and sunk down in his seat. “Don’t even joke about that. Anything’s possible for us.”

Dirk drummed his fingers uneasily on the steering wheel but said nothing. He had wondered last night if Mona had decided to join them in the form of some against-regulation playing cards. However, a glance at the windowsill had confirmed that the fluorescent tennis ball was where he’d last seen it, though the googly eyes had turned curiously towards them.

This case did seem to have drawn Mona’s interest, however, as the tennis ball – now boasting decorative tassels – was swinging from the rearview mirror. Todd, who had developed a minor phobia of googly eyes after the cushion incident, had narrowed his eyes at it when entering the car but made no comment.

“Fact number three – and this is where it gets interesting,” said Farah. Dirk could hear the tinge of excitement in her voice, that slight tremble that meant she was feeling the thrill of the case but trying not to let her professional demeanour crack.

“It wasn’t already interesting?” muttered Todd.

“I did some digging and found not a board game, but a real-life murder that matched the details of the case.”

“Wait, seriously?” Todd had apparently forgotten that he was supposed to know this from the dossier, because he twisted around in his seat to stare at Farah. “Someone was murdered with a toothpick? How the hell do you kill with a toothpick?”

“Not quite,” said Farah. Dirk heard paper crinkle as she rifled through documents. “What I found was news about a suspicious death last month. It happened at an estate called Ivory Towers, two hours outside of Seattle.”

“Oh, is that where we’re going?” asked Dirk.

Todd squinted at him. “Dirk. You’re the one driving.”

Dirk scoffed. “Doesn’t mean I know where I’m going, Todd, you silly man. Farah told me to drive, so I’m driving. I’m sure we’ll eventually end up wherever we need to be.”

“…Remind me to program the GPS when we’ve left the city,” said Farah. “Anyway, a man turned up dead in mysterious circumstances at this estate. The victim’s name?” She paused significantly. “Sir Salmon.”

“Oh, you are shitting me,” said Todd.

“I mean, it’s not the best name, Todd, but there’s no call to be rude,” said Dirk.

“What? No. No, I mean I can’t believe the cards that magically turned up in our board game last night show a real murder victim and the place he died.”

“Oh, yes, that is a bit strange.” Dirk chewed his lip, thinking. “And he was the victim, not the murderer? I thought the cards were supposed to show the suspect. Shouldn’t the person who died be this…Mr Boddy?”

“We don’t have enough facts yet to draw any conclusions,” said Farah, “but my current hypothesis is that the cards are…bait, essentially. Someone wants us to look into this murder, and they used Clue to get us there. Whether that means Sir Salmon is actually a suspect, or whether he was a victim and the card is just to get our attention, I don’t know.” A meaningful pause. “But I intend to find out.”

“Where does the toothpick come into it?” asked Todd. “Is that what killed this Salmon guy?”

“That’s the thing,” said Farah. “He just fell over dead at a dinner party one night. Cause of death unknown. It was ruled a probable accident and the investigation was closed, but I can’t find any indications that it was, say, an allergic reaction. And if they’re not sure – well, what do dinner parties put you in mind of?”

“Toothpicks,” sighed Todd.

“Drinks with little umbrellas in them,” said Dirk at the same time. Another loud silence. “Er, and toothpicks, yes. Excellent assisting, Todd.”

Todd straightened abruptly out of his slouch. “Wait, so if the cards are bait – does that mean this is a trap?” He stared at Farah over his shoulder. “Are we driving into a trap right now?”

In the mirror, Dirk noticed a glint of light on metal: Farah was checking the gun in her holster. “I’m operating on the assumption that this is a trap, yes.” Her voice took on a steely tone. “Fortunately, I like traps. I enjoy dismantling them.”

“Farah, have I informed you lately how very much I appreciate your being on our side?” asked Dirk admiringly.

Todd sighed and slunk down in his seat again. “Fucking traps,” he muttered. “I hate traps. If this is like the thing with the cult of cocktail-drinking centaurs, I swear to God…”

Farah had apparently decided not to address Todd’s constructive feedback at this time, because she continued as if she hadn’t heard: “So I contacted the estate and set up a meeting with the housekeeper. I told her an interested party who preferred to remain anonymous had hired us to investigate.”

“Well, that’s certainly one way to describe the Universe!” Dirk raised his eyebrows. “And she bought it? Goodness, I should try that more often.”

“What, asking people to let you into their houses, instead of breaking in?”

Dirk sniffed. “No need to take that tone, Todd. It worked out perfectly well for us.”

*

Ivory Towers was a sprawling mansion on the edge of lush forest, framed by mountains. It took them three hours to drive there, which…may have been due to Dirk getting lost on the winding woodland roads. He couldn’t muster any regrets about the delay, though. Driving among the towering trees and overgrown vines reminded him with a pang of his and Todd’s first case, a year ago now, when they had wandered among forest much like this and Todd had called him “my friend” for the first time.

Dirk could feel the buzz of an approaching case, that not-quite-psychic anticipation building in pressure like a familiar and not-quite-painful headache between his eyebrows. In the past, this feeling had been a necessary evil, not rejected but not particularly welcome, either. Now, with his assisfriend by his side and his benefriend behind him, Dirk found the prospect of a case much more exciting. He’d spent the last twenty minutes of the drive fairly vibrating in his seat; when the Chevrolet turned a bend and the estate came into view, he slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt. This elicited some mutterings from Todd, which Dirk ignored as he clambered out of the driver’s seat and stretched, admiring the stately gables and manicured gardens he could glimpse in the shallow valley below.

Mona, who had transformed into an ice cream-shaped tie pin somewhere around their second rest stop, buzzed against his collar.

“I agree,” Dirk murmured to her. “Lovely topiaries, but I much prefer our cosy apartment. Having a home makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”

Todd, sneakers crunching on the road, came to stand beside him. “False advertising,” he said, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth.

Dirk blinked rapidly, hoping the way his heart pounded at the sight of that smile wasn’t audible to Todd’s ears. “Hm?”

“The mansion,” said Todd. He stuffed his hands into his jean pockets and shrugged towards the estate below. “It’s called Ivory Towers. No towers that I can see.”

“Oh!” Now Dirk blinked down at the mansion instead. “You’re right. It’s all eaves and gables and…pointy attics, isn’t it? Very grand, in a Tudor mansion sort of way.”

“Which is a pretty fucking weird ‘sort of way’ for the forests of Washington State,” pointed out Todd. “This place looks like it fell out of…I don’t know, a Miss Marple episode. Not exactly normal for this part of the world.”

“Leaving aside the revelation that you apparently watch Miss Marple adaptations, which we must examine in detail later, I agree.” Dirk squinted down at the estate. “Like something out of Miss Marple…or Cluedo. Does this, by any chance, put you in mind of the board game we were playing last night? I would posit that this exterior belongs to the sort of home that might hold within its gables – oh, say, a library and conservatory and ballroom. Just as examples.”

Todd muttered something, probably about the institution of landed gentry being a classist forerunner of late-stage capitalism, but Dirk was too busy internally connecting dots to pay attention. He chewed his lip, staring into the distance, then nodded decisively and patted Todd’s shoulder.

“All right, Todd! Let’s go solve a murder. Maybe even multiple murders!” He wheeled around and strode to Farah, who stood beside the passenger door, checking the bullets in one of her guns.

“Why multiple murders?” asked Farah warily, squinting down at the rooftops of Ivory Towers.

“Well, these things so often come in twos or threes or tens,” said Dirk. “Farah, do you have those playing cards from last night?”

“Of course.” She pulled them from her leather jacket, looked at Dirk, then added, “Don’t lose them.”

Dirk scoffed as he took the cards, then promptly dropped them. Farah sighed.

Sheepishly, Dirk picked up the cards and dusted off the dirt. They looked just like any others from last night’s deck: plain white background, name in the top and bottom corners, picture in the middle. Sir Salmon appeared to be a middle-aged white man with pink cheeks and a mop of pinker hair. In keeping with the Cluedo aesthetic, his bow tie and suit were also the colour that matched his name.

“Why did it have to be pink?” sighed Dirk.

The Toothpick card showed a sliver of wood – not much to unpack there. The Ivory Tower, however, drew Dirk’s interest. Its illustration displayed the front of an old-fashioned mansion, all sharp gables and cross-hatched windows. A winding driveway, lined with hedges, swooped off the edge of the card.

Dirk trotted back to the side of the road, ignoring the sharp drop a few steps away (and Todd’s even sharper call to “Stand back from the drop, Dirk, Jesus Christ”), and held the card out before him at arm’s length as he surveyed the mansion below. He closed one eye, then the other, then opened them both wide and nodded.

“I knew it!” he said, smugly tossing the cards to Farah as he arrived back at the car.

Todd fumbled as he caught them, and Dirk blinked at him. “Oh. You’re not Farah. Where’s Farah?”

“Here,” called Farah, and Dirk turned to see her sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Rude!” protested Dirk, crouching down to scowl at her through the front passenger window. “I was driving, Farah!”

“And now you’re not,” she said, apparently impervious to Dirk’s best Pleading And Betrayed Face. Unfair; that look always worked on Todd. “I’ve finished going over the case files, and now we’re about to descend a steep hill on winding, unreliable roads. I. Am. Driving.”

There was no arguing with Farah when she was in a fragment sentences frame of mind, so Dirk sulkily folded himself into the backseat. Todd settled beside Farah, and they took off for the estate at what Dirk considered an unnecessarily leisurely pace.

*

As Dirk had surmised, the hedge-lined driveway of Ivory Towers swooped up to a house exactly like the one pictured on the playing card.

“Right down to the cross-hatched windows!” he announced from the backseat – perhaps a little loudly and inexplicably, because Todd jumped. “Farah, what’s the housekeeper’s name? The one you arranged for us to meet?”

“Madame Nidae,” said Farah, eyes scanning the clipped hedges as she drove slowly up the long gravel drive. “Her first name was unusual…Phasia, I think?”

“Phasia Nidae,” said Dirk. “Phasia Nidae…ah! Like the bird! She must be the peacock!”

“The what?” spluttered Todd.

“In the scientific classification of animalia, Phasianidae is the family into which heavy, ground-living birds are categorised. This includes pheasants, partridges, junglefowl, chickens, turkeys, Old World quail, and peafowl. Eye ee, Todd: peacocks!”

“How the hell do you just know things like that?”

“Todd, I am a holistic detective. I follow the interconnected signposts and trails of the Universe, which lead me into situations most people can only imagine. Cases often require me to learn obscure esoterica that will prove vital to my investigations, thus ideally saving my life and the lives of those around me. Is it really still so strange to you that I might possess a highly specific and yet surprisingly useful set of facts at my disposal?”

“Well. I mean. I guess.”

“Also, you have Wikipedia on your phone,” murmured Farah. Dirk looked up to see her raising an eyebrow at him in the rearview mirror. Drat: she must be able to see the device in his hand.

“Spoilsport,” he said, pulling a face at her. “Yes, fine, all right, in this case I checked Wikipedia. But my point stands!”

“You asshole.” Todd turned in his seat to give Dirk an unimpressed – but, Dirk liked to think, fond – look. “You really had me feeling guilty there.”

Dirk considered pointing out that it wasn’t exactly difficult to spark Todd’s guilt complex – that, in fact, Todd tended to feel guilty about many things nobody wanted him to because we care about your mental wellbeing and would prefer it if you didn’t hate yourself, Todd – but decided to save the psychoanalysis for another day. Instead, he read out loud from the Wikipedia page on his phone: “Peafowl is a common name for three species of birds in the genera Pavo and Afropavo of the Phasianidae family, the pheasants and their allies. Male peafowl are referred to as peacocks, and female peafowl as peahens, though peafowl of either sex are often referred to colloquially as ‘peacocks.’”

“Fascinating,” said Todd, in a tone that implied otherwise. “And relevant how?”

“Peacocks, Todd! I’d think you of all people would make the connection.”

Todd bristled. “Why me?”

“Because you were Mrs Peacock in last night’s game,” said Dirk patiently, as he tucked his phone into his jacket pocket and eyed the mansion they were pulling up in front of. “Just like Farah was, er, Dr Peach.”

“Professor Plum,” Farah corrected him. “You think there’s a connection? Equivalent characters from the game, living here in real life?”

Dirk steepled his fingers, which he felt gave him a pensive and detective-y vibe, even if Farah and Todd technically weren’t looking at him. “There’s always a connection, Farah.” He coughed. “So that’s my working hypothesis, yes. I wonder what other Cluedo characters we might come across in Ivory Towers?”

“We’re about to find out,” sighed Farah as she killed the engine. Someone was emerging from the front doors and traipsing down the front steps towards their car. Dirk assessed the person approaching: swishy blue dress, cat-eye glasses, medium height, tawny beige skin. Vivid green hair in a neat bob, one half tucked back with a clip shaped like a peacock’s feather.

He stuck his head out the window. “Madame Phasia Nidae, I presume!”

The newcomer jumped and nodded, stopping a few feet away from the car. “Are you the detectives?” she called. Her voice had a faintly French lilt.

“I am the detective!” announced Dirk, tumbling out the door in his eagerness to introduce himself. He brandished a business card. “Dirk Gently, holistic detective. Missing cats and messy journeys of self-discovery a speciality. This is my assisfriend, Todd, and benefriend, Farah –”

“Business partner,” interjected Farah, striding around the purple Chevrolet to join them. She threw Dirk a pointed look. “His business partner, Farah.”

“Yes, yes, that.” Dirk flapped a hand, then passed three or four of his business cards to Madame Nidae. “We’re here to investigate your murder! I mean, not your murder. Hopefully you aren’t dead yet! No judgement if you are, of course, but it does tend to make the paperwork unnecessarily messy, so we would need to charge extra in that event. For now, though, I should clarify that we are here to investigate not your murder, personally, but the murder that occurred within the house you’re…keeping.” He paused. “If you’d also like us to solve your own murder, in the event that you are dead, we can squeeze that into our schedule after this investigation is complete.”

Farah’s look had progressed from pointed to murderous, though why she would be annoyed was beyond Dirk. Wasn’t it good professional practice to advertise your availability for future jobs? Perhaps she preferred to do all the spruiking for the agency, being an efficient and business-minded person. Well, no matter – he could help her out from time to time. Dirk shrugged and handed Madame Nidae another business card for good measure.

“I, er. Yes. Thank you. For coming to investigate Sir Salmon’s murder, I mean. Well, his…death. We aren’t really sure if it was a homicide, you see…”

She said something else, probably introductions or niceties or one of those other things people did when you drove up to their house ready to solve a murder or three, but Dirk tuned out. The not-quite-psychic headache that had been brewing at the centre of his forehead had suddenly escalated into a overwhelming pressure; it flared only momentarily but left a persistent itch of awareness in its wake, the familiar thrum of a hunch in progress. He frowned and tilted his head, staring around the grounds as Farah and Todd spoke to the housekeeper.

Ivory Towers had well-kept gardens: lush lawns, sculpted topiaries, the sort of fountain that managed to make an unabashedly pissing angel look elegant and baroque. Something told him the gardens weren’t important to the case, though. The itch was urging him towards the house. The house was important. He needed to be inside the house.

Dirk took off towards the door, trotting up the broad stone steps so eagerly he almost tripped. Vaguely he registered Todd and Farah making alarmed noises behind him, but if Dirk had been in the habit of listening to people who were trying to stop him from barrelling uninvited into strangers’ houses and/or crime scenes, he wouldn’t have made it very far as a holistic detective.

Madame Nidae had left the front door open behind her. Technically it was a front doors: they formed an enormous, wooden arch inlaid with stained-glass panels. Dirk strode past them, and the second he arrived in the entrance hall beyond, an overwhelming sense of rightness told him he was where he was meant to be.

The urgency of his hunch eased off, and Dirk spun on his heel to see where his friends were. Farah appeared to be reassuring a concerned Madame Nidae out on the front steps, but Todd had followed Dirk into the house and was right behind him. Dirk determinedly did not feel a warm hum of affection at this display of loyalty. (One day, perhaps, he would grow used to the glorious, strangely painful knowledge that Todd was constantly willing to follow Dirk into any situation. One day, perhaps. But he doubted it.)

“Don’t run off like that,” said Todd in a low, fierce voice. “You scared me. I mean – Farah. Me and Farah. You scared us both.”

Dirk spread his hands wide, unable to hide the grin he could feel stretching his face. Todd’s mouth twitched, as if he instinctively wanted to smile back but was trying not to.

“What?” asked Todd. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what, Todd? I always look like this.”

“Like a – a circus ringmaster about to bring out the knife-throwing wheel. You’re excited about something, and you can’t wait to tell me. What is it?”

Dirk’s grin was going to hurt his face if it stretched any further. “Todd, I am delighted to inform you that we” – he flung his arms out wider – “have been called here by the Universe, into a house that is the embodiment of last night’s board game.”

Todd absorbed this more easily than Dirk had expected, but perhaps it was the inevitable conclusion to all that had brought them here. Or perhaps it just took more to surprise Todd these days.

“Okay, fine.” Todd kicked at a gleaming tile and scowled around the hall. “So this is Clue. Is it too much to hope the solution is waiting for us in the cellar? All wrapped up in a folder full of answers?”

Dirk pouted. “I don’t think it works like that, Todd.”

Todd shook his head, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “That’s pretty unfair. We get thrown into a – what? A living gameboard? But we don’t get the easy part of the game. We get the board, the murder, the suspects, but we have to do all the work ourselves. Why, if it’s all predetermined anyway?”

“Who said it’s predetermined?” Dirk rubbed between his eyes. The faint buzz of his hunch was telling him there was still more to this than there seemed. “I think the living gameboard thing is only one aspect of this case. There’s something else going on, and I think the Cluedo part is mostly just…aesthetic. Window dressing.” He paused. “Or bait, like Farah said. Maybe both!”

“So we’re in a game but not a game?” Todd appeared distinctly unimpressed. “How exactly do we play, then?”

Dirk had some thoughts about that, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease Todd a little. “Just because you’re in a game doesn’t mean you don’t choose your moves,” he said with a certain degree of smugness.

Todd narrowed his eyes, a sure sign that he recognised the words. “If we’re going to recycle conversations from when we first met, maybe I should remind you that the Zen Master stuff worked a lot better before I realised you were full of shit,” he said, but that smile was pulling the corner of his mouth again.

“Fair enough,” returned Dirk. Todd’s smile broadened.

This was one game where Dirk would happily have chosen some new moves, but unfortunately he had no idea of the rules. Matters of the heart, unlike board games, did not come with instruction booklets. This…thing between him and Todd. It felt sometimes like a game, like a board of finite options he could learn his way around if given enough time and rolls of the dice; but other times it felt too huge, too real, too incomprehensible. Cluedo, according to Dirk’s reliable source Wikipedia, possessed 324 possible solutions; by contrast, every romantic interaction with Todd presented infinite possibilities, and very few of them – by Dirk’s estimation – ended in a win.

Cluedo he could stand to lose; Todd he could not. So onwards they moved, ever rolling the dice, ever edging towards something, with Dirk only five percent sure they were even playing the same game. 

*

Farah and Madame Nidae joined them while Dirk was poking around the Hall and Todd was shuffling after him, trying to ensure Dirk didn’t break any priceless antiques. He did this mostly by reaching out to grab Dirk’s wrist any time he thought they were straying too close to an expensive-looking vase, so Dirk was making a point to endanger as many heirlooms as he could.

Farah cleared her throat and they turned, Dirk plastering on his most innocent expression, Todd clutching Dirk’s hand with a harried look. A vase rattled incriminatingly on its plinth behind them.

“Madame Nidae has given us permission to look around the house,” said Farah, eying them with what Dirk recognised as her I am begging you to please be good face. “She can also introduce us to the other people who were present the night Sir Salmon died; they all live here, so they’re still in the house.”

“Well, some are in the house,” said Madame Nidae, glancing out the still-open doors. “I think Herb and Liz are in the gardens. It might take me a while to find them.” Absently, she touched the peacock-feather clip in her hair.

Dirk recognised a nervous gesture when he saw one. “Thank you, Madame Nidae!” he said, giving her his most winning smile. “That’s so helpful. You must be an incredible housekeeper to keep track of everything that happens in a place this size.”

She blinked at him, clearly startled, then her face softened. “Call me Phasia,” she said, lowering her hand from the clip.

“I would be delighted to!”

Todd looked around the Hall. “So should we just explore the house while you round up the suspects?”

“Suspects?” Phasia’s hand flew to her hairclip again. Dirk noticed the edge of a tattoo on her inner wrist, peeking out of her long sleeve, but couldn’t see enough to make out the design.

“People who were present at Sir Salmon’s death,” said Farah quickly. “The witnesses who might be able to answer a few questions we have.”

“Oh.” She looked at Todd. “Should I take you to the dining room?”

“Uh, sure?” Todd shuffled his feet. “I’m not really hungry, but –”

“Ah, no – it’s where Sir Salmon died.” Phasia’s gaze fixed on the middle distance, as if seeing something Dirk and his friends couldn’t. “We were all eating dinner when he suddenly collapsed over the canapés, made a terrible gurgling noise, and died facedown in the spinach-and-cream-cheese bites.”

“Okay, now I’m really not hungry,” Todd muttered to Dirk, who stifled a smile.

“So I suppose the dining room is the, um, crime scene,” continued Phasia. Green hair smacked her cheeks as she shook her head, apparently snapping back to the present. “If you’re going to look around the house while I find everyone, you should probably start there.”

Dirk nodded. To play Cluedo, after all, one must go from room to room, eliminating possibilities. It made sense to play reality in the same way. A little frisson of rightness told him that his hunch agreed.

“Okay,” said Farah, squaring her shoulders with the relief she displayed whenever she’d been given a purpose. “Good plan. Let me get my spare guns from the car.”

“Spare guns?” Phasia’s eyes widened.

“Just a precaution,” Farah assured her, striding towards the front doors. Her boots clicked against the polished tiles. “I prefer to have a good supply of defences on hand in case I – shit!”

Dirk sputtered. “Sorry, Farah, in case you what?”

“No, I – it was an exclamation, Dirk. Not a verb.” Farah crouched to run her hand over the floor.

“Well, thank goodness for that.” Dirk moved to stand beside her. “What are you doing?”

“My foot caught on something – didn’t you see me stumble?”

“Farah, in all situations I simply assume that you’re doing something very calculated and impressive that wouldn’t even occur to me. If I saw you fall over your own feet and land on your face, I would take it as a sign that you know something I don’t.”

“That’s…flattering? Let’s go with flattering.” Farah’s long fingers skimmed across a chipped tile, then stopped and moved back. She pressed her hand against the damaged tile, and it dropped away to reveal a small, square hole in the floor.

“Um,” said Todd behind Dirk, presumably speaking to Phasia. “We can…probably pay for that.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Phasia. Contrary to Dirk’s usual experience of people viewing property damage inflicted in the course of his investigations, she sounded remarkably unconcerned. “I imagine it’s just a hidden trapdoor.”

There was rather a lot to unpack in that statement, but before Dirk could ponder the implications, Farah spoke up. “She’s right. This gap where the tile was looks like – a handhold? In the floor?”

“Just as I thought,” said Phasia. “A trapdoor. It’s probably one of Verity’s, or maybe Reed’s. They’re both supposed to let me know when they put in new ones, though; I like to keep the floor plans up to date. Although Verity says that noting a secret hiding place on your official blueprints defeats the purpose, which I suppose is fair enough.”

Todd made a noncommittal noise, which Dirk took as a sign he had the situation well in hand. Farah – demonstrating not for the first time why she was one of Dirk’s favourite people – sighed, checked her weapons, and hauled on the handle.

A square section of the floor swung up. Dirk, careful not to move too far into Farah’s well-established personal space, peered over her shoulder as she looked into the cavity below. “Erm. Farah, is that –?”

“A cache of artillery so varied and lethal that it would make the military look twice? Yes.”

“I was going to say ‘a lot of guns’, but that also works.” Dirk edged away. He’d never liked guns, and being shot in the leg a year ago had cemented his impression that firearms were not for him, thanks very much. His preferred options in a confrontation were to a) negotiate with all the diplomacy and intellect at his disposal, or b) leg it.

“Farah,” said Todd, his voice strained. Dirk spun to look at him. “Didn’t you say you needed spare guns?”

Farah, still crouched over the small vault full of firearms, stared at Todd over her shoulder. “Yes. I did.”

“And then you just…tripped over a hidden storage space full of guns? That seems. Um. Lucky?”

Dirk brightened. “Ah! What you’re getting at, Todd, is the observation that this was a convenient turn of events. One might say too convenient. A coinky-dink, and not the sexy kind.”

“The…sexy kind?” murmured Phasia.

Dirk tapped his chin. “Let me try something.” He strode to the nearest window, one of two framing the front doors. A large arch of tinted glass, it was more grandiose than the cross-hatched windows that peppered the exterior of the house – and it provided a more accessible entry point.

Or, in this case, exit point. Ignoring the open front doors, Dirk clambered onto the wooden sill and jiggled the window lock.

“What is it with you and windows?” sighed Todd behind him.

“Dirk.” Farah’s soft voice held a familiar strain. Dirk tended to classify it as ‘fond exasperation’. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving, Farah! I should have thought that was obvious.” Dirk succeeded in unhooking the lock, pushed open the window, and swung a leg out over the sill. A bowl of petunias fell through the air outside, missed his leg by inches, and crashed on the concrete stoop.

“Interesting!” said Dirk.

Still straddling the window, he peered up. No more petunias appeared to be forthcoming, so he swung his other leg out. Another object plummeted from the sky and shattered on the concrete. Dirk, like an oracle reading celestial messages in the entrails of birds, eyed the debris and decided that the smashed object had been a small porcelain statue of a sperm whale.

“Fascinating!” said Dirk.

He scrunched his nose, thinking, and decided not to risk actual maiming in the name of holistic investigation. Swinging both legs back inside the house, he slithered off the windowsill and landed in, he hoped, a charming and handsome heap on the tiles.

It was hard to tell from this angle, but he thought that Todd, Farah, and Phasia were looking at him with concern.

Dirk staggered to his feet and clapped his hands, grinning. “Intriguing news: we’re trapped!”

Farah’s hand flew to her shoulder holster. “We’re what? How? By whom? Is this a Code Cerulean or a Plan F situation?”

“Er,” said Dirk. “Which is Cerulean, again? The one with the thankful dolphins and the safehouse in Atlantis?”

“That’s Code Teal.”

“But Cerulean is a sort of shade of teal, right?”

“Dirk.” Farah’s hand tightened on her gun. “Tell me what you mean by ‘trapped’.”

“Ah, yes. So. I believe that we are currently contained within a net of coincidence, most likely set up by the Universe to prevent our leaving this house while the case remains unsolved.” Dirk sighed. “I’m not fond of the Universe’s games, of course, but you have to admit it’s a bit brilliant.”

“A ‘net of coincidence’? What the hell is that?” Todd strode to the window, nudged the panes aside, and peered out.

“The Universe’s way of locking us in the house.” Dirk pulled a face at the ceiling. “Which could have equally well been achieved by actually locking us in the house, but I suppose the Universe likes to make a point.” He flicked lint off his jacket sleeve, after first checking his tie pin to ensure the lint wasn’t Mona. “Think of it as a sort of forcefield of inconvenient conveniences. Whenever we try to leave the house, something will pop up to stop us. The something may defy the laws of probability, but it will technically be possible, and it will keep us inside until the Universe has decided it’s time for us to leave.”

Farah rose, flowing gracefully from alert crouch to purposeful stance. Dirk, who had been known to trip over his own feet when merely rising from a chair, resisted the urge to applaud. “Has this happened to you before?” she asked.

“Once. Well, twice if you count the thing with Thor. But the time I was thinking of was much more interesting – a tale of misplaced sofas, amnesiac lovers, and a dartboard covered in daggers whose pattern spelled out the location of a mysterious treasure.”

“Is that a bowl of geraniums?” demanded Todd, still looking out the window. “Where the hell did it come from?”

“I believe you’ll find they’re petunias, Todd,” said Dirk. “But I promise not to hold your lack of horticultural expertise against you. The source of the geraniums and the sperm whale is irrelevant, beyond the fact that the Universe presumably manifested them for the purposes of keeping us contained to the house.”

“Sperm whale?” spluttered Todd.

“Yes, Todd, do try to keep up. The statuette that nearly landed on my head and now lies in porcelain pieces on the outside stoop was an artistic representation of a sperm whale.” Dirk paused. “Maybe a humpback. But my hunch tells me sperm.”

“Please, just – stop. Saying ‘sperm’.” Todd had turned red. Dirk, ever on the lookout for things that would make Todd Brotzman blush, was intrigued – but the entry hall was noticeably warm, so he let it pass.

“Does this net of coincidence affect me?” asked Phasia, joining Todd at the window. “It will be difficult to find Herb and Liz if I can’t leave the house. And I’ll need to clean that up.”

Phasia was taking this acceleration of strangeness in her life quite well, apparently more concerned about the mess of porcelain and flowers on her stoop than the revelation that a trio of holistic investigators were confined to her home until further notice. Still, everyone reacted differently to these things; maybe Phasia just seemed calm because she hadn’t thrown a shoe at them. Dirk tended to make Todd the gold standard by which he judged all other things, which was perhaps unfair to the other things, given that Todd was perfect.

“If you wanted to try leaving, why not use the door?” Farah asked Dirk.

“Good thing I didn’t! I nearly got brained twice just looking out the window. Who knows what would have happened if I’d…” Dirk, looking at the front doors, trailed off. He frowned and stepped closer.

“Dirk?” asked Todd, appearing beside him. He touched Dirk’s elbow. “What is it?”

Dirk, fingers trembling, reached up to the stained-glass panels set into the front doors. Each background was a solid block of yellow, blue, or green – but working its way across the bright colours was a pattern of symbols outlined in black. Dirk recognised many of them – there were the overlapping circles of Moloch, the four branches of Incubus, the circle and two straight lines of Lamia. The tie pin at Dirk’s collar grew so cold it felt like a draught against his neck.

And there, in a yellow pane of glass: a diamond with a circle at its heart, cut through the centre with a straight line. Icarus.

“Who designed these doors?” asked Dirk. His voice sounded sharp, distant. Unfamiliar.

Todd’s hand tightened on his elbow. “Dirk? What’s wrong?”

“Liz made them.” Phasia came to stand on Dirk’s other side. She brushed long fingers against the glass, touching symbols Dirk didn’t know: two connected triangles that formed a kite, and a pair of circles divided by a line down their middles. “An artist who lives here. It was her first project after she moved in.” A small smile tilted one corner of her mouth. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

“We’ll certainly need to speak with Liz, then.” Dirk cleared his throat, pulling himself back to the present. He rubbed a comforting thumb against the ice cream tie pin shivering at his collar. “Did you say she was in the gardens? I doubt the net of coincidence will affect you, since it’s designed to keep us inside while we solve the case, but if you don’t feel comfortable leaving the house –”

“Oh, I’ll find her.” Phasia’s eyes drifted over the panels of glass. “I always do.”

Dirk was finding Phasia to be something of a puzzle. From colourful hair to bright clothes, everything about her appearance was vibrant. Dirk recognised the look of someone who had tired of hiding and helplessness, who used her appearance to broadcast to the world I am here and I am in control; he saw that same look in the mirror every day. Yet Phasia’s mannerisms had not quite caught up to her aesthetic. She seemed…Muted. Sad. Nervous, but not about the things one might expect her to be.

An aspirational extrovert, thought Dirk. He’d been the same his first few years out of Blackwing. He’d dressed for the person he wanted to be: bright, loud, friendly, there. But it had taken time to actually become that person – months of jumping at shadows, resisting the anxious pull of hunches, learning how to talk to people who weren’t CIA operatives. It had been difficult not to feel like a performance of a person, cobbled together from costumes and poorly memorised lines.

Sometimes, if he was honest, he still felt like that. Dirk traced a finger over the Icarus symbol, stark against its backdrop of fragmented yellow light.

Dirk bit his lip and turned around, forcing a smile. “Well, apparently we’re trapped! How exciting. Best to – well, make the best of it. Phasia, I believe you were going to show us the crime scene?”

In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the Blackwing symbols shiver like live things in their colourful panes of glass. But that was probably a trick of the light.

Chapter Text

After Farah had stocked up on firearms from the cache under the floor, Phasia led the three of them out of the entry into another, more spacious hall. A staircase, predictably grand and sweeping, took up the centre of the room. The second storey formed an open gallery that ran along all four sides, overlooking the downstairs. Oil paintings and carved doors lined the walls of both levels.

Dirk eyed the gallery with interest.

“It’s a bit of a maze up there, but it’s mostly bedrooms and attics,” said Phasia, following his gaze. “All the public rooms are down here.”

Dirk was what some people (namely, Todd in his more irritable moods) had been known to call ‘nosy’. The prospect of a labyrinthine upper storey immediately sparked his curiosity…however, the persistent pull of his hunch suggested the attics would have to wait for another day. Dirk sighed.

Phasia guided them to one of the downstairs doors, her blue suede ankle boots sending up a satisfying thunk-thunk thunk-thunk on the hardwood floor. “We eat privately, most nights,” she explained over her shoulder. “Either in our rooms or the kitchen. But the evening Sir Salmon died, we were having a small dinner party. Nothing grand, just the seven of us, but we dressed up a bit for the fun of it, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” said Dirk. He arched his brows at Todd.

Todd scowled. “For the last time, we are not dressing up in vintage tuxedos just to eat pizza in the apartment.”

“Pardon me for wanting to give our domestic life a sense of occasion.”

“I’m pretty sure you found those tuxedos in a dumpster.”

“The term is ‘upcycling’, Todd.”

“You said there were seven of you?” Farah asked Phasia as they arrived at a door on the left. “Is that how many people live here?”

“Yes – well, six now.” Phasia opened the door and they shuffled into a dimly lit room dominated by a long, mahogany dining table. Panelled walls and antique furniture gave the space a close, musty feel. A floor-to-ceiling window at the far end of the room showed sculpted topiaries, a dense backdrop of trees, and a hint of steel-grey sky. “Sir Salmon was the seventh. We haven’t found anyone to replace him yet.”

“What exactly was his role here?” asked Farah, her eyes flicking across the room. Dirk could practically hear her brain whirring as it noted entry points, blind spots, and escape routes.

“He was the steward.”

“That’s a sort of well-paid butler, isn’t it?” Dirk ran his fingertips along a mahogany sideboard. No dust. A faint scent of silver polish hung in the air. Despite a certain staleness, the room was clearly well looked after.

“Ah, not exactly. Traditionally, a steward is similar to a housekeeper – they oversee things like hiring servants and managing accounts. I take care of all that here, though.” A smile flitted across her round face. “I’m very good at keeping things in order. Sir Salmon’s role was more to do with our tenants. He was a sort of – liaison. Supervisor? For the people who live and visit here.”

“What exactly do you do here, Phasia?” asked Todd, eying the frescoed ceiling. Dirk tried to ignore the pleasant little flutter he felt whenever Todd did something assistant-y like interrogate a suspect.

“I’m the housekeeper.” Phasia glanced at Farah, perhaps wondering why she hadn’t told Todd this.

“No, I mean – this place. This estate. It has tenants, and you mentioned an artist – do you rent out…artist studios? Living spaces?”

“Oh! Well. It’s a little hard to explain.” Phasia stared at Dirk, even though Todd was the one asking very intelligent questions in a charmingly authoritative voice with a devastatingly handsome wave to his brown hair – focus, Dirk.

“We’re a sort of…cooperative. For people of – likeminded philosophies and experiences.”

Dirk perked up. “Ooh, like a commune? I lived in a commune once.”

Todd turned to stare at him. “You did?”

“Yes! Or it might have been a cult. I’m not sure. I was just there for a week while I was tracking down a horse who’d faked his death. I thought he might have been hiding out in the commune, so I infiltrated it – by which I mean turned up at the gate and asked if I could live there – and they put me to harvesting vegetables. It was all quite nice, actually, and I did consider staying there even after it transpired that the horse was on the other side of the country, but it all got a bit intense when I walked in on a ritual I wasn’t supposed to see, which is what makes me think it miiiight have been a sinister cult masquerading as a very pleasant co-living community.”

Todd paled in that way he did when Dirk brought up things Todd considered ‘dangerous’, ‘ill-advised’, or ‘totally batshit’. Although he didn’t like to distress anyone, Dirk had to admit to a certain fuzzy feeling in his gut at the knowledge that he could make Todd worry about him with a simple anecdote. Him, Dirk Gently! Being worried about! For something as everyday as accidentally infiltrating a cult! Which admittedly had been terrifying at the time, hence his fleeing after stumbling across the moonlit ritual, but still. Having a best friend really did make him feel spoiled sometimes.

“Not exactly a commune,” said Phasia, after the sort of pause that often followed one of Dirk’s anecdotes. “More of a…base for people who need somewhere to stay a while. We have seven live-in staff, and we open our doors to temporary residents who need it. At the moment, though, it’s just six of us.”

“So you’re a halfway house?” Farah eyed a diamond chandelier that hung over the dining table. “This is a little – well, nicer than the others I’ve come across.”

“Well, something like that.” Phasia coughed. Dirk, who was practiced in the art of evasion, recognised a dodged topic when he saw it. Farah, who was practiced in dealing with Dirk, narrowed her eyes.

“Do you want to see where Sir Salmon died?” Phasia gestured towards the table.

“Ooh! Yes!” Dirk bounded over and patted a chair identical to all the others. “This is where he was sitting?”

Phasia blinked. “Yes, it is. How did you –?”

“I’m not psychic,” Dirk said quickly, then pointed at the chair beside Salmon’s. “You were sitting here?”

Phasia nodded. “How did you –”

“Who was opposite Sir Salmon?” Dirk, drumming his fingers on the chair, eyed the seat directly across the table.

“Liz, I think? Or maybe Dijon…Why?”

“Phasia, you strike me as a very organised person.” Dirk threw her a winning smile. The success rate of that smile tended to hover around forty percent (lowering to twenty percent after Todd and Farah had realised how often it preceded Dire Happenings), but Phasia seemed to appreciate the compliment. She smiled back, tawny cheeks dimpling.

“I imagine you keep detailed records of everything that goes on in this house? Including, perhaps, seating arrangements for informal dinner parties?”

Phasia nodded, comprehension dawning on her face. “Would you like me to bring you the seating plan for the night Sir Salmon died?”

“Please.”

Phasia departed, her boots thunking and skirt swirling. Left alone, Dirk, Todd, and Farah began to explore the dining room.

It wasn’t much of a crime scene, weeks on from the murder. Farah snapped some pictures of the table and chairs, but the site of Sir Salmon’s final canapé consumption had been thoroughly cleaned up, and there was nothing to distinguish his place from any other at the long table.

“So how exactly does this work?” asked Todd, his voice muffled. He’d crawled under the table in hopes of finding some overlooked clue, and his jeans and sneakers stuck out between the chair legs. Nothing about Dirk’s hunch suggested that there would be evidence down there, but who was he to deny Todd a thorough investigation? Especially since Todd’s current position gave Dirk a rather nice view of his best friend’s posterior. Which Dirk was admiring for purely professional reasons.

“Hm?” Dirk glanced up, caught Farah’s gaze, and quickly diverted his eyes to a point on the ceiling. “How exactly does what work, Todd?”

“The investigation.” Todd emerged from under the table, brushing down his jeans. “Do we actually have to – like, play a game of Clue? Figure out the weapon, room, and suspect before the Universe will let us leave?”

Dirk beamed. “That is a good question, Todd! You are being just super at questions today.” He chewed his lip. “Unfortunately, I have no idea. It does seem like a good assumption on which to operate, though.”

“Well, we already know this was the room,” said Farah, looking around. “If Phasia was telling the truth about it being where Sir Salmon died.”

“The cards showed a toothpick, but was that the murder weapon?” asked Todd. “They also showed Sir Salmon, and he was the victim. Unless he was somehow a killer and we’ve got the wrong idea…”

“Noooo, I think you’re right,” said Dirk slowly, feeling out his hunch. “I think…the cards are giving us a hint, enough to draw us here and get us started, but I don’t think they’re as straightforward as weapon, killer, location. Sir Salmon’s place among the cards represents a variable. An uncertainty. A Salmon of doubt, if you will.” He nodded decisively. “Sir Salmon was the victim, I’m sure of it. And I think Ivory Towers is the where, and the toothpick is the how. So we have to find the person who did it.”

“So our task is to find the maybe-still-homicidal person who murdered him,” said Todd. “Cool. Fun. That sounds like the least dangerous use of our time.”

“One question is still a matter of some priority, though, if it will lead us to the who: how exactly would a toothpick kill someone?” Dirk poked a gilded candelabrum; Todd smacked his hand away. “As mundane as they are, candlesticks and daggers do represent a rather more practical murder weapon. A toothpick less so, unless your victim is willing to sit patiently while you repeatedly scratch them to death.”

“Toothpick?” said someone sharply behind them.

Dirk and Todd jumped and spun around, synchronised in guilty surprise. Farah did the Farah equivalent of jumping, which was to clutch her gun and treat the person who had spoken to a long, hard stare.

Dirk took in the new arrival: high cheekbones, fawn skin, fantastic boots, thousand-yard stare. Black hair in a neat bun. Short and slight, but with a presence that filled the doorway. Amber eyes narrowed at Dirk, and it was like being targeted by two noticeably unimpressed lasers.

Dirk put on his most charming grin, ignored the small groan Farah gave whenever he unleashed that particular smile, and strode forward. “Hiii! Who are you, what are you doing in this room, and should we be fearing for our lives?”

Phasia, previously unnoticed, poked her head around the newcomer. Dirk and Todd jumped again. “This is Dr Peach,” said Phasia, in the tone with which Dirk would have said This is a slice of pepperoni-and-anchovy pizza or This is a client who paid their bill without Farah needing to threaten them or This is my best friend Todd – that is, with awe, affection, and vague bemusement that such incredible things existed in the world. “She was one of the people present the night of the, er, death.”

“Dr Peach?” Todd slumped. “Really?”

The doctor raised immaculately shaped black eyebrows and peered down her nose at him. “Is that a problem?”

Todd turned red. “Right – no – sorry – I didn’t mean. Um. That came out wrong. It wasn’t about you, just – my friend here –”

“My assistant is just coming to terms with the fact that I’ve pre-empted our introduction somewhat,” said Dirk cheerfully as he handed her five or six business cards. “And without even realising it! Really, your name is a useful revelation, because it fits neatly into our working hypothesis about the holistic significance of this estate.” He swept his eyes over the doctor’s purple blouse and amethyst earrings. “I’m guessing you’re favourable towards the concept of plums?”

Her left eyebrow crept higher. “Who isn’t?”

Dirk had the distinct impression that he was being mocked, but with benign sarcasm rather than actual malice. He decided that he liked Dr Peach; hopefully she wasn’t a murderer. Homicidal tendencies, he had found, often put a dampener on potential friendships. Although actually, now that he thought about it, most of Dirk’s closest friends had committed multiple homicides. Hmm. Something to ponder another day.

“Are we having a dinner party or something?” From behind Dr Peach came a new voice, deeper and with a Southern drawl that reminded Dirk uncomfortably of Mr Priest – but best not to think of that. “Why’s everyone in the dining room?”

Dr Peach, Dirk noticed, rolled her eyes before schooling her face into a neutral expression.

“Oh…Dijon. Hello,” said Phasia, stepping aside. Dirk scanned the voice’s owner: blond, blue eyed, muscular, with white skin tanned in the way of someone who spent more time outdoors than Dirk considered healthy. Yellow jacket and matching tie, though neither in a shade that Dirk would have chosen. Too muted – Dirk preferred the kind of yellow that broadcasted one’s presence like a radio with a broken ‘off’ button.

“These are the detectives who have come about Sir Salmon,” said Phasia. “Dirk, Farah, Todd, this is Dijon Bluthall. He’s our head of security.”

Dirk snorted before he could stop himself. “Dijon? Hardly subtle. I’m guessing you’re the Mustard character.”

It belatedly occurred to him that this might be an inexplicable remark out of context, but Dijon was apparently used to comments about his name, because he just smiled crookedly. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Mustard man – that’s me.”

There was something striking about him, actually. Dirk squinted, trying to figure it out. He supposed the man was rather handsome, if you looked for that sort of thing – but in a tall, fair, and beefy way that did nothing for Dirk when he had small, dark, and scowly right beside him. No, something about Dijon was familiar, in a way that Dirk couldn’t quite place.

Dr Peach had conspicuously ignored Dijon’s arrival in favour of studying Dirk’s business card (well, cards). Now she looked up with narrowed eyes. “So you’re a holistic detective?”

“Yes!” Dirk perked up. “Are you familiar with the theory of interconnectedness?”

“She knows all about that holistic stuff.” Dijon leaned forward and spoke in what Dirk assumed was supposed to be an undertone, as if Dr Peach weren’t standing right beside him. “It’s a cultural thing. Chinese medicine.”

“I’m Korean-American, you ass,” snapped Dr Peach. “And if I hear one more patronising lecture on the ‘unproven medical practices of the exotic East’, we’ll need a detective to investigate your death.”

“Ah.” Dirk cleared his throat. “Well, the holisticism of my calling is more to do with the fundamental interconnectedness of all things. You see, I’m a detective, but I don’t concern myself with such petty things as fingerprint powder, telltale pieces of pocket fluff, and inane footprints.”

Dr Peach straightened. She tilted her head, eyes boring into Dirk’s face. “You see the solution to each problem as being detectable in the pattern and web of the whole,” she said. “The connections between causes and effects are often much more subtle and complex –”

Dirk joined her. “– than we, with our rough and ready understanding of the physical world, might naturally suppose.” They finished in unison and stared at each other.

“Do you two…know each other?” Farah looked between Dirk and Dr Peach.

“No,” they said together. A tense silence settled over the dining room.

Dr Peach eyed Dirk, then seemed to come to a decision and said, “Enyo. You?”

Dirk hesitated, then sighed. “Icarus. But I prefer Dirk.”

“Fair enough.” Her nod was, he thought, approving. “I prefer Verity.”

“And I’d prefer to know what the hell is going on,” said Todd, with the irritability that overcame him when he’d grown fed up with the ineffable intricacies of the Universe. Dirk patted his arm.

“We’re just having a bit of a moment, Todd. Mutual holistic recognition, and all that.”

“A moment?” This only seemed to distress Todd further, though Dirk couldn’t think why.

“So. You think a toothpick might have killed Salmon?” asked Dr Peach, tucking the business cards into her pocket.

“How do you know that?” Dirk leaned forward. “A guilty conscience speaking, perhaps?”

She gave him a flat look. “You were saying it as we came in the door.”

“Ah. Well. That’s our current hypothesis, yes. Thanks to – a, er, anonymous tip that found its way into our agency, we have reason to believe the murder weapon was a toothpick.”

“You realise how that sounds, right?” Dijon smiled at them pityingly. “What would someone do, poke Salmon? Scratch him to death?”

“Ohhh!” Dirk slapped frantically at Todd’s shoulder. “Of course! You’re absolutely right, Mr Mustard!”

“He is?” Dr Peach twitched an eyebrow.

“I am?” Dijon’s forehead scrunched. “Also, that’s not my name.”

“The toothpick must have scratched him to death! It would only take one scratch – if the toothpick were poisoned.”

“Don’t be absurd,” snapped Dr Peach. “That’s – no, that’s impossible.”

Dirk flung his arm up to point at her. “We trade in the impossible, doctor.” Perhaps a touch dramatic, but it did sound awfully good. He made a note to include the line on the agency brochure he was putting together.

“Sir Salmon ate his canapés with a poisoned toothpick?” Phasia’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God! I served him those canapés! It’s my fault!”

Farah stepped forward and held up a hand. “It’s the fault of whoever poisoned the toothpick and put it on his plate, Madame Nidae. If that wasn’t you, you have nothing to worry about. Our agency will find the real culprit and bring them to justice.”

“You all hear this, right?” Dijon rubbed his eyes. “Poisoned toothpicks? Murder? You know how weird that sounds?”

“Does it?” Dirk blinked. “This is one of the least weird conversations I’ve had this week.”

Farah cleared her throat. “Madame Nidae, you were going to bring us the seating plan from the night Sir Salmon died?”

“Oh, yes.” Phasia startled. Dirk noted, with interest, that Dr Peach touched a comforting hand to her elbow. “I was on my way to get it when I found Verity. I’ll just go and –”

“Actually, could I come with you?” Farah smiled tightly. “I’d like to take a look through your records, if that’s all right.”

“Is that necessary?” asked Dijon sharply. Everyone looked at him, and he squared his shoulders. “I ask as head of security. It’s a precaution. We may not have anything to hide, but we can’t go sharing our information with just anyone off the street.”

“Oh, we have plenty to hide.” Dr Peach waved her hand. “But if Phasia is happy to share our secrets with the nice detectives, who are we to disoblige?”

Her hand still on Phasia’s elbow, Dr Peach stared down Dijon in a way that reminded Dirk of Todd in a protective mood. The air between her and Dijon practically crackled with hostility.

Clearly there were undercurrents at play beneath the surface of this exchange, but as much as Dirk enjoyed poking into other people’s business, he wasn’t inclined to sniff out the tensions here. Dr Peach was one of the most intimidating people he’d ever met, and Dijon was the sort of person who induced headaches.

Also, although Dirk was trying not to show it, his heart stung from the memories stirred up by mention of Blackwing. He hated saying ‘Icarus’. He wasn’t Icarus. He wasn’t.

All in all, then, Dirk was very ready to leave this room of tense strangers, and maybe have a small cry where nobody but Todd could see him.

“I think we’ve gotten everything we need from this room,” he said loudly. This earned him some startled glances, which he ignored. “Dr Peach, Mr Mustard, it was very – something to meet you. Farah, you and Phasia go enjoy her undoubtedly meticulous filing system; you’ve earned some fun. Todd and I will look for clues in…in the next room.”

He dragged Todd from the dining room, dodging the cluster of people in the doorway. Dijon squared his shoulders as they approached, and Dirk half expected him to stop them. Farah’s hand twitched to her holster, however, and Dijon let them pass.

Once they were out in the hall, Dirk stopped abruptly and dropped Todd’s hand.

“Hey,” said Todd softly. “Are you okay? I thought you wanted to question the suspects, but you seemed. Well. Pretty keen to get out of there.”

Dirk sniffled. “Maybe I didn’t want to question anyone.”

Todd smiled. “You love questioning suspects. You once said interrogation is your favourite way of getting to know people, second only to forced entry and time travel.”

Dirk sighed. “I did say that, didn’t I?” He fiddled with his tie and let himself bask for a moment in Todd’s smile. That crooked tilt of his (one might perhaps imagine, in one’s more unguarded moments) soft, warm mouth had a way of soothing Dirk’s anxieties, even if it did make his heart ache in different ways.

“What do you need?” asked Todd. Which was, frankly, a dangerous question to ask the person who was maybe-just-a-bit-passionately in love with you, although to be fair to Todd, he probably didn’t know that Dirk was okay-definitely-very-passionately in love with him.

Dirk’s hands twitched, but he didn’t reach for Todd. This was partly due to self-preservation, but mostly because Mona was still his tie pin. A sentient accessory made an effective chaperone, especially when you loved said accessory like a sister and categorically did not wish to do anything romantic with her literally sitting between you and the object of your affections.

“I need…a quiet spot, I think,” Dirk said instead, peering around the hall. “Somewhere I can – think. Rest for a minute.” And forget the name ‘Icarus’.

“Okay, well, based on the rooms of Clue…” Todd’s forehead crinkled. “How about the lounge? I mean, it’s made for…lounging.”

Dirk’s mouth twitched. “Do you think I need to recline at a certain angle in order to think, Todd?”

Todd lifted one shoulder. “You’re a source of endless surprises, Dirk. I wouldn’t put anything past you.” The words were flippant, but the tone was maybe just a little too serious. Todd’s gaze remained steady on Dirk’s face.

Dirk’s cheeks warmed. He quickly looked away. “The lounge sounds like a good idea,” he mumbled. “Restful. Let’s go there.”

“Sure. But which –”

“That one.” Dirk pointed at a door between the entry hall and dining room. “That’s the lounge.”

Todd huffed. “I’m not even going to ask how you knew that.”

“I’m a source of endless surprises, just like you said.” Dirk strode towards the lounge room door and Todd followed him, as Todd always did.

Chapter Text

The lounge was a corner room, its angles offset by plush cushions and soft couches. A fireplace dominated one wall; the grate was empty, but a faint scent of charcoal suggested it had been lit not long ago. A chess set sat beneath the far window, and a pile of board game boxes teetered on a coffee table. A clock ticking loudly on the mantlepiece made the only sound.

Dirk flopped onto the nearest sofa and pulled a decorative pillow into his lap. He picked at the fabric, an old nervous habit, but his anxiety was already starting to fade. Here in a quiet warm place, alone with Todd, the tension of the dining room seemed like a bad dream.

Todd sat beside him, misjudged the extent of the sofa’s sprawling softness, and flailed as he sunk backwards into the cushions. Dirk spluttered before he could stop himself, and Todd scowled as he struggled into an upright position. “You’re feeling better, I guess.”

“Yes. Well.” Dirk cleared his throat. “It was all just a little…much in there. I don’t like to talk about – well. Anyway.”

“About Icarus?” asked Todd. Dirk flinched, and Todd scrambled closer. His hands hovered awkwardly over Dirk’s on the cushion. “Shit! Sorry, sorry. I won’t – I won’t say it. If you don’t want me to. I just meant – I wanted to check you’re okay. Are you okay?”

Dirk looked at Todd’s familiar face, scrunched with worry, so close to his own. His best friend’s eyes were very close, very blue, and very worried. Dirk smiled. “Yes,” he murmured. “I am okay.”

“That’s…what they called you there, right? At – at Blackwing?”

Dirk pulled a face. “Yes. It was my project name. Blackwing has a whole…theme going. I imagine Riggins read a beginner’s guide to classical mythology once and thought it would be clever. At least they kept it consistent, I suppose – Thor and his cousin had Norse names, for example. Thor can be rather patriotic, and I think he would have thrown his hammer at anyone who tried to name him after a Greco-Roman god. And when I say ‘thrown his hammer’, that is not a euphemism.”

“Wait, wait. Thor? For real? He was a Blackwing project?”

“Of course – that’s how I know him.” Dirk rolled his eyes. “Do try to keep up, Todd. They called him Jofur, which is actually rather inaccurate –”

The clock chimed the hour, and they both startled. It was only then that Dirk noticed how very close he and Todd were sitting. A pressed-up-against-each-other’s-thighs level of close. Todd shuffled back on the couch, his face red, and Dirk – ignoring a pang of hurt – glanced around desperately for a distraction.

His gaze caught on the pile of board games, and he straightened. “Hm.”

“What? What is it?”

Dirk levered himself off the sofa and crouched beside the board game boxes, peering at the names on the sides. “Hmmm.”

“Dirk, I swear, if you’re looking for something to play at our next Game Night –”

Dirk poked a battered Scrabble box. “Hmmmmmm.”

“Dirk.” That was definitely one of Todd’s more exasperated tones.

“Actually, Todd, I’m looking for a particular game that is not here. Namely, Cluedo.” Dirk drummed his fingers on his knees, then stood and peered around the room. “I see a whole plethora of entertainment options in this lounge. Not only board games, but also chess, and card games such as our old nemesis Go F–”

“We said we’d never talk about Go Fish.”

“Yes. Well. My point is that this lounge appears to function as an informal game room, situated in what you may recall is a living Cluedo gameboard, and yet. Do I see a single version of Cluedo lying about? I do not.”

Todd scrunched his forehead. “So what does that mean? Is it part of the Universe…being weird?”

“Need I remind you, Todd, that the Universe is always weird?” Dirk strode to the chess set, picked up a pawn, frowned at it, and put it back on the board.

“Well, yeah. Okay. But why is this weirdness, specifically, important?”

Dirk, examining the base of a rook, shrugged. “No idea. But it feels significant, doesn’t it? Why would Cluedo be the one game this house doesn’t have?”

Todd sighed and struggled off the couch. “Fine. What can I do to help?”

Dirk tapped a bishop and held it up to his ear. “Just look around, I think. I’ve got a hunch, but I can’t quite tell what it…wants. I think we just need to examine the room for clues, and something will turn up.”

Another sigh, but Dirk could hear Todd’s sneakers on the plush carpet as he began to explore. Dirk, acting on an impulse he didn’t bother to question, swapped the bishop with a knight, setting both down hard on the chess board. A faint click sounded from somewhere in the room, but when he looked around, nothing appeared to have changed. Dirk frowned, shrugged, and, having investigated the chess set, tapped the panes of the nearest window.

“So.” Todd, crouching to look under the sofa, cleared his throat. “A ‘moment’, huh?”

Dirk blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“Back there. In the dining room. You said you were having a moment with that doctor. What did that mean?”

“Oh, just some mutual holistic recognition, like I said.” Dirk shrugged and turned back to the window, running his hands along the wooden frame. “Dr Peach is holistic, like me. Or she’s…something, anyway. A Blackwing project. I had a similar moment with Bart when I first met her, although there were substantially more bullets involved in that encounter.”

“Wait, so this…Verity…” Todd winced. “God, saying her first name feels way too casual.”

Dirk huffed a laugh. “I know, right? I can’t say it. She’s too terrifying not to address by title. I had to resist the urge to salute her.” He eyed the stone fireplace dominating the opposite wall, then moved towards it.

“So this Dr Peach is a Blackwing project?” Todd’s eyes widened. “She’s a doctor – is she one of the CIA scientists?”

“Oh, I doubt that. Though she possesses an intimidating air of intellectual ferocity that makes it impossible for me to call her by her first name, I didn’t get a villain vibe off her, per se. More of a…benign amoralism?” Dirk paused. “Well, I am a bit worried about the fact she’s named after a goddess of war. But it’s probably fine.”

“Wait – what?” Todd stared. “Say that again.”

“It’s probably fine,” repeated Dirk – helpfully, he thought. He prodded the grate with his foot, deemed the coals sufficiently cool when his shoe didn’t combust, and stuck his head up the chimney. Initial findings proved a) uninformative and b) filthy. Dirk sneezed and quickly withdrew, rubbing soot off his cheek.

“No, not…” Todd sighed. “Go back. The other bit. She’s named after a what?”

“Oh, her Blackwing project name.” Dirk waved a hand. Soot floated to the carpet. “Enyo, Greek goddess of war. Destroyed cities, led battles. She’s associated with things like strife and bloodlust.”

“And that – that doesn’t concern you at all?” Todd made an abortive movement, as if stopping himself from reaching protectively for Dirk – but that was probably wishful thinking. “What if she’s dangerous?”

“Oh, Blackwing names are a lot of nonsense,” said Dirk, more bitterly than he intended. “They called the projects what they wanted us to be, not what we are. Dr Peach being named after Enyo tells you more about the cartoon villain mindset of Blackwing than it does about her.” He sniffed. “She’s probably a pacifist.”

“Definitely not that,” drawled a voice behind him. Dirk jumped and Todd, apparently on instinct, shifted to stand protectively in front of him as they turned.

Dirk scanned the stranger in the doorway: faded jeans, red glasses framing large brown eyes, tall. A ‘they/them’ pin stood out against their green-and-white sleeveless shirt. Tattoos wove across their dark-brown skin, winding up lightly muscled arms and shoulders to curl across their neck and cheek. Thick, black dreadlocks framed their face.

Dirk did some quick mental calculations, then pointed at the newcomer. “Are you green, scarlet, or white?”

They raised an eyebrow. “Black, actually.”

“No, I mean – never mind.” Hm. He’d been operating on the hunch that the estate’s inhabitants must know about their Cluedo counterparts, but so far his attempts to interrogate them about it had yielded only polite scorn. Perhaps he should try a different approach.

“Hiii!” He smiled winsomely and stepped around Todd to offer the newcomer seven or eight business cards. “My name is Dirk Gently. I’m a holistic detective. Who are you?”

They tilted their head, examining him. Dirk blinked, doing his best to exude innocence and charm, and kept his hand outstretched. Eventually, they huffed a laugh and with two fingers plucked a business card from Dirk’s hand. 

“Holistic detective, huh?” Their voice had a Southern lilt, warmer and more pronounced than Dijon’s. They studied the card, then looked up at Dirk with a dry smile. “I’m not sure we need to hire anyone to investigate our chimneys.”

Dirk dusted soot off his purple jacket, trying to look as if this were a coolly unconcerned gesture he’d been planning to make anyway.

“Phasia hired us. Madame Nidae, I mean.” Dirk puffed up a little; he couldn’t help it. The idea of being actually hired by real clients for recognised cases was still something of a novelty. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get tired of it. “We’re here about Sir Salmon’s death.”

The amusement faded from the stranger’s face.

“Were you close to Sir Salmon?” asked Todd, when the silence had stretched on too long.

They looked at him, tilting their head again. “He was a decent man. And good at his job.” They seemed to hesitate, then shook their head, dreadlocks flying, and gestured at Dirk. “Are you with him?”

I wish, Dirk almost said. He coughed. “Yes! This is my combination assistant and best friend, Todd Brotzman.”

“Brotzman?” They straightened, languor abruptly gone.

“Uh. Yeah?” Todd glanced at Dirk, who shrugged. He wasn’t sure where this sudden interest had come from. As far as he was concerned, Todd was always extremely interesting; not everyone seemed to share Dirk’s appreciation, however, so he couldn’t say why the stranger was staring at Todd so intently. Perhaps they recognised him from Mexican Funeral; you never knew when you were going to stumble across another devotee of the Seattle mid-2000s alt scene, Dirk supposed.

“Any relation to Amanda Brotzman?”

Todd’s eyes widened. “You know my sister?”

“Sister, huh?” They drummed long fingers against their mouth, eying him thoughtfully, then sighed. “I’m Reed. Dr Herring, actually, but you can call me Reed. I’m the librarian.”

“Ooh!” Dirk lit up. “Maybe you can help me. I’ve been looking for a book I read about five years ago. I can’t remember the title or the author, but it had a blue cover –”

Reed snorted. “Sure. Visit me sometime, and I’ll take you through our Blue Section.”

They eyed the soot on the carpet. “And maybe, in the meantime, you can tell me why you were trying to climb up the chimney. You think Santa killed Salmon?”

“I wasn’t climbing up the chimney,” protested Dirk. “I was investigating the chimney. There’s a difference.”

“Sorry, excuse me, just going back for a second,” said Todd loudly. “You said you know my sister? How? Where is she? Is she okay?”

Reed looked at him with surprise. “Why wouldn’t she be? Don’t you know where she is?”

Todd wilted. “Well, yeah. I mean, I think so – I spoke to her on the phone a couple of days ago. But she’s never mentioned you, or this house, and…I mean, no offence, but this place is pretty fucking weird. I feel like she would’ve mentioned it.”

Reed, far from looking annoyed, flashed a grin so wide that it revealed a set of beautiful, even teeth. Dirk, who had never in his own experience found that saying “no offence” actually precluded people being offended, tried not to take this personally.

“‘Pretty fucking weird’ is definitely one way to put it,” said Reed. “As for why your sister didn’t mention this place, well. That seems like a conversation you should have with her.”

Todd twisted his mouth, which usually indicated reluctant agreement. Dirk patted his back encouragingly and resisted the urge to let his hand linger.

“So, Reed! You’re the librarian here?” Dirk looked around the lounge. “We haven’t been to the library yet. Does it…” He craned for a suitable nicety. “…have books?”

“Last time I checked. We’re conventional that way. Books in our library, food in our kitchen, chairs in our lounge room. What can I say? Conformity is alive and well at Ivory Towers. I keep trying to sell the others on a swimming pool in the library, but I’ve been overruled.”

Okay, Reed was definitely making fun of him. It was in the amicably sarcastic way that Dirk himself liked to tease people, though, so he only grinned. “What sort of collection do you have?”

“What do you mean?” asked Reed, rather sharply.

“Your collection. Of, you know, things. Books. Is it mostly fiction? Reference works? Er…antiquarian collectibles?”

“What the hell kind of books are ‘antiquarian collectibles’?” asked Todd.

Dirk thought about this, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Victorian-era pornography, I think.”

Todd choked.

Reed’s mouth twitched. “In this house, we tend to keep the porn in our sock drawers,” they said. “The library has a…varied range of texts.” To Dirk’s mind, that definitely sounded like a euphemism for ‘historical porn’, but he refrained from making this observation aloud. “I’ve collected them from all over. It’s a work in progress, but I’m pretty proud of it.”

“Did you have much to do with Sir Salmon?” asked Dirk. “Phasia said he was the steward here, but that seems to mean something different from usual in this context. He was a liaison with your tenants?”

“Something like that.” Reed shrugged. “I don’t have much to do with that side of things. I’m usually cataloguing books in the library.” They hesitated, then added, “Tenants tend to get sent my way when they need to – lose themselves in a fictional world.”

Dirk nodded. “Ah, yes, the joys of reading. Escapism, entertainment, recognition of the self through illusory literary constructions, et cetera.”

Whatever response Reed had been looking for, this apparently wasn’t it. They frowned at Dirk – pensive rather than annoyed, he thought, but reading strangers’ expressions wasn’t his strong suit.

“You really don’t know?” they asked.

“I don’t know a lot of things,” said Dirk. “Most things, actually! Not knowing things is a certain specialty of mine. It’s quite relaxing, when it doesn’t lead to disaster.”

Todd sighed. Dirk glanced over, caught his eye, and remembered Farah’s lectures about how expounding on ignorance and its relaxing qualities did not tend to put clients at ease. Quickly, Dirk added, “This, er, calculated lack of knowledge allows me to conduct investigations from a neutral standpoint so that I’m open to new information as it arrives.”

Reed snorted.

“Nice save,” muttered Todd.

Dirk barely heard him, because at that moment a sense of wrongness overwhelmed him so strongly that he staggered. Not, not wrongness: Wrongness, the sort of feeling that demanded capitalisation and italics and possibly a font change. Like a hunch, but – backwards. A hunch that told him not to move forward but to run away, to grab his friends and get out of this place as fast as he possibly could.

Dirk gasped and doubled over, clutching his stomach as a wave of nausea rolled over him. Distantly, he registered concern from Todd: that familiar voice rising anxiously, hands rubbing his arm and back, the faint scent of guitar polish. These were the sensations Dirk had come to associate with nightmares, with waking up to find Todd there, soothing him back to sleep. He clung to the sensations, letting them ground him, pull him back to a place where he could verbalise the panic.

“Todd,” he gasped, clutching his best friend’s sleeve. “Todd – run! You have to –”

“Not without you!” snapped Todd, hands tightening on Dirk’s arms.

Dirk sputtered a breathless laugh. “Oh, believe me, Todd, I fully intend to go with you.” He looked at Reed, who was watching them with an unreadable expression. “You, too. We have to get out of here. Something terrible is about to happen.”

Reed crossed their arms. “Ominous and vague. Just how I like my warnings.”

“Wait. We can’t leave.” Todd scowled. “That stupid fucking – forcefield of coincidences! It won’t let us out!”

Reed stared at him. “The what?”

Dirk might have offered an explanation, or suggested an exit strategy, but the world chose that moment to turn inside out. There was really no other way he could think to describe it: reality flapped like a shirt on a clothesline, flew off its pegs, and turned itself inside out as it snapped away on a fierce wind.

Everything became, temporarily, nothing.

Then – suddenly – normality. Well, as much normality as usual. The world righted itself and reality settled back onto its clothesline, pegs firmly in place.

Dirk, sprawled on his back on the lounge room floor, blinked up at the frescoed ceiling. He was pleasantly surprised to find that his brain, contrary to what every instinct was telling him, did not appear to have trickled out of his ears.

“Everyone alive?” he croaked.

Todd, on the floor beside him, made an inarticulate noise of despair. Everything normal there, then.

Mona, still a tie pin, buzzed weakly at Dirk’s collar.

Reed’s voice, a little thin but otherwise unaffected, offered up some choice and rather original expletives (of which Dirk made note for later use).

“Good,” said Dirk, flopping onto his stomach. He made a sound like air escaping a balloon. “That’s…good. Living people all being alive-ish, very good, yes.”

It occurred to him that whatever the hell had just happened might be the sort of thing to trigger a pararibulitis attack, and that he should check whether Todd needed one of the pills Dirk kept in his jacket at all times. “Tooddd,” slurred Dirk. “You. Par. Parabit. Parabilibbiwebble?”

It wasn’t one of Dirk’s more eloquent moments, but Todd seemed to understand what he was getting at. “Fine,” he slurred back. “No…tak. Attack. No attack. Izm fine.”

“Relief,” observed Dirk, then lapsed into semi-consciousness for a moment or two.

Nearby grunting suggested that someone had staggered to their feet. Dirk blearily rolled his head to the side, saw a pair of scuffed combat boots, and surmised that Reed was now standing. Standing: what a concept. Dirk was not quite ready to attempt that physical feat just yet.

“What the fuckity fucking fuck?” snapped Reed, apparently in reference to their recent unsolicited foray through space and time.

“Fuckity,” agreed Dirk, his face mashed into the carpet. “Verrrrry fuckity.”

“Why is this happening now? There are still six of us! The house is stable.”

Dirk squinted up at them. He was still a little jetlagged from his brief trip through a kaleidoscope of dissolving reality, so it was difficult to keep up with conversation, but he rather thought that he and Reed seemed to be concerned about two different things.

“What the hell are you talking about?” groaned Todd, summarising Dirk’s thoughts nicely.

“Brilliant assisting, Todd,” he mumbled.

“The house! It shouldn’t be this unstable, not with six of us in position.” Reed pushed their dreadlocks back from their face. The movement drew Dirk’s gaze to their wrist, and he frowned.

“Are your tattoos moving?” he asked.

“What?” Reed blinked at Dirk on the floor.

Dirk, with great effort and much flopping of limbs, pushed himself into a sitting position. He lifted a shaking arm and pointed at Reed’s wrist. “I will be the first to admit that I am somewhat discombobulated at the current moment and therefore may not have the most reliable control of my faculties,” he attempted to say, “but I am fairly certain that your tattoos have come to life.”

What came out sounded more like “hhhhffnnggggggg”. Dirk sighed and tried again. “Tattoos. Alive.” He flapped his hand at Reed and added, “Arms and. And neck and things.”

Reed looked. The colourful designs inked onto their wrist were shifting across their dark-brown skin: vines unfurled into letters, made words that morphed into musical notes. Poetry trailed up their hand to twine around their long fingers. Flowers grew up their neck, bursting into bloom across their cheeks. Dirk tried to follow the movements, came over dizzy, and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Ah, shit,” said Reed.

Todd, who was still lying on the carpet, stared at the tattoos. “Are you…um, okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“What?” Reed glanced up. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. But the house sure as hell isn’t. I need to check the library. And find Liz. Do you know where she is?”

“I don’t even know who she is,” Dirk said, watching Todd struggle into a sitting position. He would have helped, but things still felt a bit muzzy, and Dirk didn’t think it would be very advantageous to their relationship if he threw up on his best friend and would-be boyfriend. “Is she one of the people who live here? Ohh, that’s right – the artist Phasia mentioned. The one who made the front doors?”

“You haven’t met Liz yet?” Reed sighed. “That explains a lot. Okay, whatever, I don’t have time for this. We’re a few hours away from disappearing into the fucking void if I don’t fix this. You two just – stay here. Try not to make trouble. I’ve got to go check on some things, then I’ll be back.”

Before Dirk could object to the suggestion that he would make trouble, Reed had departed, slamming the door behind them. Dirk winced and clutched his head.

Todd rubbed his eyes. “I feel like there were some really important clues just now, but I’m too nauseous to make any sense of them.”

“Don’t say ‘nauseous’,” pleaded Dirk. “I feel about thirty seconds away from heaving my breakfast milkshake and bacon-wrapped pancakes onto this rug.”

“Oh, I’m not allowed to say ‘nauseous’, but you’re allowed to say shit like that?” Todd, hands still over his face, scowled through his fingers at Dirk. “Thanks. I feel much less sick now.”

For all his complaining, Dirk was rapidly feeling more like himself. Well, it was hard to feel worse than he had a few moments ago; temporarily dissolving into a sort of sentient nothingness really put one’s headache in perspective. But he definitely felt less weak as the minutes straggled by, and he could manage full sentences again, which was nice. In a moment, he might even be able to stand up.

“What was that?” he asked, knuckling his eyes.

“Like every hangover I’ve ever had, rolled into one.” Todd groaned and clambered to his feet. “And also like…Well. I mean. God. Never mind. It’s probably nothing.”

Dirk squinted up at him. “Todd. I am very tired and somewhat overcome with existential doubt right now. Please don’t make me give you the whole ‘everything is connected and nothing is always significant’ speech. I don’t think I have the energy for it.”

Still Todd hesitated.

Dirk sighed. “Please just tell me.”

Todd made a reluctant noise. “Fine. Look. It just – remember that place Amanda and I visited during the Wendimoor case? The backstage of reality? It reminded me of that. I don’t know if it was the same place, but…it felt like that. Like – stepping outside of the universe for a minute.”

Dirk frowned, picking at the plush carpet. “So you think we were violently heaved out of our bodies into a void beyond reality, then dragged back into the physical world?”

Todd lifted one shoulder. “Maybe?”

“Well, that would certainly explain this headache I’ve got,” sighed Dirk. He scrambled to his knees, preparing to stand, then stopped. “Todd? What’s that?”

“Um. The fireplace? You were inside it ten minutes ago.”

“I was investigating it ten minutes ago,” said Dirk with dignity. “And yes, I know that’s the fireplace. I’m talking about the thing next to the fireplace.” He pointed at a metal bar sticking out beside the stonework at a forty-five-degree angle. It hung on a rack with bellows and tongs and some other metal implements, which might be why Dirk hadn’t noticed it before Reed’s unexpected arrival.

“A poker, I guess.” Todd shrugged again. “You use them to. Y’know. Poke fires.”

“A concise explanation of the workings of a domestic hearth, thank you, Todd. But why is it sticking out like that?” Dirk, still on hands and knees, crawled across the carpet to peer at the poker jutting out from the wall. From here, it was at his eye level. He reached out and pulled it.

The grate slammed down, the hearth dropped away, and Todd – who had been standing just in front of the fireplace – fell through the floor.

“Oh,” said Dirk, eyes wide. “Nuts.”

Hand still on the poker – which was, he now realised, a lever – he stared at the hole through which Todd had disappeared. Before he could worry too much about whether he’d just inadvertently killed the love of his life, the familiar sound of Todd grumbling emerged from below.

Dirk wilted with relief. Shakily, he crawled over to the hole and peered inside. Todd, sprawled at the bottom of what appeared to be a pit, scowled up at him.

“What the hell just happened?” he demanded, sitting up with a wince.

“Well,” said Dirk, gaze flicking away, “circumstances are a little unclear, but I can tell you with certainty that, whatever happened, it wasn’t my fault.”

Todd’s eyes narrowed. “…Dirk. What did you do?”

“…I may have pulled a lever.”

Todd made a disgusted noise. “Dirk, what have I told you about levers?”

“I don’t want to hear that from you, Mister Maybe This Ominous Red Button Will Deactivate The Booby Traps.”

“That was one time.”

“Tell that to my bruises.” Dirk looked him over anxiously. “Are you all right, though?”

Todd sighed and staggered to his feet. “Yeah, I think so. It wasn’t that big a fall.” He looked around. “What is this? Some kind of tunnel?”

“Tunnel?” Dirk leaned down precariously, craning his neck, and saw that the space below actually extended into shadow beyond where Todd stood. Not a pit, then, but a passageway.

“Oh! Ohhh!!” Dirk would normally have smacked Todd’s shoulders excitedly at this point, but since Todd was currently trapped in a hole several metres below, he made do with hitting the floor. “Solved it!”

“The case? Already?”

“Oh, no, not the case.” Dirk laughed. “Far from it! No, what I have solved is the mystery of the lounge room.”

“There was a mystery of the lounge room?”

“Yes, Todd, of course there was. There’s always a mystery on hand somewhere, and we’ve been in a lounge room for the last four hours, so it follows, ergo, that there must have been a mystery of the lounge room. And I’ve just solved it.”

“Four hours? Dirk, we’ve been in here for, like…forty minutes.”

Dirk waved a hand dismissively. “Time! Maths! Unimportant. What is important is that I swapped the bishop and the knight on the chess board.”

“You…Right. Okay.” Todd rubbed his eyes. “Is that a metaphor, or –?”

“No, I mean I literally swapped two pieces on that chess set over there.” Dirk pointed towards the window, even though Todd couldn’t see it from where he stood. “The bishop and the knight. I put them down in the wrong places, acting on an at-the-time unverified hunch, and I heard a click. I couldn’t figure out where it had come from, but I now posit that it was a hidden switch being flicked, which made the poker jut out from the wall. Because, Todd, the poker is in fact a lever, which leads to a secret passageway, in which you now find yourself!” He beamed down at his best friend.

Todd frowned up at him. “Cool. Can you get me out of here now, please?”

“Tooooodd.” Dirk draped himself over the edge of the passageway entrance. “Do you not understand the significance of this discovery? Don’t you remember when we played Cluedo?”

“I remember you getting drunk and telling me I was perfect.” Todd turned red. “Um. Never mind. What about Clue?”

“The secret passageways! There are two in the game, remember? One between the lounge and the conservatory, and one between…um…” Dirk pulled a face.

“The study and the kitchen.” Todd sighed. “Right. So you think this passageway would take us to the conservatory?”

Dirk hummed. “Yyyyes?”

“You sound real sure about that.” Todd eyed the stone walls of the passage. “Can we not just…walk to the conservatory instead? I’m guessing it’s across the house, so we probably don’t need to, y’know, explore a creepy underground tunnel to get there.”

“I suppose,” said Dirk doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem very investigate-y to ignore a secret passageway, though. What kind of adventure involves just…walking across the house?”

“The kind where I don’t get trapped in yet another underground death maze.”

“We had a lovely time in that death maze, Todd!” Dirk noted Todd’s expression and amended, “I mean, apart from the electrocution. And the stabby burning lightbulbs. And the haunted door. But it was one of our first holistic outings together, you know, Todd. The beginning of a timeless friendship.”

“Our friendship is ‘timeless’ because you can’t tell the difference between four hours and forty minutes,” grumbled Todd, but Dirk was examining the secret passageway and chose not to hear him. The opening in the floor seemed to be the result of a trapdoor (disguised by the thick carpet) swinging away when Dirk had pulled on the lever. Dirk’s instincts screeched at him to explore the pit-that-wasn’t-a-pit, and whether this was a hunch or simply curiosity was hard to say. Dirk couldn’t always tell the difference and had long since given up trying.

“Just a quick peek in the tunnel, Todd? We don’t have to go all the way in. I just want to see if there are torches.” Dirk scrambled over the edge of the opening and dropped down beside Todd. A small puff of dirt flew up when his shoes hit the packed-earth floor. “There’s just something about shadowy tunnels lit by flickering torches in wall sconces, isn’t there? So atmospheric.”

Todd goggled at him. “Dirk. What the hell?”

Dirk tilted his head. “Hm?”

“Dirk. What the hell?”

“I heard you the first time, Todd, and frankly your query hasn’t become any clearer since then. I repeat: hm?”

Todd waved his arms. “There’s? No way out of this stupid passage from inside it? Did you not notice this?”

Dirk glanced around with surprise. Todd was right: the rough, stone walls led straight up to the trapdoor entrance, with no steps or handholds. One could fall in to the pit easily enough (as Todd had so helpfully demonstrated) but could not, apparently, climb out. If Dirk had remained above ground, he could have pulled Todd up somehow, but now that they were both down here…

“Ah,” said Dirk. He smiled sheepishly.

Todd sighed, slumping. “Okay. The walls aren’t that high. Maybe if I stand on your shoulders –”

“Excellent plan, Todd! You are doing very good plans right now,” said Dirk, his attention straying to the shadowy passage. “Never hurts to work a bit of trapeze artistry into the escape strategies, I always say.” He edged towards the tunnel.

“How’s anyone supposed to get in and out of this thing, anyway?” asked Todd, staring upwards. “Do they just, what, expect people to jump in the hole and never leave?”

“There were some other tools next to the poker,” offered Dirk. “Maybe one of them was a lever, too.”

Todd frowned. “You think it might have unlocked some stairs or something?” He ran his hands over the walls.

While Todd examined the entrance, Dirk shuffled further into the passageway. No torches, as far as he could tell, but the tunnel stretched off promisingly around a shadowy corner. So atmospheric.

“That librarian said they’d be coming back, so maybe they’ll help if we can’t climb out, but I don’t know how they’ll feel about us stumbling on one of the house’s secret passageways.” Todd appeared to be talking half to himself, and Dirk took the opportunity of his distraction to drift around the corner. “I mean, it’s called ‘secret’ for a reason. And if that scavenger hunt through the sewers of Atlantis taught us anything, it’s that people hate it when you find their secret tunnels.”

“We said we’d never talk about Go Fish,” said Dirk automatically.

His voice bounced off the walls, and he winced. He’d lost sight of the entrance when he’d rounded the corner, but he could tell Todd had now noticed he was gone, because an expletive echoed down the tunnel.

“Dirk! Where the hell…” A deep sigh. “Are you exploring the secret passageway?”

“…Maybe.”

Todd stomped around the corner. It was hard to make out his expression, since the only light came from the tunnel entrance, but his tone held a familiar, irritable fondness. “Don’t wander off. I don’t want to lose you.”

Before Dirk’s insides could melt too much at this pronouncement, a new sound distracted him: quick footsteps, muffled as if on carpet. The faint noise seemed to be coming from the way they’d come – the lounge room, Dirk realised. Someone was in the lounge room.

Todd’s head turned; he must have heard it, too. Before either of them could say anything, something more alarming replaced the footsteps: a loud click, a metallic bang, and the creak of a door rapidly closing. Dirk thought of hidden levers and passageway entrances, and his stomach dropped faster than Todd through a hole in the floor.

Todd began to run, but it was too late. The trapdoor slammed shut; the light cut out. Drowned in darkness, the tunnel suddenly felt less like a passage and more like a tomb.

Silence for a few seconds, broken only by the distant drip of water.

“Well, bollocks,” said Dirk.

Chapter Text

Todd’s weary voice echoed down the tunnel. “Are we seriously trapped in a secret underground passageway right now?”

“It would appear so, Todd, yes.” Dirk tried to keep his own voice cheerful, but it was difficult when the close, cold darkness reminded him uncomfortably of Blackwing’s solitary confinement cells. And that time he and Todd had spent several hours in an underground death maze. And that time he’d been trapped in the Paris catacombs for a case that involved several reanimated skeletons. And that time he’d gotten lost in an abandoned railway cutting through the heart of the Pyrenees mountains. And that time a necromancer had threatened to bury him alive in a coffin not at all tailored to Dirk’s measurements.

…Hmm. It was possible that Dirk might be claustrophobic. Something to consider in more depth when he wasn’t trapped in a pitch-black tunnel beneath the earth.

Todd sighed, then a weak beam lit up the stone walls. Dirk, heartbeat thudding loudly in his ears, hurried around the corner to see Todd shining his phone torch at the ceiling.

“Well, it looks like the exit’s completely closed off.” Todd’s scowl was just visible in the white light and heightened shadows. “We could try to climb up and push the door open, but if someone’s locked us in, they might still be up there. Speaking of which, who the hell would lock us in a tunnel? We’ve been here about two hours and spoken to maybe three people. Even for us, that’s pretty quick to make enemies.”

“Probably the murderer,” said Dirk, “sensing an opportunity to get us out of the way before we discover too much.” Todd stared at him, and Dirk shrugged. “In my experience, the person who tries to lock you up mid adventure is usually a murderer.”

“Well. Great. Okay. That’s – yeah. Okay.” Todd cleared his throat. “So maybe we…don’t want to confront the person who closed that door. At least, not without Farah.” He eyed the ceiling. “Do you think it’d be better if we just went to the end of the tunnel? Or would they be waiting for us in the conservatory?”

“Hmm, I am not, per se, in love with the idea of traversing the narrow lightless tunnel to its potentially sinister end.” Dirk’s voice came out rather thin, and he cleared his throat. “But nor do I relish the prospect of waiting here for whoever that was to try anything else that might endanger our dashing persons, so…conservatory it is, I suppose.”

“Well, I don’t know how long my phone battery is gonna last if we have to explore a tunnel that’s God knows how long.” Todd held out a hand. “Do you have the everbulb?”

Dirk busied himself studying the ceiling. “Hm?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Todd frown. “The everbulb? You’re meant to keep it with you in case of emergencies. Like, you know. Being trapped in a dark tunnel.”

Dirk patted his jacket pockets unconvincingly. “Ah, yes. Everbulb, everbulb…Light source powered by human energy? Created by a brilliant but hot-headed time-travelling billionaire with a penchant for punches? Glass, glowy, about yea big?”

Todd sighed from the depths of his scuffed sneakers. “You forgot the everbulb again, didn’t you.”

It clearly wasn’t a question, so Dirk decided not to answer.

“Dammit, Dirk, after what happened with Monopoly, you promised –”

Dirk, taking refuge in deflection, pointed. “Well, you always forget to bring the airgun!”

“Because we’re with Farah! Nobody needs extra weaponry when Farah’s around! She’s a one-woman arsenal!”

“There’s no need for name calling, Todd.”

“What? No, I’m not – ‘arsenal’ doesn’t mean –”

“Anyway,” Dirk babbled on, “we seem to be doing quite well with your phone as a light source, and I’d rather we didn’t waste time standing around arguing about who forgot which magical adventure memento, so if we could move past this little oversight and find our way to the exit, that would be simply wonderful.”

Todd was frowning at him. “Dirk, are you…okay? You sound. Um. Stressed.”

“Constant state of being, really, my dear buddy!” Oh, no, that had come out far too forced and jovial. Todd’s frown deepened, and Dirk wilted. “Oh, all right. I might be – well. Slightly extremely claustrophobic.”

“You’re only mentioning this now? Weren’t you the one who wanted to explore the ‘narrow lightless tunnel’?”

“The revelation of my claustrophobia did not, shall we say, make itself known to me until we became trapped in a confined space underground.” Dirk rubbed his sweaty hands on his jeans.

It was difficult to tell in the shadows, but he thought Todd’s face softened. “Shit. Don’t worry – we’ll get out of here. We’re meant to be in the tunnel, right? So it must be leading us where we need to go.”

If there was one thing that could distract from anxiety, it was Todd being utterly perfect. Dirk forced a trembling smile. “An excellent point, my plucky assistant. Well. I suppose we’d better explore, then?”

“Plucky?”

Dirk turned on his heel and strode down the tunnel, hoping that projected confidence might lead to some actual confidence, but slowed down when he realised he was at risk of outpacing Todd. The tunnel was wide enough to fit three people side by side, but Dirk didn’t question it when he and Todd drew closer, their shoulders brushing. That was just how it was with the two of them: an ever-present pull tugged them together, as inevitable as a magnetic force. There was probably poetry to be found in that thought, something about Todd being the north to which Dirk’s internal compass always pointed, but he decided to save the romantic metaphors for a less ominous setting.

As secret passageways went, it was straightforward – certainly not nearly as twisty as the Paris catacombs had been. Despite that distant dripping water and a faint smell of rising damp, the packed-earth floor and stone walls were dry. Todd tilted his phone, lighting the way ahead. Dirk kept a nervous eye out for reanimated skeletons, but more on principle than because things seemed to be going that way. This house, for all its curiosities, had thus far exhibited a distinct lack of necromancers. 

“Does your phone have a signal?” asked Todd, so suddenly that Dirk squeaked. Their voices echoed flatly, absorbed by the thick walls.

Dirk cleared his throat and pulled the device from his pocket. “Hm. No, but we are underground.” He squinted at Todd’s screen. “Does yours?”

“No, but that’s the weird thing. Looking at it while we walked made me realise – it hasn’t had reception for a while. Even when we were above ground.”

Dirk was less surprised by this than by the fact that Todd, who was not what one might call a consistent answerer of calls, had been looking at his phone in the first place. He must have pulled a face, because Todd huffed. “I do check my voicemail sometimes, you know.”

Dirk coughed, pocketing his phone. “Never said you didn’t. Why do you care, anyway?” He remembered Reed’s reaction to the name Brotzman. “Thinking of calling Amanda?”

“Well, right now I’m mostly thinking about how we might contact Farah if we end up stuck in this tunnel,” Todd said dryly. Dirk tensed, stumbling in the dark. “Shit,” added Todd, apparently realising this hadn’t been the most helpful thing to say. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to – we’ll be fine. Definitely. It’s all…” He gestured helplessly. Light from his phone bounced against the walls. “…chill. I do want to call Amanda, yeah, but that can wait till we’re out of here. I’m just pretty sure my phone hasn’t had a signal since we got here. Like, at all. No reception, no internet. Not even an emergency signal.”

Dirk hummed. “The last time I used my phone was when we were driving up to the house, I think.”

“Checking Wikipedia for peacock facts,” said Todd. “I remember.”

“I prefer ‘conducting research to ensure a thorough investigation’, but yes.”

“What do you think it means? We are in the middle of the forest, but. I mean. It’s weird, right? That we’d have reception all the way here, then on the driveway, but nowhere in the house. Do you think it disappeared when we got to the estate?”

“Probably the forcefield of coincidences,” said Dirk. “Turning all our phones unusable while we’re here so that we can’t leave.” He stopped with a gasp, briefly overwhelmed by the pressure of a hunch.

“Dirk?” Todd grabbed his arm, steadying him. “You okay?”

“It’s not the forcefield,” said Dirk absently, staring into the middle distance. “It’s related, but it’s something different. Something about…this place. This world.”

He refocused in time to see Todd raise his eyebrows. “World?” he repeated. “You make it sounds like we’re in…another…”

It hit them both at the same time, and they groaned. “Dimension,” they said together.

“We’re in another dimension.” Dirk pulled a face. “Of course. As if Wendimoor weren’t enough, and the house within a house at Bergsberg, and Atlantis – I know, I know, we don’t talk about it.” He flapped his hand as if he could bat away the memories of Go Fish. “Todd, that’s why we don’t have reception – we’re not even on the same physical plane as the phone companies right now.”

“But when the hell did we go through an interdimensional portal?” Todd raked a hand through his hair. It stuck up in endearing brown tufts, which Dirk resisted the urge to touch. “I’ve been through a few of those now, Dirk. I know what they feel like, and it’s pretty hard to miss.”

Mona buzzed at Dirk’s collar, and he absently touched the ice cream pin. He wasn’t sure which of them was seeking comfort, but the warm metal under his fingertip was reassuring and solid. “What if it’s just a small pocket dimension, set inside the real world? Like that labyrinthine little hellscape underneath the Cardenas house.”

Todd looked around twitchily, as if expecting a Purple People Eater to appear.

“Not a separate world like Wendimoor,” continued Dirk. “Just a – a bubble within the actual forest, where you can walk in and out of the dimension as if it were a regular house.”

Todd twisted his mouth in reluctant agreement. “The Washington State version of Narnia.”

Dirk considered pretending not to know what Narnia was, but decided now wasn’t the time to tease. Besides, it was his favourite land from The Silmarillion.

Speaking of literary worlds…

“The librarian,” Dirk said, so sharply that Todd twitched again. “Dr Herring. Reed. They said the people who come to this house are sent to them when the people need to – what was it? Escape to fictional worlds?”

“I think that’s a figure of speech.”

“Some things in life, Todd, can be literal as well as figurative. Such as pocket dimensions.”

“I’m not sure that’s –”

“Anyway, my point is, Todd, that Reed’s otherwise innocuous statement about fictional worlds takes on a whole new significance when we find ourselves in” – Dirk spread his hands, then waved them for good measure – “another world.”

Todd sighed and, with the hand not holding his phone, gently pushed down Dirk’s arm. The gesture was irritable, but it resulted in Todd’s hand lingering on Dirk’s in the air between them, so Dirk was in no way complaining.

“So you’re saying this Reed has something to do with us being in a pocket dimension?”

“They did run off awfully fast when the world turned inside out – oh! Oh! That must have been the dimension destabilising. Remember? They said something about all the people ‘being in place’, so maybe…” Dirk chewed his lip.

“Maybe there’s some kind of ritual they need a certain number of people for,” said Todd, eyes lighting up. “It holds the pocket world in place. And when there aren’t enough people, the world collapses.”

“But do they need to do that for every world, or just this one? And if so, why this one? Is it something to do with this house being from Cluedo? But Cluedo is a board game, not a fictional world in a library book –”

Dirk sputtered to a halt when Todd squeezed his fingers. “Look,” said Todd, hand warm around his. “Obviously we need to talk to Reed again. We’re probably not gonna come up with any answers down here, so why don’t we get to the conservatory, go find Farah, and question Reed together?”

Dirk looked down at him, at the fragile moment strung between them, and nodded. Todd squeezed his hand again, and Dirk expected him to let go – but no. Todd moved around him and tugged Dirk forward, and then – somehow – they were walking hand in hand.

This was a move in their game that Dirk couldn’t even begin to make sense of – although it certainly felt like being clobbered with a spanner, so the Cluedo metaphor probably still applied. Should he…say something? Certainly he and Todd had nebulous boundaries when it came to personal space, but even for them, holding hands was a new and emotionally charged experience. Was Todd simply trying to comfort him? Was this a very platonic thing best friends did to reassure each other when trapped in potentially life-threatening circumstances?

Todd linked their fingers.

Dirk wondered if there had always been so little air in the tunnel.

Todd’s face was angled away from him – which possibly was deliberate – so Dirk’s only clues about his intentions came from body language. Todd’s hand felt natural in his, their entwined fingers relaxed; Dirk might have thought Todd didn’t even realise what he was doing, except that there was a tense set to Todd’s shoulders. His face really didn’t need to be turned so far away from Dirk’s gaze. And it was difficult to tell in the light from Todd’s phone, but his neck and ear seemed to be red.

Dirk opened his mouth. Realised he could think of nothing to say. Closed his mouth. Decided to just enjoy the moment, admiring the familiar line of Todd’s neck and shoulder while Todd wouldn’t catch him staring.

Perhaps claustrophobic tunnels weren’t so bad after all, when he had Todd with him.

*

“Do you think this interdimensional mansion has a bathroom?” asked Dirk, then realised the question might be something of a mood killer.

They’d been walking hand in hand through the passage for about – five minutes? Dirk had trouble conceptualising time even when he wasn’t trapped underground, but he didn’t think it had been very long. The house was large, certainly, but it shouldn’t take long to walk the breadth of it. Unless, of course, they were wrong and this didn’t actually lead to the conservatory, but rather some unknown destination miles away, or another world within the world – well. Hm. Best not to think about that.

As they’d walked, the distant drip of water had become less ‘distant’ and more ‘insistent’, as had the smell of rising damp. Curiously, Dirk couldn’t see any water in the dry tunnel of dirt and stone, but the steady and loudening sound of it reminded him that he hadn’t visited a bathroom since their last rest stop on the journey here, several hours ago.

He wished he’d bitten his tongue, however, when the question seemed to shatter the fragile spell that kept Todd’s hand in his. Todd cleared his throat and slipped his fingers from Dirk’s as he turned to face him. His expression was carefully blank; they weren’t talking about it, then.

“Why? Do you need to…” Todd trailed off, apparently unsure how to finish that sentence.

“It seems the usual laws of physics still apply in this pocket world,” said Dirk by way of answer. He looked away, fighting a blush, then frowned. Ahead of them, beyond the glow of Todd’s phone, there seemed to be another light, faint but golden. “What’s that?”

Todd’s head whipped around, then he made a triumphant noise and jogged forward. “It’s an exit, Dirk! We’re getting out of here!”

Dirk trailed after him, staying close. “Now, Todd, let’s not get ahead of ourselves…”

“What? Dirk, this is a good thing! Why aren’t you more excited?”

“Well, you see, Todd, in my experience, things like exits and solutions and lights at the ends of mysterious tunnels tend not to be as straightforward as…”

They reached the entrance of a small, square room. A dead end, containing nothing but four stone walls and a dim lightbulb.

“…that.” Dirk sighed.

Todd stared around the close little cell for a moment, then made an irritable noise and strode into the room. “There must be some way out. Come on, help me look.”

Dirk sighed again. He lifted a foot to follow, and a sudden hunch hit him with such force that he almost overbalanced. He would have staggered, but one foot was still in the air, so instead he did a sort of wobbling swing-kick and caught himself against the wall of the tunnel.

“Ow,” he muttered. And then, when that was met with only silence, he added more loudly, “Ow!!”

“Dirk?” Todd’s voice drifted into the tunnel. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, Todd! No need to fuss,” said Dirk with, he hoped, just the right degree of long-suffering nobility. He glanced down and frowned. In stumbling against the wall, he appeared to have landed on a small metal box, incongruous against the stone. He hadn’t noticed it when hurrying after Todd, but now he stepped back to examine the abnormality – that is to say, he poked the box with one finger, waited a moment, and smiled in relief when nothing blew up.

“Tooooodd,” he called, poking again.

“Mnhg?”

“There appears to be – oh!” The front of the box swung open, revealing a grid of buttons numbered one to nine. “It’s a keypad!”

Todd peered into the tunnel. “What, like for a passcode? Do you think it…opens an exit? Somehow?”

“Only one way to find out!” Dirk prodded a button at random. A loud clang sounded from behind Todd. Dirk jumped, then smiled weakly. “Well, that seems promising.”

Todd gave him a patented look and disappeared back into the room, while Dirk returned to examining the keypad.

“What the hell?” Todd’s exclamation was loud enough to override Dirk’s instinct that he should stay with the keypad. He bounded through the door, skidded to a halt against Todd’s side, and patted his shoulders and chest frantically.

“Todd? What is it? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine, but – where did that come from?”

Dirk’s eyes followed the line of Todd’s pointing finger, then widened. A hole had opened up in the stone ceiling of the room, and from it peeked the bottom few rungs of a metal ladder.

Todd scowled at the ceiling. “How the fuck did that even –? Where was it bef –? Can stone just – I mean, what kind of physics-defying bullshit…? No. You know what? No. Fuck it.”

Todd’s ability to still be perplexed by the inexplicable workings of the Universe remained, as ever, endearing. Dirk was a little distracted from his admiration, however, by a number of simultaneous realisations:

1. The metal ladder was still out of reach, suggesting that it would need to somehow be lowered if they planned to climb it.
2. The sound of water, which had followed them through the tunnel, had suddenly turned from a steady drip into a cascade.
3. Another loud clang had just sounded behind them, this one with a finality that set off all of Dirk’s internal alarms at once.

He whirled around to see that a metal grate had fallen across the doorway, trapping them in the small stone room with no way out except the flimsy ladder high above. Water had begun to spill from gaps in the stone, gushing down the walls to pool across the floor.

Dirk squeaked.

Todd spoke in the way of someone trying very hard to sound calm in the face of impending death; it was a tone Dirk knew well. “Okay, this…this is new.” Todd paused. “I mean, not the part where we’re stuck in a booby-trapped room underground. That’s…kind of normal for us. But this particular booby trap is…is new. Any ideas?”

“Erm,” said Dirk. “Hm.” He thought a moment. “Um.”

“Guess not.” Todd sighed and peered through the grate. “Okay. Maybe it flipped some kind of switch when you ran through the door, or the passcode wasn’t finished –”

“Ohhh, so that’s what my hunch was about.”

Todd turned to stare at him. “You had a hunch you shouldn’t come in here? And you ignored it? What the hell, Dirk?”

Dirk puffed up indignantly. “You were in trouble! Possibly. Potentially. Perhaps. Anyway, you made noises of distress. Or, well, confusion. My point is, Todd, that I followed the more overwhelming instinct to ensure that you were all right, as a good best friend does.”

He half-expected a scoff in response, but Todd’s face softened. He quickly cleared his throat and turned away, but Dirk caught that telltale smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, and despite their imminent doom, something exquisite surged in his chest.

“Okay, fine. So we’re locked inside a dead end, surrounded by running water – do you think it’s meant to, what, flood the room? But how, if the water will just…go into the tunnel?”

As if on cue: stone rumbled, the room trembled, and the floor began to drop.

“…You just had to ask, didn’t you, Todd?”

The floor – which Dirk now noted was also stone, rather than the packed earth of the tunnel – was moving slowly, but definitely heading in a noticeably downwards direction. Presumably it would lower enough to let the gushing water reach past their heads, resulting in a needlessly dramatic but nonetheless effective death by eventual drowning. Dirk wondered if it was too late for aquaphobia to join claustrophobia on his list of newly discovered fears. 

Todd, already ankle deep in water, sloshed to the grate and pushed his arm through, into the tunnel. “Shit – the keypad’s too far away. Do you have anything we can reach it with?”

Dirk joined him at the grate and peered morosely into the tunnel. “I appreciate your faith, Todd, but contrary to what you may have heard, I do not actually possess a magical jacket with pockets capable of hiding an extendable reacher-grabber.”

Todd was staring at him in that distracting way that always made Dirk want to check whether the heating had been turned up. “Dirk…use the thing.”

Dirk opened his mouth. Frowned. Closed his mouth. Tilted his head. Frowned some more. “The…thing, Todd?”

“Yeah. The thing. I don’t know what it is exactly, but. You know. The thing.”

“Er, Todd, as much as I enjoy unearthing the rewards of your conversational treasure hunts, I must confess that in this instance I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

Todd sighed, shifting his feet. He splashed a little; the water was now approaching his shins. “There’s something you’ve been…hiding. Or. Not hiding, exactly, but avoiding telling me and Farah about.” Dirk tensed. “It’s got something to do with all the weird stuff around the office.”

Dirk cleared his throat. He suspected he knew where this was going, but still he said, weakly, “You might have to be more specific, Todd. There is, to be fair, rather a lot of weird stuff around the office.”

“The cushion with the googly eyes. The espresso machine that only makes herbal teas and mocktails. The tennis ball that changes colours to match your jackets. The stapler that makes bubbles. That fucking scarecrow.”

“I told you! The scarecrow was a –”

“Yeah, no, I don’t believe for a second that scarecrow was a hatstand you bought for the bathroom, Dirk. Especially since I never saw it again after that day.”

Dirk tugged his jacket and looked over Todd’s head in a doomed attempt to avoid eye contact. “You mean the day you noticed it behind the shower curtain and screamed so loudly that Farah burst into the bathroom with a gun and you only just had time to pull up your trousers before she broke down the door?”

Todd narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. That day. Now stop trying to distract me. I don’t know where all this weird shit around the office is coming from, but I know it’s something to do with you. And something you don’t want to talk to us about. And that’s fine, I wasn’t going to push it, but…Dirk, we could really use some weird shit to get us out of this locked underground room that’s trying to slowly drown us. So can you maybe move up the decision to tell me what it is you’re hiding?”

Dirk sighed, shoulders slumping. He didn’t like to betray Mona’s confidence, but clearly the game was up anyway, and trapped in a confined space as the floor lowered beneath them seemed as good a time as any to facilitate introductions. Dirk unclipped his tie pin and held it out. Mona warmed his hand, a little glow of comfort in his palm.

“How about it?” he asked the tiny yellow ice cream cone. “Would you like to meet Todd now?”

A thoughtful silence, during which Dirk couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Todd, then the pin dropped from Dirk’s hand. A splash, and it landed on the floor as a young woman with short black hair, her complexion bleached white in the way of someone whose skin didn’t see much daylight. She wore the type of loose, soft clothes in which she was most comfortable: a knitted yellow jumper that reached her knees, a bright blue dress that peeked out from underneath, and stockings with no shoes.

Todd leaped back. “Jesus Christ!”

“No, no,” Dirk assured him. “Mona Wilder.”

Mona might be outspoken (and lethal) when feeling protective of Dirk, but she was otherwise quite shy. As Todd stared, she shuffled to stand slightly behind Dirk. “Hello, Todd,” she whispered, tilting her hair to cover her face.

“Hi,” said Todd automatically. “No, wait. How do you – have we met?”

“Mona has been an invaluable member of the agency since the moment we opened its doors.” Dirk put his arm around Mona’s shoulders and smiled down at her fondly. “It just hasn’t perhaps, one might say, always been entirely obvious that her presence was…present.”

Todd wore the look of concentration that meant he was parsing one of Dirk’s more evasive sentences. “So she’s been at the agency but she didn’t look like…Wait. I was right? The – cushion? With the eyes? That was her?” He looked at Mona, tucked into Dirk’s side. “Er…you?”

Mona nodded. “I like googly eyes,” she said in her soft, high voice. “I thought you might, too.”

This introduction wasn’t going quite as swimmingly (no pun intended) as Dirk had hoped, but before he could worry, Todd seemed to recover himself and quickly said, “I do. I mean. They were…nice. Really nice. Very…memorable.”

Mona beamed. Dirk beamed. Todd…well, Todd smiled weakly, so Dirk was counting this a win.

“So you’re a…shapeshifter?”

“A holistic actress,” said Mona. She tipped her hair back from her face and smiled at him with the openness that came to her whenever she spoke about her calling. “I can play any part.”

“As you so astutely observed, Todd, Mona may be able to help us out of this tunnel.” Dirk patted her shoulder, and Mona smiled up at him. “Though really, Todd, why you were so surprised to meet her when you’d apparently already guessed and were hiding it from me –”

“Are you seriously making this about me keeping a secret from you?” asked Todd, but in the grumbling tone that meant he wasn’t truly annoyed. “Anyway, I just thought you had some kind of magic toy you didn’t want to tell us about. Maybe something you’d picked up in Wendimoor. I didn’t know all the stuff appearing and disappearing around the office was a person.”

“Dirk?” asked Mona, tugging his sleeve.

“Yes, Mona?”

“There’s a lot of water rising in here. Would you like me to help?”

“Oh!” In the stress of introducing two of his most important people to each other, Dirk had almost forgotten the more life-threatening aspect of their situation. He looked down. The ground was still moving, the room was still filling with water, and the makeshift lake was now up to his knees and Todd’s thighs. (Not a good time to focus on Todd’s thighs, Dirk reminded himself.) At this rate, the water would soon reach Dirk’s jacket and absolutely ruin the leather. Dirk’s anxiety spiked at the thought.

“Thanks so much, Mona. If you could just slip through the bars and pop in that passcode for us, it would be a huge help.”

Mona, who loved to be a help, beamed at him and turned into a little paper plane. Todd made a strangled noise. (Dirk felt this was slightly uncalled for, but then, Todd was under a lot of stress right now. And perhaps it had been a mangled groan of admiration.) She dived through a gap in the bars and landed on the other side as her human self, now with dry feet. Dirk smiled, hope settling comfortably in his chest. It looked like they would get out of this with their jackets and their lives intact after all.

Mona stood in front of the keypad and looked at him expectantly. “What’s the code, Dirk?” she asked.

…Ah.

“…Ah,” he said.

“Shit. What is the code?” Todd glanced around the room, perhaps hoping to discover a previously unnoticed set of numbers displayed in neon lights against the wall.

“I’m…not sure,” admitted Dirk. “My modus operandi is usually to rely on the interconnectedness of all things in the hope that the Universe will guide my hand to where it needs to be.”

“You mean press buttons until something works?”

“Well, yes. If you must put it in crass terms.”

“Maybe you could say random numbers at me? And I can press them for you?” Mona suggested, finger poised in front of the keypad.

“Ah! Brilliant idea, Mona. If you’d ever like a side job as my assistant, I’ll be happy to open up a position for you.”

“You what?” Todd, who had been watching the rising water, jerked his head up to look at Dirk indignantly.

“Todd, this is hardly the time for professional jealousy.”

“Thank you, Dirk, but I think I’m best at acting,” said Mona. She peered at Todd, her hair falling across her face as she tilted her head. “Also, I’m not sure Todd likes sharing you.”

Todd turned red and muttered something inarticulate. It didn’t sound like he’d be forming words for a while, so Dirk returned his attention to the more immediate question of their survival.

He chewed his lip. “Let’s see – how about…five? I like five. Good, solid number. Odd but feels even, you know? A nice stopping point when you’re counting. Divisible by lots of things, I hear.”

Mona nodded wisely and pressed the five button a few times. The metal of the grate turned red hot, glowing like a lit coal, and Dirk stumbled backwards with a splash.

“All right,” he said, voice perhaps just a touch strained, “so, incorrect codes bring on more booby traps. Stellar information, very good to know.”

Todd, who had been leaning on the grate, muttered dire things as he examined the singed fabric of his sleeve.

Dirk wrung his hands. “What about…” Well, sometimes the most obvious solution was the right one. “Er, one two three four?”

Mona tapped in the code. Dirk’s instincts screamed. He ducked, shoving Todd’s head down, as an arrow whizzed over their heads.

Todd straightened and smacked his fists against the water (now up to his hips). “Why does this fucking tunnel need so many fucking booby traps?”

Dirk shifted from foot to foot, mentally running through numbers with increasing desperation. “Um…sixty-nine?”

Todd glared at him. “Seriously?”

Mona, either oblivious to or unconcerned by the implications of this exchange, typed it in.

The lightbulb on the wall behind them shattered, sparks flying, and began to shoot bursts of flame across the now-dark room.

“I guess whoever designed this stupid death trap didn’t appreciate immature sex jokes.”

“This is not helpful assisting, Todd.”

All right. All right. Clearly the random numbers weren’t working. Dirk fidgeted, trying to ignore the increasingly urgent call of nature (which all the running water was not helping with) and think. Think. Who might have designed this room? Who used the tunnel? What numbers would they use for a passcode?

Impossible. How the hell was he supposed to know something like that? Dirk made an angry raspberry and splashed his hands in the water (now seriously endangering the hem of his lovely purple jacket). At a time like this, it certainly would be helpful to be psychic.

Wait.

Psychic.

Dirk’s mind flashed back to the front doors, with their Blackwing symbols in stained glass. There was something about this house and Blackwing – Dr Peach had been Project Enyo, hadn’t she? And Dr Herring – Reed, they’d said to call them Reed – must be some kind of holistic librarian, if they could transport people into the worlds of books. So they were probably former Blackwing, too. And Phasia might be – she had the air of an escaped project, someone not entirely sure how to act in the outside world.

Phasia had called Ivory Towers “a base for people who need somewhere to stay a while”. What had she said? We have seven live-in staff, and we open our doors to temporary residents who need it.

Blackwing. This mansion was a refuge for escaped Blackwing projects.

Blackwing had…how many projects? Riggins had told him once, when he was trying to manipulate Dirk. Svlad, you’re special. Forty-two projects in this place, and no one else can do what you do.

“Forty-two!” yelled Dirk, sloshing to the grate. He almost gripped it in his hands, but he remembered just in time that the metal was still hot. “Mona, type in forty-two!”

“What the hell does –” Todd began, but then Mona typed in the code and everything abruptly turned calm. The water stopped gushing, the floor stopped moving, the flames stopped shooting. The grate retracted up into the doorway with a mild clang, opening the way to the tunnel. The room lit up, the walls glowing gently as the stone became a light source. The ladder in the ceiling dropped down (almost braining Todd, who jumped out of the way with a splash), the floor slowly rose, and the water began to drain away.

Mona padded to the doorway and beamed at them. “Did I help, Dirk?”

Dirk reached out and drew her into a rough hug. She landed in the water with a splash and squeaked happily against his chest.

“Mona, darling, you were perfect.”

*

Dirk climbed the ladder first, Todd behind him and Mona at the rear. (“If you fall, I can be a bouncy castle and catch you,” she explained to Todd. “It’s just more practical.”) The walls were a little closer than Dirk liked, and the only light came from the glowing room below, but it wasn’t far to the end of the ladder, where a circular trapdoor was set in the ceiling.

A metal ring hung from the door. Dirk, clinging to the ladder with one hand, gingerly pulled it. Nothing happened, and he wondered with a sinking stomach if this was yet another obstacle barring their way out of the tunnel.

“This is outrageous!” he yelled, pointing a finger at the offending door. “You hear me? I have done everything a reasonable person should have to do to escape a secret passageway, my clothes are at serious risk of being ruined forever, and I am this close to becoming afraid of the dark! In the name of fresh air and sartorial salvageability, I insist – nay, demand – that you open!”

“…Everything okay up there, Dirk?” asked Todd, his voice weary.

“Peachier than the doctor herself, Todd,” said Dirk, his tone perhaps a little waspish.

“Dirk? Is that you?”

Dirk froze, finger still pointing accusingly at the ceiling. The question had come from the other side of the trapdoor and, though it had been muffled, he’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“Farah!” Dirk thumped a fist against the door and almost fell off the ladder. “Farah, can you hear me? It’s Dirk Gently, from work!”

The door swung up – wait, up? Oh. So it had been a push, not a pull. Dirk made a note to evade that particular revelation if anyone asked why he’d been struggling with the door.

Light poured into the tunnel, and a pair of booted feet appeared as Dirk flung himself over the lip of the door.

“Farah!” he rested his elbows on the floor and grinned up at her. “May I just say how absolutely heroic you are looking today? The leather jacket, the elegant fighting stance, the rescuing us from a dark hole in the ground. It’s all very bodyguard chic.”

Farah shifted from foot to foot, expression bemused in that way it got whenever she received a compliment.

She really did look impressive, poised like an action heroine against a backdrop of refracted light and lush greenery. Weak sunlight filtered in from the grey sky outside and streamed through glass walls to frame her cloud of black hair like a halo as she peered down at Dirk. He debated whether to snap a picture on his phone and text it to Tina later, possibly with the message Your would-be girlfriend rescued us, are you jealous?, but Todd had given him a stern talking-to about holistic matchmaking after that incident with the performance artist and the two baristas, so he decided best not.

(In Dirk’s defence, the performance artist and the two baristas were all very happy together and the agency now had a lifetime supply of free drinks at the local café, so what did it matter if there had been a few kidnappings and one temporary bout of amnesia on the road to domestic, culinary, and polyamorous bliss?)

“Dirk, when you’re done admiring Farah, could you please move so I can get out of this stupid passageway?” Todd’s voice floated up from below him.

“Don’t be silly, Todd. I’ll never be done admiring Farah. She’s an incredible person.” Dirk hoisted himself over the trapdoor, slipped, and slid backwards until he was dangling over the short drop.

Dirk, ever skilled at identifying opportunities, wiggled his lower half. “Tooooodd,” he whined. “Be a good assistant and push my bum, would you? Make me go up.”

Todd made a strangled noise but did not, to Dirk’s chagrin, acknowledge the suggestion in any other way.

“Would you like me to help you up, Dirk?” came Mona’s voice, somewhere below Todd’s. “I can be a cherry picker. Or a moving ladder. Or a giant pair of hands that pushes your bum.”

“Er, thanks so much for the offer, Mona, but I think I’ve got it now!” Dirk quickly scrambled out of the trapdoor and landed at Farah’s feet with a soft “Oof!”

“Who’s that with you?” Farah asked sharply. “One of the Clue suspects?” Squinting into the passageway, she reached down to help Dirk stand. He took her hand gratefully, aware of how significant a gesture it was when she allowed another person to touch her, and she hauled him to his feet. Dirk brushed down his jeans and jacket, which now sported cobwebs and water stains as well as lingering soot from the lounge. His shoes contained rather a lot of water, and he hoped Todd hadn’t heard him squelching.

Dirk wiped his cheek. “That’s Mona Wilder,” he said absently, frowning at the grey smudges on his fingers.

Farah made a soft noise and produced a pressed handkerchief from inside her leather jacket. “Who’s Mona Wilder?” she asked, wiping Dirk’s cheek. He smiled at her.

“A holistic actress. Possibly the holistic actress, actually – I’m not sure if there are others. She’s an old friend of mine from Blackwing.” Dirk still felt a little strange calling Mona ‘friend’ – not because he didn’t care about her, far from it, but because they hadn’t really used words like that when they were growing up. Dirk was Dirk, and Mona was Mona; that was just how they thought of each other. In a way, each name was its own assertion of friendship; Mona had been the first person to call him ‘Dirk’ instead of ‘Svlad’ or ‘Icarus’, and Dirk had been the first person in years to call her ‘Mona’ instead of ‘Lamia’. That had been enough, between the stark cold walls of Blackwing cells. It was only after they had escaped that Dirk had come to understand the significance of having friends, best friends, people who stuck around and gave a name to their constancy. Mona was his friend, now, in a way she hadn’t been at Blackwing, because it was only after knowing Todd and Farah that Dirk had come to understand what ‘friend’ meant.

Todd clambered out of the trapdoor as Farah tucked the handkerchief back inside her jacket. “You’ve already met Mona in her professional capacity,” Todd told Farah dryly. “Remember the scarecrow?”

“How could I forget?” asked Farah, equally dry.

“Dirk says Mona’s been an unofficial member of the agency since it started. She’s a shapeshifter.”

Mona poked her head out of the trapdoor and smiled sweetly up at them all.

Farah studied her for a long moment, then looked at Todd. “The bubble stapler?”

“Yeah.”

“The googly eyes?”

“Uh huh.”

“The small dragon in the dumpster outside our offices?”

Todd blinked. “Jesus. We have a dumpster dragon?”

“Yes, that was me,” piped up Mona. She frowned at the tiled floor, apparently decided that climbing out of the trapdoor in human form would be too difficult, and turned into a small bird. Dirk admired her plumage as she fluttered up from the tunnel, landed on the floor, and transformed back into a waifish young woman.

“Lovely feathers,” he told her, beaming. “Was that a swallow?”

Mona beamed back. “Yes! A baby one. They’re fluffier.”

Farah was, Dirk noticed, muttering frantically beside him. “…physically impossible, but when has physics ever stopped holistics? If – if you account for the redistribution of mass, it doesn’t make any sense, but neither did Wendimoor and, well. God knows that happened. So – so we’d have to allow for the fact that at least one law of physics, possibly up to eight, is disproven by the mere existence of Mona Wilder. God. Okay. If we do allow for that, we can contextualise the facts in a broader scheme of understanding, i.e. that there are still many things we don’t know about the Universe. But where does the extra mass go? How does one move from – from human to bird to human within the space of ten seconds without causing some kind of, I don’t know, singularity –”

Dirk looked anxiously at his assistant. “Todd, I think we broke Farah.”

Farah stopped muttering and frowned at him. “It takes more than a – a revelation about the scientific inconsistency of the universe to break me.”

“Duly noted!” Dirk, trying not to be too obvious about his relief, looked around. Yes, this was definitely the conservatory: with its glass walls and ceiling, profusion of potted plants, and cushioned lawn chairs, it felt more like a greenhouse than the interior of a home. Dirk had only the vaguest idea of what a conservatory was supposed to look like, but he gathered it was a sort of luxurious sunroom for people who didn’t want to go outside for their sunlight, and this certainly seemed like the sort of space in which wealthy people would sip cocktails while trying to obtain a tan.

“Wait,” said Farah. “Wait. Did you say Mona’s been with the agency since it started?”

“Yes!” Dirk looked back at Farah. “Well, earlier than that, actually. She was my Panic Pete toy for a while, though I didn’t know it at the time, and she was instrumental to our second case, though in some ways I suppose she was more of a client for that one, being the interdimensional contact who brought the case to my attention…”

“Dirk,” said Farah forbiddingly. Dirk wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong, but he straightened guiltily. “You know I’ve been filling out insurance forms for the last week. We’ve had a whole unaccounted-for person on the payroll and you didn’t tell me? Do you know how many claims I’m going to have to re-lodge? With Hobbs and Tina on retainer as consultants, this pushes us into Small Business With Over Five Employees territory! We’re not covered for Acts of Norse Mythology anymore!”

“Er,” said Dirk, looking at Mona helplessly. She smiled up at him. “Well, if it helps, Mona hasn’t elected to go on the payroll, so I believe she’s not technically an employee –”

“That’s worse!” Farah rubbed her eyes. “We’re not insured at all for volunteer liabilities! I can’t have unpaid interns living as furniture in the agency!” She pointed at Mona. “You! Mona Wilder! As soon as we get back to the office, I’m putting you on the payroll. We’ll have to calculate the number of hours you’ve already worked, of course, and back-pay you for those. Next pay day is this Thursday; I’ll show you how to submit your timesheet through our accounting system, which hopefully you’re better at than Dirk and Todd.”

Todd made a small noise, but refrained from voicing a protest.

“We’ll negotiate a salary based on your past experience –”

“I’ve helped Dirk break out of Blackwing a few times!” said Mona, puffing up proudly. “And I passed on the messages from the little snail who spoke in my head.”

Farah considered her thoughtfully. “You’re probably at least on the same pay scale as Todd, then.”

Todd made another, slightly louder noise. Dirk assumed this was in response to Farah’s tone, rather than any resistance to Mona receiving a fair salary.

“We’ll sort this out when we get home,” said Farah, tapping out a note on her phone. “But in the meantime, please try not to get in the way of any Norse gods, all right?”

“All right.” Mona nodded determinedly. “Would you like me to be Mjolnir for a while?”

“Who’s Mjolnir?” Even as he asked the question, Todd looked as if he regretted hearing the answer.

“Thor’s hammer,” said Mona and Dirk at the same time – Mona cheerfully, Dirk huffily.

“It’s not nearly as impressive as people say,” added Dirk, straightening his jacket.

“It was very helpful when Loki tried to steal the sacred algae from us that time, though,” Mona reminded him. “I’m sure if I was Mjolnir, no gods would bother us until we got back to the office.”

Farah and Todd stared.

“That’s okay,” said Farah at last. She hesitated, then smiled. “The way you are is…is great. And, um, Mona?” She cleared her throat. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Mona smiled back, shyly, then turned into a lounge chair. Dirk smiled and patted her wicker armrest.

That had gone rather well, he thought. Just as he’d expected, they were all going to be the best of friends.

*

There was a small but ostentatious bathroom just off the conservatory, which resolved two issues Dirk had deemed high priority:

1. For all that it emulated the layout of a standard Cluedo board, the house’s lower floor did possess anomalies. This suggested that it had some independence from the aesthetic trappings of its source material, or that it had been modified to suit the inhabitants.
2. He was not going to have to relieve himself into a potted plant.

He explained Point 1 through the door as he wiped his hands on an absurdly fluffy towel (hanging from a golden ring over a polished marble counter). Todd yelled back, “What? What does that even mean?” Dirk huffed and clarified: “It’s not just a Cluedo board, Todd! It has bathrooms!”

“I think he means that the mansion has rooms not featured in Clue, so there’s more to it than just a living gameboard,” said Farah as Dirk emerged from the bathroom, straightening his tie.

“Yes, exactly. That’s what I said, Todd. Farah gets it.”

Todd opened his mouth, looking mutinous, and Farah quickly stepped in. “Okay, so, you two think this place is a pocket dimension, right? Like Wendimoor?”

“More like the house within the Cardenas house, but yes,” said Dirk. Todd must have filled her in while Dirk was using the bathroom. Presumably Todd’s recap of their underground adventures had left out the hand holding.

“We spoke to the librarian beforehand, and I have reason to believe they may be a holistic of some kind, one who can pull people into fictional worlds.” Dirk wiggled his leg; his jeans were still damp from the near-drowning, and he wondered whether the house’s additional rooms also included a laundry. Or whether Mona would be amenable to taking the temporary form of a clothes-dryer.

“They said something about having six people in place. We think maybe it’s, I don’t know” – Todd lifted one shoulder – “some kind of ritual that holds the house together.”

Farah’s gaze sharpened, her delicate brows drawing together. “Holds the house together? That sounds…ominous.”

“Well, it nearly fell apart while Todd and I were in the lounge. We experienced what I would describe as a brief dip in the vast uncharted oceans of existential nothingness.” Dirk wrinkled his nose and wrung some water out of his sock.

Farah’s hand flew to her holster. What precisely she thought a gun could do against the otherworldly void was beyond Dirk, but he supposed it was an instinctive gesture. “Yes, I felt that, too. I was alone, so I couldn’t ask Phasia about it. What do you think it was?”

Todd rubbed his arms as if to warm himself, though he’d mostly dried off by now and the conservatory wasn’t cold. His eyes went distant, and Dirk wondered if he was reliving that terrible moment with Amanda at the pool in Wendimoor. “We were thrown into the backstage of reality for a second. We think it’s because the pocket dimension went weird for a minute – something to do with the ritual going…funky. Bad. I don’t know.”

“The librarian said there had to be ‘six people in place’?” asked Farah. Todd nodded, eyes refocusing, and she chewed her lip. “Clue has six players. You think that’s connected?”

“Everything is connected,” said Todd dryly. Dirk beamed at him.

“We did think that the house might be inhabited by game-equivalent suspects, so that fits.” Farah began ticking off names on her fingers. “Madame Nidae is Mrs Peacock. Dijon Bluthall is Colonel Mustard. Dr Peach is Professor Plum.”

“Reed Herring could be Scarlet, I guess,” said Todd, twisting his mouth doubtfully. “Y’know, like a red herring.”

“Red…? Oh!” Dirk clapped his hands. “I just got that!”

Farah sighed. “All right – who’s left? Mrs White and Reverend Green?”

“Phasia and Reed mentioned a…Liz?” Todd squinted. “Doesn’t sound like a colour. And a… Hobbit? Herbie? I guess herbs are green.”

“Where does the victim fit in all this, though?” Farah drummed her fingers on her crossed arms. “There’s no pink character in Clue. Sir Salmon was the steward of Ivory Towers, and the seventh person who lived here – was he part of the ritual? How, if he’s not part of the original game?”

Dirk remembered when he’d last seen Farah, a conversation he’d forgotten in all the recent excitement. He bounced on his toes, squelching a little. “Wait! Farah! I know where we can find answers. Didn’t Phasia take you to look at her records?”

Farah nodded. “In the study. There were…a lot. And she didn’t have any electronic copies or an online database – apparently technology doesn’t work well in this place.” She shuddered, apparently at the thought of a filing system not operating at maximum efficiency. “They do have a photocopier that works about 75 per cent of the time, so she suggested I explore the house while she copies relevant documents.”

Dirk felt his eyebrows fly up. “You let her copy the documents without your supervision?” he asked. Given how rarely Farah let him use the office photocopier, it was a little insulting to think she had more faith in a potential murder suspect. Admittedly, Phasia had never caused the agency photocopier to go up in a fiery mushroom cloud of ink and shredded paper, but that had been one time. And Dirk maintained that the explosion had probably been holistically significant in some way.

Farah’s mouth twitched. “I figured it would give me a chance to check out the place by myself. Then I was going to slip back into the study and look through the records without her.”

“Oh, I like that! Very sensible. Very Farah.”

She smiled, then cleared her throat. “The problem is that it might be harder to slip into the study with, well. Additional people.”

Dirk suspected this was Farah’s way of saying, politely, Dirk and Todd, you are both as subtle as a pink fur coat coupled with a yellow plastic cowboy hat. Mona is an unknown variable who apparently possesses the ability to turn into a cherry picker at will. Therefore, it would be impossible to sneak anywhere with the three of you by my side.

Should he tell her that he and Mona had been trained as ninjas by the CIA? Hm, best not.

“That’s fair,” said Todd. “Why don’t you go ahead while we check out the conservatory? Then we can meet you at the study.” Farah frowned, and Todd quickly held up his hands. “I know you’ve already cased the conservatory. But there might be something, y’know, holistically significant about the room. Something only Dirk can find.”

Dirk pointed at Todd. “Oh, I like that! Very sensible. Very Farah.”

Todd gave him the half scowl that meant You’re not funny, which Dirk usually took as confirmation that he’d been very funny indeed.

It took a little persuading to convince Farah that they could be safely left to their own devices (this might have had something to do with the fact that Todd was still sporting cobwebs and a singed shirt), but eventually she agreed to meet them outside the study. She and Todd made plans about when this regrouping would occur, based on things like where Phasia might be and how long it would take Farah to examine the records, but Dirk tuned out and began to poke around the conservatory. Mona, apparently as uninterested in logistics as he was, became a snazzy pair of glasses and made herself comfortable on the bridge of Dirk’s nose.

Nothing caught Dirk’s attention as they wandered, and Farah had barely departed by the time he felt sure the conservatory was unimportant to their case. That did raise the question of why anyone would guard it with a booby-trap-filled secret passageway, though. Maybe it was something to do with the mansion being a pocket world. Depending on who had created the dimension, perhaps the tunnel had simply…come with the house?

Dirk tapped his chin and gazed through the glass walls, absently taking in the lush grounds. Beyond the shaped topiaries, he could see a large curtain of vivid yellow flowers rippling in the wind – some kind of bower. It looked like a nice spot to hide away if you needed a bit of space.

Hide away.

Dirk clicked his fingers. “Todd! I meant to tell you and Farah – I think this place is a refuge for escaped Blackwing projects.”

He turned and almost trod on Todd, who had come up behind him. Todd looked briefly flustered; he opened and closed his mouth a few times, cheeks turning pink. Dirk assumed his confusion was a result of their near collision, although oddly, what Todd said when he finally spoke was, “You – glasses. When. Why.”

“Hm? Oh, they’re Mona. She’s resting at the moment.” Dirk leaned forward and Todd, looking even more flustered, leaned back. “More importantly, Todd! Although I’m still a little vague on the how and the who, I have discovered the answer to why this place exists. It’s a haven for people who have escaped from Blackwing. Holistics, like me.” He gasped and straightened, flapping his hands. “Oh! Oh! I bet that’s why they know Amanda!”

That snapped Todd out of his haze. “What? Amanda’s not a Blackwing subject.” His eyes widened. “Is she? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No, no, Amanda’s fine,” said Dirk hastily. He patted Todd’s shoulder, hoping the gesture wasn’t too awkward. Reassurance was one of those friendship areas with which he still had some difficulty. “But the Rowdies were Blackwing – Project Incubus, remember? And Amanda travels with them now, looking for people who can help her fix the broken bits of reality.” Dirk forgot he was supposed to be comforting Todd and smacked his shoulder triumphantly. “Solved it! Amanda and the Rowdies have been tracking down other holistics and Blackwing escapees, and they bring them here when they find them.”

Todd mulled this over, chewing the inside of his cheek. His eyes settled on the glasses again. “Is Mona a Blackwing escapee? Like you?”

Dirk nodded. “We met there when we were young.” Her project name was Lamia, he almost added, but that was private information. Todd didn’t need to know the identity Blackwing had tried to force on Mona, and she probably wouldn’t like to hear the name anyway. She was no more Lamia than Dirk was Icarus.

The glasses shivered a little on his nose, as if agreeing with the unspoken thought.

Dirk tapped them comfortingly. “Mona usually prefers to take the part of regular inanimate objects,” he told Todd. “She’s been trying out new, more experimental roles around the agency because it’s home – she’s comfortable there. Outside of the offices, though, she keeps to standard parts. Fascinating character studies, of course,” he added, not wanting Mona to think he was dismissing her usual portfolio of work, “but more mainstream.”

Todd stuck his hands in his pockets and gave Dirk a look. “So the scarecrow in our bathroom was the holistic equivalent of avant-garde cinema?”

“I can see you’re still nursing some rather negative feelings about that misunderstanding, Todd,” said Dirk primly, “and all I can say is that great art is rarely appreciated in its time.”

Todd rolled his eyes and looked away. The conversation could have ended then, or moved back to Dirk’s theory about Ivory Towers, but there was something else Dirk had been meaning to say. To both Farah and Todd, and Todd was here now, so this was probably the perfect opportunity to get one apology out of the way. The words clogged his throat, but he forced them out in a low voice. “I didn’t…like lying to you, you know.”

Todd glanced at him sharply. Dirk couldn’t quite look at him, but from the corner of his eye he saw Todd’s face soften.

“Would we call it lying, or strategic no-truthing?” he asked.

Dirk recognised the comment as a peace offering, and it gave him the courage to say, “Oh, we’d definitely call it that. But, well…whatever it was, I didn’t want to do it. I don’t like keeping things from you. I mean, it was rather diverting to come up with explanations for all the parts she was playing around the office…”

“Yeah, I really liked you telling me the bubble-blowing stapler was a kid’s toy for, I quote, ‘the event that we ever adopt a plucky orphan child off the streets’,” said Todd dryly.

“I maintain it’s a viable scenario.” Dirk cleared his throat. “The point is, Todd, I didn’t mean to…no-truth you and Farah about Mona. It’s just that…well, it wasn’t my secret to tell.” He swallowed. “Do you understand?”

A pause, in which Dirk prepared himself for rejection. He would respect Todd’s decision, of course. Todd didn’t like liars, and maybe that was due to internalised guilt that Dirk and Farah were in the long-haul process of helping him work through, but still, Todd didn’t like liars and that was fine, that was fair, Dirk shouldn’t force his company on someone who didn’t want it, and maybe he could stay in touch with Todd and gradually begin to rebuild their friendship over time, but for now he’d probably have to dismantle the agency, oh God, he loved it there so much, but that was fine, he was used to moving around, he’d just have to start packing as soon as they arrived back in Seattle, but he’d need cardboard boxes, where had he put all the boxes when they’d moved in –

“Of course I understand,” said Todd, and Dirk snapped out of his spiral so quickly that he almost reeled. He stared at Todd, who was looking back at him with…oh. Those soft eyes and fond smile he gave Dirk like a gift, like a holy offering, in those moments of quiet intimacy that glowed between them sometimes when they were alone. “You li – you, um, strategically no-truthed to protect a friend. I’ve lied for way worse reasons than that. I get it.”

And that was all he had to say: the panic cleared, the sun came out, a chorus of angels descended from the ceiling to blast their joy because Todd forgave him, Todd wasn’t mad, Todd was his best friend and understood why he – wait. That wasn’t a chorus of angels. That was –

“The doorbell?” Dirk tilted his head.

Todd scrunched his eyebrows in Configuration D5: Sceptical But Intrigued. “That’s a doorbell?”

The musical notes rippling at high volume through the house did sound more like an invisible chamber orchestra than the auditory alert for a front door, so this was a reasonable question.

“If any house would have a doorbell that exudes such unnecessary amounts of grandeur it actually sounds expensive, it’s Ivory Towers,” said Dirk, then jumped when a series of smashes and thumps drowned out the melody. “Although that is a bit off script, I’ll admit.” He rubbed his hands together. “Shall we investigate?”

Todd was disinclined to leave the conservatory (“Farah had a plan, Dirk. I will not be the one to tell her we abandoned the plan”), but the growing commotion from outside the conservatory was too much for Dirk’s curiosity. He trotted into the spacious central hall, Todd trailing along as they made their way across the parquet tiles.

The commotion was coming from a group of people gathered at the base of the grand staircase, and Todd’s reluctance fell away at the sight of them. He gasped and skidded across the hall, almost slipping on the tiles as he called, “Amanda?”

Chapter Text

Dirk wasn’t in the habit of ranking his friends, per se, but it was fair to say that Todd was his favourite person in the whole entire world. Farah came in at a close second, because as well as being really rather incredible, she was his best friend after Todd. Mona was also high on the list, and of course it would be remiss to leave out Sherlock Hobbs and Tina Tevetino and – well. Point was, one of Dirk’s favourite people in the world was Amanda Brotzman. She was fantastic.

She was also here, turning at the sound of her name to see her brother barrelling towards her across the hall of a Cluedo gameboard. Her eyes widened, her arms opened apparently on instinct, and she barely had time to say “Todd?” before he’d swept her up in a hug.

“What the hell, dude?” Amanda’s voice was muffled in Todd’s shoulder, so it was difficult to tell, but Dirk thought she sounded choked up. He hovered nearby, suddenly feeling like an intruder – but then Amanda saw him over Todd’s shoulder, and her eyes lit up. 

“What the hell, dude?” she repeated, but this time to Dirk. “Why are you guys here? No one told me they’d reached out to you already. I thought we were waiting!”

“Waiting?” asked Todd, pulling back far enough to stare into her face. “What do you mean, waiting?”

“Waiting to tell you about this place,” said Amanda, then hesitated and looked at him more closely. “You…haven’t been told yet? Why are you here, then?”

“A case,” answered Dirk, when Todd – still staring at Amanda – said nothing. “It brought us here, via rather convoluted interference in our agency Game Night, which involved a previously undiscovered cupboard and a trio of enigmatic playing cards.”

Amanda squeezed Todd’s arms and stepped back. He let her go with obvious reluctance, hands trailing on the sleeves of her black overcoat as she moved away.

Amanda looked well, Dirk was pleased to note. She’d changed her hair again: it was back to its original fetching shade of brown, but now fell just past her shoulders in an asymmetrical cut with jagged bangs. Her eyeliner and nails were perfect in that way that always made Dirk wonder if the Rowdies had some kind of beauty salon hidden in the back of their van, but more than that, she looked…happy. Restful. A lopsided smile seemed permanently tucked into the corner of her mouth.

Speaking of the Rowdies. Dirk’s gaze travelled past Amanda and landed on the source of the earlier commotion: four energy vampires and a cave girl from fairyland. They’d been up to something undoubtedly rambunctious when Dirk and Todd hurried over – there was a shattered vase beside the staircase, and Gripps appeared to be giving Rainbow a piggy-back ride – but they were now watching the proceedings with interest. Benign interest, Dirk noted with relief: Martin was idly twirling a baseball bat, but he watched the Brotzmans’ reunion with a lazy smile, so it appeared that Todd remained in favour with the Rowdies as long as he remained in favour with Amanda. Good to know, given that Dirk didn’t want to see the agency offices smashed up any time soon.

Dirk wondered why Rainbow hadn’t leaped on him yet, as she tended to do whenever they saw each other, but then he realised she’d dozed off against Gripps’s back. A faint mrow? sounded from behind them, and Dirk gasped as a new figure stepped into view.

“Hobbs?” he said, then squeaked as he noticed the orange tabby purring in the sheriff’s arms. “Mustard!! My angel! My darling!”

“Oh, God,” muttered Todd, who’d been present when Dirk first met Mustard at Sherlock Hobbs’s house a year ago. “Here we go.”

“Is he okay?” asked Amanda as Dirk went into raptures, bounding forward with his hands outstretched.

“Who, Dirk?” asked Todd with a snort. “Oh, he’s fine. He just has a deep spiritual connection with Hobbs’s cat. They’re practically married.”

Amanda said something under her breath, but Dirk was lost in the cat’s amber eyes and didn’t catch anything apart from Amanda’s dry tone and, for some reason, the word ‘jealous’. Mustard chose that moment to tap Dirk’s nose with her paw, however, so all other matters became irrelevant.

Dirk had always gotten along well with cats, and he was delighted to see Mustard again. Running beneath the affection, though, was something else: that frisson of rightness, that telltale feeling of a hunch. Mustard being here was…important, somehow. Connected.

“I think we need to go to the study,” he said abruptly.

Hobbs, who’d been waiting patiently while Dirk cooed over the cat in his arms, beamed at him. “Well, sure, Dirk, if you think that’s best. Er – just quickly. What is this place, where’s the study, and why do we need to go there?”

Dirk shook his head, pushing through the insistent pressure of his hunch, and focused on Hobbs. It occurred to him that he was very glad to see the sheriff again, and he patted Hobbs’s shoulder fondly. “Hobbs, may I just say that it is delightful to see you. Also, I have no idea what’s in the study, though precedent suggests it may be something dangerous, since the Universe rarely leads me into, well, pleasant scenarios. But I don’t think Mustard is in danger, so that’s the important thing.”

“Well, hard to argue with that,” said Hobbs. Dirk began to walk across the hall, in – he hoped – the direction of the study. Hobbs fell into step beside him, resettling Mustard in his arms.

Dirk glanced back to see that Todd and Amanda, deep in quiet conversation, were trailing after them. The Rowdies appeared to have lost interest: Cross was helping Vogel slide down the banister of the grand staircase, which probably explained the fate of the smashed vase on the tiles; Gripps was singing a lullaby to the dozing Rainbow; and Martin was sprawled across the bottom of the staircase, watching over them all.

A door up ahead called to Dirk. He pushed it open, then hesitated on the threshold, one foot in the air. Whatever he had expected of the study, it wasn’t this.

The previous rooms he’d seen at Ivory Towers had all stayed true to the Cluedo aesthetic: exaggeratedly elegant, almost cartoonish in their deference to what most people thought a stately Tudor home should look like. The study, however, looked like the love child of a 1990s fax machine and a 1970s science fiction film set.

Metal shelves lined the walls, stuffed to bursting with manila folders and reams of old printer paper. A myriad of lights blinked on several large, humming machines. Countless cables sprawled across the floor, tangled together in passionate embraces. The room had clearly been Tudoresque at some point, before someone crammed it with shelves and machinery: a picture window overlooked the front gardens, a plush carpet decorated the hardwood floor, and a heavy wooden desk sat beneath mountains of paper.

A figure rose from behind the desk, and Dirk yelped before realising it was Farah. She frowned and opened her mouth, probably to ask why he wasn’t in the conservatory, but then Hobbs stepped into the room, arms full of purring cat.

Farah’s eyes widened, and she looked at Hobbs with the flickering smile that appeared on her face whenever she was trying to be serious about something but couldn’t quite hide her happiness. Dirk and Todd inspired that look on a regular basis, but Dirk had noticed that mention of Tina or Hobbs could also draw it out of her.

“Sheriff,” she said, clearly trying to sound professional despite the way her eyes had lit up. “What are you doing here?”

Dirk blinked and turned to look at Hobbs. “Oh, yes. That’s an excellent question. Why are you here? And with the Rowdy Three, of all people?”

“The who?”

“The, er, gang you arrived with.”

“Oh! Is that what they’re called?” asked Hobbs. “You, ah – you know there are six of them, right?”

“Yes,” said Dirk and Farah together.

“Right, well, I got a call from your secretary saying you needed me out in Seattle for help on a case. It’s been a bit slow in Bergsberg since that whole kerfuffle with the evil mage and whatnot finished up, and I figured since I am on retainer at the agency, why not?”

Dirk pouted at Farah. “You hired a secretary and didn’t even tell me? I know you’re the agency benefriend, Farah, but it is my name on the sign. I should really feel out the holistic compatibility of any new hires before we sign the paperwork.”

“Okay, first of all, if we ever do interview new staff, please don’t use the term ‘feel out holistic compatibility’ when we advertise,” said Farah. She looked at Hobbs, her forehead puckering anxiously. “Also, I didn’t hire a secretary. I…have no idea who called Hobbs.”

Hobbs looked more pleased than distressed at this news. “Well, if that isn’t a mystery! I wonder who paid for my flight with the agency credit card, then?”

Farah’s forehead progressed from Anxious Puckering into Appalled Scrunching. “I wonder that, too.”

“Well, in any case,” said Hobbs comfortably, as Mustard kneaded his arms, “I was on my way up to Seattle to help out with some sort of case. The secretary didn’t specify and I thought, well, if this is a holistic, Dirk will probably want to tell me the details in person, so I didn’t ask.”

Farah bit her lip, peering down at Mustard. “And wh – why did you bring your cat?”

“Well, now, it’s just the darnedest thing.” Hobbs scratched Mustard’s chin absently, and she melted against his chest in a puddle of purrs and fur. “Mustard’s never shown any interest in my work before – she’s mostly happy to stay at home and listen to rap while I’m out, and even when I chat about my day you can tell she only listens out of polite interest, you know?”

“I never seem to have that problem,” mused Dirk. “People showing polite interest, I mean.”

“Well, she’s a good girl.” Hobbs gave Mustard another chin scratch, and she flopped backwards across his arm. Dirk, unable to resist the siren song of a purring cat, reached out to stroke between her ears. Mustard went even more limp with joy.

“Anyway, I got the call that you needed me out here, and I thought, well, this might take a few days. It’s a bit of a distance between Montana and Washington, you know.”

“Eight hundred and fifty-three point two miles,” said Farah, “between our offices and the Bergsberg sheriff department. Five hundred and sixty-five miles by air from Seattle to Montana.” Dirk and Hobbs, who both knew why Farah had a vested interest in the travelling distance to Bergsberg, looked at her knowingly. Farah bit her lip. “Give or take,” she added weakly.

“And even though I was flying,” continued Hobbs, “I figured the trip all round would be at least an overnighter. So I asked my neighbour to look after Mustard. She’s a nice older lady who just loves animals, and her grandkids visit sometimes, and they like to play with Mustard – though I think Mustard, she might be getting a little old to have her tail pulled –”

Dirk gasped. “The fiends!” He pulled Mustard into his arms and cuddled her protectively.

“And so then I was heading for the airport and I came across these nice folks with their van by the side of the road, and I noticed the young lady seemed to be in some kind of distress with all this electricity round her, and I thought, Hobbs, you’re outside Bergsberg jurisdiction right now but it’s still your duty as a responsible person to check this out and make sure that miss is all right. So I stopped my car and got to chatting with them, and the young lady – Amanda, that is – she looked at me said, ‘You carry the one we need.’ Now, I was a little alarmed, I’ll admit, because her eyes were glowing and she had a sparking magic wand and in my experience that’s not always a good sign, but then, don’t you know it? Mustard started meowing from the car behind me, and it turns out she’d stowed away in the back seat, little rebel! And apparently she’s just who they were waiting for, and they were happy for me to come along because of course I couldn’t just leave Mustard alone with strangers, so I got in their van and Amanda opened up a, what do you call it, intradimensional portal. And here we are! Much easier than the airport, you know, though I’ll have to call my neighbour and let her know Mustard is with me, otherwise she’ll worry.” He looked at Farah. “Oh, and I think I can get credit for the flight, so don’t you worry about that at all.”

Farah opened and closed her mouth a few times. “I…would have to say that your plane ticket is the thing that concerns me least about that story.”

Hobbs smiled and looked at Dirk. “Now, Dirk, do you know what’s going on? We get here and I find out Amanda is Todd’s sister. Apparently she’s also some kind of kookoo witch, which sounds a little disrespectful to me, but that’s what she calls herself, so maybe it’s one of those, what do you call them, reclaimed terms?”

Dirk glanced over. Amanda and Todd were still speaking intently in the hall just outside, oblivious to the conversation in the study. Dirk pushed back a swell of anxiety; Todd didn’t look unhappy, only serious, and Amanda was touching his arm affectionately.

“Amanda is indeed a witchakookoo, Hobbs,” he said, forcing a cheerful tone, “and I’ll be happy to tell you the daring tale over our next cup of tea.”

Hobbs beamed and patted his shoulder. “I do enjoy our bi-monthly video chat gossip sessions, Dirk.”

Dirk beamed back, his cheer relaxing into something more genuine. “They are so good.”

Farah pinched the bridge of her nose. “Guys…”

Dirk coughed. “Right. Well. This business of the mysterious secretary bears further investigation. However! I think I can answer the question of why the utterly lovely Mustard is here.”

Hobbs leaned in, eyes wide. Farah raised an eyebrow.

“Sheriff, I am delighted to tell you that Mustard has proven herself vital to our current investigation.” Dirk put on his most dramatic voice and leaned forward. “In fact, I think she may be the crucial piece we need to solve a complex puzzle involving poison, betrayal, and board games.”

“You mean Mustard did a holistic?” Hobbs asked, with all the delight of a proud parent.

“Not only do I believe Mustard did a holistic, Sheriff, I think Mustard may be a holistic.” They all looked down at the cat in question, who batted the air, accidentally smacked herself in the face with her own tail, and sneezed. “One of the more impressive ones I’ve met, too, I must say,” added Dirk, wriggling his fingers in front of her nose. Mustard nuzzled his hand.

“You think someone called Hobbs here so he could bring Mustard to Ivory Towers? Is she important to the house, or to the case? And what kind of holistic powers does a cat have?”

Dirk nodded vigorously. “All amazing questions, Farah! You are asking the best questions right now!”

She looked at him expectantly.

“Oh,” said Dirk, realising what she wanted. “No, I don’t know any of the answers. But great questions. Top notch.”

“What questions?” asked Todd. Dirk spun to see that he and Amanda, their conversation finished, now stood in the doorway of the study. Todd was looking at Mustard, snoring softly in Dirk’s arms, with an expression Dirk might have called ‘resentful’ if he could have seen any reason to begrudge feline cuddles.

“We’re trying to establish the extent of Mustard’s holistic abilities and how they relate to the case of Sir Salmon’s murder,” answered Dirk.

He thought this summed up the situation quite efficiently, but Todd goggled. “Mustard’s holistic abilities? The cat’s a psychic?”

“Holistic, not physic,” said Dirk with a sniff. “And yes, Todd, do try to keep up.”

“Hold on,” said Amanda, her eyes wide. “Did you say ‘Sir Salmon’s murder’? Salmon’s dead?”

Dirk glanced at Farah, who looked as awkward as he felt. They usually managed to avoid the uncomfortable conversations that came with murder cases; victims’ families and friends tended to have received the bad news by the time the Universe brought in Dirk. Amanda looked more shocked than grief stricken, but still, Dirk hadn’t meant to drop this on her without warning.

“Yyyes,” he said reluctantly. “Sorry. I – well, sorry. Did you know him well?”

Amanda shook her head – as much to clear it as to say no, Dirk thought. “He was the steward here,” she said. “Nice guy, but I didn’t work with him much. Shit, though. What’s this going to mean for the house? And what am I going to tell Panto?”

Dirk blinked at her. Opened his mouth. Tilted his head. Closed his mouth. He’d been about to ask what on earth – or rather, what in Wendimoor – Panto Trost had to do with this, but…things were clicking into place at the back of his mind. He could feel answers drawing together, the Universe aligning, that frisson of rightness that had sparked at the sight of Mustard.

“Todd!” he cried, perhaps a little more loudly than necessary.

Todd jumped. “What? Jesus. What?”

“Do you still have the cards? From last night’s game – the ones that led us here?”

“Yeah, of course.” Todd withdrew them from his pocket. Dirk, loathe to dislodge Mustard, gave him a pointed look. Todd sighed and, clearly following the direction of Dirk’s thoughts, held up the card that showed a portrait of Sir Salmon.

“Huh,” said Hobbs, peering at it with interest. “Well, that’s a dang coincidence. He’s got hair just like that Panto fellow we kept in the Bergsberg jail for a while.”

Only the dozing Mustard kept Dirk from flailing with glee. “Amanda, am I right in thinking you and the Rowdies have been turning this place into a refuge for holistics and escaped Blackwing suspects?”

Amanda was also staring at the card. “Hm? Oh, yeah. I mean, we’ve been finding people and bringing them here. We didn’t set this place up, though. That was –”

“Francis,” said Dirk, thinking of the Project Moloch symbol in the stained-glass front doors. Click click click went the pieces falling into place. “He contacted you through Wakti Wapnasi, didn’t he? Francis lives in Wendimoor now, but he can still dream things into existence from there. He created this place, like the world within his old house – a little bubble of reality, which people from our world could escape to if they needed. Somewhere Blackwing couldn’t reach them. And he sent a Trost – Sir Salmon – to oversee it.”

“But why Clue?” asked Farah, spreading her hands. “Was that game even around when Francis lived in this world? Why would he choose it?”

Dirk looked at her reprovingly. “Need I remind you, Farah, that Cluedo was invented by Anthony E Pratt in 1943? I did mention this.” The look she gave him served as a reminder that Farah was much less inclined to take his sass than Todd was, so Dirk quickly moved on. “But anyway, I don’t think Francis chose the setting. I think it was –”

Todd straightened. “Reed!” he cried, and Dirk quashed an inconvenient rush of adoration at the way Todd’s whole face lit up. “The holistic librarian. We think they can transport people into fictional worlds. They must have worked with Francis to create a world that was based on Clue!”

“Yes, I think we’ll need to speak to Dr Herring again.” Dirk reluctantly poured Mustard back into Hobbs’s arms. The tabby snuffled but otherwise didn’t stir. “They ran off to check on things after reality temporarily dissolved, but I imagine they’re around here somewhere.”

Hobbs smiled at him. “Dirk, I have no idea what anyone here is talking about, but it sure is nice to see you all again.”

Dirk smiled. “Likewise, Sheriff.”

“Okay,” sighed Amanda, running her hand through her hair. “I’m gonna need to talk to Phasia about all this. And figure out where the cat comes into it.”

“You mean you don’t know?” asked Dirk. “I thought you brought Mustard here.”

Amanda shrugged. “I had a vision about her being at Ivory Towers, so when this guy – Hobbs?” She looked at Hobbs, who beamed. “Right. When Hobbs turned up with the cat from my vision, I knew I had to bring them here, but that’s it. I could tell something was…off about the place when I arrived, and the cat’s part of it, but I don’t…” She huffed a breath that made her fringe fly, then eyed Dirk speculatively. “I can’t make the connections. Not like you can, Dirk. But maybe that’s why you’re here. Maybe I’m just bringing you the pieces, and you’re the one who’s meant to put everything together and fix whatever’s going on here.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Dirk gloomily. He kicked at the floor. “Amanda, what did you mean before, when you said you were waiting to tell us about this place?”

Amanda bit her lip and glanced at Todd. His expression was carefully blank, which Dirk suspected was to cover hurt feelings. Todd would never rail against Amanda for keeping things from him – too much hypocrisy there. But he would still hurt about it, in a quietly festering way, and Dirk’s heart clenched at the thought.

Amanda knew her brother, though, even if there had been a time when she thought she didn’t. She reached out and slung her arm across his shoulders, a rough gesture that somehow conveyed a world of tenderness.

“I wanted to tell you about it, loser,” she said, wrinkling her nose at Todd. “A weird-ass country estate full of runaways with superpowers? I’ve been looking forward to your reaction for months. There’s shit going on here that you’re gonna love. But Francis and Wakti wanted to give Dirk some space – wait for the Universe to lead him here at the right time. They know how important it is not to rush this stuff.”

Todd sighed, but there was a smile to match Amanda’s tucked in the corner of his mouth. “All I care about is that you’re okay,” he said. “You are okay, right? This place seems kind of. Um. Unstable. You’re not gonna get dragged into the backstage of reality, are you? Or caught up in Blackwing shit?”

Amanda shrugged. “I mean, no more than usual.” Not the most reassuring answer, but it was clearly the best Todd was going to get.

Apparently resigned, Todd turned his attention to the study. “Yeah, I see what you were saying about the records here, Farah,” he said, voice dry, as he took in the packed shelves of paper files. “Do these machines even work?”

“Sometimes.” The answer came, unexpectedly, from Amanda. “Francis and Reed made this place out of an old Clue instruction booklet from, like, the 1980s. Most of the technology here is stuck in that era – it works sometimes, especially if one of the six widens the connection to the outside world, but it’s mostly luck. Reception sucks at Ivory Towers. I get better coverage in Wendimoor, I shit you not.”

“Did – did you say we’re in an instruction booklet right now?” asked Farah, looking at the ceiling as if fearing it would fall on them with this revelation.

Amanda shrugged, one arm still slung around Todd’s shoulders. “Something like that. Reed’s a holistic librarian – they can move people between worlds, but they need a book to work with. Books are the anchor for their powers – doesn’t matter what kind of book, just as long as it’s words on a page.”

Click click click went the pieces in Dirk’s mind. “Francis creates worlds,” he said slowly, thinking it through, “but he wanted an anchor so Reed could help people come and go without his help. Reed was on the run from Blackwing when they made this place, so they just used whatever they could find at the time. Nobody was going to miss a gameboard booklet, so it became the basis for this – this sanctuary world. But the game needs players or the world weakens, so they have to have six holistics representing the six parts at all times.”

“What about Sir Salmon, though?” asked Farah, leaning against the desk as she crossed her arms. “Why a seventh player?”

“Sir Salmon wasn’t actually needed to stabilise the world. Right, Amanda?” Dirk glanced at her and she nodded. “He was an overseer, a link to Wendimoor, but he wasn’t part of the ritual. That’s why Ivory Towers didn’t dissolve when he died.” He chewed his lip. “But then, if all six of the players are still here and alive, why is Ivory Towers destabilising? I did not imagine that trip into the nameless swathes of nothingness. I haven’t had a headache like that since the last time I drank gin.”

“That’s what I’m saying, dude.” Amanda puffed out her fringe again. “There’s something off about this place right now. I can’t tell what it is, but it’s wrong.”

“I mean. It’s to do with the cat, right?”

Even from Todd, veteran say-er of extraordinary things, this was a remarkable sentence. Unprecedented. Incredible. Perfect.

Silence fell across the study. Everyone turned to stare at Todd, who looked alarmed and then shifty, the way he always did when people paid him too much unexpected attention. Dirk opened his mouth, then closed it again.

CLICK CLICK CLICK yelled the pieces in his mind. 

“Say. That. Again,” breathed Dirk.

Todd looked even more alarmed. “It’s just – it’s the cat, right? Her name is – it’s literally Mustard. She’s got to be connected to the Mustard player somehow. Was that – was that not obvious?”

Everyone continued to stare at him. Todd shifted on his feet, looking ready to bolt.

“Todd!” yelled Dirk, breaking the tension and possibly some eardrums. He flailed. “Todd, you’ve got it! You are the most brilliant, perfect –” He stopped short before he accidentally confessed his love right there amid the musty manila folders. “Mustard is the Colonel Mustard player! That’s why she was drawn here. She’s meant to be the sixth holistic who holds this house together.”

“My cat joined the military?” asked Hobbs, looking lost. “When?”

“What about Dijon?” asked Farah, drumming her fingers on her crossed arms. “He’s the Mustard player, isn’t he? Why does the house need another one?”

Dirk held up a finger. He knew the pose made him look sufficiently dramatic and detectiveish, because he’d been practising it in the mirror. “I would posit that Dijon isn’t meant to be Colonel Mustard. Maybe he’s not holistic. Maybe his powers don’t fit the role. But whatever the reason, he’s the weak link in the ritual. The Universe sent Mustard here so she could take his place.”

“The Universe and our mysterious secretary,” pointed out Farah, rubbing her eyes.

“We have a secretary?” asked Todd. “Since when?”

“Since someone called Hobbs, invited him to visit us, and paid for his plane ticket on the agency credit card.” Farah sighed.

“What did this – um. Secretary sound like?” asked Todd. He was looking at Dirk’s face; Dirk would normally be happy to allow this for however long Todd wanted to stare into his eyes, but in this case, his gaze seemed to be trained on – oh. The glasses perched on Dirk’s nose.

“Sounded like a young lady,” said Hobbs, squinting at the ceiling as he concentrated. “Her voice was – well, whispery. A little murderous, but in a friendly way. Terrifying but kind of sweet, really.”

Dirk pulled off the glasses and asked them, “Mona, was it you?”

They dropped from his hand and there was Mona, blinking up at him through her fringe.

Hobbs and Amanda had not yet met Mona, a fact of which Dirk was reminded when Hobbs staggered back against a metal cabinet and Amanda yelped.

“Sorry, sorry!” said Dirk quickly. “Introductions are in order. Sherlock Hobbs, Mustard Hobbs, Amanda Brotzman, this is Mona Wilder. She’s an old friend from Blackwing – and, er, the agency secretary. Apparently.”

Amanda, who was probably used to holistics far more alarming than Mona, relaxed and nodded a greeting. Hobbs, who was still unaccustomed to accelerated strangeness in his life but was a very polite man, smiled weakly. Mustard merely snuffled and went back to sleep.  

“How do you do, Miss Wilder?” asked Hobbs.

“Very well, thank you.” Mona looked at Dirk. “And yes, I called Mr Hobbs from the phone in the office. I was passing on a message.”

“From Wakti?” asked Dirk. She nodded. “Why didn’t you tell us, Mona?”

She scrunched her face. “I did. When we were in the conservatory. I told you that I passed on the messages from the little snail who spoke in my head.”

“I, ah, assumed you meant back in the Wendimoor case. I didn’t realise you were still doing it now.”

Mona shrugged, one of those human gestures that always looked a bit odd on her, as if she’d learned it from watching other people at a distance. “Time is made up, Dirk.”

Well, it was hard to disagree with that. Dirk sighed and looked at Farah. “It’s a good thing we were already planning to put Mona on the payroll, because I think she’s our secretary now.”

He pursed his lips, thinking, then strode over the picture window against the far wall. The clasp opened easily, and Dirk waved one arm out the window.

“What are you –” Farah sputtered to a halt as hooves clopped outside and a large, speckled horse appeared at the window. It eyed Dirk’s arm thoughtfully and he quickly retreated inside, away from its quite noticeable teeth.

“Hmm,” he said, latching the window closed. The horse squinted at him, tossed its mane, and trotted away into the gardens. “Looks like the forcefield of coincidences is still keeping us here. I hoped it might have lifted now that we’ve solved the case of Colonel Mustard, but I suppose we still need to figure out who murdered Sir Salmon.”

He turned to face the room and did a double take. At Farah’s feet – behind the desk, where he hadn’t seen it when entering the study – was a set of concrete stairs leading into the ground.

Dirk raised his brows and looked at Farah, who nodded. “This room has a secret passageway, too,” she said. “It makes sense – the diagonal rooms are connected in Clue, so this probably leads to the kitchen. Phasia went into the tunnel – I was waiting outside the study for her to leave, and I saw her disappear behind the desk. A button on the photocopier activates the trapdoor.” Farah pointed at one of the blinking lights on what Dirk had vaguely assumed was some kind of archaic supercomputer. “I was deciding whether to follow her when you came in.”

Dirk eyed the stairs. “I had a hunch that we needed to come to the study. I think we were supposed to bring Mustard to Phasia…Farah, I can’t go into another underground tunnel today. I just can’t.”

Todd strode across the room, purposeful in the way that meant he was feeling protective, then hesitated when he reached Dirk. Glancing at the others, he cleared his throat and patted Dirk’s arm. Despite the awkwardness of the gesture, Dirk tingled at the contact.

“Nobody’s gonna make you go underground again,” Todd told him. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I need to talk to Phasia anyway,” said Amanda from the other side of the study. “Why don’t I go? I’ll take Mustard.” Hobbs puckered his face, presumably at the thought of being separated from his beloved cat. Amanda smiled. “And Hobbs, of course.”

“I’ll go with you,” blurted Farah. “I want to. Um. A-ask Hobbs some questions.” Hobbs looked alarmed at this, as well one might when facing an interrogation from Farah. She bit her lip and added, “I just want some…status updates. On how things are in Bergsberg. It’s good to – to check in on a community after it’s been affected by holistic activity.”

Ah. Farah wanted to ask Hobbs about Tina, then. Dirk bit back a grin.

Mona, who seemed charmed by Mustard (Dirk suspected she’d be playing a variety of feline roles when they returned to the agency), elected to go with them. As his friends descended the steps into the passageway, Dirk tried not to think about the fact that he and Todd would be alone – truly alone, no sentient tie pin between them – for the first time all day. Dirk flexed his hand, remembering the feel of Todd linking their fingers.

A muffled exclamation sounded from below.

Dirk crouched by the steps. “Are you all right down there?” he called, trying to keep the instinctive panic (please don’t let me have led my friends into danger, please don’t let my friends be hurt) out of his voice.

“We’re fine,” called Farah. “There’s just – there are a lot of files down here.”

Dirk looked around the study. “Well, there are a lot of files up here, too.”

“Yeah, but you might…want to see these,” said Farah, then quickly, “Actually – no. Don’t. Don’t worry about it. You stay up there and look around the study. We’ll find you later.”

He listened to the clip of her boots disappearing down the tunnel, accompanied by the others’ footsteps, and wondered what it was down there that Farah didn’t want him to see.

Chapter Text

Paperwork had never been Dirk’s forte, and he quickly grew tired of the minutiae stored in the study: blueprints, seating plans, recipes, something called an Interdimensional Leasing Agreement. Todd found a cabinet of medical records signed in green ink by one Dr Herb Ivor, which suggested that the still-unmet Herb represented Reverend Green, but Dirk had suspected as much.

Dirk’s gaze kept drifting to the tunnel entrance, and finally he sat on the top step, staring into the shadows below.

Todd settled beside him. “You…um. Want to talk about it?”

Dirk sighed, resting his chin on his knees. “Not really.”

Todd said nothing, just leaned against him, a grounding presence along Dirk’s side.

“I think we have to go down there,” said Dirk at last, picking at his jeans. “I think there’s something that I’m supposed to see. That Farah is trying to protect me from.”

Todd tensed, but his voice was as steady as his presence when he said, “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

So down the steps they went, into a concrete tunnel lined with even more shelves of paperwork. Dirk wrinkled his nose, wondering what about this had been interesting enough to make Farah worry, but then his gaze caught on a label that had been stuck to the nearest shelf. No words, just a symbol: the overlapping circles of Moloch.

An awful, hot wave of anxiety swept Dirk’s spine. He forced it back, steadying his breaths. This place wasn’t Blackwing; he was sure of it. This place was a refuge from Blackwing.

“They’re project files,” he said, his voice distant in his own ears. Todd looked at him sharply. “Blackwing files. They must keep records they’ve stolen from there. With information about…people like me. Holistics.”

Dirk drifted up the passage, trailing his fingers along the labels on the shelves. There: Incubus. There: Lamia.

There: Icarus.

Dirk stopped in front of the shelf that displayed his project symbol. Beneath it, rows of folders, some of them so tattered they might even be originals from when Blackwing had studied him as a child. He brushed his fingers along the spines but didn’t open any. He knew what they contained: test results, medical assessments, years of analysis and study. Pulled together on the other side of the glass, the place he hadn’t been able to see but could sense, the place where government goons examined him to see what made him tick. Even though it didn’t work like that.

“Dirk?” asked Todd, touching his shoulder, and Dirk returned to the present with a start.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I – sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” said Todd, low and fierce. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

Dirk blinked at him. Abruptly, he remembered the pool in Wendimoor. It had been a year ago, but he could still feel Todd gripping his arms, hear Todd telling him not to spin out. Could still picture Todd there, assisting him, ready to take on Blackwing with him.

Dirk smiled. Having a home really did make all the difference.

“I’m fine, Todd,” he said, pretending to scoff. “Don’t fuss. It was just a – a surprise, that’s all.”

Todd looked at the shelf, narrowing his eyes. “Those are the files Blackwing kept on you?”

“I assume so, yes.” Dirk turned away from the shelf. “This little operation at Ivory Towers is more advanced than I thought. They must have someone on the inside, if they’ve managed to get this many files out of Blackwing. Someone highly ranked, too, if they can access confidential records…”

“If they’re that high up, maybe they’re smuggling projects out,” mused Todd. “From the way Amanda talked about this place, I don’t think she’s the only person bringing holistics here. The escapees have to find this place somehow – maybe a Blackwing plant is helping them?”

Dirk riffled through papers on a nearby desk. Something that looked like a checklist caught his attention; it appeared to be in code, but his eyes drifted to a signature at the bottom.

“Alpha?” he read out, frowning. “Who’s Alpha?”

Before the Universe could offer any answers, a noise from the stairs made Dirk and Todd whirl around. No dramatic plunge into darkness this time, but Dirk’s stomach still sank at the realisation that, once again, a trapdoor had closed on them.

“For fuck’s sake,” said Todd, summing up the situation nicely. “Again?”

Dirk breathed out shakily but found, to his relief, that he wasn’t panicking. The worst thing in this tunnel was bad memories, and he was used to dealing with those.

Todd was looking at him, brows scrunched into Configuration A9: Worried And Protective. Dirk smiled and said, “The door must have been on a timer. There’s probably a button somewhere that will let us back up, but maybe we should head towards the kitchen anyway. I’m sick of files.”

Todd’s brows eased and he nodded. “If you’re sure. I’m pretty confident this tunnel doesn’t have booby traps – even if it did, Farah would have destroyed them all by now.”

Dirk laughed and batted his shoulder as they started down the tunnel. “Don’t jinx it, Todd!”

*

“You jinxed it, Todd,” sighed Dirk.

“Hey!” protested Todd. He gestured at the two passageways before them, leading off in opposite directions. “Don’t blame me for this. Anyway, I’ll take a fork in the tunnel over fucking booby traps any day.”

“Fair. All right, which way?”

“You’re the leaf on the stream of creation,” said Todd, sounding distinctly grumpy. “You tell me.”

Dirk pulled a face, but it was true that one particular passageway seemed to be calling to him. “Left,” he said, nodding decisively. “Left is right.” He paused. “I mean, left is correct. Right is wrong. It’s not right, is what I mean. It’s left.”

“Oh, my God, please just start walking.”

Dirk humphed and strode forward, playing up his huffiness so that he didn’t give in to the treacherous instinct to try taking Todd’s hand again.

This secret passageway was much less murder-y than the previous one. It was even quite well lit, though Dirk felt the whole torches-in-sconces look was a bit much. It wasn’t long before they came to a set of stairs with a trapdoor at the top. It didn’t even require a passcode; Dirk (not without some trepidation) pushed a large red button set in the wall, and the door flew open.

“It is just typical,” said Dirk as they walked up the steps, “that the secret passageway with nothing in it would be full of traps and danger, while the secret passageway containing thousands of sensitive files is a – a walk in the torch-lit park. I’m inclined to think someone was just showing off in the last tunnel.”

“Don’t jinx it,” said Todd, and Dirk made a raspberry at him.

They emerged into what Dirk could only assume, from the icy air, was a freezer. He blew on his hands and watched the trapdoor drop back down into the floor.

Todd sighed and rubbed his arms, looking around at the steel shelves packed with sealed food. His breath formed clouds on the air. “Call it a hunch, but I’m guessing we took the path that led to the kitchen.”

“You never know,” said Dirk, just to be difficult. “Could be the ballroom.”

Todd scowled, which might have been Dirk’s purpose in baiting him. “The ballroom, Dirk? Seriously?”

“This could be a lovely party space if you moved the shelves and…” Dirk squinted at the label on the nearest food package. “…raw meat.” He gestured at the concrete floor. “Imagine dancing a waltz on that! It would make a perfect dancefloor.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Todd, still rubbing his arms, glared at the floor. “I don’t waltz.”

“I do!” Dirk bounced excitedly, his teasing forgotten at this revelation. “Had to learn for a case once – couldn’t get close to the jewel thief unless I swung him into a box step on the dancefloor. I also know the tango. I could teach you!”

“The tango?”

“The waltz! Though I could show you how to tango, too, if you like.” An inconvenient image swamped Dirk: holding Todd close in a low-lit ballroom, just the two of them. Pulling Todd’s body up against his and twining their hands as he guided his best friend through the steps – first slow and careful, then gradually faster, their rhythm building with their confidence…

“Dirk? Dirk, are you okay? You look…red.”

Dirk coughed, and tugged the collar of his heart-patterned tie. “Rather hot in this freezer, isn’t it?”

Todd stared at him across a swirl of icy breath. “…No.”

Evasion. Evasion was key here. “Ah, Todd, you silly man! Why didn’t you tell me your circulation was so bad? You’re forming icicles as we speak.” Dirk glanced around. “An exit! We need an exit.”

“No complaints here.” With a last quizzical look, Todd walked around the shelf. If Dirk had not been concentrating on the case, he might have felt a sharp pang at the way Todd strode forward with the same brusque confidence he showed when navigating death mazes and hunting down interdimensional portals. But Dirk did not feel a sharp pang, because he was working, and professional detectives with business cards did not melt into melancholy longing at the sight of their assistants being efficient.

Todd’s voice floated around the corner. “There’s a door this way. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

The door looked rather like something one would find on a cartoon bank vault, all reinforced steel and complicated locks, but it opened easily enough when Todd pressed the handle. They emerged into a sunlit kitchen tiled in black and white. Wooden cabinets lined the walls, and muslin curtains fluttered in a cool breeze drifting through the open windows. An island counter, bare except for a bowl of fruit, took up the centre of the room. The overall effect was charming, though Dirk personally would have preferred a splash of colour in the tiling. Still, he immediately made a note to source muslin curtains for the agency’s living area.

Nobody else was in the kitchen, so Dirk poked about, opening cupboard doors and examining spice jars. For case reasons, of course, and not because he was debating whether to install this style of cabinet in the agency kitchen. Todd closed the door to the walk-in freezer behind them, then rubbed his hands and stamped his feet to shake off the chill.

All this exploring was making Dirk hungry. If he’d learned one thing in a life of being dragged about at the Universe’s whim, it was to grab food when he could, so he snagged an apple as he passed the fruit bowl.

Todd looked over at the sound of crunching and stared at him. “Dirk. Are you eating?”

Dirk bit defiantly into the apple and answered around a mouthful. “I’m hungry!”

“Don’t you think it’s maybe a little…ill advised to eat random fruit in a house where we’re, y’know, investigating murder by poison?”

Dirk snorted. “This isn’t Ivory Blizzard, Todd.”

“Do you mean…Snow White?”

“The poison has already been administered and, as far as we know, the intended victim murdered. Why would the killer leave poisonous consumables simply lying around on kitchen counters for any passing detectives and their assistants to ingest?”

“I…guess…” Todd looked dubiously at the fruit bowl.

“Anyway, the poison was administered via toothpick. An unorthodox implement of death, to be sure, but one we have established as murder weapon. Now, if I were going about scraping my bare skin with untested and potentially fatal toothpicks, that might be more cause for concern, but given the current circumstances –”

“All right, all right, jeez.” Todd scowled and turned to examine the kitchen. “Point made. Just don’t touch any poisoned toothpicks, all right?”

Dirk scoffed. “I think we can safely assume – well. Actually.” He frowned and twisted his mouth. “I do have some apple stuck between my teeth, now that you mention it.” He drifted to one of the cupboards while Todd muttered something uncharitable behind him. “I think I saw toothpicks in here, next to the – ah ha!”

“Seriously, Dirk?”

“Well, they’re hardly going to keep poisoned toothpicks in the cupboard, are they?” asked Dirk reasonably. He held aloft a small jar of toothpicks and rattled it. “The last place you’d keep a murder weapon is where you can accidentally use it on yourself. These are probably the safest dental hygiene products in the entire house, Todd.”

“If those things poison you, don’t expect any help from me.” Todd stomped to the kitchen door and opened it a crack to peer into the hall beyond.

“You’re a terrible assistant,” said Dirk, watching him fondly. He plucked a toothpick from the jar and wiggled it between his teeth. Inconvenient apples, always proving hard to eat. He never had this problem with milkshakes and pancakes, thank you very much. He’d have to point that out to Farah next time she made a despairing comment about his eating habits.

“Okay, it doesn’t look like anyone is outside.” Todd turned away from the door. “If there’s nothing suspicious in here, we should check out the other rooms.”

“Define ‘suspicious’,” said Dirk around the toothpick. He sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose at the faint scent of disinfectant. “I refuse to trust anyone who leaves a kitchen so clean. No dishes in the sink, no stains on the counter…”

Todd scowled and raised a finger. “Just because you never clean up after yourself doesn’t mean that everyone who does has a – a hidden agenda.”

Dirk straightened indignantly. “Is this about the casserole I made last week? I told you – ah!” He hissed and lifted a hand to his mouth.

Todd leaped to stand in front of him. “Dirk? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I…scratched my lip with the toothpick,” said Dirk slowly. He pulled his hand away from his mouth and stared at it.

Todd made one of his more unimpressed noises. “Don’t scare me like that. Also, this is exactly what I said not to –”

“Todd,” said Dirk, in the type of extremely calm voice that indicated not-calm events on the horizon. “Do most toothpicks contain…metal needles?”

Todd stared at him with an intensity that, in other circumstances, would have made it necessary for Dirk to retreat into the freezer.

“Metal. Needles?” repeated Todd. “Like pins? Toothpicks with sharp pins in them?”

“Yyyes.”

“Dirk. Please tell me that’s a hypothetical question.”

Dirk held up the toothpick, and they both stared. At the end of the wooden sliver, a splintered opening revealed a glinting steel point.

“Oh, my God,” said Todd.

“Quite,” agreed Dirk.

“Is that a – is that seriously a toothpick with a poisoned pin inside it? Did you just find a stash of the fucking murder weapon in a kitchen cupboard?”

“More to the…point, Todd,” said Dirk faintly, “is this question: did I just stab my lip with a poisoned pin from the stash of murder weapons in the kitchen cupboard?”

A pause.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Quite,” agreed Dirk. He carefully placed the toothpick on the counter. He was feeling rather lightheaded, and holding a needle in shaking hands seemed like an ill-advised idea.

“Okay,” said Todd, his voice rising. “O…kay. This is…We can handle this. We just have to. I mean. Are you sure you stabbed yourself? Maybe you just…scratched your lip with a splinter. I mean, how would the poison even – does it have to break the skin, or…?”

The haze in Dirk’s head was clearing, and overwhelming panic was rushing in to take its place. What to do when poisoned. What to do when poisoned. Surely this had come up at some point before in his life full of chaos, death, and disaster.

What did people do when they’d been poisoned?

“Todd! TODD.” Dirk staggered forward and grabbed Todd by the front of his blue plaid shirt. “You have to suck the poison out!”

“What?”

“Todd, I have been poisoned. In the mouth. I could be dying as we speak. There’s no time for hesitation! No time for details! No time for – for –”

“For rambling monologues about how there’s no time?” snapped Todd. Dirk forgave him the irritability, because he could tell that Todd was starting to panic as well. His shoulders had the hunched tension that meant he was one fight-or-flight trigger away from launching himself across the room.

“Yes!” snapped back Dirk. “Everybody knows that the way to remove poison from a wound is to suck it out. Todd, I am pleading with you as my assistant, best friend, and overall most important person to please perform an act of professional heroism and SUCK THIS POISON OUT OF MY LIP.”

“I – but – you can’t just –” Todd flailed. That seemed like a good idea, so Dirk flailed as well. “That’s not even – I mean, I’m pretty sure they disproved that, like, years ago. So I mean. It’s not even – what’s the point? It won’t – we should just – what if we go find someone who can –”

“Todd, I am quite possibly on my deathbed. Are you truly arguing disproven anti-poison theories with me right now?”

“Venom!” said Todd, wild eyed. “It’s venom if it’s injected. Poison if it’s ingested. I think.” Dirk goggled at him. “Farah told me once,” added Todd, defensively.

“Oh, thank you for that clarification, Todd! What a consolation to be apprised of the correct terminology and know that I perished of venom rather than poison!”

They were both yelling by this point, which was perhaps not the most soothing way to contain the situation. Dirk, struggling to breathe through his panic, grabbed Todd by the shoulders and cast about for the words that would persuade him. A memory surfaced, of another time when they had both been frantic and terrified while disaster thundered towards them.

“Listen,” said Dirk, pulling Todd closer. “I’m a person of varied intuitions. I have a lot of feelings about a lot of things. They’re rarely wrong, but also rarely completely right. That’s the nature of the situation. That’s a reality we’re going to accept. Yes? No? Doesn’t matter.” He released the shirt to grab Todd’s face between his hands. “Right now, I have a lip pricked by the same type of needle-embedded toothpick that – that killed a man to death, possibly very slowly and painfully, and I need you, the only other person present in this time-sensitive situation, to suck the poi – the venom out of the wound. For me. Please.”

Todd stared at him, eyebrows scrunched, then made a strangled noise. With the sudden decisive confidence that overcame him in those moments when he took charge of a situation, he grabbed Dirk’s face between his hands. Surged forward. And closed his teeth around Dirk’s lower lip.

Oh.

Well.

That certainly took Dirk’s mind off his imminent death.

Todd’s teeth tugged on Dirk’s lower lip, roughly sucking at the skin, and this did not feel like the medical procedure it was supposed to be: their mouths were firmly against each other, Todd’s tongue was brushing Dirk’s lip, and oh, this felt very much like a kiss. Dirk’s eyes fluttered closed and his hands fell away from Todd’s face to rest on his wrists, holding them in place as Todd’s teeth pulled at his mouth.

The quiet of the kitchen seemed shockingly loud after the shouting that had filled it only a moment before. The refrigerator hummed gently. Distant thunder rumbled beyond the open window. Dirk was on some level aware of these things, but Todd’s mouth moving on his lip made soft sounds that seemed to drown out everything else. There was no space between them, no space, and Dirk was trying very hard to keep the breaths he was sharing with Todd from growing too heavy.

“Well, of course I don’t keep the poisoned ones in the cupboard. What kind of fool do you think I am?”

Dirk and Todd startled at the sharp, familiar voice that interrupted their…poison extraction. For one wild moment, Dirk thought someone was in the room with them – but no. The voice had sounded muffled. Dirk’s eyes, now wide open, looked to the side and saw that the steel door to the walk-in freezer was ajar. Todd must not have closed it properly.

Todd. Oh, God. Todd. They were still frozen in place, their noses brushing, their mouths…

“Don’t take that tone with me,” came another voice from within the freezer, this one deeper but equally irritable. “You keep needle toothpicks in the kitchen where anybody could use them. Do you blame me for thinking you might leave them there with the poison already applied?”

“You’ve never liked my range of concealed domestic weaponry, and that’s a fact,” snapped back the first person, and Dirk realised why they had sounded familiar: that was Dr Peach’s clipped, melodic voice. “Just because you don’t understand the genius of an overlooked toothpick containing the power of life or death doesn’t mean that there’s no merit in the idea.” Awe crept into her tone. “I’m a holistic engineer. A cog in the gears of creation. I create the tools that need to be created, and everything I build has a purpose, even if I myself don’t know what that purpose is as I make them.” Her voice became annoyed again. “And in this case, the tools were killer toothpicks. I store them responsibly, and if someone got into them and murdered Sir Salmon, it’s not my fault.”

“But that someone had to find the toothpicks and the poison separately, right?” persisted the other voice. “You’re sure you didn’t leave any of the poisoned ones in the cupboard?”

“Oh, of course. How silly of me. Now that you mention it, I do recall putting on my gloves, pulling out the highly toxic substance I keep sealed in a hidden corner of the freezer, and sitting down to carefully apply said substance to each of the fifty handcrafted toothpick-needle hybrids I store in the kitchen cupboard.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm, Verity.”

“There’s every need for sarcasm, Herb.” A deep sigh, and her voice lost most of its anger. “My point is, even if someone were to go rifling through the kitchen cupboards, stumble across the one jar of toothpicks that have needles inserted in them, and be stupid enough to stab themselves, the worst they could expect is an ordinary, non-fatal pinprick.”

Dirk, his bottom lip still caught between Todd’s teeth, involuntarily tightened his grip on Todd’s wrist. Beyond that, neither of them moved.

A muffled thump and clatter, as if someone were moving objects around on the freezer shelves. Then faint beeping, like buttons being pressed in a keypad. “The poison has to be applied separately,” continued Dr Peach, “and I keep it all here, where no one can stumble across it. I’m telling you, Herb, if a poisoned toothpick killed Salmon, it wasn’t an accident. Someone had to get into my safe, take the poison, apply it to a toothpick, and slip that toothpick onto his plate. I’m all for the power of coincidence, but even I have limits.”

A pause.

“So?” asked the other voice, the one that apparently belonged to Herb. “Are they…all there?”

“One of the vials is missing,” replied Dr Peach, deathly calm. Another pause, then in a voice now loud and furious, she repeated, “One of the fucking vials is missing!”

“Okay, let’s be calm about this. If someone got into the safe –”

“Only one other person has the combination to this safe,” snapped Dr Peach. “And I am going to have a conversation with that person.”

“Now, Verity, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“Oh, I definitely won’t regret anything I’m about to do.”

“Verity –”

A slam of metal, then rapid footsteps. The voices faded, then cut off entirely. A muffled thump from inside the freezer suggested that Herb and Dr Peach had retreated back into the secret passageway from whence they’d come, closing the trapdoor behind them. Dirk and Todd were once more alone in the kitchen with no company but the humming refrigerator, the distant murmurs of thunder, and a jar full of apparently not-at-all-poisonous toothpicks.

They were also still standing in what one might call – particularly without the excuse of poison extraction to justify it – a compromising position.

They stood there in silence, still pressed against each other. Where panic had been building between them, there was now another emotion, growing with a different kind of pressure. Neither moved, Dirk’s bruised lower lip still caught between Todd’s teeth, yet the lingering adrenaline thrummed between them so strongly that Dirk could feel it like a heartbeat. A beat now pulsing loudly in his ears, which could have been his own heart or Todd’s or both thundering together.

Some distant part of Dirk was shouting at him: The case! The case! You’ve just been given answers to solve the case! But revelations about holistic engineering and an established intent to kill all seemed rather far away and unimportant right now. The only things that currently mattered to Dirk:

• He was not, apparently, dying.
• He was, indisputably, pressed against his best friend with said friend’s mouth on his.
• They were, noticeably, alone.
• He was, irrevocably, very in love with said friend.
• And he had, desperately, been wanting to kiss said friend for quite some time.

Dirk made a small sound and, unable to stay still any longer, opened his mouth against Todd’s. And he could not say which of them, exactly, made the final move forward, but suddenly Dirk was against the island counter, Todd had shifted position, and their lips were fully and firmly and oh-so-perfectly pressed against each other. This did not just feel like a kiss: it was a kiss, and Dirk sighed into it.

Todd had the calloused fingers of a musician, and Dirk would be strategically no-truthing if he said he’d never wondered what other sounds those skilled hands could pluck from a willing instrument. He was finding out now, if the small desperate noises being pulled from his own throat were anything to go by. Todd cradled Dirk’s face, and those rough fingertips were bliss against the skin of Dirk’s neck and jaw, a dizzying contrast to the soft wet warmth of Todd’s mouth. But there was roughness there, too: the gentle bite of teeth, the coarse tickle of stubble. Dirk reached up one hand, the other still gripping Todd’s wrist tightly, and stroked a thumb across the scruff of Todd’s cheek. A pleasant static overtook Dirk’s brain as he leaned into the warm, the wet, the rough, the soft, the exquisite onslaught of sensations that all merged into a litany of Todd, Todd, Todd.

“Todd?” called Farah’s voice, very close. “Dirk? Are you in here?” Startlingly close. Alarmingly close. Right-outside-the-door-and-probably-about-witness-her-best-friends-making-out close.

Dirk and Todd leapt apart with such force that Todd ended up half-splayed across a shelf beside the freezer door. Dirk, rather to his own surprise, somehow managed to vault backwards into sitting on the counter against which he’d been pressed.

The kitchen door swung open to reveal Farah with a gun at the ready, her standard method for entering unfamiliar rooms. Mona stood beside her, smiling serenely.

“There you are.” Farah scanned the kitchen and, apparently deeming the location a low-level threat, holstered her gun. “What are you doing in here?”

“JUST HAVING A DELICIOUS SNACK HAHA,” said Dirk, his voice perhaps a touch…strangled. He grabbed the half-eaten apple that sat beside him on the counter. “THIS APPLE, I MEAN. GOD, I LOVE APPLES. DON’T YOU LOVE APPLES, TODD?”

“APPLES ARE AMAZING,” agreed Todd, still mostly collapsed against a shelf full of ceramic jars. “SO NUTRITIOUS.”

“WE’RE HAVING A GREAT TIME.”

“A REALLY NORMAL, MYSTERY-SOLVING TIME.”

“Why are you both talking like that?” asked Farah, taking a step back.

“TALKING LIKE WHAT, FARAH? EVERYTHING IS VERY NORMAL.”

“In capitals,” said Mona. She looked between Dirk and Todd. “You’re talking in capital letters. It’s quite loud and scary.”

Dirk forced himself to speak calmly. “Sorry, sorry, we’re just…um. Excited. Because of a break in the case!”

“Really?” Farah stepped forward. Her forehead smoothed out, worry dissolving into pleased surprise.

“Yes,” said Dirk, rather surprised himself to realise it was true. “Actually, yes! Dr Peach was just here – I mean, not here here. We overheard her talking with someone in the freezer.” Dirk pointed at the metal door. He carefully did not look directly at Todd, who had staggered to his feet and was ostentatiously straightening jars on the shelf. “She called them Herb, whom by process of elimination I assume is the Reverend Green equivalent in this living gameboard in which we find ourselves.” Was he babbling? He was probably babbling. He had the vague sense that he was talking very quickly, but he doubted his words were as fast as his heart rate.

His mouth throbbed.

“Anyway!” he blurted. “On the subject of holistics, interconnectedness, et cetera: where are Amanda and Hobbs?”

“With Phasia,” said Farah. “We found her in one of the passageways, and they’ve gone to the lounge room to talk. I went to check on you, and you weren’t in the study.” She hesitated, perhaps remembering the Blackwing files that Dirk might have seen, then clearly decided not to ask. “What’s this break in the case? What did Dr Peach and Herb say?”

“They were debating the circumstances of the apparently unanticipated death of Sir Salmon, which conversation led to the revelation that Dr Peach is a holistic engineer who creates domestic weaponry, apparently for kicks, but was not behind the untimely demise of our victim.” Apple in one hand, Dirk picked up the toothpick jar with his other and rattled it. “Dr Peach created these needle toothpicks, which I do not recommend using to clean your teeth during a meal, but apparently they’re, um. Harmless.” From the corner of his eye, he could see Todd, his back to them all, rearranging what appeared to be the same few ceramic jars over and over. “The toothpicks only kill when a certain poison is applied to them, and the doctor keeps it separate in some vials in the adjoining freezer. Which still seems impractically close to where food is prepared, if you ask me, but – well. Anyway. Some unnamed third party who knew the combination of the vials’ safe stole the poison and killed Sir Salmon with it, and Dr Peach is most displeased that her instrument of death was used without permission. She’s stormed off to have a word with the presumed perpetrator, and it sounds like it will be quite a vigorous conversation.”

“Wait.” Farah raised an eyebrow and held up her hand. “So you just happened to hear two people discussing the murder in detail while you hung around in the kitchen?”

“Need I remind you, Farah, that that’s exactly how this whole holistic thing works?” Dirk, vibrating with nervous energy, kicked his heels against the counter. “I follow people who seem to have some idea what they’re doing, and I end up in secret lairs. I eavesdrop on conversations, and they conveniently reveal vital and specific facts. I think ‘That person looks a bit familiar’, and he turns out to be a parallel universe’s version of myself, who now needs to be returned to his Universally mandated timeline.”

“That’s…far too specific an example, Dirk.”

“Point is, Farah, that my overhearing an abnormally useful conversation between two conspirators in the course of an ongoing investigation is about the most normal thing that can happen in this detective agency, so I’m not entirely sure why you’re surprised by this turn of events.”

Farah closed her eyes. Sighed. “Fair enough. So we have information that points us in a new direction: Dr Peach made the murder weapon, but she apparently didn’t intend for it to kill Sir Salmon. She’s gone to find the person she thinks did kill him?”

“The person she thinks took the poison from her safe, anyway,” said Todd, turning away from the shelf at last. Dirk glanced at him and then quickly away. The kitchen ceiling was terribly interesting, really. Why didn’t he look at ceilings more often? Probably all sorts of interesting clues and details if you only looked up. He should continue to look at this ceiling for a while; until, say, Todd left the room and Dirk’s mouth and various other parts of his anatomy stopped aching. Was that a chipped tile over the doorway? Fascinating, and probably very relevant to the case.

“It sounds like we should find Dr Peach and have a conversation of our own with her,” said Farah, in the grim tone that always made Dirk glad he’d never angered her beyond mild, fond annoyance. “Do you know which way she and Herb went?”

“Back through the passageway,” said Todd. “So probably the study. But they might be anywhere in the house by now.”

Farah’s brow furrowed. “It’s been that long since they left? What have you been doing in here?”

Todd made a mangled noise that might have been a cough.

“No time for trivialities, Farah!” Dirk tossed the apple into a bin and jumped off the counter. “We must be on our way! Crimes await!”

Farah raised her eyebrows. “I certainly hope not.”

“Yes, well.” Dirk shoved the toothpick jar at her. “Evidence for you! I know you like that sort of thing.” A thought occurred to him, and he turned to gingerly pick up the toothpick that had stabbed his lip. It was still on the counter, where he’d placed it while panicking, and he spared a moment to be thankful he hadn’t sat on it when vaulting backwards.

Farah reached into her brown leather jacket and pulled out a small ziplock bag with ‘Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency’ and their phone number stamped across the side.

“Of course I like evidence,” she muttered, opening the bag so Dirk could drop the jar and needle toothpick into it. “I work in a detective agency. It is normal for me to like evidence and the efficient processing of it.”

“I would posit that consistently carrying around agency-branded evidence bags upgrades you from ‘normal liking’ to ‘extremely fond’, at least.” Dirk held up his hands. “Don’t look at me like that! It’s a compliment! A passion for pragmatism and verifiable evidence isn’t very holistic of you, I suppose, but we all have our quirks.”

Farah gave Dirk the sort of look she tended to bestow on him when she was trying to be stern but couldn’t quite manage it. Her mouth twitched, and Dirk knew he wasn’t really in trouble.

“Look,” she said. “If Dr Peach is about to, um, ‘have a vigorous conversation’ with Salmon’s murderer, we need to find her. If we’re not sure where she is, we should split up. Into pairs, because I remember what happened the last time I let you two go off on solo missions –”

“I maintain that inadvertent acts of witchcraft are a legitimate form of self-defence!” said Dirk.

“Those aliens threw the first punch!” said Todd at the same time.

“Thank you both for proving my point.” Farah rubbed her eyes.

“Is it a ‘punch’ if they had tentacles?” asked Mona in her sweet voice. “Can you punch if you don’t have a fist?”

“How do you know they had tentacles?” asked Todd. “Were you…were you there, somehow?”

Mona nodded. “I was your shirt.”

“Oh, my God.”

Mona looked at Farah. “The aliens did throw the first tentacle.”

“Great to know, thank you.” Farah looked at Dirk. “Okay, if the point of this ‘living gameboard’ thing is to make sure you’ve visited every room that would be in Clue, it’s probably better you don’t repeat any rooms. Right?”

Dirk chewed his lip. It was still sore from the kiss, however, and he quickly stopped, trying not to flinch. “I mean, I think you can revisit rooms in a game of Cluedo, but yes – I should probably investigate the few I haven’t been to yet. I think I’m yet to see the…” He squinted at the chipped tile over the doorway again, counting on his fingers. “Ballroom, library, and…billiard room? Was there another one in there?”

“We’re right next to the ballroom, so you might as well check it out now,” said Farah decisively. “I doubt Dr Peach is there, though, so make it quick. Todd can –”

“I’ll go to the study with you, Farah,” said Todd quickly. Farah stared at him, and Dirk very determinedly did not. “I mean. I’ll probably be more use there than looking round the ballroom. I’ll go.”

Farah glanced between Dirk and Todd, frowning. “And let Dirk explore on his own?” she asked.

Dirk huffed. “I take objection to that. I did manage to survive for upwards of thirty years before I met you and Todd, you know. And for a good fifteen of those years, I was by myself.”

“And how you didn’t die is a mystery beyond even our capabilities,” said Farah. Dirk pouted.

“I can go with Todd,” said Mona. They all looked at her, startled. “Farah can take care of Dirk. And I can get to know Todd better.” Mona smiled at Todd, showing her perfect teeth.

He shifted uneasily. “Oh…thanks. That sounds. Fun.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of,” said Dirk crossly. “I’m not a child.”

Farah’s face softened. “Dirk, no one is saying you are. You’re capable, we know that. But this situation could be dangerous, and you need backup. We’re a team, right?”

Dirk sighed, shoulders slumping. “Farah, that’s utterly unfair. You know I can’t resist the ‘t’ word.”

“Tentacles?” asked Mona.

“Er, ‘team’.” Dirk patted Mona’s shoulder, and she beamed at him.

Farah chewed her lip, eying Mona. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but will you…be able to defend yourself if anything happens?”

Mona tilted her head. “Well. I haven’t had any training like you give Dirk and Todd on Mondays. But I can turn into a tank if there’s trouble. Or a large spiked ball made of bulletproof titanium. Or a bomb with five seconds left on the counter. Those ones usually make people leave me alone.”

“…Yeah, okay, you’re good,” said Farah. “Go with Todd. Keep him safe.”

Todd sighed but offered no protest, probably because he recognised that his brass knuckles didn’t quite cut it beside ‘living tank’ as a means of defence.

“Check out the study. If there’s no one in it, stay there and wait for us to join you. Call out or come find us if there’s any trouble.”

Todd nodded and strode from the kitchen, Mona skipping beside him. Dirk fought valiantly against the urge to throw his arms around Todd’s ankles and stop him from leaving. It was an impulse he often had to resist, since Todd’s default move in the face of uncomfortable feelings was to escape the scene. This was something that Todd himself recognised and was trying to change, but if his stiff shoulders and averted gaze were any indication, he needed some space right now.

Even if Dirk did hurl himself at Todd’s feet, Todd would probably just drag him along the ground gathering dust. Dirk recognised one of Todd’s more repressed moods, and it would be no good trying to discuss…feelings with him right now, even if Dirk himself had felt ready for that conversation. And, to be honest, he didn’t.

He knew all this, and yet. And yet. Watching Todd walk away felt like a mistake, like an opportunity lost, and he had a terrible, heart-shredding worry that he might not get the opportunity back.

Farah watched them leave. When she and Dirk were alone in the kitchen, she glanced at him. Hesitated. Bit her lip. “Dirk.”

“Mm?”

“I don’t want to know why your mouth is bruised, do I?”

Dirk considered this. “Nnnoo. Probably not.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. On to the ballroom?”

“Please.”

Chapter Text

Farah, who'd presumably memorised the floor plans by now (a practice she had introduced to her routine after the Trivial Pursuit incident, which she claimed could have been avoided if someone had just told them about the hotel’s thirteenth floor and its tendency to disappear on Thursdays), strode across the hall.

Dirk trotted to keep up, surreptitiously straightening his collar. Todd’s fingers had drifted down his neck as they kissed, and the top button of Dirk’s shirt must have pulled open when Todd smoothed calloused hands across his collarbones.

Dirk swallowed and wondered if he could fan himself without Farah noticing. Probably not.

“What are your hunches telling you, Dirk?” asked Farah over her shoulder. “Do you think we’ll find anything in the ballroom?”

Dirk dragged his mind back to the present. “Hard to say,” he answered, shrugging. “I’m yet to meet…hm, two of the suspects? White and Green. And I have a vague…sense of what’s going on with Salmon’s murder, but nothing concrete enough to solve the case.”

“I think Salmon dying is only the surface of what’s happening here,” sighed Farah. She led them to a magnificent pair of carved doors and pushed one open.

Given that even the toilets at Ivory Towers were showier than most houses Dirk had been in, he was expecting the ballroom to be ostentatious – gilded frescoes, chandeliers dripping jewels, parquet for days.

Instead, the ballroom was rundown. Traces of grandeur hung about like ghosts, but cobwebs coated the chandeliers and dirt covered the floor-to-ceiling windows. Scaffolding obscured sections of the wall. Enormous glass doors at the far end of the room led onto a terrace; someone had left them open, and a chilly wind carried in light rain and crumpled leaves.

Dirk looked at the doors more closely and frowned as he realised that muddy footprints led in from the terrace. He followed their progress to the base of a ladder against one wall, half-hidden among the scaffolding. He lifted his gaze, then jumped when he found the wearer of the boots looking back at him.

A stranger was sitting halfway up the ladder, watching Dirk and Farah with a crooked smile. Dirk’s first impression was of a mass of wavy hair; light brown and streaked with all colours of the rainbow, it spilled to the stranger’s waist. They wore a tattered white t-shirt and worn overalls covered in badges. Tattoos covered their tanned white arms and neck.

“What seems to be the problem, officers?” they said, and Dirk’s second impression was of mischief incarnate.

Farah narrowed her eyes and strode towards the stranger, Dirk trailing behind.

“What makes you think we’re officers?” she asked, stopping a safe distance away from the ladder.

The stranger’s grin broadened. “Figure of speech, detective.”

If Farah’s gaze narrowed any further, she was going to be glaring through closed eyes. “And how did you know we were detectives?”

“Lucky guess?” Their voice had an accent Dirk couldn’t place – Canadian, maybe. The stranger twirled a paintbrush in one hand, flicking spatters of bright yellow, and Dirk realised that palettes and small paint cans littered the ladder steps.

“Ohhh!” Dirk pointed. “You’re the artist! Liz!”

Liz kicked a booted foot against the ladder. “My reputation precedes me. You’re Dirk Gently, right?”

“That was a guess, too?” asked Farah, with the eyebrow twitch that meant she was unimpressed.

Liz twirled the paintbrush again. “I’m very lucky, Ms Black.” She cupped one of her cheeks. “See? Guessed again!”

Dirk peered at the badges, wondering if they could make sense of this playful enigma. There was a ‘she/her’ pin, several slogans indicating a strong aversion to systemic power structures, Pride badges spanning various sections of the rainbow, and some cute animals. The enigma remained unsolved, but Dirk did decide he liked her.

He stepped around Farah and blasted Liz with his friendliest smile. Her brush twirling paused, which Dirk took as a positive sign.

“Hiii! I’ve been informed that you created the stained-glass panels in the front doors.” His eyes travelled past Liz to the patterns she’d been painting on the ballroom wall. They looked familiar, and another piece of the puzzle slotted into place. “Am I also right in thinking that you designed Dr Herring’s tattoos?”

Liz leaned back, smiling. “Nice detecting, Mr Gently. I’ve designed tattoos for most of the residents, actually. Phasia has a peacock feather here.” Liz tapped the inside of her wrist. “It’s some of my best work.”

Dirk stepped closer, ignoring a small noise of protest from Farah, and let his gaze drift over the half-finished mural behind Liz. He was no art critic, but something about the patterns compelled him. Vines and feathers and symbols that felt oddly familiar, pulling him in, drawing him closer, whispering secrets that he craned to hear…

Dirk staggered back with a gasp. He felt as if he’d been torn from a dream. “What – what is that?”

“What’s what?” asked Farah, grabbing his elbow. “Dirk? Are you okay?”

“They’re alive,” breathed Dirk, looking from the paintings to Liz’s arms. Was it his imagination, or did one of her tattoos move? “You’re a holistic artist. Your paintings – there’s some kind of life in them.”

“Guess I’m not the only lucky guesser around here.” Liz rubbed a keyhole that was tattooed across her knuckles, and there was no doubt this time – it shifted, morphing into a key.

“Lucky guesses are pretty much the foundation of what I do,” said Dirk. “Right now, for example, my lucky guesses are telling me that you are important.”

“Oh, very.”

Dirk scowled at her. It was one thing for him to be contrary and difficult; he was a lovable scamp. “You know what I mean,” he said, crossing his arms. Probably not as impressive as when Farah did it, but worth a try. “You’re important to the case. I’m here to help you solve the murder of Sir Salmon.”

Liz’s grin faded. She stared at Dirk for a moment, something vulnerable flickering across her face, then sighed deeply. “You’re here for a few reasons, actually. I should know. I’m the one who called you.”

In a movement surprisingly graceful for someone in heavy combat boots, she slid down a few steps on the ladder until she was sitting at Dirk and Farah’s eye level. “Ask your questions, detectives.”

Dirk opened his mouth, but Farah got there first. “What do you mean, you called us here?” she asked sharply. “I found out about this case during my online research, then called Phasia to make an appointment.”

“Ahh, but why were you researching in the first place? And why would there be a news article about a murder that took place here, in a pocket dimension hidden from the authorities?”

A frown flitted over Farah’s face. “I did find that…odd,” she admitted. “Did you plant the information online somehow? But how – how could you possibly arrange for me to find it, and no one else?”

Liz rested her chin on her knees. “Ms Black, you are an extremely efficient, clever, and competent person. Try to let go of that if you’re going to keep dealing with holistics. The Universe doesn’t have much patience for logic.”

While Farah stared, clearly trying to decide whether she should be offended or flattered, Dirk cleared his throat. “So this is a house full of holistics, and you used their abilities to create a series of coincidences that would lead us here. Oh!” If Todd had been with them, Dirk would have smacked his shoulders, but Farah didn’t respond well to sudden attacks. “You created the cards, didn’t you, Liz? The ones that called us here – Sir Salmon, the toothpick, the ivory tower.”

Liz nodded. “Gold star for you, Mr Dirk Gently.”

“But if you knew the toothpick was the murder weapon, why did you even need me?”

Liz sighed and leaned back. If Dirk had been lounging like that on a ladder, it would have toppled by now, but Liz seemed to possess the Farah Black Centre of Balance. “I had a…suspicion that the toothpicks were behind his death, but I wasn’t going to bring it up with Verity until I had proof. She’d have bitten my head off, and believe me, you don’t need Verity Peach mad at you. Anyway, I still didn’t know who had killed him. And – well. We needed you here. We’ve been wanting to call you to the house for a while, and this was a perfect excuse.”

Dirk narrowed his eyes. “And why have you been wanting to call me here?”

Liz met his gaze, all flippancy gone. “Because you’re one of us. And we should stick together. Look out for each other.”

“Oh,” said Dirk. He wasn’t sure what else he could say to something like that. He still wasn’t entirely used to people claiming him.

“Speaking of the people in this house…” said Farah.

Liz grinned. “They’re a trip, aren’t they? I say that with the greatest self-awareness. I, too, am a trip.”

“Are they all escaped Blackwing projects?”

Liz nodded. “From seventeen years ago, though a few were recaptured temporarily last year. We’ve got a man on the inside who’s been feeding us information and helping us smuggle them out.” A shadow crossed Liz’s face. “Phasia was there for a few months – not long after you escaped last year, Dirk. Don’t bring it up around Verity. Anything to do with Blackwing makes her a little…mad.”

“Why Verity?” asked Farah. “I mean, why’s she the one who gets upset about Phasia being captured?”

Liz snorted. “Because they’re married. I mean, literally married. It’s Madam Nidae, not Mademoiselle. Anyway, have you seen those two together? Verity is repression incarnate, but she goes all gooey and protective every time Phasia speaks. Phasia looks at Verity like she’s a walking miracle. If you’re alone in a room with them for more than ten seconds, they forget you’re there and start undressing each other with their eyes.”

“I know the type of couple you mean,” said Farah, very dryly. Dirk wondered if she was thinking of herself and Tina, although oddly, Farah seemed to be giving him a pointed look.

“Phasia’s a holistic housekeeper,” said Liz. As she talked, she pulled her hair back, then pushed the paintbrush through her bun to hold it in place. “Well, that’s the best way we can think to describe her abilities. Her powers are about bringing order to chaos – she finds the right place for things, figures out messes and turns them into systems. She’s a great cook, because she can make any recipe perfectly on the first try. Blackwing call her Project Vesta, after the goddess of home and hearth, but they don’t really get it. They want…weapons. People they can use to their advantage.”

“I know,” said Dirk softly.

“So domesticity isn’t really Blackwing’s thing,” continued Liz. “They’re pretty dismissive of Phasia. They used her to find lost things, sometimes, but they don’t understand what she can do. Here, she’s valued. She holds Ivory Towers together. Not just through the ritual – she’s also the heart of this place. When holistics arrive, looking for sanctuary, she finds the right home for them, whether it’s here or somewhere else.” Liz paused. “Plus, she makes this amazing ube ice cream. Her mother was a Filipina chef and her father was a French pâtissier, and they taught her everything they knew, so she also creates these fusion cakes –”

“Don’t tell me,” pleaded Dirk. “All I’ve eaten today is half an apple. I’m too hungry to hear about the mind-blowing menu of a holistic housekeeper.”

Liz laughed. “Phasia loves to cook for people, so ask her to make you something before you go. Anyway, it’s the same for everyone here. Blackwing wanted them to be something they’re not. Herb’s a holistic gardener – he can do amazing things with plants. They called him Project Chiron, after a centaur associated with medicine and botany. Sounds nice, right? But they tried to make him their chemist and doctor because he’s good with drugs. Herb, I might mention, is a vegetarian who faints at the sight of blood.”

Dirk winced.

“Yeah,” said Liz. “He’s technically our on-site doctor, but try not to go to him with any actual injuries.”

“What about you?” asked Dirk. “What did Blackwing want from a holistic artist?”

Liz’s mouth twisted. She absently rubbed a bird tattoo on her wrist; it took flight and fled to her back, wings trailing small ink feathers across her skin. “They named me Phoenix, because I bring things to life.”

“And that’s…not just a figure of speech in your case.”

“Yeah.” Liz sighed. “The things I create – there’s a kind of soul in them. They’re not sentient, though, not the way Blackwing wants. They thought I could be another Moloch, dreaming worlds into existence, but –”

“– it doesn’t work like that,” Dirk finished with her.

Liz smiled. “I thought you’d get it.” She hesitated. “Some of my paintings are…protective charms, I guess. Phasia’s tattoo is like that.” Liz gestured at the paints and brushes scattered around her. “That’s what I’m doing now. I want to cover the walls in protections. Ivory Towers is pretty safe, but we’ve been here less than a year. It’s a work in progress, and I want to make it a real sanctuary for the people who come here.”

“Is that what the front doors are?” asked Dirk. “Protection?”

Liz shook her head. “I made those glass panels as an anchor for Blackwing projects. Each symbol is connected to the person it represents – the designs change if something happens to that person.”

Farah, who’d been gradually relaxing as Liz provided her with much-desired explanations, bristled again. “Have you been spying on Dirk?”

“God, no.” Liz held up her hands. “No offence. Everything I know about Dirk comes from Blackwing files. I don’t have the energy for personally monitoring the movements of every project, even if that was possible. Which, for the record, it’s not. All I can do is sense the person I’ve created a connection with – if they’re alive, if they’re in pain, things like that. Sometimes I’ll get an impression of really strong emotions they’re feeling – anger, fear.” She raised an eyebrow at Dirk. “Love.”

Dirk squirmed and decided not to consider the implications of that remark.

“That’s how I called you here,” added Liz. “There are – threads. Of connection. Running through the backstage of reality. I can pull on them by touching the symbols in the glass. The Universe does the rest.” She smirked. “Though I did provide the playing cards. That was mostly to fuck with you, if I’m honest.”

“Mission accomplished,” said Farah. She was eying Liz sourly, but Dirk suspected Farah might actually like her underneath the suspicion.

Dirk mentally ran through the houses’ residents. Holistic librarian, gardener, engineer, artist, housekeeper…

“What about Dijon?” he asked.

Liz tilted her head. Most of her hair fell out of its bun, but she ignored it. “What about him?”

“What kind of holistic is he?”

Liz hesitated. “Well, he’s our head of security. He found us a few months ago, but he was never at Blackwing, so there’s not a file on him.” Dirk waited, and Liz sighed. “I don’t know much more than that. He doesn’t like to talk about himself.”

“That doesn’t strike you as suspicious?” asked Farah, touching her holster.

Liz shrugged. “Honestly? No. The people who come to Ivory Towers…their spirits are bruised. Some have just gotten out of Blackwing, some have been wandering by themselves for a long time, some are just…on a wavelength of their own. We’re trying to make this place a refuge for them, somewhere they can rest while they figure out who they are.” Liz’s eyes flickered across the ballroom. Dirk knew, somehow, that she was imagining what this space would look like once her work was complete, the walls covered in a bright array of protective symbols come to life. “If he doesn’t want to share, we aren’t going to push.”

“Where does the cat come into it, though?” asked Farah.

Liz looked, for the first time, startled. “The cat?” she asked. “What cat?”

“Mustard,” Dirk told her. “A positively exquisite orange tabby brought to the house by our friend Sherlock Hobbs. My hunch tells me that she, not Dijon, is meant to be the Colonel Mustard of Ivory Towers.”

“I’m still not sure how a cat can have powers.” Farah massaged her temples. Dirk thought this was rather unfair from someone who’d witnessed a kitten-shark in action, but to be fair, that had been a soul-swapping situation rather than the result of inherent powers.

“I think most cats are a bit holistic, to be honest,” said Liz, frowning absently into the middle distance. “They definitely know shit we don’t.” She stood abruptly and jumped off the ladder. “If there’s a new Mustard here to replace Dijon, I need to talk to the others.”

“Phasia’s in the lounge,” Farah told her. “With Hobbs, Amanda, and Mustard. Er, the cat Mustard. Not the – uh – Dijon Mustard.”

“Amanda’s here?” Liz pulled the paintbrush out of her hair. “God, I take a few hours off and I miss everything. Come on.” She started for the doors.

“Actually,” Dirk called after her. Liz stopped and looked over her shoulder. “I still have to visit…um, two other rooms?” He looked at Farah for confirmation.

She nodded. “The billiard room and the library.”

Dirk was used to people questioning his methods, but Liz – well, she was another holistic. Even if she didn’t exactly understand, she understood. No questions asked. She simply nodded, gave Dirk a double thumbs up, and strode out of the ballroom.

She’d been gone a few seconds when Dirk suddenly made an anguished sound.

Farah whipped out a gun so fast that Dirk’s eyes couldn’t track the movement. “What?” she snapped. “Where’s the threat? Are you hurt?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Dirk pouted at the ballroom doors. “Farah, I forgot to give Liz a business card.”

Farah treated him to one of her more intense stares, then holstered her gun. “Don’t worry, Dirk,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m pretty sure she has your number.”

Chapter Text

Farah insisted on a brief reconnaissance before they left. She managed to complete a lap of the ballroom before Dirk, waiting by the doors, accidentally knocked over half a wall of scaffolding. One lap was apparently sufficient, or perhaps the clattering metal and clouds of dust were too much for Farah’s sense of order, because she sighed deeply and agreed that they should proceed to the billiard room.

“This will be the second-last room, if we’re acting out a game of Clue,” she said, striding across the hall. Dirk trotted to keep up with her, wiping dust off his nose. “Do you feel any closer to solving the case?”

Dirk, who’d drifted into a memory of Todd’s teeth tugging his bottom lip, startled to attention. “Hm? Oh, yes. We’re closing in on the solution, I think. Not much longer now.”

Farah stopped in front of a closed door and held up a hand. Dirk obediently shuffled to a stop, looking around the hall while she eased open the door. No Rowdies on the staircase anymore, though they’d left a trail of smashed ornaments and muddy footprints across the parquet. Dirk wondered if they’d rejoined Amanda, who was presumably still talking with Phasia and Hobbs in the lounge room. It was difficult to imagine the rampaging energy vampires settling down for a quiet game of chess while Amanda introduced a holistic housekeeper to a holistic cat, but people could surprise you, he supposed.

“Clear,” called Farah, and Dirk followed her into the billiard room. After the unconventional study and ballroom, he’d half expected a supernatural aviary or some other holistic renovations, but the space was disappointingly normal: panelled walls, golden lamps, plush rug. And, of course, a green billiard table dominated the centre of the room.

Dirk made a discontented noise. Farah arched a brow, and Dirk pointed – perhaps a trifle accusingly – at the rug. “It’s red velvet,” he said. “Farah, I’m so hungry.”

Farah’s lips twitched. “We’ll ask Phasia to make you something once we establish she isn’t a poisoner, all right?” Dirk pouted his assent, and Farah nodded at the billiard table. “Are your hunches telling you anything?”

Dirk looked around, willing a revelation to descend so he could go have lunch and maybe a little nap, but…nothing. Slight pressure, a sense of something important just out of reach, but it remained elusive. Dirk suspected the emotional exhaustions of the day were catching up to him.

He sighed and leaned against the billiard table. Farah hesitated, then joined him. Propping a hip against the wood, she folded her arms – a confident pose undermined by the uncertain way she bit her lip.

“Are you…okay?” she asked, in the manner of someone who’d learned that question from a pamphlet on How To Talk To Your Depressed Friends.

“Fine,” answered Dirk, striving for brightness and falling so far short that he landed somewhere around shady.

“That was…a lot. Back there. About Blackwing and the other projects. Did it, um, stir up? Some things?”

Dirk fidgeted with his tie. “It’s not that. Well, not exactly. I’m just…Farah, it’s so frustrating. I can feel the answer. I know it’s here somewhere, but I can’t quite reach it. And every moment I can’t find the solution is another moment you might be in danger. You, and Todd, and Mona, and Todd, and Amanda, and Todd – did I mention Todd?”

“You did,” said Farah. “You always mention Todd. Dirk, what brought this on? We’ve been working the case all day. I thought you enjoyed this.”

“Well, yes. Sort of. Sometimes. When things are going well.”

When things weren’t going well…When a murder case linked back to Blackwing. When the solution remained as impenetrable as the net of coincidences holding them prisoner here. When his mouth was still sore and his stomach was growling and his best friend was maybe not talking to him because of a wild impulsive kiss that he very likely regretted. When things were like that, Dirk’s enthusiasm waned and he began to wish he could enjoy one simple board game without life becoming so terribly complicated. 

Dirk poked a billiard ball with his finger. It rolled across the table, clacking against its neighbours. “This is what I get for suggesting Cluedo as an agency bonding exercise. We could have opted for Scrabble on our next Game Night, but nooo, I had to bring a mystery into it.” The balls, still knocking around the table, clattered as if they agreed.

Farah, still leaning against the table with her arms crossed, watched him. “And if you’d taken that approach, maybe we’d have ended up with a cursed Scrabble board where all the nouns came to life and tried to kill us.”

Dirk squinted at her. “Is this – is this supposed to be you comforting me?”

Farah pulled a face. “Look, what I mean is…if we’re going to be pulled into absurd, impossible, life-threatening adventures on a regular basis, that’s going to happen anyway. No matter what we do. If it wasn’t Cluedo coming to life, it would’ve been something else. That’s…just our lives. And it’s – it’s not your fault.”

Dirk straightened. “‘Our lives’?” he whispered, staring at Farah.

She frowned. “What?”

“You said ‘our lives’. Not ‘your life’. When people talk about my…abilities, they usually say things like, ‘It’s your life, Dirk. You deal with it.’ But you see this as your life, too?”

Farah tilted her head. “Of course I do, Dirk. I invested in the agency because I believe in what you do – I believe in you. And I think we can make a real difference. I’m a member of the agency, aren’t I? Or a partner, or a member of Module B, or whatever it is you’re calling me this week –”

Dirk wriggled hopefully. “A benefriend?”

Farah sighed, but her mouth scrunched in the way that suggested she was squashing down a smile. “Sure. I’m a benefriend. Your benefriend. And you – you know I like playing board games with you, right?”

Sometimes Dirk forgot that, in her own way, Farah was a great deal like Todd: capable of deep love and protectiveness, and very emotionally repressed about it. She couldn’t meet his eyes right now, was drumming her fingers against her crossed arms as she stared at the ceiling, but he could feel the worry emanating off her. The affection.

“You do?” he asked, his voice small.

Farah’s foot joined the agitated tapping of her fingers. “I do. Our Game Nights are…fun. Chaotic, yes. More than one per week wouldn’t be good for my blood pressure. But they are fun. I like spending time with you. And Todd.” She laughed in her soft, reluctant way. “And Mona, apparently, even if I didn’t know it. So don’t – don’t beat yourself up about this. It’s not your fault the Universe throws things at us. And even if it were…We knew the risks when we signed up for this. And we stayed anyway. Because we’re your friends.”

Dirk’s mouth trembled. He suspected Farah might be alarmed if he threw himself sobbing into her arms, so he patted her shoulder, cleared his throat, and cast about for a distraction. His eyes fell on the billiard table, and he frowned.

While he and Farah had been talking, the balls had drifted into what he could only describe as a ‘deliberate formation’: the outline of a square inside a diamond, one triangle against each side. Several balls faced upwards, as neatly as if someone had placed them that way to display their numbers; the rest lay on their sides, numbers hidden.

“Farah,” said Dirk slowly, as she turned to see what he was staring at. “I must confess that maths is not entirely my strong suit. What do those numbers add up to?”

“Forty,” she said, after a few seconds’ consideration. “Does that mean something?”

Dirk frowned. “Well, it’s not forty-two.”

“O…kay?”

“The number of Blackwing projects,” explained Dirk absently, leaning over the table. “There were forty-two, last I heard. So it’s not that…but maybe it’s a project ID? I think they assigned us numbers as well as code names, but I never paid much attention.”

Farah leaned over the table as well. “Could the shape be a project symbol?”

“Ooh!” Dirk straightened and beamed at her. “Of course! Very clever, Farah. Very you. It’s the number and symbol of a Blackwing project!” He paused. “I have no idea which one, though.”

Farah turned to face him, but her eyes skittered away in a distinctly shady manner. Dirk leaned forward, intrigued. That look always preceded her admitting to a bit of lawbreaking, and he loved it when Farah did something legally questionable. “I…may be able to help with that,” she said.

Dirk frowned. “Please don’t tell me you’re a secret Blackwing operative. I don’t think I could cope with a revelation like that while my blood sugar is this low. It’s quite possible I’d faint across the billiard table.”

Farah gave him an exasperated look. “No, Dirk. I am not secretly working for the government organisation that has done its best to make our lives, and the lives of at least forty-one other people, a misery.” She reached into her jacket and produced some sheets of neatly folded paper. “I may have, um – acquired these from the record room underneath the study.”

“Where they keep the Blackwing files?” Dirk grinned. “Farah, you rebel. What kind of information did you, ahem, ‘acquire’?” He accessorised the query with finger quotes, just to see her scowl.

Farah scowled. “Stop that,” she said, but her mouth twitched. “I didn’t have time to go through the records properly, but I grabbed a list that looked like a summary of project names.”

“A rather heavy-handed coincidence, just like the billiard balls.” Dirk made grabby hands, and Farah passed him the papers. “I think the Universe might be growing impatient with this case, too. Let’s see…” Dirk skimmed the list, ignoring the leaden ache that came with seeing ‘Icarus’ and ‘Svlad Cjelli’ side by side.

Sure enough, the symbol beside Project #40 was a square inside a diamond. “Project Modi,” read out Dirk. “Who’s that? Have we met them?” He tried to recall which Blackwing escapees lived at Ivory Towers: Vesta, Enyo, Phoenix, Chiron…no Modi, but the name did feel distantly familiar, as if he’d heard it a long time ago.

“Liz said Dijon was never at Blackwing, so he wouldn’t have a project name.” Farah’s thoughts were apparently following the same path. “What about the librarian you and Todd met?”

“Reed Herring? Maybe.” Dirk flipped through the papers and blinked at the final page, which looked different from the rest. “What’s this?”

Farah peered at the sheet. “Ah. That’s not a Blackwing file – it’s the seating plan you asked for. In the dining room, remember? You wanted to know where everyone was sitting when Salmon died.”

Dirk had forgotten that, to be perfectly honest, and he felt a rush of affection for Farah. She always listened, even when Dirk himself barely noticed what he was saying. 

He’d made the request based on a hunch, a vague sense that it was important to know who’d been directly across from Sir Salmon when he’d met his end among the spinach-and-cream-cheese bites. According to the seating plan, it had been Dr Herb Ivor, but…

Dirk frowned. That was wrong. He couldn’t say why, but he knew that was wrong.

“Dirk?” asked a voice from the doorway. He squeaked and fell against the billiard table, then laughed in relief when he realised who it was.

“Mona! You startled me.” He pressed a hand to his chest, then straightened as a different fear swooped in his stomach. “Mona? Where’s Todd?”

Mona padded into the room on stockinged feet. “He’s in the library with the other people. I came here because Farah told me to stay away from Norse gods for insurance reasons.” She beamed at Farah, whose eyes widened.

“Norse…gods?”

For a confused moment, Dirk wondered if Thor had dropped by, but then – oh. The last few pieces clicked into place. “Solved it,” he breathed. “Oh my God, I’ve solved it!”

Farah’s head whipped around. “You have?”

“Is it because of the insurance, Dirk?” asked Mona.

Dirk shook his head, changed his mind, nodded instead, and ended up cracking something. He hissed and pressed a hand to his neck. “Surprisingly enough, Mona, it actually is because of the insurance.”

Mona clasped her hands. “I helped!”

“You did, and it was wonderful.” Dirk tucked the papers into his jacket pocket and turned to Farah. “Project Modi! I thought I’d heard it before. He’s a Norse god – in mythology, he’s one of Thor’s sons.”

“Sir Salmon was murdered by the thunder god’s son?” asked Farah sharply.

“No, no, it’s just a name Blackwing assigned him. The Thor I know doesn’t have any children, as far as I’m aware. But he was a Blackwing project, and – wait. Other people?” Dirk turned back to Mona. “Did you say you left Todd in the library with other people? Who?”

“The Norse god!” Mona smiled and shook her head at Dirk, as if he were being very silly. “You just said you knew about him. Although you were calling him a different name before – the mustard name. He and Dr Peach are arguing in the library. They’re being quite loud.”

A wave of dread swept through Dirk, so strong he felt briefly nauseous.

“Dijon is Project Modi?” asked Farah. Dirk could hear the same dread creeping into her voice. “But Liz said he…Why would Dijon lie to the other escapees and tell them he’d never been at Blackwing?”

“For the same reason he was never supposed to be Colonel Mustard on the gameboard, and the Universe sent a replacement.” Dirk’s hands trembled. “He’s a Blackwing spy. Farah, he’s a Blackwing spy! And now Dr Peach has found out, and Todd is alone with them – Mona, quick, where’s the library?” But Dirk was already running, his pulse loud in his ears.

A few steps into the hall, he heard shouting. There, to his left: a closed door, from behind which angry voices rang out. Dirk usually preferred to run away from confrontation, but given that Todd’s wellbeing was at stake, that option didn’t even factor. Dirk bolted forward, but before he reached the door, there came three sounds much worse than shouting: a horrible blunt thud, a yelp in Todd’s familiar voice, and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.

Dirk’s heart seemed to switch gears from ‘wildly pounding’ to ‘not beating at all’. Somehow, he staggered to the library door and flung it open, Farah and Mona at his heels.

Dirk scanned the room frantically. Towering bookshelves, velvet armchairs, wooden desks – and Todd. Todd, alive. Standing in front of a fireplace, his hands held up placatingly and his eyes enormous, staring in horror at – ah. The dead body of Dijon Bluthall.

Dirk, who’d stopped abruptly in the doorway, heard Farah swear softly as she peered over his shoulder.

They stared down at Dijon, lifeless on the carpet. Up at Dr Peach, poised with a blood-spattered candelabrum over the corpse. She stared back, eyes wild, hair straggling out of its bun. A grandfather clock chimed four loudly in the corner, every toll of the hour rippling across the library like a mourning bell.

There were several seconds of tense silence. Dirk, ever helpful, broke it.

“Well, there you have it! It really was Professor Plum in the library with a candlestick.” Dirk forced a smile. “Excellent assisting, Todd!”

Chapter Text

The next five minutes descended into a level of chaos that was exhausting even by Dirk’s standards. Farah pointed a gun at Dr Peach and told her to drop her weapon, which led to a standoff between two of the most intimidating people Dirk had ever met. While Farah and Dr Peach stared each other down, Liz burst into the room, accompanied by a gangling stranger with long black hair, bronze skin, and a neatly trimmed beard. Said stranger took one look at Dijon’s corpse and fainted in the library doorway, from which Dirk surmised that he was the blood-hating vegetarian Dr Herb Ivor. Liz talked soothingly to Dr Peach, who was still clutching the candelabrum, while Mona turned into a paper fan and Dirk waved her in the unconscious Herb’s face. The Rowdies piled into the room, leaping over Dirk and Herb in the doorway – except for Rainbow, now awake, who shrieked, “Bibbit!” and hurled herself at Dirk. Todd, meanwhile, had been edging around the bookshelves to get away from Dr Peach; Dirk watched him worriedly, trying to determine if he’d been injured. Todd met his eyes and smiled reassuringly – then seemed to remember the last time they’d seen each other and looked away, his face turning red, which made Dirk anxious for different reasons.

Dirk was thirty seconds away from a meltdown – not helped by the fact that he now lay on the floor, Rainbow sitting cross-legged on his chest – when Phasia appeared in the doorway, followed by Amanda and Hobbs.

Phasia took in the situation and sighed.

“Verity,” she said, in the tone of one who is not mad but merely disappointed, and Dr Peach sheepishly dropped the blood-stained candelabrum. Phasia pulled a silver flask from her skirt pocket and dashed water on Herb, who gasped awake. She stepped around him and gently pushed down Farah’s gun; Farah, looking startled, not only allowed this but also holstered the weapon. Phasia raised her eyebrows at the Rowdies and pointed to several plush armchairs by the window; to Dirk’s astonishment, the four meekly sat. She patted Rainbow’s bright hair and said, “Don’t you think it would be polite to give Bibbit some space?” Rainbow sighed and clambered off Dirk. He sat up with a wince, rubbing his ribs.

Calm settled over the room as everyone caught their breath. Dirk looked at Liz and said, awed, “I see what you meant about bringing order to chaos.”

Liz grinned. “Told you. Holistic housekeeper. Wait until you try that ube ice cream.”

Phasia smiled. Then her gaze fell on Dijon and she bit her lip. “What happened?”

Dirk staggered to his feet and pointed at Dr Peach. “She killed Dijon,” he said, perhaps unnecessarily.

Herb groaned from the floor.

“Don’t look at the blood, Herb,” said Phasia, eyes still on Dijon’s corpse. “You know it upsets you.”

Hobbs crouched beside Herb and helped him sit up. “You know, I have a real nice calming tea. I like to carry it round with me in case of holistic incidents – I got in the habit last year, after a few mishaps in the town where I live. I was cursed and shot, and it was all pretty stressful, as you can imagine, so now I keep this thermos on me at all times.” He pulled a silver canister, decorated with cat stickers, from his holster.

Hobbs appeared to have the situation under control, so Dirk turned his attention to the rest of the room. Amanda was at Todd’s side, her forehead scrunched; when worried, she and her brother looked very much alike. Phasia moved across the room and murmured to her wife, who crossed her arms and scowled down at Dijon’s body.

Mona returned to her preferred human form and perched on a desk, legs swinging. Dirk noticed a book lying open on the table beside her.

“Hmmm,” he said. Farah and Todd groaned.

“What?” asked Amanda, glancing between them.

“Dirk’s noticed something, and he’s going to be dramatic about it,” said Farah as Dirk strode to the book and flipped its pages. “What is it, Dirk?”

“There’s something about –” Dirk’s sentence ended in what even he had to admit was a thoroughly undignified yowl. He leaped back from the book as a hand reached through the pages, followed by a tattooed arm, followed by the rest of Dr Reed Herring. They clambered out of the book and onto the table, shut the book with a snap, and looked up to find Dirk and Farah goggling.

“Oh, hi,” they said.

“Jesus Christ,” said Todd, and Reed looked over their shoulder.

“You again,” they greeted him, then took in the rest of the room. “Gang’s all here, huh? Verity, I see there’s a dead body on the carpet and blood all over your hands. You’d better pray you didn’t get any blood on my books.”

“Your books are fine, Reed,” snapped Dr Peach.

“You’re Dr Herring? You don’t seem very choked up about Dijon’s death,” said Farah, narrowing her eyes. Nothing like suspicious behaviour to make her regain her composure.

Reed shrugged. “If Verity killed him, she had a reason. Though, admittedly, I’d like to know what that reason was.”

Dirk, taking in the tense set of Reed’s shoulders, suspected they were more shaken than they were letting on. A tattoo shifted, vines twining protectively around their fingers.

“That’s a good point, Reed.” Phasia touched Dr Peach’s shoulder. “I think we could all do with an explanation for what happened here. Dirk, would you like to do the honours?”

Dirk startled. “What? Me? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Phasia smiled faintly. “I know you didn’t. But you’re the detective, right? I think this is the part where you stand in front of everyone and reveal the answers.”

Todd wasn’t the only one who watched Miss Marple, clearly. But Phasia was right: here was everyone important to the case, assembled in the drawing room (well, library, but close enough), and he’d solved it.

Oh – he’d solved it. In all the commotion, he’d forgotten.

Death and disaster he hated, but denouements he lived for. These were the moments when everything aligned – when it was his turn to make order out of chaos.

Dirk looked around for a suitable stage. The library had a sunken floor; the fireplace, desks, and armchairs took up the lower level, and to his left a few shallow steps led to a raised section full of bookshelves. Perfect. Dirk bounded up the steps and swung to face his audience.

“Ivory Towers,” he announced, holding up a finger, “is a refuge for escaped Blackwing subjects and other holistics. A pocket dimension created from a Cluedo instruction booklet – set up by Dr Herring here, with the help of my old assistant Francis.”

“Old assistant?” demanded Todd. Amanda shushed him.

“Francis won’t leave Wendimoor, not after what happened last year, but he worries about the holistics in this world. People hunted by Blackwing, like him.” There it was – that buzz of intuition, that not-quite-psychic pressure nudging Dirk onto the next sentence, and the next. This was how he’d felt when he’d narrated Patrick Spring’s life story to the man himself. When he’d stood in the forests of Wendimoor and told its inhabitants that their world was only three generations old. When he’d revealed the truth of the Atlantean dungeons to Poseidon during that godawful game of Go Fish.

“With the help of Wakti Wapnasi,” continued Dirk, “Francis found someone in our world who might help – Reed, a holistic librarian who can carry people into fictional universes. They struck a bargain and created a new dimension that anyone could enter and live in, as long as it remained anchored to reality. That’s where the Cluedo players come into it: while there are six holistics tied to the place, representing the game pieces from the instruction booklet, Ivory Towers holds together. But Francis also wanted someone who was…outside the game. A steward who could look after the escapees passing through. So he sent a Wendimoorian he trusted – a Trost named Sir Salmon.”

“Bibbit so smart.” Rainbow grinned up at him, her chin cupped in her hands. Dirk smiled back, then wriggled into an Explaining Pose and proceeded.

“Francis introduced Reed to Amanda and the other Rowdies, who have been finding stray holistics and bringing them to the house. Things were going well until a couple of months ago, when the estate started to feel…off. It was hard to say exactly when the feeling began, which is why nobody made the connection that it coincided with Dijon’s arrival.”

“Hold on,” said Todd. He raised a hand as if he were in a classroom, which was so adorable it almost distracted Dirk from his grand finale. “If the house can only exist with six players, how was it here before Dijon and the rest of you arrived? What held it together when Francis and Reed first created it?”

“Technically, the house can exist without the Clue players,” Reed answered in their warm drawl. They sat with one foot on the desk, arm hanging over their knee, and didn’t take their eyes off Dirk. “It just takes a lot of energy, from me and Francis, and it’s not sustainable long term. Plus I adapt the structure of the dimension every time we add a new player. Think of the players as load-bearing supports. Once you’ve put them in place, taking any out is – well, let’s just say it’s a shit idea.”

Dirk glanced uneasily at the ceiling, but it showed no signs of collapsing. “Right, well, thank you, Reed! Extremely useful to know.” He cleared his throat. “So, Dijon arrived and the house began to destabilise, because he was never meant to be here. Why, you ask? Because he’s not a Blackwing refugee; he’s a Blackwing spy.”

This news had a satisfyingly extraordinary effect on Dirk’s audience: Reed leapt off the table, eyes wide and tattoos writhing. Phasia staggered back a step, hands covering her mouth. Herb fainted again, though he revived quickly when an alarmed Hobbs accidentally spilled half the thermos of calming tea over him. The Rowdies hissed like large, leather-jacketed cats.

“Well, that explains the murdering,” said Liz, which summed up the situation rather well.

“Indeed. Dijon was originally a Blackwing subject like us, but rather than escaping, he joined them. Which project would do such a thing, you wonder?” Dirk produced the papers from his jacket with a flourish. The gesture almost knocked over a vase; once he’d fumbled it back into place, he held up the papers. “Project Modi, whose real name is…” Dirk squinted at the page. “Er, something written in runes. ‘Dijon Bluthall’ isn’t particularly Nordic, though, so I would posit that was an assumed name.”

“To be fair, we all have assumed names,” Herb piped up faintly from the floor.

“Yes, I was wondering about that,” admitted Dirk. “Did you deliberately choose names to match your Cluedo counterparts, or was that a coincidence?”

“Coincidence.” Reed had settled back against the desk, their tattoos unmoving once more. Dirk, remembering what Liz had said about protective charms, suspected the artwork only came alive when Reed or the house felt threatened. “Most of us changed our names on the run from Blackwing. I picked the Clue booklet on a whim – I just needed a fictional world I could sustain easily, one that didn’t have a lot of characters or a complex plot we’d have to live out. When holistics whose names matched the game started turning up at the house, I knew I’d picked the right source. Sign from the Universe – you know how it is.”

Dirk nodded ruefully, then frowned. He pointed at Liz. “Wait. How do you fit in, then?”

She flopped into a velvet armchair, smiling lazily. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone else’s name indicates their player. By process of elimination, I assume you’re the Mrs White equivalent, but what does the name Elizabeth have to do with white?”

Farah gasped and clicked her fingers. “The Wars of the Roses! Elizabeth of York became Queen of England with her marriage to King Henry VII, which unified their houses. Her family symbol was the White Rose of York.”

Liz raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed. “Wow, you are good.”

Dirk narrowed his eyes, sensing a ‘but’.

“But actually, my name isn’t Elizabeth.”

There it is.

“What is Liz short for, then?” asked Farah resignedly.

“Ivory Blizzard,” answered Liz. She shrugged, mouth twisting ruefully.

Dirk risked a glance at Todd, recalling their conversation in the kitchen. Todd looked blank for a moment, then buried his face in his hands. “For fuck’s sake. Seriously?”

“It’s not even an assumed name, if you can believe that.” Liz picked at a paint stain on her overalls. “Remind me to tell you about my weird-as-hell parents some time. You know, when there isn’t a dead Blackwing spy on the carpet.”

Herb gulped a mouthful of Hobbs’s calming tea.

“Ah. Yes.” Dirk glanced at Dijon, then away. Delivering this speech while someone lay dead on the floor was…uncomfortable, but hardly the worst situation he’d been in. “So, a Blackwing plant infiltrated Ivory Towers. He called himself Dijon, but his project name was Modi – one of Thor’s sons, in Norse mythology. Now, I’ve met Thor – who, may I just say, isn’t nearly as good-looking as rumours would have you believe, though I suppose he has a sort of rugged celestial glow about him –”

“Uh, Dirk.” Farah cleared her throat and glanced at Todd. “Could you maybe…get to the point?”

“Ah! Right you are, Farah.” Dirk also looked at Todd, hoping the tangent into Thor’s attractiveness hadn’t undermined his faith in Dirk’s deductive skills. Todd looked as thunderous as the god in question, so Dirk hurried on. “Dijon wasn’t Thor’s son, but they were both Norse deities captured by Blackwing. Thor was a project they called Jofur – which is actually inaccurate if you look into the historical roots of the name, but I digress. Blackwing couldn’t hold him for long, but Dijon was another matter – probably not very powerful, as mythical entities go. Instead of escaping, he made a deal with Blackwing. He’s been trying to take down Ivory Towers from the inside.”

“But how did he find us?” demanded Reed, clenching their fists. “How did Blackwing find us? If they know we’re here, why not just attack us? It’s more their style.”

Dirk answered slowly, feeling out the answer. “Blackwing…doesn’t know. You’ve got your own spy there, haven’t you? Someone on the inside, who’s been helping you smuggle out projects. Dijon worked for Blackwing and he realised one of his colleagues was a double agent, but he didn’t know who. He found out about this place – maybe he was…ugh, psychic in some way.” Dirk wrinkled his nose at the word. “But he couldn’t go to his bosses in case one of them was the spy. So he infiltrated Ivory Towers on his own, looking for answers.”

“Oh, God!” Phasia clutched her wife’s arm. “The files under the study! Dijon knew about them – he was head of security. He must have read everything!”

“He did,” said Dirk, “but he couldn’t do anything about it. He was trapped here.”

The words surprised even him, and he took a moment to think them over while the Cluedo players murmured in surprise.

“What do you mean?” asked Phasia. “Ivory Towers is a sanctuary, not a prison. People can leave, even those of us who are bound here. All Dijon had to do was step onto the driveway, and he’d be back in the regular world.”

“Ah, but not once he’d gathered information that would put said sanctuary at risk.” Dirk grinned and spread his hands. “You may recall that when my colleagues and I arrived here, a net of coincidences sprang up, acting as a forcefield that wouldn’t allow us to leave until we’d solved the case?”

“Well, yes.” Phasia glanced out the window. “It was only a few hours ago.”

“That same forcefield has been keeping Dijon here for months. Every time he tried to go to Blackwing with what he’d found, a coincidence would prevent him leaving. He couldn’t contact them, either, not with technology here being so unreliable. He grew frustrated. Desperate. He decided the only way to escape Ivory Towers was to disrupt the ritual – by killing one of the players. And thus the death of poor Sir Salmon.”

“But Salmon wasn’t one of the players, was he?” asked Todd, brows monologuing like the hero of a Shakespearean tragedy. “Why kill him?”

“I’m very glad you asked that, Todd.” Dirk brandished a sheet of paper. “This holistically significant seating plan holds the answer.”

Amanda crossed her arms. “Blackwing keeps seating plans in its top-secret government files? What the hell is with that place?”

“Er.” Dirk lowered the paper. “I may have inadvertently facilitated a slight misunderstanding there. The seating plan is from Ivory Towers, not Blackwing. But what it reveals is holistically significant to our case.”

He peered at the paper, then lifted his head to stare at Reed.

They stared back. “What?” When Dirk didn’t answer, they scowled. “What?”

“Dr Herring.” Dirk spoke with all the gravitas he could muster, which mostly entailed waggling his eyebrows. “Sir Salmon was not the intended victim of this murder. You were.”

He paused for another round of reactions: loud gasps, twitching tattoos, some hissed profanities. He had to hand it to the residents of Ivory Towers – they made a fantastic audience.

Reed’s colleagues (and tattoos) might have been outraged on their behalf, but Reed looked more puzzled than angry. They rubbed their arm absently, soothing a ruffled bird to sleep. “Why? That would be stupid. I created the estate, and I’m one of the people holding it together. If he’d killed me, he’d have destroyed the place with himself inside it.”

Dirk favoured Reed with an expression he liked to call ‘pointed’ and Todd liked to call ‘insufferably smug’. “Did he know that?”

Reed opened their mouth. Paused. Closed their mouth. “Ah.”

“Yes. Ah. Dijon may have been head of security, with access to the house’s impressive cache of stolen Blackwing files, but he didn’t really understand how Ivory Towers existed. He thought that if he killed its creator, he could escape. And he was a sadistic sort, underneath all the – the –” Dirk waved a hand.

“Patronising joviality?” asked Dr Peach, her voice even more clipped than usual.

“Verity,” said Herb pleadingly, still leaning against Hobbs on the floor. “Please. A man is dead.”

She sighed. “I know, Herb. I killed him.”

Dirk cleared his throat. “Well, as I said, Dijon was sadistic – not to mention furious about being trapped. It wasn’t enough just to kill Reed; he wanted to watch them die.”

“That’s cold,” said Martin, twirling a baseball bat as he lounged on the windowseat. “Damn cold.”

Farah straightened, her eyes lighting up. “That’s why you needed the seating plan, Dirk!”

Dirk nodded. “I had a hunch that the murderer wanted to look directly into the victim’s eyes as they died.” To be fair, he hadn’t understood what the hunch meant until just now, but nobody else needed to know that. “So the person sitting across from Salmon must be the killer – but according to the seating plan, that was Herb.”

Herb downed another swig of calming tea. “I’m innocent!” he cried. 

“Well, obviously,” scoffed Dirk. “I’ve never met you before, and even I know the idea of you killing anyone is absurd. No, Dijon arranged to sit across from the person he thought was going to die – Reed. But he put the poisoned toothpick on the wrong plate in the kitchen, and Salmon used the toothpick instead.”

Dr Peach hissed. “My toothpick. That bastard Dijon stole it from my stores.”

Dirk nodded. “Another perk of being head of security was that Dijon had access to a number of security codes. It was easy for him to sneak a single toothpick and a vial of poison from the stash that you keep, by the way, dangerously close to this house’s food preparation.”

“Is it poison or venom?” asked Liz, drumming her fingers against her chin. “I can never remember.”

Dr Peach ignored her. “How do you know about the hiding place in the kitchen?” she asked, frowning at Dirk. He felt himself turn pink and didn’t dare glance at Todd in case he saw a matching blush.

Hobbs raised his hand. “Now, could I just enquire, if it’s no trouble: why do you even have poisoned toothpicks?”

“Honestly, Verity, it’s a good question.” Liz rolled her eyes. “You’re a holistic engineer, not a killer.”

Despite Liz’s exasperation, Dr Peach seemed pleased by the question. Her anger drained away and her face lit up; it would have been sweet, if she hadn’t still been spattered with blood. “It belongs to my range of concealed domestic weaponry.” She leaned forward. “Weapons hidden in everyday household items, designed for subtle self-defence. Teabags filled with deadly nightshade. Scarves woven with tightening fibres that strangle the wearer.”

Phasia tapped her peacock hairpin. “Verity made this for me as a wedding present. It’s actually a concealed blade.”

Dr Peach nodded. “If Phasia presses the blue circle, the blade comes out.” She narrowed her eyes at Dirk. “The button is synced to her fingerprint, so it doesn’t work for anyone else. Don’t get ideas.”

“Do I look like someone who’d ruin a perfectly nice hair arrangement in order to commit a shivving?” asked Dirk, puffing up indignantly.

Todd spoke, sounding tired. “Moving past the fact that everything in this house is apparently a death trap, including the damn teabags, are you saying the poisoned toothpick was part of this…concealed domestic weaponry?”

Dr Peach nodded. She lifted a hand to smooth her hair, noticed the blood on her hands, and sighed. Phasia produced a blue lace handkerchief from her skirt pocket, and Dr Peach accepted it with a smile.

“Each toothpick holds a tiny needle that injects poison into the mouth of whoever uses it,” she said. Her hands remained steady as she wiped away the blood. “The poison has to be inserted first, otherwise they’re simply very sharp toothpicks.”

Dirk carefully did not look at Todd and did not touch a hand to his own mouth.

“But wouldn’t it be simpler to just – to just put some poison on a regular toothpick?” asked Farah.

A brief pause settled over the room.

Dr Peach tilted her head. “Where on earth would be the fun in that?”

Farah opened her mouth. Dirk reached over to pat her shoulder, realised he was too far away, and flapped his hand instead. “Holistic engineer,” he said. “Best not to question her methods.”

Farah massaged her temples but offered no further protests.

Dirk resumed his Explaining Pose. “After what happened with Salmon, Dijon might have tried again to kill Reed – but he knew two deaths would raise suspicion, and he couldn’t afford another mistake. So he waited. And then we arrived, lured here by Liz and Francis.”

This elicited a chorus of noises ranging from surprised to annoyed; it appeared that Liz hadn’t enlightened her colleagues about the part she’d played in bringing the agency here. Apparently unbothered, she swung her boots up onto a coffee table that looked like it had been smuggled off the set of a high-budget period romance.

“Given that my agency colleagues and I ooze professionalism” – Dirk nodded graciously at Farah and Todd, who sighed and rubbed their eyes in unison – “Dijon knew it wouldn’t be long before we figured out the truth. He tried to buy time by trapping me and Todd in the secret passage under the lounge room –”

“He’s the one who locked us in there?” blurted Todd.

“You were in the lounge-to-conservatory transit tunnel?” Dr Peach glared at Dirk. “You didn’t mess up anything down there, did you?”

Dirk emitted a squawk of outrage. “Did we mess anything up? I like that! The stupid tunnel almost killed us nine different ways. Was that little puzzle room of death your doing?”

“I’m an engineer; I test out some of my projects in there.” She shrugged, looking entirely unrepentant. “I’m entirely unrepentant.”

“So I gathered,” said Dirk waspishly. He tugged his jacket straight with rather more force than necessary. “Despite the obstacles so helpfully provided by our friend the holistic executioner – oh, excuse me, engineer – Todd and I made it out of the tunnel. Dijon was frantically searching for his own escape route while we were distracted, but we weren’t the threat he should have been worried about.” Dirk allowed space for a dramatic pause. “Thanks to our conversation in the dining room, Dr Peach now knew Salmon had been killed by a poisoned toothpick. It was possible but not particularly probable that someone else in a house currently populated by six people might possess their own set of poisoned toothpicks, but that seemed an unlikely coincidence even by holistic standards. To be certain, though, she spoke to Herb, who’d been the doctor on the scene when Salmon died.”

Farah, Todd, and Amanda turned dubiously to Herb, who stared despairingly into the now-empty thermos he’d drained of calming tea.

“Really?” asked Farah. “He examined the body?”

Herb, drooping with elegant gloom, handed the thermos back to Hobbs. “There wasn’t any blood,” said Herb, “so I could look at – at him long enough to declare him dead.” He bit his lip, then added in a rush, “I did throw up afterwards, though.”

Dr Peach sighed. “I found Herb after I spoke to you in the dining room this morning. I asked him if Salmon could have died from poison administered through a scratch on his mouth. Herb said, I quote, ‘It’s possible, but please don’t make me look at the body again.’”

“Salmon’s body is still here?” Dirk pulled a face, almost spraining his cheek muscles. He remembered the vacuum-wrapped packages he and Todd had noticed in the freezer. “Please don’t tell me you keep that in the kitchen, too.”

“No, no, we sent him back to Wendimoor for burial,” said Dr Peach, in the tone of one who has been tragically denied yet another opportunity to perform an autopsy. “Herb’s just dramatic. He overreacts sometimes.”

Dirk looked from Dr Peach to the bloodied candelabrum and dead body at her feet. “Well, we wouldn’t want to overreact.”

“So that’s when you went to check the vials in the freezer?” asked Todd, taking a cautious step forward.

“All right, I understand the holistic detective conjecturing things he shouldn’t know, but how are you so informed about my whereabouts?” Dr Peach crossed her arms, and Todd hurriedly shuffled back to his former position pressed against a bookshelf.

“No reason!” he said.

“Definitely not eavesdropping- and mouth-related reasons!” added Dirk.

“Yep, definitely not those reasons!” Todd nodded frantically.

Another pause settled over the room, this one bemused. Amanda squinted at Todd. “Mouth reasons?”

All right, definitely time to regain control of the scene. “When Dr Peach realised Dijon had stolen one of her inventions to kill Salmon,” said Dirk, so loudly that several people jumped, “she went to confront him. It took a while to track him down, but eventually she cornered Dijon here in the library. Todd and Mona overheard them arguing and stumbled across the fight. Mona left to find me and Farah, while Todd stayed behind and tried to…er, de-escalate the situation.” Dirk looked at Dijon’s body and the blood pooling around his head. “At this point, I would like to assure everyone that Todd is generally excellent at all tasks he pursues, and even the best of us have bad days.”

“Thanks, Dirk,” said Todd dryly. For a moment, things felt almost normal between them – but Todd’s eyes flickered away before Dirk could meet his gaze, and Dirk’s heart twinged.

“So that’s that?” asked Farah, looking around the room. “Case solved? Dijon was a Blackwing spy who killed Sir Salmon by mistake, and Dr Peach attacked him in revenge.”

“Oh, I didn’t kill him because of that.” Dr Peach rolled her eyes.

“Um,” said Farah. “What?”

“Look, don’t get me wrong. Salmon was a decent man, and I’m sorry he’s dead. I also do not encourage anyone to use my weapons without seeking express permission, in writing, subject to my approval and notarised by Phasia.” Dr Peach cast a warning glare around the library. Such was the power of her gaze that even Dirk shifted guiltily, though he had no intention of stealing any nightshade-laced teabags or throttling scarves. “But I killed Dijon because he was Blackwing. And I fucking hate Blackwing.”

Though the words were vicious, there was a strangely vulnerable timbre to the way she said them. It lay in the slight crack of her voice, in the way she clutched her wife’s sleeve.

Dirk remembered what Liz had said in the ballroom. Phasia was there for a few months – not long after you escaped last year, Dirk. Don’t bring it up around Verity. Anything to do with Blackwing makes her a little…mad.

“Ohh!” Dirk clasped his hands. “You killed Dijon because you were worried about your wife! That’s so romantic.”

Dr Peach, rather astoundingly, blushed.

Phasia sighed. “Verity,” she said, voice fond, and rested her head on Dr Peach’s shoulder. “You really must stop murdering people for me.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” Dr Peach rested her cheek on Phasia’s bright green hair.

“I sure am glad this alternate dimension is outside my jurisdiction,” said Hobbs, still kneeling beside Herb on the floor. “Seems like a real minefield of potential arrests.”

Farah’s face clouded. Dirk suspected she was grappling with the ethics of allowing an unrepentant killer to go free; it seemed like the sort of thing that would go against her law-abiding upbringing. Dirk had only the loosest grasp of legalities himself, but even he could tell there would be no use arresting Dr Peach – not least because he was far too intimidated to attempt it. He scrunched his nose at Farah, who seemed to understand. With a deep sigh, she relaxed her shoulders and nodded.

“What are we going to do now that Dijon’s dead?” asked Herb. His eyes widened and he scrambled to his feet. “In fact, why aren’t we dead? Impostor or not, Dijon was part of the ritual. Why is Ivory Towers still standing?”

Reed waved a languorous hand. “I’m holding the dimension together. I can do it when I have to.” They frowned. “Though I admit, it’s easier than it should be. It feels…it almost feels like the Colonel Mustard role is still filled, though I think it’s safe to say Dijon is definitely dead.”

“Oh!” Dirk, bouncing, clapped his hands. “I can explain that! Please allow me to introduce you to the most exquisite orange tabby, a thoroughly charming embodiment of feline intellect and charisma, a –”

“Hobbs has a cat,” said Todd, pointing at the sheriff. “Her name’s Mustard. Apparently she’s holistic.”

Dirk pouted. “I was getting to that, but yes. Fine. Hobbs has a cat, and she’s your new Colonel Mustard.” He looked around. “Actually, Hobbs, where is the lovely Mustard?”

“Napping in the lounge room,” he answered. “It’s been a long day for her, you understand, and it’s important she gets her twenty-three hours.”

Dirk reflected that if he aimed for twenty-three hours of sleep per day, Todd and Farah would probably dump a bucket of water on him. Some holistic lifestyles were more taxing than others, clearly.

“A cat, huh?” Reed chewed their thumb and peered pensively out the window. “That could work, actually. Where is she?”

“Now, just a minute.” Hobbs stood, dusting off his trousers, and gave Reed a stern look. Well, presumably it was meant to be stern. Since this was Hobbs, it was more…earnestly beseeching. But Reed seemed to understand that he was being serious, and they gazed back levelly. “You all seem like nice folk, but this is my Mustard and I’m not just going to hand her over to a bunch of strangers for some kind of – I think you called it a ritual? I certainly don’t mean to judge anyone else’s lifestyle choices, but in my experience rituals can be a bit iffy, sometimes even murdery, and I’m just not sure I want my cat getting caught up in all that.”

Reed smiled. “A valid concern. And who are you, exactly?”

“Oh!” cried Dirk. “My apologies. This is Sherlock Hobbs, Bergsberg County Sheriff. Not to worry, he’s much nicer than most law enforcement. Practically a civilian, really.”

Hobbs beamed. “Thank you, Dirk.”

“Hmm.” Reed drummed their fingers. “I’m no fan of cops, but if this one vouches for you” – they jerked their thumb at Dirk – “I’ll give you a chance. Don’t worry, Sheriff; your cat will be fine. The ritual’s harmless. You can even be there for it, if you want.” They hesitated. “You should know, though. Players can leave Ivory Towers, but while we’re tied to the place, we shouldn’t stay away long. Your cat will need to live here.”

This hadn’t occurred to Dirk, and his gut wrenched as he watched Hobbs’s face fall. No doubt Mustard would lead a life of sun-drenched naps on velvet cushions here, but there was something terribly wrong about her being separated from Hobbs – actually. Not just wrong, but Wrong. Dirk realised he was having a hunch.

“Hoooooobbs,” he said slowly. “You’ve been thinking of giving up the force, haven’t you?”

Hobbs startled. “Now, Dirk, how did you –? Ah ha!” He grinned. “You just pulled a holistic, didn’t you?”

Dirk turned. “Phasia, have you found a steward to replace Sir Salmon?”

She shook her head, eyes crinkling. She knew what Dirk was getting at, he could tell, and she approved. “Not yet. We’re waiting for a sign from the Universe.”

Dirk grinned and, sensing an opportunity for dramatic effect, draped himself along a balustrade. “Phasia, what would you say are the qualities necessary to stewardship of Ivory Towers?”

She smiled. “The steward lives here and looks after people – usually traumatised people with unusual abilities. So we need someone who’s gentle. Caring. Open to the weirdness of the Universe. Someone who’s not scared of Blackwing or of breaking rules.” Her smile widened into a grin. “Do you have a candidate in mind?”

Dirk grinned back, then looked at Hobbs. “Sheriff,” he said, “have you ever considered a career in holistic tenant management?”

*

There was paperwork, of course. There was always paperwork. Dirk wondered if even the mysterious ‘ritual’ was simply a form the players signed – in Mustard’s case, with an inky pawprint on a dotted line.

In any case, Hobbs was to be the new steward of Ivory Towers, and the process involved paperwork. Phasia trotted off to locate the appropriate forms in the study. Hobbs expressed a desire to check on Mustard; Herb, with a queasy glance at the crime scene, offered to accompany him to the lounge room. Rainbow and Vogel gambolled after them, apparently keen to play with the cat.

Dirk, satisfied that his work here was done, flopped onto the bottom step. Farah eased herself down to sit beside him, and they watched Reed and Liz explain to Dr Peach that no, she could not keep Dijon’s body for scientific study.

The question of what they would do with Dijon (something Dirk had been trying not to think about) eventually became clear: Reed would transport the body into a crime novel, where it could be safely stowed inside a pocket dimension that contained a morgue.

It was a neat way to hide a body – possibly too neat. “Innocent people aren’t usually this practiced at disposing of evidence,” muttered Farah, tapping her knee as she watched them.

“Oh, they’re very suspect people,” agreed Dirk. “But they’re on our side, which is a nice change. Usually the amoral criminals are against us, not with us. I say we enjoy it.”

“That is – that is a terrible philosophy,” said Farah. But she did stop tapping her fingers.

Dirk could see Todd from the corner of his eye, hesitating by the bookshelves. He might have stayed there indefinitely if Amanda hadn’t grumbled something and dragged him over to Dirk and Farah. Mona hopped off the table, trailed after them, then became a fox terrier and curled up at Dirk’s feet.

“Dude, you were amazing,” Amanda told Dirk, lifting her hand. Ever weak to the lure of a high five, Dirk smacked her palm – but Todd was still avoiding his gaze, and the unpleasant ache in Dirk’s chest undermined the satisfaction of a solved case.

Phasia returned, paperwork in hand. When she saw that Hobbs was absent and her friends were arguing over how best to dispose of a corpse, she veered towards the steps. With a graceful sweep of her skirt, she settled beside Dirk.

“We made a good team back there,” she said, dimpling at him.

Dirk hoped she wasn’t making advances. Dr Peach seemed the jealous type, and the candelabrum was still within her reach.

Phasia must have read the horror in his expression, because she laughed. “No, no, I don’t mean like that. I’m talking about the way you brought Sherlock Hobbs here.”

“He was already here,” said Dirk, tilting his head. “He arrived with the Rowdies.”

Phasia smiled. “But you made the connection. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You bring people where they’re meant to be. And part of what I do is find the right place for things. Sometimes that means creating a home for a person – or a person and a cat, in this case.” She linked her fingers on her knees. “Will you join us? This place is a sanctuary – you can help us find so many more people who need the refuge.”

Todd stepped forward. “Dirk already has a home,” he said sharply. “The agency needs him.”

While Dirk’s insides turned pleasantly molten, Phasia held up her hands. “I’m not stealing him away from you. The work can be done from anywhere. I’m telling Dirk he’s welcome to visit Ivory Towers whenever he wants, and I’m asking him to join our union.”

A charged pause occurred, in which the very silence seemed to sit up and say, “Sorry, could you repeat that?”

Finally, Dirk sputtered. “You have a union?”

Phasia nodded, apparently unperturbed. She seemed more…composed than she had this morning. More in control. Perhaps that was the natural result of having a loved one commit murder for you.

“A – a union for what?” asked Farah.

“For holistics,” answered Phasia. “People like me, and Dirk, and – Mona, is it? You’re welcome to join too, by the way,” she told the fox terrier. Mona lifted her snout and thumped her tail. Dirk scratched behind her ears.

“What are you unionising against?” asked Todd. “The unfair working conditions imposed by Norse gods?”

“Thor’s a member of the union, actually.”

“Of course he is.” Todd slumped.

“Now, Todd, I’d think a union is exactly in keeping with your anti-capitalist sensibilities,” said Dirk absently. The more he thought about it, the more the idea grew on him. It sounded rather nice. Like being in a club.

“And exactly which – which capitalist institutions are holistics unionising against?” asked Todd irritably.

“It’s partly a way for us to band together against Blackwing,” said Phasia. Her fingers brushed the peacock hairclip. “But mainly it’s insurance against the Universe.”

Todd hesitated. “The Universe?”

Phasia nodded. “Holistics have a…complicated relationship with the Universe. Sometimes it’s good to us, even gives us nice things.” She glanced across the room at her wife. Dirk glanced at Todd. “But that’s usually to keep us on track. We exist at the Universe’s beck and call, and it…doesn’t exactly believe in weekends or paid leave. Its idea of a health plan is to give you a 50/50 chance of finding yourself in hospital after some terrible killing spree has happened around you.”

“Occasionally the killing spree happens at the hospital,” added Dirk, remembering that awful day in Bergsberg.

Phasia touched a sympathetic hand to his shoulder. “So the Holistic Union is a way for us to…take a stand against the Universe forcing us into things. Yes, it gives us purpose, and the work we do is important – but why can’t we fix reality and have rights?”

“And…how exactly do you take a stand against the Universe?” asked Farah.

“Oh, this and that,” said Phasia, gaze flicking away. “Mostly it’s about moral support – finding other holistics, bringing them here, uniting them with people who have been through the same things they have. We help each other with our callings, sometimes, to ease the load.” She brightened. “We even have Game Nights!”

Farah and Todd winced.

Dirk chewed his cheek. Phasia was undeniably evasive, but that came with the territory when you were a Blackwing escapee. His instincts told him to trust her, and he trusted his instincts.

He steepled his fingers. “I believe I would like to – wait. What is that?”

Phasia looked up from the sheaf of papers she was holding out to him. “The paperwork, of course.”

Dirk recoiled. “Ah. Hmm. Please pass all documentation on to my associate Farah, who takes care of such matters.”

“Dirk, you’re the holistic. I’m not filling out the forms for you to join a union.” Farah said this with admirable conviction for someone who was already taking the papers, glancing through them, and reaching into her jacket for the regulation-issue black pen she carried at all times.

Paperwork and unionisation thus sorted, Dirk tapped his chin. Something still bothered him – not loud enough to be a hunch, but persistent nonetheless.

“So, can we. Um. Leave?” Todd asked.

Dirk didn’t like to even hear Todd say the word ‘leave’ – it conjured up all sorts of anxieties pertaining to their relationship – but the ‘we’ was, at least, promising.

“Of course,” said Phasia with a small frown. “As I said, Ivory Towers isn’t a prison.”

“No, I mean…” Todd gestured at the window. “The coincidences. If the case is over now, can we. You know. Go?”

“Oh!” cried Dirk. That was what he’d forgotten: the forcefield of coincidences that had confined them to Ivory Towers. Mona was draped across his feet, so he gently dislodged her and jumped up. “Todd, you are a genius.” His tone came out perhaps a touch too adoring, so he quickly added, “Let’s go see if we’re still trapped.”

He trotted from the library, waving to Liz on his way out. (Reed and Dr Peach were deep in some kind of discussion about body bags, so he thought it best not to interrupt them.) Mona, still a fox terrier, bounded beside him. Farah and Phasia followed, talking about the minutiae of Section Something-Or-Other on Form Such-And-Such, while Todd and Amanda trailed behind.

Dirk approached the front doors warily, eying the Blackwing symbols in stained glass. Knowing their purpose didn’t make them any less disconcerting, and he decided not to linger. With a deep breath and a dramatic flourish, he flung open the doors – or tried to. It transpired that they were much heavier than they looked, and to the uninitiated gaze, it might appear as if he instead ran into the doors, bounced off them, and landed in a sprawl on the parquet.

“Shit, Dirk.” Todd crouched beside him, hands hovering over Dirk’s face as if he didn’t quite dare to touch. “Are you okay?”

“Was that the forcefield?” asked Farah, crouching on Dirk’s other side. “Are we still trapped?”

They helped Dirk sit up. Mona assisted by frolicking around them, her tail wagging.

“I don’t think that was a coincidence,” Dirk answered, gingerly touching the back of his head. No blood: always a positive sign. “I think that was just…me.”

A second attempt to open the door was, thanks to the combined efforts of assisfriend and benefriend, more successful. Dirk cautiously emerged onto the front steps and peered around.

Neither petunias nor sperm whales assaulted him, and all seemed calm. The distant storm had rumbled its way to new horizons, leaving the grounds awash in sunlight. The agency’s Chevrolet Camaro still sat before the house, gleaming violet. The flowers were flowering and the topiaries were…topiaring. The stone angel continued to preside over its fountain with a level of tranquillity unusual to public urination.

“I think…I think it’s gone.” Dirk straightened, nodding. “Yes, it’s definitely gone.”

Farah and Todd breathed audible sighs of relief. Amanda slung an arm around Dirk’s shoulders and treated him to the crooked Brotzman grin. “Hey, Dirk. You know what this means?”

Dirk grinned back. “I solved the case.”

“You solved the case,” she agreed. “Time to do your thing, right?”

Dirk gasped as he realised what she meant. “Oh my God, Amanda, you’re right! I have to do the finger snap!”

“Dude, wait!” Amanda released him to rummage in her pockets. “We should take a picture of you doing it.”

Dirk squealed and batted her arm. “We can call it a solvie selfie!”

Todd made noises of bitter protest behind them. Well, perhaps Dirk would have to explain the nuanced wordplay to him later.

Farah was reluctant to pose for pictures in front of a crime scene, and Todd refused to partake of any experience that involved the word ‘selfie’, but eventually Dirk persuaded them to join the shot. (“A group photo would certainly be a nice reason to text Tina when we have reception again, wouldn’t it, Farah?”) Phasia offered to take the photo, Amanda picked up a happily wriggling Mona, and they assembled themselves before the backdrop of Ivory Towers.

Dirk struck a pose and snapped his fingers. “Did it!” he said, just as the car exploded.

*

Dirk had been involved in various explosions over the years – many of them not even his fault – but for sheer unexpectedness, this one stood out.

The noise of it ripped through the quiet air. Dirk, diving to the ground amid a hail of metal and fire, caught only a brief impression of the damage before he landed on stone with his arms over his head. The sight was strangely beautiful: fiery orange clouds limned in swirls of black.

He always forgot how pretty explosions were. Shame about the noise, though.

A few moments of ringing silence, punctuated by the ping and clatter of metal showering the ground.

“Todd,” croaked Dirk, once he’d had a few seconds to recover. He flopped onto his back, eyes closed. “Manda. Parablaggle?”

“If you’re asking whether I’m having a pararibulitis attack,” came Todd’s pained but reassuringly grouchy voice to his left, “the answer is no. I’m fine.”

“Can’t have attacks at Ivory Towers.” Amanda’s voice was faint. “Other dimension. Holds them off.” She groaned. “Fuck. I wish it held off pain, too.”

“Are you hurt?” asked Farah, somewhere beyond Todd. A grunt and some shuffling suggested she’d staggered to her feet.

“Nahhh,” mumbled Amanda. “I’m fine. Just sore. Wasn’t exactly a comfortable landing.”

“Phasia?” called Farah. “Are you all right?”

A weak affirmative sounded from the bottom of the steps.

A damp nose nudged Dirk’s face. He opened his eyes to see the fox terrier peering at him worriedly, and he patted Mona’s head. “I’m all right,” he told her. “Just surprised.” He hissed and looked at his hand, which had been scratched by flying metal. “Well, maybe a little cut up. But nothing to worry about.”

Dirk lolled his head to the side and watched Todd rise onto his knees. He looked dazed but otherwise unharmed – not even a scratch. Dirk breathed out shakily.

Todd crawled over and brushed his thumb across Dirk’s cheek, which made Dirk’s pulse trip more wildly than the explosion had. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

An ignoble part of Dirk was tempted to say no, just to see if that would lead to more cheek touching or possibly even a passionate embrace, but he hated to see Todd distressed. Also, it might be rude to kiss in front of their injured friends; Dirk wasn’t entirely sure of the etiquette for this situation. “I’m all right,” he murmured. “Really.”

Todd nodded and helped him sit up. “What the hell happened?”

His hands lingered on Dirk’s shoulders, so it took Dirk a moment to register the question. Then he sighed. “Dijon.”

“What? Isn’t he dead?”

“Well, he arranged it before he was dead, I assume.” Dirk rubbed his temples. Tricky to distinguish a hunch from an explosion-induced headache, but the answer was sitting there, waiting for him to find it. “When he was trying to get rid of us and escape the dimension. He must have planted a bomb on the car, in case trapping us in the tunnel didn’t work. Not what I’d call a hospitable act, but give the man credit for a backup plan.”

“Shit,” said Farah. Dirk and Todd turned to her, alarmed.

“Did you say Dijon did this?” she asked, eyes wide.

Dirk nodded.

Farah groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “This was an Act of Norse Mythology. It’s not going to be covered by our insurance.”

Chapter Text

On the plus side, Phasia had accidentally held down the camera button as the explosion took place, so they now possessed a series of photos that captured the five-second shift from ‘smiling group of friends arrayed around a triumphant finger snap’ to ‘said group diving for cover amid a hail of debris’. Flicking through the images, Dirk thought he might just have to frame all of them for the office wall.

On the down side, the agency now had no immediate means of travelling home. The car in which they’d arrived was a heap of charred metal. Farah declined to use the Rowdies’ van on the basis that she had enough insurance concerns, thank you. And Amanda’s offer to transport them through an interdimensional portal lined in crackling blue electricity, although generous, presented its own Occupational Health and Safety issues.

Fortunately, there was a holistic engineer on site, and her talents for invention extended beyond weaponry. Dr Peach, after ascertaining that her wife was unharmed (and threatening to kill the person responsible for the explosion, conveniently ignoring that she’d already done so), assessed the smoking remains of the car and pronounced it, “A fun restoration project for the weekend.”

Dirk, who was heartily ready to curl up in his own bed under a pile of blankets Farah had knitted for him, drooped at the news they’d be staying at Ivory Towers for a few more days. Todd and Farah looked as wan as he felt.

Phasia glanced at them, disentangled herself from Dr Peach’s protective embrace, and said, “I’ll prepare your rooms and make some ice cream, hm?”

*

No one had been standing close enough for the explosion to hurt them (“It was a small bomb; the man was an amateur,” said Dr Peach dismissively), but Hobbs – in his first official act as steward – insisted they all be checked by a doctor before they were allowed any ice cream. Herb, once assured that none of his patients were actually injured, agreed to conduct the examinations.

As they all shuffled into the lounge room, Todd asked, “What are we supposed to do while we wait?”

“Wellll.” Hobbs looked around, taking in the board games and chess table. “Maybe we could play a game. What about Go Fish?”

Dirk took that as his cue to slip away.

It wasn’t that he wanted to avoid anyone, exactly. But there were such a lot of people around, and so many loud voices clamouring after the explosion, and his ears were still ringing, and he needed space. Just for a little while. Just to think.

There’d been a bower, hadn’t there? He’d seen it from the conservatory. A curtain of yellow flowers swaying in the wind, somewhere beyond the topiaries and low hedges at the back of the house. It had looked like a quiet, private place to rest.

Dirk drifted past the grand staircase and found his way to the ballroom. Dodging collapsed scaffolding, he crossed the dancefloor to the large glass doors at the far end. They were still open, though now they let in a mild breeze instead of chilly wind and dead leaves.

He emerged onto a paved terrace lined with moderately intimidating statues. A stone gargoyle was grimacing at him; Dirk pulled a face in return, then realised it might be inadvisable to mock the art in a magical dimension where something could quite feasibly come to life and bite one’s head off. Literally as well as metaphorically. Dirk eyed the gargoyle’s teeth, then scurried off the terrace and into the gardens.

The bower, an oasis of bright flowers, was as idyllic as he’d hoped. A stone seat occupied one corner, but Dirk – resigned to the fact that his jacket was already stained beyond repair – flopped onto his back on the lush grass. Light filtered in, warming his face, and he reflected on the wisdom of every creature that spent its life basking in the sun. Mustard, as usual, had the right idea.

Time had never made much sense to Dirk, and he lost track of it entirely as he dozed on the grass. The sun hadn’t moved far, though, when he heard steps approaching and opened his eyes to see Todd poke his head into the bower.

Dirk sat up, heart stuttering as those familiar blue eyes met his. The moment was charged and terribly romantic, until it transpired that Todd had as much luck with flower curtains as with shower curtains: he tried to push through the greenery, became tangled, and thrashed his way onto the grass while shedding petals and muttering profanities.

Dirk watched, biting back a hysterical laugh, as Todd landed beside him. Only an arm’s length away, which somehow felt very far and very close. Dirk’s fingers twitched to stroke the leaves from Todd’s hair, but…well. One mystery remained unsolved, and Dirk’s hunches had never been much use in The Case of Todd’s Feelings.

“Are you – um, all right?” Dirk asked.

Todd brushed petals from his shoulders. “Yeah,” he said, then hesitated. He sat back on his heels, gaze travelling uncertainly over Dirk’s face. “Are – are you okay?” He sounded breathless – a result of his struggle with the flowers, Dirk supposed. “You disappeared suddenly. We were worried.” He swallowed and added softly, “I was worried.”

Dirk fidgeted. “I’m fine. I just needed some space.”

“Oh. Should – um, should I go?” asked Todd, half rising. “If you need space?”

Dirk rolled his eyes. “You can stay, Todd. You don’t count.”

“Thanks, I think.” Todd’s voice was dry, but that smile was tucked in the corner of his mouth. Dirk felt his own lips tugging up in response.

His humour faded as Todd settled back on the ground and picked at the grass, not meeting his eyes. Silence hung between them, not quite comfortable.

“Should we talk about it?” blurted Dirk, then resisted the urge to clap a hand over his mouth.

Todd winced. “Talk about what?” he asked unconvincingly. 

Well, this was happening. Dirk sighed. “I don’t know, Todd. Perhaps the fact that we recently made out against a kitchen counter after a year of pretending our friendship was entirely platonic?”

Todd wrenched up a fistful of grass – by accident, if his startled glance downwards were any indication. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, Todd. That.”

Todd opened his mouth. A promising start, but then he said nothing, which was…less promising. He closed his mouth, scrubbed his hands across his face, and muttered something unintelligible but clearly anguished into his palms.

Definitely not promising.

“Todd,” said Dirk. His voice came out small. “It…was pretending, wasn’t it? I mean – you did want to kiss me, didn’t you?”

Todd mumbled something into his hands. It…did not sound like a ‘yes’.

Dirk’s throat was turning hot in the way that meant he was about to cry, and he could feel a mortified blush building in his cheeks, and the silence was awful. “Right,” he croaked. “Well. Right.” He stood unsteadily, ready to flee the bower and possibly the country.

He wondered if Reed would transport him into a good book if he asked nicely. Something with cute animals, endless milkshakes, and no humans. Dirk didn’t usually enjoy isolation, but right now, he’d happily become a hermit without so much as a “So long and thanks for all the Go Fish.” Living in a world where he’d never have to face anyone again seemed very tempting at this moment.

Todd’s hand shot out to grab his wrist. Dirk almost fell over, and it didn’t help his balance when Todd said, voice thin and urgent, “Don’t go.”

Dirk allowed himself to be tugged back down to the grass.

Todd released his wrist, but…he didn’t move away.

Hope stirred. Perhaps Dirk wouldn’t have to become an interdimensional hermit after all.

Todd took a deep breath and finally looked at him. “Look. It’s not – I mean. Shit.” He ran his hand through his hair. Dirk began to despair of ever hearing this apparently unspeakable sentence, but then Todd sighed and said, “I get scared.”

Dirk’s stomach dived. He’d seen fear thrown as a weapon at other people like him, fear spat in the words freak and powers and crazy, but he hadn’t expected to face that revulsion from Todd. “Scared of what?” he asked, forcing the words through a tight throat.

Todd clenched his fists. “There are glitches in the Universe, right? Half of what Amanda does with the Rowdies is try to fix the – the bugs in reality. What if me being here with you was never meant to happen? What if I’m a mistake? Maybe you’re meant to have some amazing assisfriend. Someone who’s…good. Who’s good for you. Someone you deserve.” Todd’s mouth twisted. He looked away. “And instead you’ve ended up with me.”

Dirk squinted. Of all the terrible possibilities he’d imagined when it came to Todd’s feelings, this had never occurred to him. Todd didn’t seem to be scared of Dirk, or hate him, or even to be resisting his own feelings. Todd…seemed to think he had no right to even want Dirk, which was so absurd it made kitten-sharks and living gameboards sound reasonable.

“Why…” Dirk faltered, wondering where to even begin. “Why did you never say anything, if this has been worrying you?”

“You’d just – you’d tell me I’m not an asshole. That I deserve good things. That I’m…making excuses for my excuses.”

“Well, yes, you’re right. That is what I’d say, because it’s true and I’m very clever.”

A smile twitched across Todd’s mouth (which, Dirk now knew from up-close-and-personal experience, was indeed warm, soft – focus, Dirk), then flickered out like a dying light. “You’re a pain in the ass, Dirk, but you’re also the best thing to happen to me. You make my life feel like – I don’t know, like a dream sometimes. I wonder if one day I’ll wake up to find I’m still a depressed bellhop who does nothing but lie to my family.” This was already one of the longest speeches Dirk had ever heard him give, but Todd barrelled on, the words spilling out as if wrenched from him. “Say what you want about me making excuses, but – fuck. I’m scared. I mean it. I’m so scared that all this – this good you bring is a mistake. It’s meant to go to someone better than me. And maybe one day the Universe will fix itself and I’ll end up back wherever I deserve to be, probably alone in a shithole somewhere, estranged from my sister, and your – your proper assisfriend will turn up like a knight in shining armour –”

Todd was shaking, and Dirk scrambled forward to clutch his wrists. “Todd! Todd. Stop spiralling.” Todd shook his head, wild eyed. Dirk growled and lifted his hands to cup his face.

This, at last, seemed to shock Todd into listening. Dirk stroked his thumbs across Todd’s cheeks.

“All right, firstly,” he said, more forcefully than he’d intended. “Why the hell do you think I’d want a knight in armour when I’ve got a – a grouchy but kind-hearted gnome who follows me everywhere I go?”

Todd’s eyebrows reached new heights of scrunchiness at this dubious compliment, but Dirk didn’t give him time to decide whether he was offended.

“Secondly: what the hell, Todd?” Dirk would have flailed, but the scruff of Todd’s cheeks felt lovely under his fingertips and he didn’t want to stop touching, so he settled for a pout. An extremely stern pout. “Are you telling me – and I may be drawing some erstwhile conclusions here, so please do intervene and stop me before I make a complete fool of myself if I’ve misread the situation – but are you telling me that you are, in fact, quite madly in love with me, and the only thing that’s been keeping you from saying so (or better yet, ravishing me against the agency photocopier in a fit of passion) is this lurking suspicion that you’re only my assistant as a result of some cosmic fuckup?”

Todd didn’t respond immediately, but his look of concentration suggested he was untangling the sentence, so Dirk waited. It allowed him an opportunity to savour the new shades of blue he could detect when he was this close to Todd’s eyes.

Finally, Todd said weakly, “We don’t have an agency photocopier anymore. You broke it.”

“Well, the desk then. Or whatever nearest surface was available. You’re dodging the question, Todd.” Dirk paused, then added sulkily, “Also, that photocopier explosion was holistically significant.”

Todd huffed a laugh. One of Dirk’s favourite sounds in the world, but still not an answer to the very important question he’d asked.

“Todd,” he snapped. “Are you in love with me?”

Todd blushed so violently that Dirk, still holding his face, could actually feel his cheeks warm. “Yeah,” he said. Dirk barely heard him despite how close they sat, but then Todd cleared his throat and said it again, more firmly: “Yeah. I am.”

There was that chorus of angels again. Definitely not a doorbell this time, and probably not the faint ringing that still lingered in Dirk’s ears after the explosion. No, these angels were entirely metaphorical, but the song they sang was overwhelming: Todd loves you, Todd loves you, Todd loves you. Dirk’s veins pulsed sunlight, every problem in the Universe became inconsequential, and the joy of a million solved hunches exploded in Dirk’s chest.

His hands trembled, and Todd could undoubtedly feel that, but what did it matter? Todd loved him, and Todd would probably be amenable to kissing him again, and what was stopping Dirk from making that happen this very –? Oh. Right. Todd’s self-loathing. The usual obstacle.

Dirk pushed past the distracting desire to leap on Todd and instead asked, as steadily as he could, “And the reason you haven’t mentioned this rather crucial fact is that…you think you might not be my assistant? That you don’t deserve to be here?”

Todd made a small, reluctant noise that seemed to indicate assent.

Dirk sighed so gustily that he emitted an accidental raspberry. “Todd! You are the perfect assistant. Frankly, I’m insulted I even have to explain this, given that I tell you every day.” Dirk frowned. “Maybe this is on me. Should I tell you twice a day? Ooh, or three times! Would it help if I initiated a multi-stage validation process wherein I expressed my admiration a minimum of thrice per day?”

“Dirk…”

“Right. Sorry.” Dirk shook his head. “Look. I mean it when I say you’re the perfect assistant. I’ve had others, you know.”

Todd’s eyes widened. “You’ve…had them?”

“Well, not in a carnal sense, Todd. Honestly! One of them was in a coma, for heaven’s sake.”

Todd briefly gaped like a fish, which was adorable enough to distract Dirk from his point, but he forced himself to concentrate. “What I mean is, you’re not the first assistant the Universe has brought me. You are the first who’s stuck around, though. And you’re perfect. But Todd, even if that weren’t true…” Dirk sighed and leaned his forehead against Todd’s. Their noses brushed, and it was bliss. “The reason I care about you isn’t because you’re my assistant. I care about you because you’re…you’re…” Dirk floundered for the right word, the one that could encapsulate everything Todd meant to him, and found it. “You’re Todd.”

Todd’s eyes fluttered closed. He sighed – a small relieved breath that Dirk, only inches away, felt on his lips.

“Universe or not, Todd,” he murmured, “you’re meant to be here with me. Being around you feels right – not just the way a hunch feels right, but the way good things feel right. The way pizza and tea and cute animals feel right.” He paused, then said slowly, feeling out the idea he wanted to express. “Think about the holistics in this house. Think about Dr Peach.”

Todd opened his eyes. “Dr Peach is the last thing on my mind right now, Dirk.”

Dirk bit back a smug smile. “I’m glad to hear it. But what I mean is this: think about the Cluedo characters. They’re all players in someone else’s game. They’ve been given set roles to fill, but – as Dr Peach demonstrated during this afternoon’s little homicide – that doesn’t stop them making their own choices. My place in the Universe – it’s the same. I’m on the gameboard, helping to shift the pieces around, but I’m not just a – a pawn.”

“Pawns are chess, not Clue,” muttered Todd, but his mouth was curling up. A new configuration, which Dirk mentally labelled L1: Teasing But Adoring.

“Look, Todd, it’s been a very long day and the gameboard metaphors were complicated to begin with, so please just let me have this.” Dirk’s hands drifted down to cradle Todd’s neck, fingertips brushing his jaw. “My point is, Todd, that no matter where the Universe sends me in its games, I still have choices of my own. Feelings of my own. Whether you’re my assistant or not, I love you because you’re Todd, and that’s a constant.”

Todd sucked in a harsh breath. “You love me?”

Dirk wrinkled his nose. “I should have thought that was absurdly obvious, Todd.”

He was going to add a teasing remark, probably something about how Todd would never be promoted to Ward if he couldn’t even detect a lovelorn best friend right under his nose, but then – well. Todd smiled in a way Dirk had never seen before, and Dirk was just wondering how to categorise it when Todd provided the answer. Configuration L2: Prelude to Kissing.

This was gentler than their frenzied kisses in the kitchen – softer, more deliberate. Todd pressed in close and Dirk made an involuntary noise, marvelling at the sensations of shared breath, shared touch, shared heat.

Dirk broke the moment by reeling backwards and crying, “Shit!”

Todd blinked dazedly, before snapping into panic. “What? Dirk, are you okay?” he asked, running his hands down Dirk’s jacket lapels. “Did I hurt you? I –”

“No no no, don’t be silly, you’re absolutely wonderful,” said Dirk absently as he looked around the bower, rubbing his thumb over the back of Todd’s hand. “But – Todd – are we…dead?”

Todd stared at him for a few seconds in brow-scrunched perplexity, before erupting into laughter. “What?”

“Think about it, Todd! You’re kissing me in an otherworldly garden while petals rain down around us. I’m pretty sure this is heaven. Oh, God, that explosion killed us, and now we’re in heaven –”

“Dirk. Oh my God. Dirk. We are not – wait.” Todd stopped laughing. Suddenly soft, he looked at Dirk with something like wonder in his eyes. “Kissing me is your idea of heaven?”

Dirk huffed. “Well, obviously, Todd. Spending any time at all with you is my idea of paradise, and having you passionately kiss me in a garden is a transcendent experience, so – mmff!”

Todd had interrupted him by surging forward to press their mouths together. While not the most compelling argument for ‘This is not heaven,’ it was certainly an effective move in terms of shutting Dirk up.

Dirk decided the existential crisis could wait until after kissing.

Todd apparently concurred. Without breaking the kiss, he moved to straddle Dirk’s lap. Dirk gasped, mouth opening – an invitation that Todd immediately accepted. The warm, breathless intimacy of it made Dirk’s heart clench, and he slid his arms up around Todd’s back, pulling him closer. The world faded to a background hum of warm sunlight, drifting flowers, a faint breeze, the rustle of their clothes. Every sound seemed at once magnified and deeply, perfectly quiet. Their movements were eager, almost urgent, yet something about the care with which Todd cradled his face made Dirk feel…still. Tranquil. At peace. His world clicking into place the way it did when a question flowed into an answer, a hunch into a solution, a stream into creation.

Distantly, pain flared across his hand. Oh – that cut from the explosion. It didn’t hurt much, but the mild sting of it was a revelation: heaven wouldn’t hurt. Heaven might give him Todd and flowers and sunlight, but it wouldn’t give him a gash onto which Farah would probably insist on applying antiseptic later. So this wasn’t heaven. This…this was better than heaven. This was real.

Dirk laughed into the kiss. He felt Todd grin back, that warm mouth curving against his as he pulled back slightly. “What?” he mumbled into Dirk’s skin, rubbing his nose against Dirk’s cheek. “What’s funny? You’d better not be laughing at me, asshole.” The words, not unlike a certain set of toothpicks in the kitchen, lacked venom. Todd mouthed Dirk’s lower lip, nuzzled their noses, pressed a quick kiss to Dirk’s chin. It was like he couldn’t stop himself from touching Dirk as much as possible, everywhere he could reach. Not even for a second.

What was Dirk laughing at?

“You’re real,” Dirk told him, and pulled Todd closer.

*

Game Night at Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency was, as Farah had eloquently put it, a surprisingly effective bonding exercise. It wasn’t so much that Dirk kept getting lost in Todd’s eyes over pizza (although he did), or that Todd was sweetly if unnecessarily protective of his boyfriend (although he was, and had refused to let Dirk be sent to jail in at least three games of Monopoly), or that Farah was happy for them in a gently amused way that spoke volumes (although she was, and didn’t even sigh when their handholding took up most of the table space).

It wasn’t even that the Universe seemed to be broadcasting its approval of Dirk’s new relationship – although it was, if the Scrabble game where all his words were things like ‘soulmate’ and ‘marriage’ and ‘youbetternotbreakhishearttodd’ were any indication. (Farah had refused to allow that last one, on the basis that it contained a proper noun, but it would have scored Dirk 132 points.)

It was more that, in an agency dedicated to the demands of the Universe, playing games was…relaxing. A nice change of pace. Mona had a fantastic poker face that made every card game interesting, especially when she turned herself into an actual poker. She and Farah had bonded over a mutual love of puzzles and could happily spend hours assembling a 5000-piece landscape in which all the pieces looked, to Dirk’s eyes, identical. Todd absentmindedly rested his hand on Dirk’s knee when they sat at the coffee table, leading Dirk to surreptitiously look up ‘is it possible for hearts to burst’ on his phone. Dirk had discovered that he could distract Todd during Trivial Pursuit by saying, “Gosh, isn’t it hot in this comfortably air-conditioned living space?” and undoing the top button of his shirt; Todd had never seemed happier about losing ten games in a row. Tina and Hobbs would often call in via video chat, leading the conversation off on tangents as they bellowed through the tinny speakers. The Holistic Union had invited the agency to a Game Night at Ivory Towers next month, with the promise that there would be no Cluedo and no canapés, and Dirk found that he was looking forward to it.

This was a game Dirk had never played before: the forwards and sideways manoeuvres of friendship, of love, of living a life that felt stable and domestic. He’d always been a piece with limited steps on the Universe’s gameboard, and despite his remarks about choosing one’s own moves, it wasn’t until he’d found this new family that he’d begun to feel like he was actually – well, winning.

But he was winning. With, one might say, arguable efficiency.