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Chapter Text

Milton’s literary salon was filled with pleasant clinking of crystal glasses. Local bohemians approved of any occasion; even those who hadn’t read a single line from it came to celebrate the success of Rachel Landau’s latest novel.

Only the Fidgeting Writer didn’t quite share their joy.

"You must hear me out," he whispered anxiously, following her while she was gathering compliments like flowers along the way through the parlour. "You are a talented authoress..."

"Everyone says that today. Such empty words."

"...Yet a fact, and I have to warn you: the likes of us are being hunted by the God-Eaters. You are in great danger. Unfortunately, I speak from experience..."

Rachel turned to him with a half-twirl of her purple shawl:

"Is it some kind of a publishing house? What a bizarre name."

The neurasthenically pale Writer was about to explain when he was interrupted by a mighty embrace that robbed him of all breath for an answer.

"By Salt! My good old mate! We met under the Greyfields Winery – the mushroom and the pig, remember?"

The Pirate-Poet towered above everybody else – and as if that wasn’t enough, attracted attention from afar with a bright-red headscarf, a necklace of bound-shark fangs and an intricate weave of verses carved on her broad stone shoulders.

"You’re far from easiest to forget," he muttered when he was again able to, straightening his slightly crumpled collar.

"I’ve been following your work. A true treasure. Those who dared to criticize it as mediocre, duh, we should throw them to the Drownies! You might say I’m... how do you humans call it... your fan. If we were at zee, I surely would assault your ship and kidnap you, fella."

The Fidgeting Writer glanced around for Rachel. The authoress had already gone, taking advantage of this distraction.

"Um... thank you, I guess..." he reacted to what the Pirate-Poet deemed the highest flattery. "You... really took after your second father."

Not catching the sarcasm, she turned sombre:

"Oh, you have no idea what this legacy means. The Unfinished, born from memory, born from nightmares... Me, the Clay Highwayman, others – we share more than the poetic gift and defiant free will. Perhaps you can understand it. That which feels like living fire in lifeless clay. That which puts words into lyrics, giving them bitter beauty and a rhythm akin to the beating of a heart. That which drives you insane, deprives you of sleep, beguiles, craves to possess, suffers... His curse. Love, as people call it. Or maybe something else. But it’s because of this that we get exiled from Polythreme, our homeland, so as not to remind the King of the sovereign priest of the First City – he hates him and therefore hates us."

"Sounds like a ballad when coming from you."

Her stern stone face softened with a soulmate-recognizing smile. The resemblance to the Merry Gentleman’s features instantly became evident. At least for someone who would actually be able to remember them more clearly than shadows in the fog of dizziness.

"Well, well..." Milton, the ember-eyed host of the salon, stepped between them with a glass in his hand. "I smell temple incense and sacred cedars. Unusual in the abode of devils. So you must be discussing the upcoming Red-and-Gold Gala, I presume?"

"Never heard of it," said the Fidgeting Writer warily.

"I have some guesses who may know everything about this. She almost certainly has an invitation already, but you see how she likes to keep the air of mystery. And I’m terribly curious myself..."

The Nocturnal Nostalgist was sitting by the fireplace. Her elegant funeral tailcoat with a black Exile’s rose in its buttonhole didn’t fit into today’s festive mood. But this literary salon was ready to forgive her anything. After all, she was the famed originator of the genre of so-called nostalgia for the future, commendable at least until she occasionally succumbed to rhyming mad prophecies – not because readers disfavoured such things, quite the contrary, but because she wasn’t good at impromptu. Also she was an awful headache for censors who were constantly discovering her puzzling metaphors to be references to the time-bending mysteries of Irem, the rebellious cult of the Liberation of Night, the tragic fate of the Fallen Cities that was supposed to be scrupulously buried by the Masters of the Bazaar, and other similarly forbidden topics. But threats and bans couldn’t stop her. Here in the darkness of the Neath she had finally been able to publish her previously "absolutely unacceptable" poems about romantic feelings for a woman left on the Surface and "to our decent and noble readers, obviously uninteresting" memoirs on childhood in poverty; so here she continued to challenge the law and society with the power of art, each time more bold, more eccentric and more occult. The secret library of the Calendar Council always managed to get all her newest works just in time before the Ministry employees came to bookstores with an order to confiscate and burn any copies. Last time it was a seemingly innocuous collection of nursery rhymes about a black cat who lived in a monastic anchorhold; sellers had to hide it under scandalous erotic novels by another author.

"You mean... a ball? At the Royal Bethlehem Hotel?" The Nostalgist sounded genuinely surprised when Milton called her over.

She tried to remember her recent meeting with the Manager. It wasn’t easy – when they were discussing revolutionary plans, he usually locked up her memory so that no one could spy on her mind afterwards. Only fragments remained: an impeccable white glove with an unnatural number of fingers that she could never count accurately, thoughtfully twirling a thin silver fork; a gilded tray with a maddeningly cute enamel painting of jolly kittens in tiny aprons, full of bones of a monster from someone’s imaginative nightmare – a horned skull with six eye sockets, a spiky spine with picked-clean ribs, and most noticeably, its tremendous size that seemed impossible for a single light dinner; oh, and of course that delectable pomegranate wine which was courteously offered to her when she sat down opposite. This decadent indulgence left him in a suitably relaxed and contented mood to share precious secrets more willingly, and so he spoke in detail about the search for the way to the wondrous Liberated land of Eleutheria, savouring her eager attention like the sweetest dessert. But he didn’t mention anything concerning the Gala.

Milton couldn’t hide his pleasure in once again being the leading expert on the social life of Fallen London:

"Then it just adds to the exciting exclusivity, doesn’t it? Indeed, getting an invitation is difficult. However, due to the shortage of staff the Hotel hires temporary assistants for the day of the event; this is a great opportunity to be there anyway. And, according to rumours, the management will pay with incredible favours for that service."

"Suspicious, to say the least. How terrible the contract must be if it has to be balanced out with truly enticing rewards?" noticed the Author of Gothic Tales from the circle of those gathered to listen to the tempting words of the honey-tongued devil.

"The Manager’s generosity is well known," an objection came from behind somebody’s wide hand fan. "He is one of the most extravagant benefactors in the whole city. Even allows so many hapless souls to stay at the luxurious Royal Beth for free! So it definitely sounds like him."

Milton gave a sly smirk:

"For free? Heh... Our devilish advocates would say that nothing in this world comes for no cost, and in such cases you simply aren’t aware of what you pay with."

"Perhaps. When I lived there, in exchange he took away my bad dreams, painful memories and my mind’s torturous ailment. But I’m only glad to get rid of it all; surely the other guests too..." said the Fidgeting Writer, biting his ink-stained nails. The Pirate-Poet’s heavy hand touched his shoulder in a gesture of encouragement and support, and he shuddered like a cornered prey. "God bless his infinite kindness," he added in not-so-sincere stuttering haste, addressing the room rather than the crowd, as if the walls themselves might be listening.

The Nocturnal Nostalgist was in utter disbelief that there was no place for her at her own mentor’s soirée. But the one-day contract was what he would not refuse her, knowing well her reliability in the errands of the Calendar Council; some ordinary assistance in preparations for the Red-and-Gold Gala couldn’t be harder than that. Besides, all her life she was accustomed to work.

"I will be there, you’ll see. Make bets if you wish."

"And don’t forget to claim those mythical rewards," the host reminded, surrounded by nods of approval. "Don’t waste your lucky chance on boring banalities such as bank checks. Demand something more daring. Tell us later what the Manager is like under that brass-buttoned frock coat. And what if he plays the hidden strings of passions and delights just as masterfully as he reaches the deepest fears?"

She sneered with a joking threat to spill her cup of coffee onto his favourite cravat:

"I thought I was among lovers of literature who were able to understand feelings for a muse. What have pulp novels done to the remnants of your decency? Show some respect: he is still going through the breakup with another man. Our relationship is what was between Lancelot and Guinevere. I am his loyal knight, nothing more."

With a hand upon an absent heart, Milton laughed:

"Suspecting me of decency? You offend me, dear. And do not be deceived by those who describe Arthurian romance as one-sided and chaste: in fact, Guinevere was cheating on her kingly husband with him, and when they were caught in bed, sir Lancelot hacked and slashed a dozen witnesses."

"Now that’s to my liking!" The Pirate-Poet dashingly drew her sword and saluted upward with its gleaming blade. "Let’s drink to true knightly love!"

Chapter Text

The Nocturnal Nostalgist wasn’t lyrically exaggerating: she was indeed a knight. Both literally, of the Black side of the universal chessboard, and figuratively (or was it vice versa?), of the Priest-King. Although his authority originated from traditions much older than chivalry: from the oaths of the Cedar, from justice of the sunless depths of Evenlode, from the vows of darkness that existed long before laws and hierarchies. According to it all, any submission could only be voluntary and preferably mutual; no surprise that the contracts and pacts preserved on clay tablets of the First City tended to confuse translators by too much resembling love poetry.

Yet in the dream world metaphors and facts became indistinguishable from each other. Night-hued roses with painful thorns of hidden sorrow grew through her armour, but her sword was forged from firm hope, sharpened with a keen desire for vengeance and tempered in a crucible of bitter experience. A long cloak fluttered behind as she rode astride reined-in emotions.

It was a fact, too, that she got an invitation after all. Just with a task to deliver it to the Red-Handed Queen while the Manager was busy with some urgent matter. Even on that side of mirrors, life still had a bad sense of humour.

Watching her, snake-tongued court ladies in elaborate powdered wigs gossiped about the shocking impropriety of showing up in high society without one’s shadow; the Nostalgist had recently sent hers on vacation. But they ceased whispering at the sight of ambassadorial insignia of the Council: Parabola knew that October’s ravens, July’s violin and May’s garden were no joke.

At the foot of the ruby throne sat none other than Dr. Schlomo, peering through a monocle at his trusty journal. In dreams, his notes on psychoanalytic research had an annoying habit of crawling off its pages.

"Unthinkable. Do you know who I am?" The monarch’s formidable voice resonated inside like a toll of a heavy bell.

"Well, from what I observe... oh, my Swiss colleague would probably formulate it better... you seem to be a personification of all the strong feelings and impulses that ruthlessly rule our hearts. And of subconscious repressed tension, I believe..."

The Red-Handed Queen’s burning gaze lingered on him in silent bewilderment.

"...In short, the worst of tyrants," the Doctor summed up in an optimistic tone, pleased with the results of his work.

After a few icy seconds, she suddenly smiled – benevolently, albeit venomously:

"Flatterer. At least more amusing than my tiresome sycophants, though."

At a closer distance it became clear that she wasn’t wearing carmine gloves; it was half-dried blood almost up to the elbows. Blade-like nails were idly plucking purple grapes.

"Your Crimson Majesty..." the Nocturnal Nostalgist bowed slightly, hurrying to intercept her attention before the researcher would say something unwise.

"Ah, a Black knight. One of those who can be forced to kneel only by chopping their legs in half. Another endless source of entertainment. What do you want, dame?"

"I bring an invitation to the Red-and-Gold Gala," the envoy answered serenely. Serving the collector of horrors, she wasn’t afraid of anyone.

The Queen’s sharp claw opened the scarlet envelope in stead of a paper-knife.

"Hmm... I am familiar with him."

"I think it would be more correct to say that he is familiar with you – with passion, tragic sacrifices, torment and your other faces," Dr. Schlomo noted. This time he added quickly: "...beautiful, charming faces."

"I am quite fond of bringers of the Night such as you and your liege," the Queen addressed the Nostalgist, ignoring him. "Indomitable. Commited to your goals against all odds. Valuable allies..."

She smirked gloomily. "Alas, Your Majesty, you’re not on our side. You don’t care in the slightest about countless victims of the Bazaar and the Judgements. Perhaps you even flourish and revel in the slaughterhouse maintained by the gods of light. You only love the thirst for revenge, pain and anger of the revolutionaries, because this is what fuels your existence and makes you stronger."

"And your audacity, too. Not just the magnificent dream to change the whole universe, but also the courage to say all that to me. And yes, little darkling, it certainly does."

It always was practically impossible to argue with imaginary embodiments.

No wonder that Parabola itself bent around them, changing and reflecting. Those its parts where the Red-Handed Queen reigned were unknown to the Rubberies whose yearnings took the form of melancholy longing rather than ambition – and who couldn’t comprehend the concepts of violence and conquest; humans, on the contrary, perceived her as incredibly similar to themselves. Likewise, at her court everyone turned into princesses and bards and – more often – heroes and warriors. Dr. Schlomo had to get used to being a sage in an old robe instead of his favourite suit; he still managed to hide a cigar case in it, however. And, of course...

"A dragon, my goodness, a real dragon," he looked up, holding his monocle in place. "Do you see this as well, Frau, or is my imagination running wild?"

Something flew over them, for a brief moment covering the palace in a sinister shadow. Crimson flowers that were touched by it sprouted eyeballs within their blossoms, turning to follow it with unblinking gazes.

...The dragon – who vaguely resembled his pet lizards – landed on a distant cliff. Under the false-sun his scales had a metallic brassy gleam. Ghostly reveries which were lazily grazing in the fog below swiftly scattered to hide in the caves.

"Great," Rachel said. "First, the Fidgeting Writer’s fairytales about cannibalistic giants and ogres, and now this. What’s next? Leviathans? Elves? Honest statesmen?"

"Quiet," grumbled the old hag. This chatter was interfering with her solemn ritual chants.

On a closer look Rachel noticed that she wasn’t exactly old. The ancient priestess was simply withered down to a living corpse by extreme starvation, just like her companions – one wearing a mottled hide of a beast, another holding a snake-shaped staff.

"True authors can’t be silent! Words are our life! Besides, this is my nightmare, so I’ll do whatever I want in it."

There wasn’t much choice, though: the captive was tightly bound.

The way-too-big-lizard flew nearer to them on many-eyed wings. That predatory grin seemed very familiar. Too merry.

"Good day, sir! How do you do?" Rachel exclaimed, smiling nervously.

"What a strange question to a dragon. Kidnapping citizens, hoarding jewels, guarding my golden castle... the usual, as you may guess. It is I who should ask how you are doing – something tells me that your day isn’t so good."

"You’re absolutely right. I have to be in the most trite role of a damsel-in-distress. And I can’t stand clichés."

The God-Eaters interrupted them, hissing through sharpened teeth:

"Are you planning to steal our dinner again? Just you try. You're alone and there are three of us."

In response, he grew seven heads, akin to the majestic Serpent of Irem. The number of Fallen Cities: a priest-king in his native First, a hermit half-mad with grief in the Second, a shaman in the Fourth, a hotel manager in the Fifth, a neurohacker in the future Seventh – he remained himself in any era. Each maw breathed gold-and-scarlet fire and bared the fangs of hundreds of nightmares.

"There is no need for enmity. Entrust this nice lady to my caring embrace, and we’ll part ways in peace," he purred threateningly.

The priestess in a red-feathered headdress grabbed a mācuahuitl club:

"It’s unfair! We are tormented by eternal hunger, we are emaciated and forgotten, and you serve yourself a never-ending feast and still take away almost all of our prey! Unimaginable greed!"

"Don’t you dare compare me to you, bloody murderers gnawing on the bones of the innocent! I drink mortals’ minds like fine wine... I gather them wisely and carefully like fruits of an exquisite garden..."

"Call it whatever you wish," her ally growled, transforming into a tremendous jaguar, ready to pounce. "You’ve become a monster just like us long ago."

"Double, double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble... Yet I learned the language of London with the help of Shakespeare while you three did it by consuming your victims’ knowledge."

"Yes, yes... Remind us, wasn’t it your foolish compassion for another’s life that doomed your kingdom and your love?"

The dragon roared in pure rage. Former rulers of the First and the Third clashed in a furious chaos of teeth and claws. Bright feathers of the Red Bird were flying all around.

Rachel stared at the obsidian knives which were left nearby. Unfortunately, the idea of somehow reaching them and cutting the ropes was only feasible in adventure books. Maybe it could work in a dream... but the God-Eaters retrieved these bonds from her memories of how Milton introduced her to new sinful pleasures; of those moments when she didn’t want to be free of it. Nothing could bind more inescapably than one’s own vice and will.

Above, a stormy hole in the sky began to widen, gaping like an inverted well. A self-appointed silent arbiter of their battle came to watch them: a skeleton of a giant bat in a torn cloak that was dripping with water and lacre. Its eyes were candle lights, glowing from under the hood. Seeing the vengeful phantom, the God-Eaters recoiled in terror before the source of their curse.

Naturally, this was just an artful illusion. Its weaver, having extracted the needed material from the Seekers of the Name at his Hotel, immediately took advantage of the diversion and snatched Rachel, carrying her towards the darkest regions of the dreamworld where his domain awaited – half here, half real.

Chapter Text

The Manager brushed a red feather off his lapel. Swirling in the air, it softly landed on the reception desk.

"Room number one hundred one-hyphen-thirteen-epsilon... Rachel Landau... duration of stay: indeterminate, for now," he dictated. "Writers’ ailment, standard protocols. This is her first time here, so inform her about everything she needs to know when she wakes up..."

The Nocturnal Nostalgist nodded, writing it down in a weighty ledger. She silently wondered if he checked her in with the same business-like routine placidity when ghastly images of the past and future plagued her mind.

"...And bring her fresh towels. And reinforce the protective sigils on the floorboards," he continued, rigorously examining whether any of the seams of his immaculate frock coat were torn. The scratch right on his bronze-skinned face worried him much less: in a matter of minutes it healed completely, leaving only a bloody trace which he removed with a handkerchief – snow-white, pristine, embroidered with an intertwined golden RBH at its corner.

Looking so closely and directly at him threatened sanity. Her fingers twitched, leaving an inkblot. His burning immortal blood on her hands. His ritual blade, which he would never lend anyone. It was unthinkable: she couldn’t allow herself to raise a weapon against him, not even if forced to. Yet this vision was paradoxically permeated with pure happiness; stranger still, his happiness. The inexplicableness made it twice as frightening. "She won’t have to sacrifice herself. They will be safe in me. I give you my heart." It was unclear who were "she" and "they" or why "in", but he was – will be – certain, therefore serious about the latter as well.

Impossible. But this is exactly what she thought about everything that proved to be true – the eye in the sky, the castle under the ice, the infinity of the eastern horizon...

Hearing the guest’s name, one of the maids slowed down her trolley:

"Miss Landau? Here?"

"And you, please deliver breakfast to that room," the Manager turned to her too. "By the way, one more thing, Phoebe, my sweetest cupcake... today after midnight your contract will be considered fulfilled. Of course, you may prolong it and stay if you wish, but you have served your penance. Almost."

His glove lightly patted her plump cheek. Phoebe blushed with a shy smile. She was unaware of his true age which sometimes made him treat everyone else like children, or of his skill in adapting to Londoners’ weakness for superficial courtesy, so she took this overfamiliarity at face value.

The Nostalgist tensed. She knew far better that the Merry Gentleman’s conviviality usually increased inseparably from the wickedness of his intentions. However, towards someone already in the Hotel’s clutches... This was worth investigating.

"Wait, I also could use a trolley and a guiding hand of such an experienced fellow employee," she addressed the maid. Happy with the news, Phoebe gladly let her put a stack of towels on the vacant lower tier.

Stairs of the Royal Bethlehem Hotel were strongly opposed to the idea of leading to the same floor more than once. The hallways’ geometry considered Euclid its personal sworn enemy. Only by surrendering one’s mind to its host it could become possible to navigate this realm of madness. But today the Nocturnal Nostalgist had her own clandestine plans that needed to stay hidden from him in her head.

"He is always so nice to me. And so attentive, too: remembers everything that worries us," Phoebe sighed dreamily, rolling the trolley by the Nostalgist’s side. "I think I’ll choose to continue working here. Even though I’m still a bit afraid of this place... and of him, sometimes."

"As I understand from his words, you have a special contract, right? Something similar to how the Butcher’s Boy helps out at the Hotel for a promised "bright future"? So with what did the Manager lure you, if you don’t mind my awful curiosity?" she inquired as delicately as possible. "I know, the appeal of never getting old just like the Seamstress or of basking in all this luxury may be enough of a reason by itself, but the Royal Beth does indeed have quite a sinister reputation and unusual demands that are daunting to most..."

Before answering, the maid kept silence for longer than she normally allowed herself by etiquette.

"Years ago, I... um, one of the devils tempted me to do a very bad thing. The Manager intervened in the trial to save an innocent man who was wrongly accused in my place. But I escaped punishment as well. He took pity on me when he learned that I acted out of unhappy love, not out of malice, and that those who were more powerful than me took advantage of my feelings and naivety. He didn’t turn me in to the authorities; instead he suggested that I atone by toiling to help the mentally ill. Deep inside I accepted that I would probably be trapped within these eerie walls forever, as urban myths say about the unfortunates who end up here... but no further than tomorrow I will be able to look for a new job already! Why do you frown? You blame me for my sin, don’t you?.."

"No, no... It just seems suspicious that it coincides with the Gala. Not to mention that social events have never been held here. After all, as you noted, the Royal Beth is still a hospital, no matter how hard it tries to pretend to be a hotel."

They entered the lift. It moved upward, then sideways, then turned full circle twice before opening with a pleasant ding.

"In fact..." Phoebe whispered, "I’d call it something that pretends to be a hospital that pretends to be a hotel. And maybe it goes even deeper than that."

"Like his fallen majesty himself with all his aliases and titles," the Nostalgist thought without saying out loud. "I am familiar with the Priest-King, and the Manager, and the Merry Gentleman, and May of the Calendar Council, but how many more secrets and heads does this wily serpent have?.. Oh hell. All this red and gold around makes me remember Irem again. I mustn’t succumb to another prophetic fit..."

Before knocking on the door, the maid carefully lifted the mirror-polished lid of a round tray on the trolley. Under it they saw a complete opposite of what should have been checked with such fearful caution: lovely lemon-and-orange cakes, as tender and enticing as the most delightful dream.

"Buttercream, despite that there are no cows or milk in the Neath. Jam, despite that there are no fruits either, only mushrooms and dubiously edible strange plants," she pointed out. "Usually I didn’t ask unnecessary questions, but now I can’t help but recall how much Rachel missed her favourite citrus desserts after the Fall when I was her housekeeper..."

"It’s certainly a good observation," the Nostalgist agreed. "From the Hotel’s bountiful splendour I assumed that the Manager is wealthy enough to order it from the Surface, somehow keeping it fresh on the way... yet today he mentioned how deep he is in tax debts. And while helping in the kitchen this morning I haven’t noticed anything remotely resembling fruit or dairy; almost everything was trying to crawl off the plates, so at least no doubts about the freshness, I guess. Perhaps we’re seeing an illusion. Or a tangible manifestation of our mutual acquaintance’s wish. Interesting..."

Phoebe stood at the closed door, hesitant to enter.

"I feel scared," she confessed, again in a whisper.

"To meet Rachel once more?"

"Not only..."

The doomseer’s usually gloomy face attempted a warm smile – expectedly unconvincing:

"Everything will be fine. There are mere hours left until the end of our shift. Take a moment to brace yourself if you need. And I’ll go further through the to-do list. Grab these towels along, okay?"

She nodded, a little cheered up. The Nocturnal Nostalgist left her, turning down the corridor in a totally different direction from the next destination in her duties.

Chapter Text

The plan was easy: change from a servant’s uniform to festive finery, then blend in with the crowd. Just another one among all these masks – who would know?

She locked a broom closet from the inside, but the eyes in its walls were watching. Not judgmentally; simply staring. Dressing herself, she turned away with displeasure: there were too many of them – if this could be said about something that shouldn’t even be here in the first place.

Mirrors in golden frames adorned the candelabra-lit hall, reflecting each other so that the already vast space seemed to extend into dizzying infinity. A good many guests gathered on both sides of the glass.

As she entered, musicians got distracted from tuning their instruments:

"The third Red Death for tonight!" Tristram Bagley laughed, waving to her with his bow. "You'll owe me another round at the bar, Madame Juillet."

The violinist he was addressing – a dark-skinned beauty in a scarlet dress so fitting for the occasion – looked towards the new arrival, and a spark flashed in her eyes:

"The Nostalgist-for-the-future!"

"Hush, dear silver-sister, I'm here incognito," she whispered from under the mask while exchanging brief kisses with her.

"Aren’t we all," July smiled. Indeed, the Topsy King really had no idea with whom he was playing today. He came here to peck at the Manager’s conscience with his presence and to gorge himself on costly snacks at his expense by right of an honoured invited virtuoso; he brought her along because this "Madame Juillet" who was taking shelter at the Flit among fellow honey-mazed ragamuffins unexpectedly turned out to share his passion and talent. One day her violin replicated a passage that he was still pondering over and had not even written down yet. The mysterious lady claimed that she had already heard this completed symphony despite that he had barely begun composing it. He instantly realized he had found a perfect accompanist.

"Your mind is clear..." the Nocturnal Nostalgist noticed, happily surprised.

"At the Royal Bethlehem my halves are able to reunite for a short while. It stands on the intersection of realities, as always befitted the temple of the Crossroads, right at the edge which separates me from me. The only place where October, too, can enter the waking world. Perhaps even September is Lucian again for today, seizing precious moments with his beloved. Isn't it wonderful?"

It didn't sound like an ordinary social event. And not even like an ordinary revel of powers of darkness. It sounded like a meeting of the Calendar Council.

The musicians started a new melody, and the Nostalgist left them. She peered into masks, hoping to spot a familiar one amid raven feathers, a double face of Janus, a Plague Doctor, or a horned Liberalian grimace from the Bonfire Night. If at least one-third of the Council was here, it would certainly mean something.

Chapter Text

"Looking for someone, N-N?" asked the white cat who was leisurely patrolling the bar counter.

"You too... Is my disguise really that useless?"

"I recognized you by smell. Your dusty antique shop, your black roses..." It rubbed against her affectionately; she took it in her arms. "Of course, I won’t tell anyone. We both are pets of the same master, so you can trust me."

The Nocturnal Nostalgist finally gave in to the thought that had been plaguing her. Truly, for her mentor she was almost like a housecat – who could provide comfort and company on a cozy evening, who could be sincerely loved – but never as an equal, as a child or a spouse. Perhaps she didn’t get any invitations to the Gala precisely because nobody ever sends them not only to mailboxes but also separate ones to nearby kennels.

It seemed she wasn't alone in feeling out of place here now. As she passed by, a gray-haired stranger in an ivory mask and a frostmoth-eaten fur coat was discussing something with a zee-captain; one look was enough to identify a possessed man. The eye that was free from the black patch was staring straight past the other person, full of sullen disinterest and deep immersion in his own thoughts. Maybe he was even dozing. His body was temporarily controlled by someone else, an uncanny dark entity that he had encountered at the bottom of the Unterzee.

"Halt. Give us this graceful soft creature."

Intrigued, the Nostalgist lowered the purring cat onto his lap. The captain ran his prosthetic mechanical fingers through its white fur – one entire arm was artificial up to the shoulder. Likewise, he was missing a leg. His past nautical adventures must have been anything but boring.

"Physical touch makes it vibrate. Calming, indeed. Now I begin to understand why the Black King prefers this inferior animal form," he shared his observations aloud.

She glanced briefly at another in whose presence he allowed himself to be so careless with mentioning forbidden names, but they were no longer around. Only a few moths with fragile icy wings remained on velvet curtains.

"There are a lot of impressive masks here today, but my compliments go to you: dressing as a human is the smartest of all their ideas," she smirked quietly.

At last the zailor focused his gaze on her, although still distant and absent. Sleeping awake came so easy at the Royal Beth. Under his eyepatch something smouldered with a dim fiery glow of a fading ember, and whatever it could be, this was what watched her with real attention.

"May we ask you for a dance?" he suggested in a memorized monotone that also sounded much more accustomed to captain’s orders than to polite questions.

The Nocturnal Nostalgist accepted. Yawning and stretching, the cat jumped off his lap. Tristram Bagley and July have just started playing again.

Despite his wooden leg, the possessed zailor waltzed well enough, skillfully measuring the shift of balance in careful steps. The Nostalgist let him lead at a pace that he found comfortable. Mechanical prosthetics creaked terribly at the joints, but held her as confidently as his own arm.

"I see you’re remarkably experienced," she noted. Venom-rubies on her old-fashioned embroidered justaucorps of the Red Death sparkled in candlelight at every elegant turn.

He didn't bother with details such as remembering that he had a face and trying to smile, so it was a bit hard to tell whether he was having a good time.

"I simply find it quite familiar: the orbit, the gravity... Don’t be fooled by external imperfections of this flesh: it better matches my self-perception, therefore it feels more natural and effortless to operate it."

She almost stumbled. If you are a member of a secret society, there always may come a moment when you realize that you’ve just spoken with its head of special services without having noticed why even your allies begin to worry in his presence. In her case, right now she was dancing with one.

The deity of distances and measures, once the all-seeing keeper of the cosmic library; now the patron of spies, scouts and assassins. In the ancient First City – the Shaded Crossroads that were dependent on the intersection of trade routes and respected for the arcane knowledge of their priests – humans still worshipped him, decorating temples and amulets with sacred symbols of an eye, but after its destruction by the Bazaar this too disappeared into long-forgotten history.

"How do you like the Gala so far, your dark majesty?" the Nostalgist asked, trying to maintain the most carefree and friendly tone.

"Oh, this is not the Red-and-Gold Gala yet. Just a pleasant prelude to it. The Calendar Council and I made a promising agreement while they were able to meet their agents with whom they are usually separated by the borders of reality. But we must leave before it starts: our esteemed host will be paying some debts to the guardians of these borders..."

Observing the movements of other couples, the captain led her into a half-embrace that allowed him to whisper right in her ear:

"...You harbour longing for him, don’t you? I’ve known him for centuries. And I can give you a hint how to win him over. Bring him the head of the god of death on a silver platter. A metaphorical head... on a metaphorical platter... yet I mean the god of death in the most literal sense."

"Let me guess: you have a personal interest in this," the Nocturnal Nostalgist answered. Her own was too obvious.

"I won't deny it. Yes, I seek revenge for my twin, my lost half. I sided with the Liberation of Night when I saw that his murderers weren’t the only guilty ones. Our very laws were to blame: this cruel countdown for everyone with no hope and no right for an afterlife or a rebirth. I helped maintain such a divine order because it gave me power – until I lost something that was far more important than glory and authority."

"I wonder if you have also realized that each soul burned for light could be as precious to someone as your brother to you."

For a few moments the Halved fell silent in a bitter cold anger that meant he agreed absolutely yet was far too arrogant to aknowledge his past crimes or to admit the ability of lesser beings to comprehend his feelings.

"Do not interrupt, child. I haven’t finished what I was going to say: your dear Manager, too, won't find peace until vengeance befalls not only the Bazaar, but even the Judgements themselves..."

"...Because by their will anyone can die young and not by choice. Because if it hadn’t been this way, the Masters would have had nothing with which to compel him to sacrifice his kingdom and doom his love with his own hands," she concluded, choking on pain in her voice. The possessed captain nodded, breathing down her neck.

The dance reached the phase of changing partners. But instead of painted visages of blissfully smiling cherubs and fair nymphs, the artfully intermingling crowd seemed to be full of monstrous chimeras with grotesque faces of vices, fears and sorrows. Without saying anything else, the zailor released her hand, and at the completion of the circle of this maddening maelstrom the Nocturnal Nostalgist found herself in front of a brass-buttoned coat.

"What a marvellous mask, N-N. I recognize the talented work of Ivy FitzClaret. You know well that any attempt to hide from me is futile... and in case you forgot, urchins’ songs should have reminded you."

"If you noticed my absense, then I’m surprised that you’ve given me so much time," she remarked without stopping the waltz. He played along.

In the Manager’s arms there was no stiffness of the Halved who was too unaccustomed to a human body. He held her with the ease of someone who doesn’t have to grasp with all his strength to catch whatever he wants; even with an illusion of giving an opportunity to slip away and escape at any moment.

"I’m not going to punish you – unless you wish – but I am disappointed. First of all, because you don't trust me. I didn’t invite you to the Gala in order to protect you. And now I must personally intervene as if taking a naughty curious kitten off the set table who jumped there in spite that this home always provides her with everything she needs. I have too much responsibility to spare time for distractions, darling."

By her shoulders he subtly turned her to the door, whispering "don’t look back".

Meanwhile, the hall was becoming almost empty: everyone slowly began to leave before midnight. Strange that nobody wanted to stay for the banquet.

Chapter Text

Phoebe often wondered what it must have been like for David Landau to die. He had even no time to say the Shema when poison paralyzed his facial and respiratory muscles.

So it was almost unfair that she got so many passing minutes. She clinged tightly to an enormous fang and could choose whether to let go of it or hesitate. If the opposite row of the Hotel's teeth closes, they will easily pierce her; a quick death would be preferable to the seeming infinity of the abyss into which last crumbling fragments of the spiral staircase were falling. But this wait was unbearable.

"Hello, my beloved murderess."

Barely able to turn her gaze away from the mesmerizing horror, Phoebe looked up. A woman in scarlet stood on the wall, defying gravity just like everything that claimed to be more important than Her Majesty. As if the gilded red wallpaper decided that nobody would notice if it swapped places with same-coloured carpets. With a condescending smile of beautiful yet disturbing bright ruby lips the stranger held out her hand, offering the hapless one a more robust support.

The hand was covered in blood. Viscous drops fell on the maid's frilly white apron, on her frightened face and past her, into the hungry darkness where the glow of remaining slumped chandeliers could not reach.

"No... no... it isn't true, I'm not a murderer... I repented of my mistake from the bottom of my heart," Phoebe mumbled. "I don't want to accept anything from you, not even help! I will not be indebted to you!"

The Queen's burning eyes narrowed. The embodiment of ardent aspirations did not tolerate refusals. Phoebe's fingers began to slip: blood appeared on them too. Not hers, another's.

When a plummeting scream turned into a distant echo, the Red-Handed Queen ran a claw along the breathing panels of the Royal Beth, as if stroking a living creature. Unkindly, disappointedly.

"Well... An adequate sacrifice, despite your tricks, you old cheater. Debts are cleared. For you both."

...Still shaking, Phoebe sat on a plush sofa outside the office; for want of a blanket, wrapped in a torn thick curtain that she had grabbed onto futilely. The Nostalgist brought her warm tea in awkward sympathy – she remembered her own waking nightmares and knew that here they were as tangible and true as any other overwhelming experience. Even though the Manager always made sure to exploit the loopholes of not-quite-reality to keep his hoarded living treasures unharmed (perhaps more out of possessiveness than care, supposing there was any difference to him at all), games and deals of immortal powers remained too cruel and unfathomable for humans.

"Thank you... Go first. I need a moment to come to my senses."

"Of course. Take your time. From what I can hear, it will be awhile anyway."

The Nocturnal Nostalgist entered the door; the voices from behind it were getting louder. Some employee was in the middle of a fervent monologue:

"...And besides, still no Christmas Bonus. You promised to make our happiest dreams come true! I don't buy your previous excuses that a pagan priest doesn't celebrate Christmas. Let's be honest: you simply worry that we will leave when we will be completely satisfied with our lives and won't need this illusionary paradise anymore, especially after having seen it for the hell it is. You prey not only on fears, but also on hopes. You don't want to release what you catch, and you've been gnawing on our anxieties and wishes for years. Not because they are so sweet, but because you yourself are afraid. That you would be discarded, just like by him, if you are no longer needed. That you would be left alone for centuries again, just like after the tragic loss of all who were loyal to you. Yet those who have nowhere else to go, those rejected by everyone but you – the insane, the outcasts, the desperate – are so much easier to keep forever, aren't they?"

The Manager was listening with unwavering affable attention. Making sure that the storm of frustration has passed, he turned to the second of the two in front of him:

"Duly noted! And you, my friend? Do you have any suggestions or complaints as well?"

That one was clearly impatient to add something – perhaps his own, completely different. But he restrained himself:

"No, sir. Everything was perfect. I'm certain it will be just as pleasant to collaborate with you on other matters..."

He looked like he barely made it out of a fight with a dozen cat-sized spiders while cleaning the basement and also got lost there for several hours. These words didn't sound sincere.

Meanwhile, the other was getting more and more pale as he was cooling down. He belatedly caught up with the realization that he had just insulted the powerful will in control of everything here, right down to the doors that could refuse to let him out, leading again and again to the same hallway where they opened at the opposite end or on either side. Similarly to what was told in London pubs about the greatest thieves who grew overconfident and were tempted by this golden luxury but went missing in the depths of the Royal Bethlehem Hotel or lost their sanity while opening hundreds of never-ending locks.

This kind of smouldering quiet anger in the Manager's insightful eyes appeared only when someone dared to taunt him with his most painful memories. It was the scariest polite smile imaginable. The employee's heart felt like trying to hide behind ribs.

"Congratulations, my cell welcomes you!" Lunging to shake his trembling hand, May of the Calendar Council suddenly beamed, overcoming the emotions of his other self who anyway had long been accustomed to sweeping them under the soft carpets of the Royal Beth. "I see you would rather risk your safety than give up your right to speak the truth. Revolution relies on people like you. Of course, I prefer discretion and patience myself... not being afraid to say everything to stronger ones' faces is often recklessness, not courage... but how to fight back against tyranny if we always remain silent?"

He redirected his unnervingly mind-scanning gaze to the second candidate who chose to endure:

"...And you – you've already met October today, haven't you? Please don't be discouraged: you can still try to get her attention instead. Her methods and tasks may be notoriously dangerous, but she is far less demanding."

The aspiring revolutionaries walked out muttering thanks and farewells.

Gawking at the shelves of papers, parchments, papyruses and clay tablets that would be the envy of any museum and the bane of any clerk, the Nocturnal Nostalgist approached to take her turn.

Chapter Text

"You’ll still get your due. Half a day is more than nothing... especially where hours tend to forget how many minutes they should contain. And, after all, diverting the Halved’s attention was a considerable help, otherwise that old grouch would find and bother me, stirring unwanted memories. So tell me what you wish."

Unlike in the previous conversation, in front of her he was no longer hiding his weariness.

"Let me hug you. It will be enough of a reward."

The Manager stopped midway through writing a letter of recommendation to the Council. The ticking of clocks went silent at the same moment as his quill froze. Suddenly he laughed out loud; the Hotel trembled in eerie echoing resonance.

"Isn’t it... oh, by the dark gods... isn’t it a bit too much, my joy? Hah... What an endless fount of amusement you are... Now, if you've assisted me for thousands of years, not just a single fleeting day, then probably I would let you even kiss me, ha-ha..."

Her hand felt the hilt at her side: they remained between Is and Is-Not, so it was here, within thought’s reach. The Nocturnal Nostalgist pulled out her knightly sword and leaned upon it, getting down on one knee:

"I give an oath to be faithful to you, Priest-King of the Crossroads, beyond the point when time itself shall lose its meaning. I swear I shall bring the Blue Kingdom of the dead to your feet, returning everything that it took from you or taking revenge for what cannot be brought back. I vow to kill Death, to defeat Fate, to serve you a feast of their remains bursting with unfulfilled dreams of the lives they have consumed throughout the centuries... And then I’ll repeat the very same request again, for it shall stay unchanged."

He slowly stepped out from behind his desk to approach. Making no attempt to take the sword from her clenched fingers, he only gently lifted her chin in a silent demand to rise. She looked up and saw how serious he was in contrast to the last few minutes.

"Don’t you understand, I was joking. Because I thought you were joking too; I must have fully convinced myself that nobody would ever want to be the first to offer to shake hands with the Merry Gentleman. Then you remind me that I had other names..." he sighed heavily. "And of course. Of course I’ll allow it. Not as a part of the payment."

The room shifted, distorting space. She shut her eyes as to not get dizzy. Walls were closing in for an embrace. Carefully, slowly. She touched them and felt the life pulsating through the entire Hotel, too much to be confined in one human body, yearning to become nothing less than a world, a story, a city...

The Nostalgist snapped out of trance in the Manager’s arms that were tightly holding her with the same cheerful overfamiliarity of greeting bewildered passers-by on his walks, perfect for assessing the level of anxiety of someone's heartbeat.

"See," he whispered, "this is why I couldn’t choose you for the Red-and-Gold Gala. I required a nightmare. Genuine pure fear. But you know me well enough to remain confident that you are safe. Well, now... I’m waiting for a real answer about what you want as today’s wage."

"It’s not very fair of you to offer me to choose while I can’t think clearly," she noted, reaccustoming herself to standing on the floor in normal relative dimensions. "However, there is something I’ve been wishing to request of you for some time. Teach me how to protect my mind from spies on my own, so that you won’t have to bury my memories of our meetings anymore."

He released her from the embrace, as reluctantly as seeing off patients being discharged from the Royal Beth.

"Oh, I was surely going to!.." the Manager muttered with uncharacteristic hesitation. "Just... later."

"For someone who lives for millenia later may mean much longer than I can wait. Please, you do know that the Council never doubts me..."

"It’s not that, dear. I’ve been telling you more than only news and plans. No, nothing that would threaten your sanity or your safety from powers who punish mere knowledge of their secrets. But still... better not to. Not now."

"You couldn’t resist getting your sorrows off your chest while you had an attentive listener, right?" she guessed almost instantly. "Ashamed of your weaknesses and regrets? You shouldn’t be. Everyone has this need, even the strongest of us."

He angrily brushed a crawling lizard off his sleeve, redirecting the sheer frustration of his predictability: it was much more comfortable for him to appear as something unknown and inexplicable, hiding any vulnerabilities beneath a shield of frightening mystery that nobody would dare to pry into. The innocent creature landed softly in a pile of documents.

"It just happened on its own. Kept happening. And it will."

The Nocturnal Nostalgist picked up the pet, stroking it with a finger and admiring the iridescence of its scales:

"I don’t mind. If you shared them with me, it means that you deemed me trustworthy and capable of lifting the burden from your soul at least a little. And this is the greatest honour I could hope for."

The tiny reptile stared, unblinking and motionless, like its owner at sleeping Londoners. With such solemnity and ageless wisdom as if it imagined itself to be a miniature dragon.

"You are kind to even the most pathetic living beings," the Manager said in a slightly sarcastic tone that included more than just the lizard. "Oh, if only I could find out what the gods are afraid of... but I already know that this remarkable human defiance to their laws will sharpen your blade better than anything, my brave knight. These words, of course, should stay between us, too... Alright, I see. I will think about your further training. I won’t put it off. After all, I’ve already been waiting too long..."