>[2] Report back to Madrigal. With all the stuff you have already, you might be able to negotiate for a raise.

  >[5] Ask Richard where the ribbon came from. You didn't think it was a permanent fixture.

  >[6] Ask Richard what "eating ourselves" could possibly mean. It sounds a little concerning.

  No suggestions? "Oh, okay," you say, and flop back onto the cot.

  ?You're not permitted to do that.? Richard squirms. ?Do something.?

  "Well, gee, what if I don't want to? And it's not like I got any suggestions, so I'm just plumb out of ideas..." You close your eyes. "And besides, I had some real vivid dreams I probably ought to contemplate."

  ?Don't be stupid; that was likely the crystals. As usual, it's irrelevant nonsense. Get up this instant.?

  "Hmm." You stretch your arms, eyes still closed. "One of the dreams was about us, I think."

  ?It doesn't matter.?

  "I don't remember that much. It was outside in the sun, there was a table… You said were were eating ourselves?'" You open your eyes. "I don't suppose you know what that would mean?"

  ?How could I possibly, Charlotte.? You prefer to imagine that he sounds annoyed. ?It's balderdash.?

  "So we're not doing that?"

  ?No.?

  He might as well have told you to pass the salt, for all the emotion he puts into it. You can't stand it. No emotion in the voice, and certainly none in the snake— it's just an animal. With, to be fair, a ribbon.

  A ribbon.

  "Hey," you say. (It got a rise out of him before— maybe it will again.) "I was wondering why the ribbon's still there."

  ?I don't know what you mean.?

  "You know, the..." You mime tying a bow at your throat. "The ribbon."

  ?You bought it in town. For yourself originally, I believe, but then you got one of your flights of fancy. So here we are.?

  Something twinges.

  "Oh, right," you say, and sit up. "It's been a long couple of days. I thought it'd come off or something, though."

  ?Unfortunately, I did too.?

  You manage a smile at that. "Look, I'll get up now. How 'bout that." You clamber to your feet, smooth out the front of your coat, and reconsider. You unbutton the coat instead and drape it over the side of the cot. (Maybe it's bad luck?)

  Richard settles around your shoulders. ?I don't know if I approve, Charlie. The white makes you look more attractive. You need it.?

  You stop, halfway out the door. He's right. What were you thinking? You turn on your heel, retrieve the coat, and button it back up.

  ?Good girl. Now, we were going…?

  If you don't hunt down Madrigal fast, she's going to bust through the flap of your tent and ruin your day once again. You emerge, squinting into the sunlight, and march past untidy "art installations" (you know what art looks like, and a pile of differently-sized rocks isn't it), unsteady card tables, and people you barely recognize. "Hey, princess!" hoots a man you don't recognize at all. "Whereya goin?"

  You wheel on him, all ready to give him a piece of your mind, when the base of your spine flares white-hot. ?You cannot afford to get distracted, Charlotte. You have wasted enough.?

  The man's chuckles follow you all the way to Madrigal's tent, easily recognizable by the sign marked "MADRIGAL'S TENT". You try the flap, only to find it tied from the inside. Is she hiding?

  ?It's possible that other people's schedules don't conform to your whims.?

  "Ms. Fitzpatrick isn't here," says a voice from behind you. "Heard she's in town."

  You cease trying to find a way to look inside and turn. It's another man you don't recognize, this one in a battered grey longcoat. He quirks an eyebrow. "Are you her friend, too?"

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Huh?"

  He crosses one leg over the other. "Guess not, then. I'd suppose it'll be another 40 minutes before she's back. You're welcome to wait."

  >[1] Wait it out for Madrigal.

  >>[A] In silence. You're capable of making idle chitchat, but it doesn't mean you want to.

  >>[B] Sorry, who is this guy?

  >>[C] Sorry, the situation?

  >>[D] Sorry, does he know Madrigal?

  >>[E] Write-in.

  >[2] Head to town to find her first. You might be able to catch her off-guard— even better.

  >[3] This is too much work. Do something else first instead. (See prior options.)

  >[4] Write-in.

  "...That's alright," you say. You're not sure you want to be alone with this man, who's sizing you up with hawkish intensity. Should you thank him? You don't want to show weakness. Old habits urge you to curtsey: even worse. You ignore them.

  "Oh?" The man rubs his chin. "Do as you will. Delighted to make your acquaintance regardless, Miss…"

  Would it look strange if you avoided the question? It would. "Charlotte," you say, and stick your hand out. "But Lottie's better."

  He takes your hand, wholly unprepared for the trap you're about to spring. "A pleasurgrk—"

  You have him seized in an iron grip— now all the more iron, thanks to Richard's devilry with your hands. You smile broadly and pump once. "You too!"

  He withdraws slower than you would've preferred, but you hope that's a new measure of respect in his eyes. "Be seeing you," he says.

  Be seeing you? You're striding down the beaten trail to town in a funk. Be seeing you? Is it a threat? A crass flirtation? And why didn't you say anything? How come you've been lacking in comebacks recently? You're losing your touch!

  ?I'm telling you, it's the peacoat. I don't know what you were thinking, honestly, going out like this. You look hideous in white.?

  Richard is not helping.

  You've been down this way so many times in six months that you could probably do it with your eyes closed. You don't, though: what the Corcass lacks in civility or basic urban amenities it makes up for in, ehh... natural interest? This time of year, limp straggles of seagrass bow under the weight of spiked flowers. Tiny crustaceans buzz between them, eels lurk within them. It's not beautiful, that's for sure, but it could be worse.

  It's when the mud and grass fades to cobblestone that you know you're close to town. Lindew's Landing was built upon the ruins of some ancient city, and as a result is rife with obelisks and catacombs and untranslatable runes. It's not altogether to your taste, but you still enjoy your weekly trips: though well under a hundred rustics live there, it's better than the utter backwater of camp. There is a general store, a tavern (the accurately named "Better Than Nothing"), a newspaper, and the offices of a half-dozen lapsed professionals. Really, it's practically bustling.

  The question is: where is Madrigal? You failed to ask what she was actually doing in town, and you have little knowledge of what she does in general. You suppose you could ask around, but do you want people to know you're looking for her? Maybe you just ought to loiter, but you don't want to miss her, either…

  >[1] Ask the locals if they've seen her. Better get to the point.

  >[2] Kill time by looking around in a building. You'll either find her there, or you'll catch her when she leaves. (General store, speakeasy, newspaper, offices?)

  >[3] Wait by the trailhead out of town. There's technically ways out that don't go past it, but you doubt she'd want to wade through the Fen for no reason.

  >[4] Write-in.

  You wouldn't know where to begin, really, by asking around. You could try sliding into the Better Than Nothing, but the incident a couple weeks back may or may not have scuttled your good reputation there. And it's not like there's a crowd milling around outside, either— mid-afternoon like this, everyone's out on the mud flats. What is Madrigal doing?

  It's probably something excruciatingly boring, you rationalize, as you wait by the signpost. Paying a tab. Purchasing a gallon of paint. Meeting a friend. Not worth your time. You'd be better off watching grass grow, really. Why are you even here?

  ?Remain focused.?

  You shouldn't be waiting here. You should be out there, doing anything at all. Whatever other people do to occupy their time. Was it ever about the crown, or was it just something to keep yourself distracted? Why are you overcome with ennui? It'd be the waiting. It prompts introspection, and you've long since decided that introspection is an appalling poison to the noble spirit.

  ?Charlotte, please.?

  How long has it been? Five minutes? Twenty? Too long, in any case. You shift restlessly against the signpost, which presses into your back and neck. It's a fifteen-minute walk to town, the same back, leaving Madrigal just ten minutes to finish and start to leave. If the man was accurate, anyways. Be seeing you? God. You hope you broke his fingerbones.

  ?Highly unlikely, unless he has an exceptionally high tolerance for pain. You would have been able to tell.?

  Thanks, Richard, for that. You can never tell if he's being dense or just annoyingly obtuse. You can never tell anything with him, really.

  "Hello? Charlotte?"

  "The world snaps back into focus. Madrigal has her hands on her hips (what ones she has, anyways) in front of you. She is wearing a bomber jacket two sizes too big over her tank top— clearly borrowed, or possibly stolen. She looks more annoyed than concerned.

  "Hello? What are you doing here?"