>[3] Well, you wouldn't say "in need," exactly… you're very wealthy… what work?

  >[4] Hey, jerk, what's your name?.

  You need money badly, but that's not something you're interested in letting slip. "I don't take work from strangers I don't know the name of."

  "Simple enough. C.M.S. Garvin, at your acquaintance." He picks up his (lukewarm) teacup off the ottoman and raises it. "Pleasure."

  "You have two middle names?" Of course he does.

  C.M.S. Garvin grins. "One must do one's best when one's mother has airs of grandeur. Is that enough?"

  "I…" You have no retort. "I guess, Horse Face. What's the work?"

  "Nothing complicated— I just need someone to play courier for me, and you seem spry enough. I have some hip issues."

  ?His gait shows no evidence of hip issues.?

  You have a different angle. "You expect me to believe that? Hip issues are for grandmothers. You're physically, what..."

  He thinks. He counts on his fingers. He riffles back to the front of his notepad. "25? But it's not— it's hereditary, anyways, so it doesn't matter. Are you interested?"

  The little question mark on the "25" irks you to no end. You're not altogether pleased that people tend older than they look— you've been trapped at barely 20 for three years— but it's a fact of life. It's expected, though, that one remembers how old they were. "Yeah— maybe. You're paying?"

  "Of course." He withdraws a leather pouch from the interior of his coat. You don't need to look inside: you can feel the chit from here. "Per delivery, I was thinking. And a down payment for your services—"

  He retrieves a small handful of chit. He looks at you. He— hatefully— winks. "—If you don't ask questions."

  The handful would pay off your whole tab, or purchase a small trunkload of bobby pins.

  >[1] Yeah, okay, you're fairly desperate. Is C.M.S. Garvin doing something illegal? Possibly? Do you care? No? Accept the down payment.

  >[2] You're not getting involved in this. Thank him for the tea (brusquely) and leave.

  >[3] Forfeit the down payment and ask questions. [What?]

  >[4] Write-in.

  "Sure," you say. "Sounds good to me. Couriering things. Excellent."

  The horse-faced— Garvin scans your face for sincerity and apparently finds it. "Excellent indeed. Have you got a pouch or container?"

  You do, actually. You pull a woven mat from your pocket and fashion it into a sort of cup shape. The chit clatters against the sides as Garvin drops it in.

  "I'll be in contact," he says casually, as if he had not just paid you a considerable sum of money for no clear reason. "I don't quite have everything sorted at the moment, Charlotte. Was the tea alright?"

  Too salty, but, then, it was made with saltwater. "...It was fine."

  "Excellent." He smiles for a final time. "I'll be seeing you, yes?"

  You're too rich to be mad. "Yeah."

  You stumble out of C.M.S. Garvin's tent as if in a dream, clutching the chit in one hand. It's undoubtedly genuine— just holding it makes you feel steadier, more solid. You need it.

  Who is this guy? You hadn't meant eccentric-but-wealthy uncle as a serious descriptor, but it's seeming more accurate all the time. He was looking for Madrigal, wasn't he? You should ask her. But no, she hates you...

  And the card! Do you have it? Yes, it's in your pants pocket. Who's Anthea Aves? What's a spelunker? Who recommended you? And was it really in the wrong tent, or did Garvin filch that, too?

  You make it back to your tent— it's as you left it— and flop onto your cot.

  >[1] Head over to the Nothing and pay off your tab. You don't like Jacques mad at you.

  >[2] Aw, screw Jacques. Go on a shopping spree. You haven't bought anything nice for yourself in— too long. (Minimalism? What minimalism?)

  >[3] Hide the chit for now and attempt to translate Ellery's mirror writing. The shard should remain in your desk drawer.

  >[4] Find Madrigal. She might be more forgiving if you're proactive.

  >[5] Write-in.

  The issue with life, you decide, is that it just keeps going. There's no break, no respite— just things that need doing. And, horrifically, you've got to do them.

  And, quite contrary to your expectations, the list has only vastly multiplied. Pre-Crown, your life was keenly simple: Find the Crown. It was a goal, a clear, defined end-point, and you liked it that way. Now you've got choices. Mess. You hate mess.

  ?As do I, so I suppose that's a commonality.? You've given up hope trying to track when Richard's paying attention: it appears to be entirely random. He's draped comfortably over your legs. ?You still need to blackmail Margo, you realize.?

  God, you forgot about the blackmail. That was the point, wasn't it? It seems very distant.

  ?This is not a tenable situation, Charlotte. Imagine if you forgot an appointment??

  You sit up at the thought. He's right: this is not a tenable situation. But you don't have a tenable solution, eith—

  ?Day planner.?

  The answer comes too fast for coincidence. "How long have you been—"

  ?Irrelevant. You need a day planner.?

  You slump back down. "Look, Richard, I don't have a day planner. I don't know what to tell you."

  A short silence. You scratch your chin.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  ?Make a list, then.?

  That's not something you can actually argue with, so you don't. You kick Richard off your legs (he hisses half-heartedly) and walk the couple steps over to the desk. You sit down at it.

  All your research is rather pointless, isn't it? It doesn't matter if you reuse the paper. You find a red crayon stub in the stack (it never ceases to feel childish, but the wax doesn't fade or run) and get to scribbling.

  

  "TO DO

  -> investigate ellery's tent

  -> pay off tab

  -> buy new clothes

  -> get sword (real)

  -> get recommendation letters (???)

  -> blackmail margo

  -> weird business card? RSVP? tomorrow evening? ?

  -> read ellery's backwards letter

  -> don't get shot by margo

  -> illegal(?) courier thing?

  -> get stolen model back

  -> finish new model

  -> TELL MONTY MODEL THIEF IS HERE

  -> madrigal servant thing

  -> ask madrigal a/b horse face

  -> solve ellery thing before body is discovered

  -> ???"

  You feel like you're missing one.

  ?Charlotte.?

  You can't put your finger on it.

  ?The Crown.?

  Oh. Yes.

  

  "-> Fill crown (?????)"

  17 items. It's daunting, you'll admit, but it does actually make you feel better to look at it all. And one's immediately achievable, even. You've got a mirror. You've got a paper with mirror writing. It's not rocket science.

  ?Do not overuse the expression.?

  Where is the paper, though? You stuck it in your coat, you think, but that was over a day ago. Did it fall out? Out of a hunch, you stoop (slightly) to peek under the cot— and there it is, clear as day.

  Returning to the chair, you give the paper a glance-over. Now that you look at it, it does begin to resemble a flipped version of the alphabet— but considering the handwriting, you choose to cut yourself some slack. Anyhow, you've got the key. The mirror shard glints crimson on the desk.

  It's difficult to get it to an angle where you can see the text in the mirror, but you just about manage. You mouth the words aloud as you read.

  

  "LOG OF 12 KITEMAKER

  Wok up agen. Coffed up more silver. Not a good sine. Not sure what I did to me -

  — Thought it might be the 10th, but went and cheked notis board. Maddie wasnt there like last time. 2 days gone — also not a good sine, but better than 3—

  — Lionfish toxin gone from sistem. Probabbly for best —

  — Verdic: Dont do agen"

  The last line seems terribly familiar, as does the date. It's an extended version of one of the notes in the manse.

  Curious.

  You set the mirror shard down on top of your to-do list and stare down at both. You decisively scratch out "-> read ellery's backwards letter." And then, begrudgingly, you add another line: "-> show madrigal backwards letter?"

  Still 17 items. You were right: it never stops. You're going to have to pick something more decisive to make any headway.

  Madrigal's in three different items. If you could deal with all three at once, it'd certainly be—

  ?Efficient.?

  Damn. You suppose it would be efficient, as loath you are to admit it. Three fish with one hook, etcetera. Of course, this is all rather predicated on if she'll even talk to you— but of course she will, right? You only punched her. In self-defense!

  It's settled, then: you will find Madrigal, you will show her the letter, and maybe she'll call off the whole servant thing. It's only reasonable.

  You wrap the mirror shard back up and drop it in your pocket; you fold the paper and stick it on the inside of your coat. You set off.

  "MADRIGAL'S TENT," says the sign for Madrigal's tent. You stand outside its flap, reconsidering your decisions. If you just avoid her, she can't tell her to do anything, right?

  ?Do it, Charlie.?

  Fine. You suppose you must.

  >[1] Knock and let Madrigal answer. You're trying to be an upright citizen, right?

  >[2] Barge in. You can't show weakness; she'll pounce. You're already under her thumb.

  >[3] Press your ear to the side of the tent. You ought to check if she's in there.

  >[4] Practice what you plan to tell her. So you're prepared. It's not weird.

  >[5] Write-in.

  If ghosts aren't involved, knocking is for idiots. If you get the jump on Madrigal, you've got the advantage. With this in mind, you bob in place a couple times to prepare, then shove open the tent flap— it's tied from the inside, but only very weakly.

  Madrigal's tent is about the blandest you've seen: it's vaguely cluttered, but that's all you can find to think about it. You sense she doesn't spend a lot of time here. Madrigal herself is sitting on the very edge of her cot, turned away from the entrance. She's clutching some kind of picture. She's… crying, you think. She still has the oversize bomber jacket on.

  ?Bad time. Bad time. Leave.?

  It's too late: she heard your dramatic entrance! She shoves the picture under her leg and turns around just as you're about to slink out. "What," she says thickly.

  Yeah, she was crying. Her eyes are red. The bruise on her cheek is a nasty purple. You don't say anything.

  "Well, fuck you too." She's rubbing furiously at her face. "Tell me… tell me what you want, or fuck off, okay? I'm busy."

  "Busy with what?" you say innocently. Your hands are in your pockets. "You're just sitting here."

  It's not a question she can answer, and you know it, and she knows it. "Fuck off, Charlotte."

  "Are you distressed? Do you—" you have to compose yourself to say this, or else you'll start smiling— "need help? Is there something I can do, Madrigal?"

  ?This is entertaining, but recall you're trying to suck up to her.?

  "Fuck off. Like I said."

  "Well… I don't…" You pull your hands out of your pockets for the sole purpose of twiddling your thumbs. "…I don't think I can. I've got to do what you say, remem…"

  Foot: mouth.

  "Ah!" Madrigal's eyebrows shoot up. "Yes! You do! I forgot! Now fuck off, and that's an order!"

  >[1] But Maaaaaaadrigal I decoded this paper for you come look [Roll]

  >[2] But Maaaaaaadrigal what about your weirdo smuggler(???) friend Horse Face (do not call him Horse Face) [Roll]

  >[3] Hey Madrigal watcha crying about? What's the picture? I'm a trustworthy person [Difficult roll]

  >[4] Will you stop being mad at me if I tell you that I broke into your ex-bf's head and found a bunch of stuff

  >[5] Sorry I punched you (don't mean it)

  >[6] Fuck off. (Optional: where to? If not, you'll get a list of possibilities)

  >[7] Write-in.

  

  all get resolved, by the way, even if I guarantee it might not feel like it for a while. I'll start opening every new thread with that to-do list, so you can keep track of what's going on, same as the players at the time did!