Gods I miss Nathan.

  At this point I can feel his letters getting more distant. I've mailed him quite often, sometimes barely waiting for his return letter before I start writing. My twin brother is pulling away. The boy with the eyes that are a mirror to my own, and he's stopped responding to our inside jokes, stopped sharing small details with me. I can't feel him in his words anymore the way I did just a month ago.

  When I first got to Hearstcliff there were four letters from him waiting for me, sent during the two weeks that it took for the witchfinders to drag me along in that garret-cage. The second one sent was sheer outrage that the Guard would snatch me away without even letting me say goodbye. Vowing to come find me, outraged and demanding that the throne's soldiers take him as well. The third one was written hastily in a fast-moving scrawl that I barely recognized as his, detailing all the work that he and Mother and Father have been doing to have me freed, that Mother was shamelessly drawing on old favors to get special privileges, something that neither Nathan nor I had ever heard of her doing, that they were doing everything they could while also moving the household to the new castle and recovering what they could. The fourth letter from him was so full of hope and yearning- he told me about the new castle and that he had insisted a bedroom be make up identical and opposite to his because I would be back any day.

  But the first one was fully of a desperate bellowing grief that hurt my heart to read the page. A trembling hand wrote that one, tears smudged all four corners. And the words- his soul was in that letter, and his soul was in pain.

  In the fifth letter he sent me, Nathan mentioned that one of Mother's contacts had reached out, and given her an abbreviated version of the list of charges against me. After that, I could read him going through five stages of grief. Denial. Anger. But he was angry at me, this time. I've never felt it before and I hated it. Having Nathan angry at me scoured and scraped me, it hurt worse than being angry at myself.

  I sent back to him, tried to explain myself, tried to get him to understand. But as always, the thing I could not say to him stayed in the way. I can't tell him how I know. I can't tell him where this information comes from. I can't talk about the System menu, the goddess, the love interests, my whole first life. Can't tell him why I have always seemed about twenty years older than I should, about the fact that he's not my first family. I can't tell him this is a video game, not quite a world of its own. I can't tell him that there are disasters coming, that we need to be ready, that our enemies are already arrayed before us. Everything is going to get so much worse before it gets better.

  I can't tell him he's not real. And I can't tell him we're saving the world.

  How can I explain to him why his sister needed to go away, if I can't tell him that we're saving a world? What else can I tell him, to help him understand why I vanished without saying anything to go kill dozens of people he's never heard of?

  And there's other things- the things he doesn't say in the lines but between them. His letters mention which parties he's going to and what events he's attending, and it's pretty obvious that his schedule is slowed down. Not reclusive, not shut-in, but I don't think our family is getting as many invitations as we used to. And some of his inflection makes me believe that this is my fault. The stain of my crimes is spreading, and the social calendar of Meadowtam is reflecting that. I have become the family embarrassment.

  When I reached out to Taeril, she tried to let me down easy. Her pages assured me that things would return to normal. Right now, she said, everyone is taking it easy. They know that the Duke is busy right now. He's not just moving house, he's rebuilding his office, re-collecting copies of his records, putting together the information he needs to effectively run the duchy. And as soon as things are settled, everything would go back to normal! .. give or take a year. These are difficult times.

  She does not need to remind me that I'm the reason these are difficult times. And I don't need to tell her that they're going to get worse.

  Just because I got Kralcit to back off of attacking my family for a few years does not mean that Auberje, Kinghand and Uncine are going to slow down their plans at all. I suppose I should be glad that I've got a good alibi for what comes next. The dark days and tragedies of Meadowtam have not stopped because I sent a message or because I've been locked away so I can't threaten anyone directly. No, all I've done is ensure that it's the people of Meadowtam that are going to suffer rather than the people of Harigold Manor.

  Or, I guess they're all back at Castle Meadwhite now. There is no more Harigold Manor.

  I walk around my room, touching things and setting them back down. Gedes is outside my cell door, watching in that patient, nonjudgmental way of his. It's like being watched by a statue or a goldfish. If I look his way I can see him facing me, aware of me, but I can't feel his eyes resting on me. It's almost like privacy. I'm in my head, just rustling around in there. This morning, the judge told me that I would be here for the next three years. I am looking at it as a compromise sentencing: I am officially cleared of dozens of counts of murder, but I do need to spend some time locked away.

  Sisa, the local Harigold agent, was the one that put it to me the most bluntly. "My lady, if you were released and acquitted, the city would have at least two riots because of it. The city leadership generally does whatever it takes to avoid even a single riot."

  Thanks Sisa.

  So now I'm going through the place like I'm finding my new home here. I've been living like this is a hotel room- temporary accommodations, just a holding cell while we find out what happens next. But it's become real now.

  "Lady Harigold, your actions made in haste were justified, as seen by this court, its procedures and the voices of justice. However, your behavior within this courtroom was disruptive, hostile and inflammatory, even by the most generous standards. It is the view of this court that your actions do not require a second trial, partly because it is the view of this court that beginning a second trial would only create more of the exact same problem. In light of all events, the court bypasses the normal procedure and weighs sentence: your outbursts, threats, ultimatums and sedition were not crimes requiring redress, but they are the defiance of a child in difficult circumstances. So the court will pass sentence on the child but not the woman. You are to stay incarcerated, at your present circumstances, until your fifteenth birthday, the earliest day of majority."

  What an ass. I got exonerated by his own jury, and he decided to lock me up for three years just because I was a pain in the ass. Sir Maspers did warn me that on a scale of "not corrupt at all" to "ludicrously corrupt", that these courts were about a seven.

  He also suggested that it was more likely to work in my favor than not. So, that... is cause for concern. Have I benefited from this already, and not known about it?

  The furniture here is thickly made, heavy-framed. My hand trails over the cubbies and corners of the writing-desk, and I try to hold in my mind that for the next three years this is mine. My home, my space, my desk. My fingers sweep across the burled wood, and stir among the letters there. Return envelopes from Nathan. The letters he's been sending, colder and more distant each week. It hurt him badly to hear what I'd been accused of. It hurt him more to learn that I was not innocent of the charges.

  He's twelve. He's learned that his twin sister murdered dozens of people. Some in the heat of anger, others in the coldest, most cynical blood.

  I'm glad he will never come visit me. I don't want to look into his eyes and see what isn't there anymore.

  Gedes is still watching, but I suppose it's fitting that he sees this next part. I walk to the emptiest corner of the room, fingers sliding through sigils to conjure oak and steel to me. A statue appears, the judge behind his podium, robes and hood in place, all cut from a huge block of unvarnished oak wood. An oak-handled steel axe in my hand. Channeled steel into my body for strength, but not the coolness and steadiness in my soul. I need to let these feelings be my own.

  I swing the axe with an angry grunt, and chop halfway through his arm. The return swing carves a foot-wide gouge into his chest. I chop, and swing, and heave. I am shouting, screaming. His head bounces away, and I'm destroying the desk next, breaking everything down. Not just the man but his authority, the station that stood between him as a human being and the human beings that he sends to live in chains and bars and stone. A huge, rending screams tears out of me and my last overhead swing smashes the desk in two. I dispel it with a flick and recreate it, again. I swing, and chop, and I scream out my rage.

  I want to go home.

  I get rid of the shards and wreckage, create another effigy, Inquisitor Pina. The axe carves in her forehead, she bleeds splinters on the floor. I cut her legs away, knock her to the ground. I plant my foot on her chest and chop down at her with my axe, over and over, brutalizing, venting rage. My hands are bleeding, blisters broken, I use steel to harden my flesh and I keep going.

  Another. I smash the smug inquisitor down, hewing at her. Not like a tree, like a murder victim. I don't attack like a lumberjack, I'm slashing at her like a madwoman, a serial killer, a mad dog.

  Cast away the wreckage. Another statue.

  This time I'm breaking myself. It hurts. If you vent enough anger, it should hurt. Natalie's raised arm is snapped off, the sweep of her hair is broken away. Her skinny knees are chopped away, and then I start pounding in the overhead swings to utterly destroy that smug, mocking grin. It takes me a long time.

  I toss the axe away, it clangs hollowly on the stone floor. I hurt all over, every muscle. My breath is heaving so hard I feel like I'm going to vomit, and I'm sweating so hard it doesn't even look like I'm crying at all.

  Curve air, enrich the oxygen, cool the air down- my breathing slows in seconds. Crafting water and curving it, I wreath myself in whirlpools to immerse myself, all the sweat and salt and stink of exertion is rinsed clean, and then I send the water funneling through the air to deposit in the bathtub. I'm clean, dry, washed, settled. Composed. Nothing to see here. I dispelled the broken oak, and the axe. I look around the room.

  Like nothing happened. Anger moved through here and touched nothing. My anger rose and spent itself and it never mattered. Now it's gone. For once, I haven't hurt anyone.

  "My Lady, I should take the liberty of calling a healer," Gedes said with a throat-clearing.

  I conjured gauze, and started wrapping my hands. "Yes, Gedes, that is probably for the best. Have we any appointments for the rest of this day?"

  "I've notice of a handful of potential well-wishers, and some that offer a condolence. Shall I prepare a list?"

  "Yes, that would be kind. And when there is opportunity, a mug of hot cocoa? The weather is fine for it, and one should never squander good cocoa weather."

  He left to get me a doctor, a hot chocolate and a list of people that might drop by to congratulate me on my acquittal or sympathize with my incarceration. I stood at the window, staring out and up. The sky looked fine today. I really should learn to fly, to some degree. I've envied every sorcerer I've seen take to the air. My fingers rode over the leather upholstery on the lounge, fiddled with the brass buttons that held the corners to the frame. I had several letters in my other hand, pressed against my chest. They are neatly folded, but I can tell whose they are, he still has good taste in stationery. I want to go home.

  Presently my blisters were mended and I held a warm mug with cinnamon sprinkled on top. I stood by the window until the guildmaster of the minstrels was announced.

  My first father had a cheeky little cuckoo clock, the kind that would play out a little scene. Doors would open, and a little painted pig would escape the barn and run in circles around its track, while the painted farmer and his painted wife chased after it, long loops around the clockwork farmhouse. It was kitschy as hell, damn near camp. He was that kinda guy, very Mumford and Sons, mason jars, beard wax. He was putting that stuff behind him after a while, gotta grow up donchaknow, blend into corporate society. He's got the faux-vintage tattoos on his forearms though.

  I moved like the farmer's wife, just coasting on my track, driven by the wound springs and slipping escapements, following my timer and moving according the switched tracks that were hidden in the floor. I glided over as if there were no feet under my skirt, just a hidden cable to drag me from place to place. I wish things could have been different. There was never really a choice.

  "Good evening! I am so glad you could make this time for me!"

  "Good evening, my lady. I am so sorry to hear about the events of this day, a tragic blow I'm sure."

  "Oh, somewhat, yes, but I've said for weeks that the hardest part was not knowing. Today, at least, I have been settled to some degree. Not my ideal outcome, but before I had no ground under my feet."

  "Well that is a surprisingly positive outlook."

  "The only one for me. Now then, dear sir, would you sit? I would like to hear all about recent developments!"

  "Thank you, quite," he said. It felt unreal that he was talking to me. But then, it felt unreal that I was talking to him. Just painted plastic, scooting along my track when the hour is struck.

  "So, let me ask first: Ansell's Quest?"

  "I must say that it's a surprising success! Such a minor change, but the audiences are reacting to it. Most of them are used to hearing it word-for-word and when you introduce that minor change very early, adding just a few extra lines about the blow to his head, it makes them notice. But they never react to that part, not really. And then at the siren's grotto, you've only slightly changed the wording of the song, but again it makes them notice. They don't connect yet, but the audience can tell that something different is happening. And then adding the fog at the forest, where he cannot quite tell if the maiden is with him or not... the gasps we get! You can see it take off in their eyes! New depth and dimension! Suddenly they have seen the whole story unspool backwards! They need to hear it again, and they come back the next night, and often the night after that!"

  Last week I took one of the most common tavern-tales of the kingdom and suggested adding a couple of lines here and there that would indicate that rather than going on a fabulous quest through the fairy-lands, that the protagonist is actually delirious in his home with a head wound, slipping into a coma, and tragically enmeshed in his fantasy rather than waking up to his own life. Basic stuff for you and me. Okay, coma-theory. But Hearstwhile has never had coma-theory. I've introduced a whole new way of telling the story. I've introduced the unreliable narrator.

  "So revenues are up?"

  "They are! And then your other story, Sheriff Brody and the Sea Monster-"

  "That's not the title."

  "-well, that's doing huge numbers as well! Surprisingly, especially in coastal towns and fishing villages! I would think that they would hate a story of a seaside resort town plagued by a killer beast in the water, but the story calls to them. You know what part really brings them in? The shanty in the second act, when the three men are comparing scars, sharing drinks and teaching each other songs... and then the crack! as the boat takes a hit! They feel like they're in the story, these are moments they have had, and relate to! My lady, I thought you were a sheltered academic with a pampered lap-dog and a tragic background, but- the common people of the audience are drawn in by your words like never before! The lawman, the fisherman, the philosopher, they all seem so real!"

  "You are most kind."

  "And you have said that you have many more of these?!"

  "Let us take it one at a time. In a little bit I will tell you about The Thirteenth Fiveday. But first, let's get into The Gnolls of Wartop Mountain. What do you know of coffee shops?"

  -----------

  When I have the place to myself again, I sit and watch the sunset. Tomorrow I will see Baroness Grancine again, and a third cousin from House Freckentop that wants to discuss investment strategies. On Sixthday, Captain Maspers is coming to visit, which is a surprise to me. Not unwelcome though, he's nice. The sun is down already, it seems like I just blinked and it was gone.

  I stood, and looked around. Nobody. Gedes had quietly removed himself. I try not to disturb him at odd hours, he does so much during the day and he deserves his time off. I drew the curtains, and I was alone again. Isolated.

  Shaking like a leaf in a storm, I walked to my bedroom. The dress whisked itself off me, fluffed out its own wrinkles and sorted itself in for washing. The bedroom was cold. No sounds anywhere, like there was no world outside this and no humanity would ever return. I have never been farther from home. Never needed it this badly. I straightened my nightgown, and slipped under the covers. I scooted way over to one side, nearly off the bed, and I put my back to the middle. I couldn't look. I wouldn't bear it.

  I broke a promise I made to myself twelve years ago.

  The very first time I looked at my essence affinities.

  I shaped the gestures, and I conjured him. The bed sagged under weight. I curved, so he would not wake up. He slept across from me, and I slept on my side. I did not look his way. In due time, his side of the bed warmed up. I slept and did not dream.