The final vote had passed forty minutes ago. Neville Browning had been standing in the gallery when it happened. He had watched the numbers climb the board, watched the chamber react before the presiding officer had finished speaking. The Coastal Revitalization Act had passed at the second time of asking. The bill would be on the President’s desk by Monday morning, and written into law by the end of next week.

  The last twenty-four hours had been brutal, even by the usual standards. A late dash to the airport. A half-empty red-eye from Greenhaven to Columbria. Another taxi. A gray hotel room he’d barely used. Straight back out to catch the vote.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept properly.

  But it had been worth it. Sir Richard would be pleased.

  Most commentators had predicted the opposite result. Edward Reeves' sudden, unexpected passing was supposed to have galvanized his base. He was well-liked on both sides of the aisle and popular with the public. He’d beaten the bill once already; his death should have made a second defeat a foregone conclusion. But Browning knew better. Reeves’ death wasn’t purely a practical matter. It was a message. And the right people would understand it when they read the coroner's report—not for what it said, but for what it didn't.

  Browning checked his watch. Three-seventeen. Friday afternoon was the graveyard shift of the political week—the perfect time to bury something. Most of the building had emptied already, and that was entirely the point. A full house carried more unknowns; more risk to manage. A late afternoon vote at the end of the week could be relied upon to be expedient and predictable, its participants already mentally elsewhere.

  Browning rocked slowly on his heels under the rotunda’s great domed ceiling. A shaft of pale afternoon light fell down through a circular opening at the top of the dome, and pooled on the marble floor below, indifferent to the events and emotions of the day. This cavernous, old space had a habit of playing tricks with the sound—conversations carrying further than intended, whispers finding the wrong ears. But, today, it simply seemed to absorb everything.

  Across the floor, he watched two senators, walking quickly, heads down. The kind of exit that said everything without saying anything. No press. No speeches. Just a quiet beeline for the door. He knew their names, their districts, their donors. And now he knew they had voted against Sir Richard’s interests. He filed that away for later.

  Charles Hartley had left even earlier—the moment the result was clear, before the chamber had even fully processed it, he was already on his feet. He had been incandescent; the kind of deep red that would have delighted Sir Richard. Browning had watched him from across the gallery. The expression. The body language. Hartley was not normally a man who let his internal weather betray him. Today was different. He had lost a friend and a war in the same week; that would break many men. Browning wasn’t sure whether it would break Hartley, but he knew that, one way or another, it would elicit a response. Whatever that response would be, Sir Richard would no doubt already be three steps ahead of it.

  Browning angled away from an approaching cluster of bodies toward a quiet spot near one of the tall marble columns. A brown suit in a sea of black, gray and navy. He’d been doing this so long now that discretion had become instinct.

  Once, his life had been simple. He had been a civil servant doing mundane work in an office cubicle. But Sir Richard had plucked him from obscurity, shown him a different life. Given him a purpose. A taste of power. And Browning had accepted it without hesitation. He had quickly become Sir Richard Helpmann’s right hand. The polite beckoning finger preceding the hidden fist.

  Then came the compromises.

  At first, they were small. Easy to justify. Necessary, even. For the greater good. That’s what he told himself. A slight bend of the rules here, a toe over the line there. Nothing that kept him up at night. But Helpmann was a master of gradual descent. Browning had watched countless men wade willingly into his waters, before losing touch with the shore. The good men would fight the hardest—thrashing, grasping, certain they could find their way back to solid ground, despite Helpmann’s icy grip pulling them downward. He had seen it more times than he cared to count—that look. Eyes that held a moment of devastating clarity, just before the struggle stopped, and they finally let themselves sink.

  Browning hadn't realised that the same thing was happening to him until his feet touched the bottom. And, after eight years surviving at this pressure, he knew that going back to the surface was no longer an option.

  He smoothed his tie, as automatic as breathing.

  Time to call Sir Richard.

  He dialed the number from memory. Helpmann insisted he keep all his devices clean. Phones could get lost. And then they got found. So Browning carried everything he needed in his head. He could dial those eleven digits in the dark. He suspected that, if he fell and cracked his skull, the amnesia might take everything else, but that damned number would still be locked inside.

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  Two rings. Always two. Was it deliberate?

  Helpmann answered.

  "Neville, dear boy. I trust you have news."

  Browning found himself nodding.

  "It passed, Sir Richard."

  Silence on the other end of line; Browning didn’t dare count, but he was certain he could have made it to at least eight.

  "Was it close?"

  "A landslide."

  Helpmann gave a faint hum of acknowledgment. “Just as I thought. Without Reeves’ tub-thumping, the environmentalists had no oil drum to warm their hands around."

  “Indeed. I believe the message was received. Things are somewhat muted here.”

  Another pause. Somewhere behind Browning, a cleaner’s trolley rattled across the marble floor

  “Muted. Good.”

  “The act will be written into law within seven days.”

  “And the girl? Did she make her trip to the university?”

  “She did. She and her friend spoke with Gideon Vale.”

  “Ah, Professor Vale." Helpmann’s voice carried a faint trace of amusement. "And what did that old relic have to say?"

  “He doesn't appear to know anything of real consequence. No active ties to Bennett. No mention of Ephyra. Just whispers about the Lockwood woman’s research. Enough to keep the girl interested, I expect.”

  Another pause, another hum. "Very good. Let's keep an eye on Vale. It’s possible he may have been holding back; he’s sharper than he looks. Assign someone to keep an eye on him a while longer. If he reaches out to anyone, however inconsequential it may seem, I want to know about it.”

  Browning nodded again. “And the teenagers?”

  “Yes—we need to keep them moving. Put them in the shop window.”

  "Of course. What next? Another one of Bennett’s old contacts?"

  A long pause. Longer than usual.

  “No. No, I don’t think so, Neville.” Helpmann exhaled softly through his nose. “ I’ve got something a little different in mind. I want you to plant something in her father’s records. A membership. Something that leads her to the Bellemont Cascadia.”

  Browning frowned. “The Cascadia?”

  Silence hummed on the line.

  “She won’t find Bennett at the Cascadia, Sir Richard. It’s one of the most prestigious members’ clubs in the country. If he is alive, he’d be foolish to go there, especially given he was a member. He’d be recognised. Besides, if you wanted access, you could simply—”

  “Must I do all of your thinking for you, Neville? A fisherman doesn’t bait his line to catch one particular fish.”

  The rotunda shifted around Browning—a burst of laughter from somewhere near the steps, rising and dissolving before it reached him. Browning rubbed the back of his neck. “So there’s something else… at the Cascadia…

  …oh.”

  “There it is.”

  Browning’s hand moved from his neck. “The Arcanium Order?”

  “Indeed.” Helpmann’s voice slowed, each syllable carefully considered. “The girl has the right blood, Neville. Her father may have been a member once upon a time. Bennett too.” A pause. “If I’m right, the Order will notice her. They may even feel compelled to protect her. And if they do—”

  “They’ll reveal themselves,” Browning finished.

  “Exactly. And we’ll be ready.”

  Browning’s gaze drifted across the rotunda. Near the east corridor, an aging senator was holding court with a journalist—dark hair, gray coat, her back to him. Her pen wasn’t moving. He didn’t blame her. It had been a long day.

  “One more thing, Neville,” Helpmann said. “While you’re in the parents’ files, if there are any property records, have them removed.”

  Browning hesitated. “You don’t want her finding her old home?”

  “I want her focused. Not chasing ghosts. This isn’t just about Bennett. We do this right, and we dismantle the Arcanium Order. Permanently.”

  “Understood, Sir Richard.”

  The line had already gone dead.

  Browning stood beneath the rotunda’s giant dome. It was almost silent now, just the distant click of a door somewhere, and the faint echo of his own breathing.

  Once, he'd had a family—people who waited for him, who wanted him home. But now, he had only this.

  Sir Richard. The endless game.

  He realised that his fingers were fiddling with the knot in his tie again. He tucked the phone back into his blazer pocket.

  And then he went back to work.