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Oh god, oh god. I'm still doing it, aren't I?

I'm still fucking up my life and everything around me! It's not just past mistakes catching up with me and ruining my romantic bliss; I'm still fucking clueless, still toying with forces I don't understand, like I can dance between the fucking raindrops.

I played with people's emotions, and I played with the existential essence of the universe, innocently thinking that what I could see was all that was happening. There were consequences building beneath the surface and I just chose not to see them, instead distracting myself with the next conquest, the next adventure.

Oh, I have the ability to travel between realities? Cool. I'm Game. I'll just have some fun figuring out what the rules are, and cook a great meal and screw my boyfriend – I've been over this before, I know, but I've only been exploring this ability for a week so I haven't had a chance to make that many mistakes.

It's enough, though. The reality of 2006 is fracturing, and I was too wrapped up in myself and in John to even notice that I was shattering the fucking world.

I pushed and pulled and slid, and of course that made ripples. How could I think there'd be no consequences? The ripples carried a galleon – sorry, Tom, I mean a clipper – right into Tennessee. They carried a few thousand Italian lire into my wallet.

I look at the stairs. The lighthouse is on a cliff lined with rocks, as lighthouses often are. I'm grey around the muzzle, and although the prospect of mounting those stairs again fills me with dread, maybe that's what I should do. Maybe that'll fix things, or at least put a cork in the damage.

I wonder what'll happen when my crooked old body splatters onto the rocks. Whether I'll just stop existing, or 'move on' in a tunnel of white light. Or maybe I'll wake up in the hospital, with one of those sexy, forgettable med students injecting me with an antipsychotic because all this time I've been rambling through my hallucinations.

Maybe I'll wake up in another body, in another place and time and world, and I'll get to fuck that one up too unless I find some poison or a gun or a big fucking rock and end that version of my story too, and the next, and the next, and spend the full span of eternity eliminating myself from worlds that don't deserve to be subjected to a fuck-up like me.

I creak my way up the stairs. It's harder now it's cold, and I hear the wind howling above, but I'm only holding a candle instead of a jug of lamp-oil and that easy my ascent a little.

The wind whips at my layers of cloaks, pushing my hood back no matter how often I tug it over my face. I keep my back to the light and try to see the ocean, and a my old eyes adjust it slowly changes from a black haze to a blue haze, with a small dark shape halfway to the horizon and moving closer.

I wonder if it's a ship. Doomed and rudderless, careening toward the rocks, ignorant of the lighthouse's warning or powerless to heed it. I wonder if it's a clipper, that'll disappear beneath me, to be found in Tennessee.

Climbing over the rail is even harder than climbing the stairs, and as I straddle the cast-iron bar, I take some deep breaths. I know that if I climb fully over, even if I cling to the rail I won't have the strength to pull myself back. The cold is biting, the salt air stings my tongue and the damp lights a fire in my joints. I hate being up here.

Cold, pain and hate are just sensations, though. I actually take a moment to enjoy them. In the grand scheme of the universe, even the most miserable of experiences is a privilege.

Hydrogen atoms and neutron stars and X-rays don't get to feel cold or sad. Nobody ever loved a quark. What justice is there in a universe that would waste these monumental blessings on a loser like me?

Do I really want to quit this?

If heartache, regret and guilt are such a privilege, do I really want to just let it all go?

Yes.

Oh god, yes, yes, yes! God's cruelest prank was to endow us with a heart, just as nature's sickest joke was to give us nerves. They let us feel joy and warmth and trigger orgasm, sure, but we all learn, as we get older, that these are just side-effects to their true purpose. Our bodies evolved specifically to feel pain, as much as possible, as often as possible. God crafted our souls and minds so that we'd be able to accrue as much suffering as we could in one lifetime, and remember our part in causing it.

Pain in my fingers, pain in my groin from straddling the rail. I lean sideways and fall.

The wind grows stronger, rushing up the side of the cliff to meet me, but the rain on my head stops. It's almost worth a laugh – I'm falling as quickly as the raindrops, trying to race ahead of them, to reach the finish-line before they inevitably catch up.

John doesn't cross my mind in those last moments, and if that sounds unromantic, go look in the mirror and slap yourself in the face. Come on. He's the love of my life, but he only holds that honor because I was too dumb to fall in love before. He's done it. He'll do it again. He'll move back to Montana, give up on art, inherit his dad's truck and make his living hauling livestock across the state and screwing twinks and working girls at truck stops. And he'll be happier than I could ever make him.

No, none of that crosses my mind as I fall. It's only a few seconds anyhow. There's a fleeting image of my parents, the Kennas, though I don't know what they're called in this version. I just think of them as Mitchell and Doreen; that seems most familiar right now.

I think of stupid shit, because I really didn't have anything planned for the way down. Fishing for mackerel with my dad. Grinding pigments and carefully mixing them to match the gold of my pelt. Sneaking into the Ver Tallens orchard with my friend Allon.

What the fuck? What the fuck?

I had a friend. How the hell could I not remember that? I never had friends, growing up, not real ones, not in any of the versions I've visited or channeled. Except for Allon. He's, he's, oh fuck, think, Game, think! He's my age. No, a month older. The son of the Kennas neighbours, the source of my parents' jealousy and envy and sorrow at remaining childless, the straw that tipped the scales and made them keep me when they found me.

No.

Not tonight, sharp pointy rocks, not yet. I'm half a heartbeat away from being a geriatric ragout on the rocks below, but I close my eyes, and leave.

•

I don't open them immediately. I know I'm in the Briarwoods north of Visène City, and I'm lying in the moss while my horse lazily canters back to where I fell.

Ow.

My cloak is stained with travel and judging by the state of my breeches and tunic, this isn't the first time I fell off my horse. I roll onto my back, enjoying the dappling of sunlight on my face, filtered through the canopy of trees.

I feel a little guilty. That poor lighthouse-keepr, content to wait out the end of his days until I slipped into his head with all my worries and self-pity, and used his aching body to commit suicide. Oh well. At least the only person I harmed was myself, in a sick way.

I blink my eyes open and frown, concerned at how easy I find it to shrug off the guilt. No, I don't discard it, that's not how it is... I absorb it. I accept it, and add it to the vast reservoir of self-judgment I've already accumulated. I move on with my life.

I'm twenty, but by the standards of this world I'm almost middle-aged. Lives aren't that long, here, and if I'd stayed in Carrick rather than striking out on my own, I'd be a source of suspicion and outraged gossip for being wifeless at my age. The Sayer would visit me regularly, suggesting to make introductions to this young lady or that one, or noting that the blacksmith's daughter will be turning sixteen soon, also a late bloomer...

That isn't why I came here.

I'm here for Allon. My friend. From childhood, I think. We played together all the time – how could I not remember that? That's why Carrick was my favorite version of my youth, wasn't it?

You often hear that ignorance is bliss, but that's wrong. There's no bliss in not knowing, not doing, not being. That's just stasis. Constance. No, bliss is curiosity. The excitation of your mind, the honing of all your faculties in pursuit of an elusive answer.

Everything else fades. It doesn't fall away entirely, it just fades. Worry, grief, recrimination. You feel new and fresh, setting off on a rousing quest. There is no better escape from a problem you can't solve than a problem you might solve.

And so I roll over, groaning, and get to my feet, shaking the leaves out of my cloak. With a cluck of my tongue my horse comes to me – Brya, she's called, a fine mare that I bought when I sold my shop in the City. After years of patience and careful conversation in the taverns I finally found someone who'd known someone who'd almost been executed alongside a man who might have been called Mistle, and I traded the whole life I'd built for supplies, goods, money-pledges and maps.

Brya's confused when I lead her away and turn her back to Visène, but we have a long eastward trek ahead of us and we're low on supplies.

“To Carrick, Brya," I whisper to her and myself, looking at the moss-encrusted trees and the second moon high above, pale against the sunlit sky, studying the worn leather of my fitted gloves, feeling the scabbed wound on my lip where Mistle struck me in his final moment, and concentrate. Focus on this world, and Allon, and flee from thoughts of John as quickly as Brya's hooves can mange.

•

You age quickly in the cities, quicker still on the roads. A lone guardswoman snoozes in her shack on the road into Carrick proper, her presence a mere formality since the town's too small to warrant a proper gate in a proper wall. I could ride on by and go about my business, but there's something very satisfying about doing what I'm supposed to. Carrick still holds a tender place in my heart, and I want to do right by it.

A whicker from Brya wakes her, the portly badger nearly tipping from his bench. She grumpily struggles to get his helmet on and gives up with a snarl, hoisting herself to her feet. I show her my mark of passage, tell her my business is with the Writ. I look her in the eyes throughout all this, my hood drawn up only to cover my ears. And still she doens't recognize me.

Her name is Vanney, the ostler's widow. She tought me how to tie knots when I was a boy, and how to mend a good rope when it started to fray. She'd long harbored the dream of joining the national Lance of Delphe, but a youthful pregnancy and pressure from her parents prevented it. It pleases me to know that she didn't let herself just wither after her husband's death.

Evidently she took arms, no doubt bullying some of the young men into teaching her the fundamentals of pike-play, and earned her place as protector of Carrick's road. I'm very pleased for her, but my smile only causes her to frown in confusion and slap Brya on the haunch to send me on my way.

No-one remarks my passage, other than the usual curiosity when a stranger wanders into town. It's busier than I remember and the children show a lot less interest in a hooded rider than I did in my day; trade must have picked up considerably since I left. I smirk at the thought of Carrick gradually becoming cosmopolitan. My smile fades as I push the unfamiliar word out of my mind, back to the world where it belongs.

Carrick isn't large, but it's dense and confusing, all the more so now new houses and stores have been built that I don't remember. All the same I can follow my nose, the scent of parchment and ink drawing me to the squat, stately building where I once signed my name under my parents' watchful gaze.

A youth steps out as I approach, an otter in an apprentice-blue tunic, who struggles with the rolls of parchment and vellum stacked in his arms. No more than fourteen, his age shows in his gangliness. All knees and elbows. Dismounting Brya I take a moment to whisper a promise that I'll take her to water right after I'm done, and approach the otter just in time to keep a fallen scroll from tumbling into the mud.

“Gratitutde, stranger," he says, relief in his bright, dark eyes. “May I help you? Insofar as I'm able, of course; my master bade me to deliver these to the Arbiter, and–“

I silence him with a smile. I'm old enough that I can do that, now, and the thought amuses me. “It's your master I have business with. Am I permitted to interrupt him?"

The otter's whiskers droop, and he turns to join me in looking up at the grimy window of the Writ's chamber, glowing because the old wolf prefers candles over sunlight. “That is for His Accuracy to decide. Good day," he says with an awkward bow that threatens to send all the parchments sprawling, and he trots off.

As he does, I wonder if I'm attracted to him. And before you get your Irish up in outrage, I'll remind you that my parents dies in their early forties, and were considered old by the standards of this world. The boy would be eligible for marriage if he weren't still apprenticing.

I don't know. He had a fine figure, unflattering as the tunic was, but attraction doesn't appear to be wired into this head of mine. It was revenge that kept my heart beating. And now curiosity.

I have to remember to make noise as I make my way up the stairs; my usual stealth would no doubt cause the old wolf a fright, and he doesn't deserve that. “Hullo!" I call out, and hear laughter from beyond the door at the top of the stairs.

It's flung open by a squinting wolf in a well-washed robe that would look resplendant on him if he weren't wearing it back-to-front. “Game! My word, is it you?"

I trot up the stairs with a smile, pushing my hood back. I stick my paw out for a shake, which the Writ blithely ignores. “You're the first to recognize me, Your Accuracy."

“None of that, now," he says with a cough and a laugh, pushing scrolls to one side of an already overcrowded table, and slaps the back of a chair. “I'm plain old Arfer to the likes of you. Sit, sit!"

“Gratitude," I say, making a point to sound wearier than I am when I seat myself on the wooden chair. “I'll strike you a compromise and call you 'Sir', and that's my final offer. I can hardly call you by a name I've never used before, can I?"

“Just so, just so," says the wolf, shuffling back to the table with one dirty cup and one clean one, putting the latter in front of me. He picks the teapot off its perch over a small candle, hooks a finger over the edge of my cup, and pours me the first cup of tea I've had in over a year. “You know, you came to mind just two double moons ago, did you know that?"

It takes a moment before I realize he's sincerely asking me that question. “No, sir, I didn't know that."

“Don't tell young Ecker, but I'm preparing his copy of the Book of Carrick. He deserves a nice new one; I haven't been as careful with mine as I ought to have been." He sips his tea, and so do I, and just when it seems he's forgotten what he was talking about, I see him frown. “I was copying your parents' pages, you see, halfway through the Book. Mickel and Doria. I was at their wedding, you know, they were so young and beautiful, and so in love. I remember telling Merent, the previous Arbiter, how I was sure there'd be children following before Spring, but he was quite the cynic, you see, and, well, as you know–“

I place my paw on his, frowning with concern. Where some might see an old man rambling, drunk on the rare pleasure of company, I see a man in pain, whose pride has been scarred, and he's too nervous to admit it. “What happened to my parents' pages, sir?" I ask gently.

“Nothing, their pages were fine. But copying those made me, well, I'm a little nostalgic in my old age, so you can imagine the copying isn't going as swift as I'd..." He looks up at me, and for a moment the candles flicker, and I can see how milky his eyes are. “I'd hoped, so badly, that you would apprentice with me. I was sure you would. Ecker, bless him, he tries hard, but he hasn't your wit," he says, jabbing a finger at my forehead, barely missing my eye.

“I can still read, you know. A friend of the Sayer's, from Adème City, once brought a looking-glass for me. Have you seen one? It's quite the wonder, it magnifies and clarifies, and it's ever so useful... but even with the looking-glass I couldn't read your pages." He withdraws his paws from the table, clutching at his chest, and lowers his head. “Your pages were gone, Game."

“They were torn from the Book?"

He shakes his head, his chin still on his chest, weeping. “No, not torn. Cut. They were cut. I was so angry. I was so angry. How could you do that to an old man?" he snarls, standing up and sending his chair clattering backward. He strides toward me and clutches at my cloak with a force you wouldn't expect in such a frail old body, and I resist the urge to shove him back for fear of killing him.

“How could you? It wasn't enough to leave your home, and to leave me without a worthy apprentice? Do you hate us so much that you'd steal into my sanctum and erase yourself from its history? And then you come here to gloat?!"

“Master Pucking!" The otter dashes up the stairs and pulls the old wolf by the shoulders, gently, turning him around to let the wolf cry against his chest. “Apology, stranger. He's not usually like this. There, there, Arfer. Let's go sit by the window, and you can continue telling me about the Ver Tallens lineage." As he bundles the stooped old wolf away, and I'm about to speak, he shoots me a look that silences me. “Perhaps in a few days, stranger. Good day."

•

Time. It's a burglar, isn't it? Oh, it gives us trinkets when we're young, dazzles us with the growth of our body and our ever-changing role in the world. Then it leaves us to our own devices in adulthood, when the passing of seasons and the changing of things seems commonplace and everyday, and a source of comfort.

But when grey starts to creep around the snout, Time steals into our home to take back all those things we thought were given, not loaned. The strength we earned through play and labor, the keenness of our senses. And those cursed to live as long as the Writ find themselves robbed, piecemeal, of their faculties.

Leading my mare to the watering post and leaving a coin with the ostler for some oats, I hoist my pack from her saddlebag and observe my beloved Carrick with the eyes of a stranger. I see men and women I knew as boys and girls, and I see boys and girls that hadn't yet been imagined when I left. I see Time's gifts being put to good use, but the sight doesn't warm me. Like all loans, they will be collected, and it won't be long at all.

As I cross the edge of Carrick and head into the woods, I can't help but think of John. My story, no doubt, continues in 2006. It's been half a moon since I left, and who knows what happenedthere in the meantime?

Perhaps I made amends with John, found some cunning way to explain myself, and impressed him so much with my honesty that he took me back.

That would be nice, wouldn't it?

Or perhaps my aneurysm ruptured one morning and I was buried perfunctorily, with all the pomp and dignity awarded to the uninsured, because I have no next of kin on file. There's no way John could know I'd died, unless maybe Kevin had an acquaintance in common with Clarissa. I think I'd rather he didn't know. It would save him some guilt and he could just move on, and that would be nice, too.

Or maybe my leaving was the straw that broke the camel's back. That last shift, out of the doctor's office and onto the forest floor, maybe that was more than the reality of 2006 could withstand, and the world collapsed in fire and chaos, taking John with it.

I have no way of knowing. Well, no way that I consider to be an option. I could take a peek, maybe, but maybe that would be the camel's last straw. And if it wasn't, I don't know that I could resist seeking out John, and begging him, and causing him more grief. So I have no way of knowing.

Ignorance, I assure you, isn't bliss.

Which leaves me with curiosity. And curiosity lead me through the woods for an hour, pushing perilously close to nightfall, to a tree amid hip-high nettlebushes.

The Writ hasn't been here in many years, I'm sure of it. I drop my pack and fetch a billy-club from it, whacking at the nettlebush while I shield my eyes from the fuzzy leaves that fly about. It's dangerous work, and I'm perhaps a little careless, but I must know.

Years have passed and the tree has tried to heal, but my knife cut deep, and I was patient, and since then I've learned the rudiments of tracking. I chew at my fingertips to peel off my glove, and run the pads of my fingers over the bark, feeling for whatever scratches I can't see in the failing light.

I read the litany of misdeeds I carved here, copied to perfection from a glimpse of the Book when I was a boy. Firm, confident letters which impressed the Writ, the poor man, enough to want me for his successor. Letters describing the many little sins I committed as the apple of my parents' eye.

My breath catches as, among them, I see one – no, two... a third. A fourth. Four mischiefs, four marks among many that tarnished my name in Carrick's Book before it was vandalized.

Four that mention Allon as an accomplice.

I blink, and John's adorable canine habits must have rubbed off on me in the dark, because I cant my head and flick an ear in bafflement.

Not because I see Allon's name on the tree; that only confirms what I suspected. I'm baffled because Allon is referred to as a she.

•

My pages have been missing from the Book for at least two double moons, so they would have been taken before the summer. Hell, they could have been taken a week after I left Carrick, for all I know; the Writ would have had no reason to revisit my pages after the Kenna house was sold. There's no clue there.

Who would have reason to remove them, though? Why would anyone want to erase evidence of me? No, if that was the goal, then they'd have taken my parents' pages too...

No. No, this is the wrong train of thought. If the goal was my erasure, they'd have had to remove the pages of everyone I slighted or stole from in my youth. And the page for the Ver Tallens girl and her husband, who bought my childhood home. So many of those people were still in Carrick, their absence would have been noticed long ago.

The evidence, then, has to be here. I rummage through my pack for some oil and flint, don my gloves again to wrap the dryest nettle-leaves around a stick, and light my makeshift torch to light the tree that the setting sun wants to hide from me. It's hard to read by the flickering light, and I haven't enough oil for another torch, so I read with all haste.

The process of elimination is what guides me. I know with some certainty which of the sins on this litany weren't the vandal's target, so it must be one of the general crimes, or the ones so slight that they wouldn't have been noted in the victim's pages.

The time I swapped lamp-oil for brandy in the Norrich Tavern's kitchen, so when the chef proudly brought out a roast hog and lit it with a flourish, the flames consumed the whole meal and burned so fiercely that a bucket of water had to be poured on the table.

Feeding lies to Mrs. Illangue's daughter, sos she would tell her mother and the gossip would spread like bats from a school bus – concentrate, Game, concentrate.

None of these make any sense. There's nothing here that would have even been mentioned in the Book if I'd been born in a city, where children grow up rougher.

Eight counts of truancy, two of them in Allon's company, are mentioned as a single item. Another brandy-related prank at the Norrich, this time pouring it into the trough outside the tavern so the horses would lurch home as unsteadily as their riders. None of this makes sense.

But it has to be here. Anything else on my pages would be common knowledge among the people of Carrick; my parentage, my address, my age and occupation. All of that would have been copied into the Book of the City after I arrived, and I've never heard of anyone violating the sanctity of a City's Book.

My torch, at last, fails me, and I surrender. I jab it into the ground and stamp out any remaining heat, dousing it with mud, and look up to find the third moon in the sky. Following it should take me close enough to Carrick that I could find my way blindfolded.

•

I should be grateful, really. My curiosity about Allon was just the distraction I needed, and in pursuing it I came upon a greater mystery. This one should keep me occupied for a good while, and who knows where it might lead!

As I trek back to the town, occasionally needing to climb a tree to see the moon through the canopy (sometimes it's a great advantage, being a feline) I feel a stone weight in my stomach. I can smell the rain in the air; in less than two days it'll be pouring down, and I don't have enough money for leather.

When I figure out where I should head next I'll have nothing to look forward to but a soaked, shivering journey with far too little sleep. I've travelled enough to know that extra vigilance is needed in the colder season; hunger drives bandits to desperation.

As if to prove me right, the night-time rustling of the trees swells as a light drizzle patters the leaves overhead, continuing to intensify, and I know I'll be sodden to the bone within minutes of stepping beyond the woods' protection. What a blessed life I lead!

Carrick is deserted, except for a few lanterns carelessly left hanging here and there. Stealth isn't required, since I don't really have anything to hide, and I make my way among the houses to the ostler, and find Brya missing. I'm not concerned; country people are thoughtful, and the ostler likely gave Brya a nice dry stable to sleep in, for which he'll charge me in the morning.

To the Norrich, then. A meal, a glass of something warming – the tree's given me quite a craving for brandy, which I might indulge – and a decent night's sleep in the cheapest bed they have. I'll warm my bones and dry my clothes, however futile that might be, and figure out where I'll go in the morning.

The rain and wind are so noisy, and I'm so lost in contemplation, that I don't even look around when I walk into the Norrich, don't notice how busy it is, nor the hush that falls when I push through the door.

I throw my hood back as I walk to the bar, pulling at the drawstring of my cloak. “A room for the night, if you please, and a plate of whatever's still warm in the kitchen."

The maid at the bar, a ferret whose blue eyes tell me she belongs to a family whose name I can't quite recall, stares at my dumbly, a confused smile lingering on her lips. I fight the urge to be rude, there's no need for that, and simply repeat myself, this time adding a second “please."

And still she stares mute. I'm about to break my vow of courtesy and demand her attention, when she extends a slender finger and point up. My eyes follow, and I see a broad banner of torn burlap, stitched together from throwaways, with Welcome home, Game! scrawled across it in still-wet paint.

•

Arms are flung around me, paws clap on my shoulders, three different people offer at once to help me out of my cloak and wind up pulling me to all sides like a doll being bickered over by greedy sisters.

There's Arry Junior, and sweet old Melda, and Ungton, the baker's half-wit husband. Names and relations and adventures flood my mind as I'm greeted by so many faces from my youth. Schoolmates, now grown into fine men and women, introducing me to their young. Friends of my parents, who ruffle my ears as if I were a cub and tell me they haven't forgotten the mischiefs I visited on them – and remind me that now they're of an age where their reputation means much less than it did in my day, I should watch my back, for they will have their vengeance.

I surrender to it completely, and that night, I know joy. The wine flows from the Arbiter's purse, and when I ask for brandy, the cook comes out of the kitchen to warn me I'd best not be expecting a roast hog. Arry Junior's son has inherited his grandfather's fiddle and the talent to play it; I even join a dance or two, showing off a few “fancy city steps" I learned, when asked.

I know it's shallow sentiment. Let's get that clear. None of these people knew me well, none of them loved me quite as much as their long-faded memories tell them. Many of the jovial partiers have only heard of me by name, and most of those probably were only told about me this afternoon in preparation for the party.

But in the country, people cherish every opportunity for a celebration, because life is hard and joy is fleeting. They paint their memories in bright, cheerful colors so they can be happier that I've returned, to make it a special occasion worthy of mark.

The wine in their brain seeps into the facts they know, and they imagine me their long-lost friend, or a valued customer, or a terror that gave them plenty of outrageous stories to tell. None of it's a lie, but it is an exaggeration.

I wasn't missed deeply, or for very long, when I left. I didn't consort all that much with my schoolmates, and the few fond memories the old shopkeepers have of this or that cheeky thing I said or did are likely the only memories they have of me at all.

But I let them exaggerate. And, hell, after a second cup of brandy – pretty good shit – I'm loose enough that I exaggerate too. I'm enough of a liar that I can easily regale them with my adventures since leaving without mentioning Mistle's blood on my paws, fielding questions from the young about the allure of the City. I tell them of its wonders and liberties, carefully escalating my claims to obvious nonsense and leaving my young audience uncertain about the City's true appeal, much to their parents' obvious relief.

And speaking of relief, as the night wears on and the grownups and cubs trickle out to seek their beds, I receive a fair few hints and intimations from the unattached young women of Carrick. And even from two males, one of them so overt that I find myself blushing, and I wonder just how much has changed about this town's morals since I last visited.

The more modest approach comes from Ecker, to my surprise, and its his awkward advances I decline with the most delicacy.

I briefly consider having a word with the more overt lad and pointing him in the young apprentice's direction, but I know myself well enough to know my judgment isn't the soundest right now. And I'd be a poor guest if I repaid the town's delightful hospitality by being responsible for a scandal.

I encourage Ecker to find his bed, too, and promise him that I won't leave too early, so we'll have time to converse in confidence if his duties allow it. I sense in him a shame and trepidation that I thankfully never suffered when I discovered that boys held as much appeal to me as girls, and even a little more, and I'd like to share with him some wisdom to help him find himself.

I'm nudged awake after dozing off before the tavern's dying fire, and while the youths try to pour me one more brandy and extract one more wild tale, I make my apologies and bid them good night. My stamina isn't what it once was.

The ferret barmaid with the blue eyes helps me chastely to my room, a small but well-appointed chamber that I absolutely couldn't afford. She reassures me that no reckoning will be forthcoming, neither for the comfortable bed nor the filling meal I enjoyed, nor even the breakfast I'll be served in the morning.

Alone, I cast off my traveling clothes and, as she instructed, leave them in a pile outside the door to be washed. I fall naked on the bed. I'm gone before I feel how soft it is.

And even in sleep, the night's warmth and mirth is drained from me as I dream of John walking out of his studio.

•

I'm woken from my fitful slumber by a commotion downstairs and reach immediately under the pillow for my knife, though I'd forgotten to put it there before passing out. I roll off the bed and reach under it, where I piled my money-pouch and the leather valise of marks and pledges that secured my safe travel and citizenship, finding my knife among them, and stalk to the door.

Opening it a crack I hear raised voices downstairs and angry words I can't make out. My body burns with adrenaline, my drink-dulled senses as sharp as the dagger in my paw, and I slink through the door and down the stairs.

I rush down the last few steps and into the hall of the tavern, my eyes adjusting to the lamp-light, scanning my surroundings as I crouch in a fighting stance I learned from a soldier I bedded with a while after leaving the City.

The innkeeper looks at me with some amusement, lifting the tuft on his floppy night-cap to observe my nudity. I feel a little sheepish.

“Game! Game, there you are!" Clutching at the innkeeper's nightgown is the Writ, who pushes the broken-tusked boar aside and rushes toward me. I pull my knife behind me lest the old wolf accidentally thrusts himself upon it, but instead he thumps my chest with a leather-bound volume that knocks the air from my longs. His milky eyes are wide.

“Game, I, I'm sorry, I had to come and tell you," he says, his voice quivering. “There's another page missing."

•

My body tingles with the rush of battle-readiness and the dreams I had make my bed an unappealing prospect, so I tell the Writ I'll sit with him. The innkeeper brings me a blanket and a pot of milk, nestling it among the still-warm coals in the hearth, leaving two mugs and a pot of honey for when it's warm enough.

With the blanket preserving my modesty I clasp the Writ's trembling paws, bidding him to sit, and do the same. “Take the load off, old-timer," I say, and clear my throat. “Be at ease, sir."

“Forgive me, Game, I accused you and I know – I knew it then, but my mind, you see, I sometimes find I..." He takes a breath, and I squeeze his paws, guiding them to put the Book on his lap. I'd have liked to put it on the table, but to separate the Writ from his Book would likely send him into another fit. “I know you didn't do it, Game. You were a menace," he says with a chuckle, “but you always knew your limits. You knew the difference between being a nuisance, and being cruel. I always liked that about you."

“Sir," I say, sounding as soothing as I can. “I went to the tree today. Do you know which one I mean?"

The old wolf's face lights up, all worry and anxiety vanished, replaced with a puppy's glee. “My tree! I haven't visited it in years. Oh, how sweet of you to remember. You must be careful for the nettlebushes, mind, they sting so fiercely!"

I smile at him and nod. “I was careful, not to worry. I went there–“

“I know why you went there, whelp, I'm not feeble," he snaps, glowering at me with the sternness I remembered from my youth. “I would have gone myself, but my duties, you know, I can't just up leave, unlike some recalcitrant cats I could mention." He looks at the Book on his lap. “Oh my goodness... I can't believe I took this out of the sanctum. I'm sorry, Game, but you'll have to sate your childish curiosity another day. Now where did Ecker go? I won't risk taking this back to the sanctum without an extra pair of eyes."

“Arfer," I say, my voice loud enough to get his attention, and he stares at me blankly. What a torment it must be, to have a mind like his and find, one day, that it's no longer under your control. “You found another missing page."

“Yes, yes," he says softly, meekly. He holds the Book out to me, and when I take it he's reluctant to let go. He starts to pull it back, but he closes his eyes, steels his nerves, and withdraws his paws. “I used a biscuit as a bookmark. Oh, my. I really take such poor care of the Book, don't I? What must you think of me..."

“It's fine, sir it's fine. You'll have the new copy finished soon, won't you? All your hard work will be preserved on fresh, clean pages." He sighs in relief, closing his eyes so long I think he might be asleep. I open the book, letting the crumbs of a butter-biscuit fall to the floor. The pages aren't too badly stained.

I flick back a page, then two more, until I find the name of the pages' owner: Wonya Larhenma. I remember the other children used to pick on him because he had a speech impediment and couldn't pronounce his own name right.. I turn the pages back to read the next one: Affert Lochewe.

“I couldn't find my looking-glass. I tried to find it so I could deduce which page was missing, but then I hurried here – Ecker told me you were here when he came to his chambers. So late, so late! I'm not helpless, mind, I don't need him to help me wash myself, but a tavern like this is no place for a boy so promising, not at this hour of the night, party or no..." I let him ramble this time, taking the pot from the hearth to pour too mugs of warm milk, and make sure to stir quite a bit of honey into his before I hand it to him.

“The missing page is between Larhemna and Lochewe.

The Writ sips his milk, and looks relieved. That was the only worry he had when he came here in such a fright, his backwards robes stained with mud from his hurried run to the tavern. “I was wrong," he says calmly and takes another sip. “It wasn't just one page missing. The whole Ley family's pages have been taken."

“Are you certain?" I ask, running my fingerpads along the Book's exposed inner spine. “I only feel one edge. How many were there in the Ley family?"

“Oh, the Leys have been in Carrick since Carrick was Carrick," the grey-muzzled wolf says confidently. “There's... Now, don't rush me, boy, give an old man a moment to put his tired brain to work. Well, ah..." A worried frown crosses his brow. “I... I'm sorry, my mind, you see–“

I put my mug down and clasp his paws, guiding the mug to the table between us. “It's all right, you're safe."

“ Know I'm safe, you dolt!" he snaps, his anger draining immediately, his knobbling fingers clutching desperately at mine. “By the sinners, Game, I can only... Oh goodness, I can only think of Allon Ley."

•

I leave him in the hall only long enough to sneak upstairs, don my sodden clothes from the pile by my door, and bundle my belongings securely in my pack. There isn't much in my purse, but I leave what coins I can spare on the bar, snuff out the lamps, and after I guide the Writ outside I carefully rock the door shut so inner latch falls shut.

I guide him back to his sanctum, sharing my cloak with him against the rain, though he uses it more to protect the Book than himself. I see him in the door and ask him to apologize to young Ecker on my behalf in the morning.

He doesn't speak, clearly worn out from the night's exertions, and I wonder if he'll remember to tell his apprentice I'm sorry I won't be able to see him in the morning.

What a night.

I have my lockpicks in hand when I reach the ostler's stables but, this being Carrick, the doors are only latched, not locked. Brya seems happy to see me, though she clearly got more rest than I did. The other horses fuss as I saddle her, and I can't blame them for being annoyed at having their sleep interrupted.

Only the horses see me leave Carrick for the last time.

•

Allon Ley. I'll be honest: she weighs on my mind more than John does right now. That's not unfaithful. It's normal to be taken with something new and exotic; there's no harm in keeping your juices flowing by letting your eye wander on occasion. And I should know; I've capitalized on such eyes often enough.

In the quiet of the night, as Brya carries me along Carrick's only road amid the turnip patches and rafaller fields, I wear a bemused chuckle.

There can't be that many people who can make poor decisions and, as a result, find themselves in an alien medieval landscape. Well, I say alien... I guess I've gotten used to 2006.

I grew up here, under these moons, just as much as I grew up in... oh, where was it now? Not Wisconsin, that was a different version. Whatever. Carrick feels more real, in my memories, than wherever it was that my 2006 self grew up.

And yet they're all real. People here have never seen a nine-volt battery or cheap softcore porn videos on a cellphone screen, but people back there have never tasted the suckerfruits from the Ver Tallens orchards that I loved so much. Seriously, that shit was like catnip to me as a kitten.

I still can't remember where I grew up. I was twenty years old in 2006 so I was born in '86. The Wisconsin version of me left Cattewick in '91 aged sixteen.... Man, that brandy did a number on my brain.

I wonder if there's any overlap there. If Cattewick exists in 2006, if I'd find the name Game Kenna in the high school records if I drove to Wisconsin. Wouldn't that be far out? Two versions of me in the same world?

For that matter, there's something kind of odd about the distribution of the versions I've become aware of so far. I know this place isn't Earth as I know it. Maybe a different version of the planet – but then it's weird that the same races are walking around.

Huh. And that everyone here speaks English and writes in the Latin alphabet. That's weird.

John's estate was in England, I'm sure of that, so that could have been the same Earth. The German chef, same seal. The cavalerie, I don't know and I'm even less sure about the naked acolyte who prays to a flame and dances naked to the drums, with only his family constellation showing on his chest.

How many others are out there, I wonder. Would it be safe to travel among them, if I only visited each of them once? The catch-22 of that is that I'd never return to any world I'd previously visited, to check whether it was still turning okay.

After I left Carrick as a kid my memories grow hazy, so maybe that's when I slipped into a different story. I came back once to find myself sleeping under a soaked cloak, and I groan as I remember that I have that to look forward to again. And now I'm back again.

Other than a few lapses in my speech and, true, my thoughts, there haven't been many intrusions. I haven't seen anything here that doesn't belong in this world. Maybe the 2006 version is just unstable.

Maybe I should slip into my Wisconsin-born self in whatever year it is now, wait until 2006 and, eleven years older, find a way to introduce myself to John...

I can't stop giggling. It must be the brandy that's making me so silly, but I just can't take this shit as seriously as I know I ought to. Parallel lives, alternate versions, cracks in reality. Must be one hell of an aneurysm, or top-shelf Hong Kong opium, to produce these kinds of hallucinations.

Or it could be 2017, and I could be lying on that gurney. My brain, half-pulped, churning through the last of its chemical-electrical reserves, neurons randomly firing, feeding the vestigal remnants of my consciousness the impression of experience. Just like dream logic, where you just feel you're in a certain place even though there's no sensory evidence to support it.

I'm cold already. I should have taken a night's rest and let them dry my clothes, I really should have. It's another three days' ride to the City. Maybe I can close my eyes and shift into the 24½th century and get a Jetsons-style rocket-car that goes doo-dee-doo-dee-doo as it flits me to my destination.

But my destination doesn't exist there.

There are so many other versions of me, even some other versions of John. But there's only one Allon Ley. And I have to find her. If I don't keep myself occupied I'll be climbing the next fucking light-house I can find.

•

I smell them before I hear them. I smell cannonweed, the favored scent-masking herb of the uninformed highwayman. It really is very good at its job; I have no idea what species they are or how many, but there's one problem: it doesn't grow in the wild this far east.

The scent's getting stronger even though the road heads downwind. They're coming up behind me, and fast. No horses; I can't even hear them running. They're good.

My dagger's under my cloak but, stupidly, I didn't think to strap my clubs to my hip before I rode out. Banditry is rare this close to a town; moreover, the elation of the party and the discovery of Allon's missing page distracted me. Even if there's only one of them, I've had a pint of brandy and only an hour's sleep. Fighting's not an option.

“Sorry, girl," I whisper to Brya and nudge her with my knees. She snorts and tries to get away with a trot, so I nudge her again and snap the reins and she gets the message. We flee at a gallop.

I hope Brya got some rest, because I'll need her to keep this pace for a while. Clever bandits often work in teams, with one chasing their mark while the other waits a few miles up the road until their quarry lets their guard down.

I wouldn't expect that kind of cunning outside of the cities, and if these bastards were so clever they would have known better than to use cannonweed. But I don't feel like taking a risk tonight.

I've been too careless for too long. And I've learned that even though the world revolves around me, it isn't very forgiving of missteps.

•

The rain is unrelenting, but at least it isn't severe. At night I camp deep in the woods, taking the time to backtrack to the road and erase Brya's tracks before the sun sets. The trees' leaves and branches are all the protection I need for a relatively comfortable night's sleep.

One advantage of this region of Delphe is that brooks and streams are easy to find, especially in the rainy season, and there aren't any poisonous weeds to worry about. My mare is in better health and spirits than I am, and I take great comfort in that.

I know she's had more than one owner before I bought her, but we still get on well together. While she can be cheeky when she's in a mood, I pay attention to her needs and she's experienced enough to appreciate that courtesy.

She isn't happy about the pace I set her, not at all. But she accepts it, and I hope she knows I'll see to a nice reward for her when we get where I need to go.

We're going to the City. I don't remember its name, any more than I remember the name of the East Coast city I fled a few weeks ago. It has a name, of course, and I knew it in the past. I discussed arrangements with the Arbiter, I lived there for years. I'm sure it'll come back to me when I get there. If I concentrate. If I care.

To call it a city by modern standards is overly generous. Cattewick was bigger, with more people and a more bustling night-life, and that was in Wisconsin.. Still, to a Carrick teenager's eyes, it was awe-inspiring and grand, and it's retained some of that majesty. Brya is as relieved as I am when its lumber wall comes into view, and stares longingly at the gate while I present my mark to the guards and discuss my business.

Nostalgia, I claim. I lived here a few years ago, I tell them, and I name the street and some of the locals I knew then. The guards are cautious, thorough and professional, and I take no offense. Nothing reeks quite so much of trouble as a lone traveler with no trading goods, after all.

They're courteous when they send me on their way, and even though it's officially against regulations, I push a coin into each of their paws when we shake good-bye. They advise me to take the opportunity to visit the Arbiter's office to get my mark and relevant pledges renewed, as mine are only valid until the summer. Thoughtful of them.

City life is fast, even in a tiny place like... Élique, that's what the city's called. Much faster than the country towns. The buildings are still there; stonework is prevalent here, houses and shops are built to last. But the people change so rapidly.

The fashions are different, the names of shops have changed, the most common foreign accents I overhear as I hitch Brya outside the tavern are different. More southerners, these days.

I knew this tavern as the Drake's Beak; now it's called Ledicia's. I'm a stone's throw from where I lived and worked as a cobbler, but I don't think I need to worry about a surprise party being thrown in my honor. I'm just a weary traveler, like so many others.

I have time on my side. I'm in no rush, I just need to do this right. I go to the Arbiter's Office to exchange one of the pledges for a fresh purse of coins, writing down the password before the clerk brushes that closely-guarded wax over the worn paper of my pledge document, exposing the password that was written there, invisibly, years ago. Such a clever arrangement.

I avail myself of the office's changing-room where I distribute my money among my boots, sewn pouches and secret pockets, leaving only some change in my belt-purse that's handy to have at the ready, but no disaster if it's stolen.

Pick-pockets, don't you know. In another life I might have made quite a good one, I think. Hell, in another version, I probably am.

Heeding the guards' advice I take the time to renew my mark of passage before heading back to the tavern. My finances in order, I pay up for two days' lodging.

Thankfully, the cheap tailor around the corner is still in business, so I leave my traveling cloak and gloves there to be mended, and deck myself out in some new clothes to blend into City life a little better. Nothing too fancy, just workman's attire, something that'll match my boots – those would be too expensive to replace.

A red shirt with a collar I can cinch shut against the cold, and light breeches that hug my thighs. Today's fashion has the upper body covered loosely and the lower half wrapped tight. The men of Élique seem fond of showing off their endowments, front and back, and who am I to complain?

I've always fancied a nice jacket, but I'd never wear it outside the city and it would look conspicuous over the practical attire I just bought, so I settle for a good scarf instead, made of fine Ostero wool that won't itch my chin if I go riding with it.

The players are clothed, the stage is set.

•

All I have to go on is instinct. The reasoning, really, is too flimsy. The page-thief made off with all kinds of information about me, but the only entry in there that didn't relate to my life in Carrick was a record of my address in Élique. To conclude that this house holds the key to the mysteries of my stolen page and Allon Ley is spurious, but it feels right, and so here I am.

It's a low two-story building wedged snugly between two larger ones, and where once hung my simple cobbler's sign there is now an ornate plate advertising fine herbs for cooking and medicine. The doors and shutters are closed even though it's a little after noon. Thinking the owner may just be running errands I check again just before sunset, but it's still closed.

I take a bowl of stew in my room and ponder my next move. Either I can ask around and gain some intelligence or I can try burgling the place at night; both carry risks and I can't try both or I'll certainly be caught.

The fact that I don't even know what I'm looking for complicates matters further, and there's also the issue of money. I've long since sold any valuables I owned and the pledges in my valise will only support my traveling lifestyle until the spring. Less than that, if I stay in the cities and their expensive taverns.

If my investigations in this city take more than a few days I might do well to seek some simple employment. It'll pay for my lodgings, help me blend further into the fabric of the city, and it'll plump up my traveling purse a bit.

Doubt gnaws at me, and I have nothing to fight it with. If I choose the strategy of the detective, then what should I ask about? If I break into the place, assuming I don't get caught – I haven't had much practice with larceny, and my only successes in that field were wholly due to luck – I still don't know what to look for.

So I'll have to go the way of patience. Tomorrow I'll seek employment. Maybe at the tailor's, even though they're so cheap they likely pay a pittance. My skills as a cobbler should impress them, and perhaps I can take my first wages in tanned leather and good glue so I can make myself a new pair of boots.

Patience has served me before in this city. I waited here and kept my ears pricked, and sure enough, eventually an opportunity blew my way and I had a lead to find Mistle.

I can be patient again. Hell, it's not as if I have anything better to do.

But I need to shake these blues, man. It's not just John that's on my mind; like I told you, I've accepted that situation and I'm getting better at focusing on the world where I'm a boy from Carrick who chased vengeance instead of love.

It's not just the traveling either. Chasing Mistle took moons and moons, and I spent most of those nights under those same moons, so a few nights of rough sleeping shouldn't wear me out like this.

It's not even the enigma of Allon and the pages, precisely. That occupies my mind, sure, but it's still just a diversion, I know that full well.

I'm just blue, is all. And I need to pick myself up. I need to get my groove back, know what I'm saying?

Fuck.

Do you know what I need?

I need to get laid.

•

I change back into my traveling clothes, minus a few layers. I don't look quite as integrated as I did in my new Élique couture, but if I'm going to earn my keep here I'd better not start out with a reputation as a rake.

I'm not in the mood for conquest or seduction.

Maybe in a week I'll have the stamina for that – I hope so, because I do enjoy the chase, and it's been a long time since I've played it.

For tonight, I'm going to take the easy way. I've got some money in my pocket. Even in a city this small, that's all you need to get whatever kind of satisfaction you want.

And so I find myself on the far side of the city, a whole half-hour's walk from the tavern. I stick to the well-lit thoroughfares where the occasional guard patrols; I'm not adventurous enough to prowl the alleys. And I don't need to.

Élique's always been a liberal place, at least by Carrick standards, but it's grown a little more so since I last set foot here. All the shops here are still open at night: grocers, fruit-sellers, weavers. More than one of each.

It's a clever arrangement, too. During the day, these places are indeed grocers, fruit-sellers, weavers and what have you. Very low quality, very poorly staffed, and very cheap.

At night, though, man alive, they're something else. At night, all the pretty girls come out to play, for the right price, and these days more and more pretty boys too.

That's what I'm in the mood for. I know it's shallow, but I can't look at a chick without thinking about that Appleby bitch. I know it's not cool to discriminate on gender, but this is my depression, I'll make my own damn rules.

So these shops are fronts for small-time, privately-owned brothels. That's how they stay in the City's good graces: they provide an outlet for needy citizens, they don't grow too big so they don't attract criminal fraterities, they pay taxes, and if innocent out-of-towners wander in, they'll just get a really bad deal on some really shitty-ass fabric. No harm, no foul.

Focus, Game, focus. You're in Élique, now, so think like it. Try to get into the spirit, will you?

These fronts aren't chosen at random, either. The kind of shop you see tells you what services are rendered upstairs. I don't dawdle by the weavers; that's too young by far for my tastes, too young even by the standards of this world.

The grocers represent the most wholesome of establishments, where the customers never remove their garments, but instead merely enjoy a show by two, or more, supple-bodied ladies. Those are the kinds of places married men can frequent without worrying about more than an admonishment from their wife if someone sees them going in there.

The grocers are the oldest houses of the oldest profession. Small, private chambers, scented with cinnamon and cloves, where skilled ladies entertain needy men in private and handsome men ravish their female customers.

I dallied there on occasion when the cobbling trade was particularly lonely. I may have refused young women seeking courtship, unswerving in dedication to my revenge, but I still had needs.

But the grocers, lovely as their girls may be, won't serve the needs I have tonight.

The first chandler opened on this side of the city a little after I settled here, and was quite the source of gossip. The men of the city whispered about it over ale in the taverns, the wives of the city knew full well what all of those shops meant and gossiped about the fresh scandals that might now erupt. How the boys and girls of the city came to know about these things I don't know, but such salient rumors are like a drug to the young.

And everyone likes to talk about what's new and outrageous while they're sitting on the high chair in your store and you're measuring their feet. I can tell you, my interest was piqued when I heard a chandler's had opened. “And not a normal one, either. One of those."

It was an innovation imported from Viseène. As a larger city on a busier river it often set the example for the smaller cities in the area, such as the style of dress that is now in fashion. It was just going out of style when I last left Visène.

If you haven't guessed already, a chandler is a haven for gentlemen who eschew the fairer sex. In the past, some of the men in the grocers would accept male clients, but that would require negotiation and inquiry. The risk of shame was enough to discourage many customers who might have enjoyed such service.

Only a few moons after the first chandler opened a second appeared, and a thrd by the end of the year. Élique was quite a ripe market for these entertainments.

And, just as with the other places of trade, the chandlers developed a code as well. While the weavers and fruit-sellers advertised their specialties through the color of their fabric and fruits, the chandlers signified the qualities of their wares through the thickness and length of the candles on display.

I don't imagine I need to explain quite how that code works, do I?

The fist chandler displays thin, bright candles, and I pass it by. Too young. Across the street are fat wax candles – which don't mean that the men there are overweight, mind, just that they're of the larger, stronger variety. Also not what I'm in the mood for.

I almost miss it, it's so small. Narrower even than my old cobbler's shop, its firm, practical candles are arrayed so plainly on the windowsill that I almost assume there's only there to illuminate the shop. I pause a while, and look up the length of the street. There's one or two other places I could inspect, but I decide to let Lady Opportunity have her way with me tonight.

That can't always end in disaster, can it?

A bell chimes softly when I open the door, and before I can wonder at the emptiness of the shop, a firm-shouldered raccoon rises from behind the counter with a box in his arms, shirtless and smiling nervously. “Oh, ah, welcome, welcome! How may I... What do you please, sir?"

He's new at this, I note with some amusement. He almost forgot to ask the question properly. He's a fine thing to look at, though, with his race's traditional cheeky mask about bright, clever eyes. The sheepish smile suits him.

“I please satisfaction," I say. The phrasing's quite a bit bolder than the traditional response, but the lad has me feeling playful, and the blush in his ears is a delight.

I look around, remembering to focus. I don't have a magic shirt that shakes coin from its sleeves, so I plan to pay close attention to this night's diversion.

The display in the windowsill, artless and practical, is the fanciest aspect of the shop. Most of the wares are in boxes on wooden shelves, much like the one the racoon produced from under the counter. The shop hardly seems worth visiting, unfinished.

The raccoon and I are of a height, and of similar build, though he's a few years younger and a little leaner. Nineteen, I'd guess him, twenty summers at the oldest. “You're new here?" I ask him, and he giggles in relief and embarrassment.

“It shows, does it? You're a keen one, Your Observance. I only arrived today." He closes the box and slides it to the side of the counter, leaning his elbows on it, his striped tail flicking behind him. “I'm not new to the craft, mind you," he adds a little defensively. “I learned the trade in a house in Varonne – do you know it? Have you been there?"

“I haven't." I must be the young man's first customer, or he wouldn't be so chatty. “Allow me to hazard a guess: you saved your earnings until you had enough to travel here, and set up a business of your own. This is your establishment, isn't it?" While none of the businesses in this district boasted more than six or seven 'employees' in addition to the proprietor, to stay within the City's unspoken rules, I hadn't heard of a one-person shop before. I must say, I rather like this lad. I appreciate his courage.

“It's hardly impressive, I know that full well," he says modestly but confidently. “But I'm proud of it. I worked hard to earn it, and I aim to make a fine business of it. May I..." He licks his lips, looking away for a moment. “May I enjoy your patronnage, sir?"

“If the price is reasonable, it would be my delight to breach your boutique's maidenhead." Oh, he's so pretty when he blushes.

“For a crown and a half, the delight would be mine."

I laugh. Loudly! I can't help it, and the look of fright on the lad's masked face only spurs me on. “Your pardon, your pardon, I don't mean to mock," I wheeze, trying to catch my breath. “That's a week's wage, friend! Did you command such a price in Varonne?"

He looks mortified and cups his paws to his snout. “Oh my stars... Apologies, a hundred apologies! You must think me a dolt, sir... No, in Varonne I only, well, it was a half-press for the customer, with two bits going to the proprietor and three for me."

“It's all right, I take no offense," I say, my smile still painted on my lips. I've still got my clothes on, and he's already lifted my spirits. Not worth a crown, of course, but more than I expected of this evening. “Tradesmen like yourself are paid a little better than in Varonne, it seems. I'll admit, it's been a little while since I last frequented this street, but the common fee was one press."

“That'll be your price, then, if it meets with your approval. And if you'll allow it I'll repay your graceful tolerance of my misstep by neglecting to turn the hourglass. I sense that you're in no hurry to return to your own bed with any great haste... My name is Erah."

It's a lie, of course. In this trade, neither the customer nor the renderer of the services ever divulge their real name. But speaking one's name, false though it may be, signifies the sealing of the arrangement.

He walks around the counter, and I see he's dressed from the waist down in the long kilt that's common in the south, where horse-riding is less common. He stands before me, his fine young body on display, and reaches out to take hold of the “Open" sign on the door.

“I'm Vale," I say, and I admit, this close to him, I actually feel a little flutter of nerves in my stomach. He turns the sign, latches the door, blows out the candles and takes me by the paw to lead me up the stairs.

•

While the shop beneath was bare and unfinished, some attention has been paid to the upper chamber. Furnishings are sparse, but he's clearly made an effort to make a cozy space. The ceiling is slanted, as the shop shares a roof with the next, taller building, and the stairs emerge at the lower side. “Mind your head, sir," he says, leading the way into his den of sin.

It seems he didn't just come to Élique with a pocketful of pledges, as I did. to the walls and celing he's pinned reams of colorful, thin and shiny fabrics. Low, sturdy cushions surround a wooden plateau with a cast-iron tea set. In place of a bed, the room sports an inviting stack of furs, each bearing the faint pink tint signifying they were cured in yullacker spice and diluted lamb's fat to keep them free of fleas and ticks.

There's nothing here I haven't seen before at some time, as the southern styles have occasionally drifted into fashion up north, but I've never been in a room that felt so southern, and so comfortable.

'Erah' clears his throat, standing over the cushions. “Does it please you, sir?"

I smile and step toward him, nodding. He smiles and takes my paws, lowering me onto one of the cushions. Taking the cast-iron pot from its heating candle he pours the steaming purple beverage into an earless mug. “The custom, where I'm from, is to enjoy the scent before drinking," he purrs as he sets the pot down and moves behind me, his paws on my shoulders, encouraging me to lean over and let the wisps of steam waft over my face.

I smell anise and roses, and herbs I can't identify. It's a delight, a treat beyond what I'd hoped for the night. All I wanted was a good roll in the sheets with a willing, able body, and to be truthful I'm certainly looking forward to testing young Erah's endurance tonight, but... It's the hospitality that I appreciate now, the honest fellowship, shallow and fleeting though it may be.

He reaches around me to pull at the laces of my shirt, sliding his paw under it to feel my chest. His cheek is against mine, and I look at him curiously out of the corner of my eye.

His smile is confident. “One learns much of a man's needs from the drum in his breast, sir. As I said: I learned my art well," he says with an impish wink. He pulls his paw free and works the buttons of my vest, and I feel my arousal swelling with anticipation.

“May I drink, Erah?"

“Sir," he whispers, peeling away my vest, “everything here is for you to enjoy at your leisure."

I turn only enough to wrap an arm about him and pull him against me. He seems surprised at the strength of it; as a cat, I'm used to being underestimated. Erah is a creature of exceptional grace, though, splaying himself against me, his head on my shoulder, his firm, bare chest exposed for my wandering fingers.

I take the cup and lap cautiously at the purple brew – I hiss at the heat and the sting of it, not used so such spicy fare. Erah has the courtesy to cover his giggle, though the sound is as music to me. I bring the cup to his lips and he laps as well, effortlessly, blowing over it a moment before I take another taste. It burns in the mouth this southern tea, but it's a pleasant sensation once I pass the shock of it. I take another sip, and another, so distracted by the exotic scents and flavors that I barely notice the raccoon nosing his way down my belly until I feel him breathe hotly through the fabric of my breeches.

I'm not wearing them for very much longer, let me tell you.

•

Whatever Erah felt when he touched my chest must have told him exactly what I needed from him. He kisses me while he undresses me – unusual for one in his profession, but if this is southern custom, I'm all to happy to broaden my cultural horizons.

His fervor is infectious. His muzzle presses me back as he pulls my boots and breeches off, then he pulls me back toward him, now surprising me with his strength, and when he peels my shirt off me, primed for an embrace, he pulls away. But he's not coy, not easing, his eyes tell me as much, smouldering and challenging.

I really must visit Varonne some day.

Even though he wears no more than a black kilt with a red sash, there's something perverse about being naked while he's clothed. A little thrill of impropriety, vulnerability, and that's why he steps back, to let me savor it. His paws clasp mine and he pulls me to my feet for another kiss, reaching down to take hold of me. Maybe he only does that to keep me from staining his garment, but his touch, oh, I almost spend myself when his firm paw encloses me.

He spins around and pulls me with him, frighteningly close to a lantern hanging from the sloped ceiling. His bare feet move like a dancer's, catching behind mine to send me stumbling, flailing and laughing, onto the furs.

He faces away from me, his graceful body a dark silhouette against the lamp-light. His paws move, tug at the sash, pinch a button open and with a shake of his shapely hips and that bushy striped tail, his kilt falls away from him.

He's lovelier than I imagined. All the beauty of his youth, all the poise of manhood. When he turns and regards me, sprawled among the furs, longing for him to join me, I see he's unaroused. It doesn't occur to me to be disappointed; he couldn't be more beautiful than he is now.

And besides. I'm older than he, and of a mood to be the man in his bed tonight.

He springs upon me like one of my own kind. I catch him in flight and roll to pin him on his back, thrusting myself over him. His legs wrap around me, thighs squeezing my hips, his arms snake about my shoulders and he pulls himself to me like a snake to a branch, devouring my muzzle with his.

He feels and yields to my shifting desires and inspires new ones that hadn't come to mind. I yearn to enter him, but before I can ask where he keeps his oil he shuffles away underneath me, leaving me on paws and knees while he nuzzles up between my legs to tend to my preparation the old-fashioned way.

It's all I can do to hold myself upright, panting and groaning, yowling as he feverishly works beneath me. Euphoria. No other word describes it. His tongue and lips and throat ravage only that one part of me, but all my body burns with the pleasure of it.

His arms wrap about my hips and he devours me, his lips against my lois, swallowing as if mine is the font of his salvation, and stars swirl before my eyes. I can't breathe, I can't move, I can't even ussue, my body is so totally in thrall to his ministrations. He kicks is leg and I topple to my side, and still he clings to me, bobbing his head, looking up at me though I can barely see his eyes through the haze of the pleasure he delivers to me.

My thighs close about his flanks and my paws snake down to clasp his ears, and he lets me. I buck, and he lets me, pulling back to give me the space to do it again, and deeper this time, and deeper the next, over and over...

I've had my dalliances with the fairer sex and with my own, some younger than I, some older, in this world and many others. To repeat, in sequence, each of the pleasures I learne dot take and give would be more than a night's labor even in the greatest of haste, but this...

I never know a man could do this for another. It resists imagination, and yet, as I gaze down my writhing body, following the rosettes that lead from my chest down to Erah's chin, I see and feel the evidence.

When our eyes lock he pushes my paws away, grabbing my wrists. He darts forward, withdrawing me from his muzzle, to pin my paws above my head and to kiss me. I taste myself on his tongue, revelling in the perversion of it. But before my pride can so much as feel the coolness of the air he pulls his knees up along my hips, and writhes his way back.

Without guidance of his paws or mine, he invites me into his body. And once I enter, I lose what control I had left. With a snarl I sit up and lunge into him, taking him into an embrace so hard that no lady could bear it without squealing, but Erah's made of stern stuff, I've seen it.

I hear him wince into my ear and gasp at my intrusion, but none of it's a complaint. The ache will soon be supplanted by other sensations; I've been in his position often enough to know that. He trembles through the shock of it as I relish him,

I surge like the ocean, rocking him on my lap. He's limp at first, trembling from the shock of my invasion, his paws clenched to fists and his toes stretched out, but soon he finds his footing. He rides the waves of my hips to a peak, taking the opportunity to curl hie legs beneath him and kneel as I do, and crashes down onto my lap.

I feel the nudge of his gender against my belly as we writhe together, still unaroused, and this modesty only fuels my fire. Erah is no slave, he's no victim, and he's no puppet. His passion is real, if only for the moment, and his fervor to fan my flames is unfeigned. It thrills me to think that he could know I craved an ounce of dominance, and that he now focuses so totally on my satisfaction that his own body's needs fall from his thoughts.

And I'm not one to reject such hospitatlity, as happy as I'd be to try out that wondrous new art he performed between my legs on him. This southern raccoon offers me his full yielding, though, and I accept, gladly, I accept.

His lips and tongue are no less artful at my muzzle, teasing my tongue with his teeth, raking blunt claws along my back. I rise and turn and throw him into the furs, falling on top of him, and his thighs release my hips to let me thrust and grind and exert myself so, so fully.

And even on his back, pinned beneath the force of the desires he fanned in me, looking up with eyes full of challenge and invitation, his every breath is a zephyr of amorous ardor.

Oh, this boy, so far from home, will have no trouble making a living in this place. If other men experience only a fraction of what he gives me so freely tonight, he'll still have customers lining up in front of his door. He'll put the other chandlers out of business, he'll be a titan among his peers, a paragon of his trade.

I laugh with elation, unashamed of the bizarre emotion. I'm lust-drunk, gorging myself on this black-masked chalice, laving my parched throat until I'm filled to bursting – and I'm close to bursting, so very close.

He's brought me to the edge before and eased me back, but not this time. This time his paws are on my cheek, so gentle, so encouraging. His breathing comes in gasps and squeaks to the rhythm of my hips, escalating as I approach.

The motions of my body grow stiffer; I'm reluctant to withdraw even an inch out of the furnace of his body. My control flees me, and just at the moment I lose myself, overtaken by my most primal esence, he coils his limbs around me, clinging to me, clenching on me, kissing me and whispering yes, yes, yes...

A moment of silence and paralysis drags on, and then I feel my body again. My every fibre thrums with ecstasy as relief washes through me and bursts into the writhing body beneath me. His moans are as lyrical as mine are animal, and only the firm press of his paws against my chest prevent him from being crushed under my thoughtless pressure.

I know I needn't apologize, and that makes the release all the sweeter. I feel safe with him, safe from judgment, from consequence. Here and now he cares only for what I need, what I must have and what he can do to give it to me. And he gives it so generously.

I lie upon him, without complaint or admonishment from beneath me. When I collapsed in warm, tingling bliss, he smoothly maneuvered into a comfortable posture beneath me. Still within him, marely enjyoing the heat of his body, I lay my head on his chest and wonder if I can hear in his heart-beat what he felt in mine.

I don't sleep, but the sensation is just as soothing. He caresses me, also unusual for a male in his trade after the deed is done, and lets me caress him in return. “I needed that," I whisper.

“I could tell," he replies with a chuckle. “And you need a little more, too."

I laugh at that, and lick at his nipple. “You've drained me, Erah. I couldn't even think about–“

“You think me a liar, sir?" he says, cutting me short, and I look up to check his face. Oh, that little demon – he's wearing a sly grin, triumphant. “I felt your heart. I know what you need. Now, you need to take your ease. Soon, you'll find yourself invigorated again, and I'll get to show you again how we in the south earn our coin. But if you don't..." His eyes squint, his grin growing, if it were possible, even more mischievous. “Perhaps all you need is another cup of tea."

I'm dumbstruck. It's so elegant, and so simple. “An aphrodisiac?"

“If that's what you call it here, then yes," he says in a conspiratorial whisper. “You won't tell anyone, will you? I really ought not have told you... are you offended, sir?"

“I think I needed the tea as much as your attention, and I thank you, so deeply, for both," I say, nuzzling at his chest. “And if your offer is sincere, I'd love to take my ease a little while. And if I find my spirit moved, and you still think one press to be a fair price, I'll happily accept the invitation. But maybe this time," I say, running my finger down his belly, causing him to hiss and squirm, until I find my prize and lay my paw upon it. “Maybe this time, he can come out to..."

“Sir Vale?" Erah sounds concerned at my quietness more than my groping between his legs. I don't answer him at once, instead carefully feeling. His stones fill my paw as well as my own would, but his sheath... it looked merely snug, housing a modest endowment that suited a lad of his figure, but when I pinch it, it's merely loose skin and fur. “Is something wrong?"

“Erah..." I turn my hips, pulling myself free from him. A coldness clutches at me, tying a knot in my chest. I feel like a defiler, suddenly, a violator, and I resist his efforts to soothe me with his paws. I keep mine between his legs. “Your pride, Erah... What happened?"

“Nothing happened, sir," the raccoon says plainly, curiously. Recognizing his attentions aren't wanted he chooses instead to roll onto his back and stretches out, exposing his body to me, giving me a feast of the eyes if I'm so intent on exploring his body. “As I said, I've been in this trade for years."

My ears flick back and my eyes grow wide. “They do that in Varonne? Maim you?"

At last, he frowns. “Of course," he says, though it sounds more like a question. He leans up on his elbows and looks down his lean body, where I fuss at his sheath. With him looking I feel vulgar for doing it, and I withdraw my paw.

I don't want to embarrass him or myself, and I don't want to cause him any grief, so I don't know what to say. I'm grateful when he breaks the silence.

“I take it that it isn't the custom here? To remove that from a boy who lies with men," he asks, his voice small and still. I can only shake my head. “I see."

I want to ask him if it hurt. I want to tell him that I think he's beautiful, that he's a fine young man. I want to apologize for confronting him with the fact that if he'd learned his trade here instead of the south, he would still be whole. I want to tell him not to cry.

But he doesn't. His calm wasn't a sign of resignation or shock, it was just that – calm. “Sir, I think you feel sorrow for a loss I don't regret. I knew what a price I paid when I paid it. I was of age, I was informed, and I consented. I'll admit," he adds with a chuckle, stroking my shoulder, as a gentle first step to pulling me back into his arms, “I can hardly claim I enjoyed it. And the chandler boys certainly seem to have it a good deal better here than there."

He smiles at me, and reaches between his thighs, pinching the empty holster. “This isn't a loss. It isn't even a sacrifice, sir. It's only life. Life moves forward, never back, and for my part I'm grateful. It keeps things exciting, but more importantly it gives meaning to all our actions, to every decision. Wise or otherwise."

I mull over his words and look into his eyes. Fearless, sorrowless. It gives meaning to all our actions. I understand all too well what he means.

“Now, sir, why don't you finish your tea, and I'll see about revitalizing you, hmm?" He slithers onto his belly and crawls towad me with the hazardous ease of a snake, and I do admit, I twitch at the sight of his naked form coming toward me. He endured the full measure of my lust just moments ago but he looks as fresh and keen as if he had a perfect night's rest and a stout breakfast.

“Erahh, please. I don't... you don't need to."

To my surprise, Erah doesn't press the issue. Instead, he bows his head. “As you wish, sir. May I at least tend to your cleanliness?" I nod, and think nothing of it when he lowers his head to my lap. The sneaky little bastard.

Half a minute's labor of his tongue breaks my determination, and even without a second cup of tea I'm soon upon him again, grinding him into the furs under the force of my desire.

He was right. Damn him, he was right, and I adore him for forcing me to see it.

And, after that, for making me it once more.

•

Erah tells me I'm welcome to share his bed until the morning, but I decline politely. The sexual fervor has passed; I know better than to indulge too deeply. He nods, and if he's disappointed (or more likely relieved) he doesn't show a hint of it. When he offers to clean me once more I roll my eyes at him, until he laughs and points at a copper water basin, kept warm over a candle, and a colorful rag.

I feel a little cheap when I put a single press coin into his paw. I wish I had it in smaller currency so it would at least seem like more. As I depart, he tells me the usual pleasantries. That he was impressed with my virility, that he enjoyed my attentions immensely, that he hoped he could serve me again soon. Not disingenuous, mind, just professional. I appreciate that about him.

And as I walk out into a significantly less crowded street, closing the door behind me, I see him lighting the candles in his window-sill to advertise his availability. I'm stunned at his stamina. Maybe it's because of his... circumstance Maybe that's why the southern houses mutilate their boys.

A shiver, and I cinch the collar of my shirt tighter. My pelt isn't thick enough for this weather. I hope the tailor finishes with my cloak soon.

It's not the cold alone that has me shivering as I walk back to the tavern, trying to keep my pace steady so I don't make too tempting a target for any cutpurse desperate enough to dart out into a lamp-lit thoroughfare. I can think of few injuries as horrific as what Erah suffered, and by his account, he endured it willingly. For the sake of a job.

Even when I told him that such cruelty was unheard of in the local houses he showed no sadness. It astonishes me, I can't imagine it. I'd be clawing the walls and punching and biting anyone nearby if I learned I'd been made to suffer, denied a normal life, simply for the sake of geography.

Two weeks' travel, and he could have plied the same trade, earned a higher fee, and remain intact. He'd be able to please the womenfolk as well, if he had such a calling, and men who yearned to eschew their customary dominance and give themselves to the mercy of another. When I told him this, he knew it fully, but it put not a dent in his resolve.

In many ways he's more of a man than I am, this Erah, whatever his real name is. He accepts fully what he is, all the choices and consequences that led to who he is today. He was confident in his choices at the time he made them, and doesn't dwell on them.

I find a giddy, repulsive curiosity tickling my mind. He let them take his shaft, but kept his cullions. I wonder if there was a negotiation about that, or whether they were left intact for reasons of health. I was once introduced to a eunuch, a ferret, who was rounder and softer by far than any of his race I'd met before. Erah, by contrast, is a fine example of a firm-shoulder, slim-hipped raccoon in the prime of his age.

Perhaps, if I'm of a mood, I'll look him up again some day. Perhaps not, though. Without a decent wage a full press is quite an extravagance, and any further expense would delay my investigations. If I were to go back, would I have the courage to ask him more about his condition? He might need to get used to it; I should have warned him that his situation was a strange once, in this place, and he ought to make clear to any customer what he could or couldn't offer before exchanging names.

As much as the thought of touching him there again sends another shiver up my spine, I know that if I neglect to visit him again, this distaste of mine won't be the reason. If anything, I would seek to learn more about his acceptance. I'm curious whether there's a trick to that.

And how in the hell does he pee?